Fuzzy Navel

11:11 P.M.
MUNCHEL

AGAIN WITH THE GODDAMN LIGHTS. Munchel sighs, wondering why the military doesn’t make a scope that works in the daylight and the nighttime. Then soldiers wouldn’t have to switch scopes every three goddamn minutes.

He sits up, rubs his eyes, and sees Pessolano in the truck up the street.

It’s about damn time.

Munchel stands, stretches, and begins to walk across the grass toward him. The wind is still strong, and has dropped a dozen degrees, hinting at the harsh winter doubtlessly drawing near. Once he spreads the word to the soldier-for-hire underground that he was part of the Chicago pervert murders, he expects his ser vices to be in great demand, fetching premium dollars. Munchel decides that his next merc gig will be someplace warm, like Bosnia. Or Atlanta.

Munchel pauses, briefly, at the corpse of Swanson, and grins at him.

“You gonna eat that, Greg? No?”

He reaches down and plucks the granola bar from Swanson’s cold, dead fingers, and tears the wrapper open with his teeth.

Cinnamon raisin. Munchel’s favorite.

“You want some, buddy?”

He breaks off a corner, bounces it off Swanson’s face.

Predictably, Swanson doesn’t protest. Though Munchel wouldn’t be surprised if the former TUHC leader did suddenly sit up and start bitching, complaining that his piece isn’t big enough, or that they should just leave the cop alone and run to Mexico, or some other bullshit.

Munchel continues onward, and finds Pessolano poking around in the back of his Bronco.

“You got any fleece in there, man? It’s colder than a penguin’s nuts out here.”

Pessolano pulls a small stack of clothing from the cargo bay.

“That don’t look too warm.”

“It’s Dragon Skin. Tactical body armor. Stronger than Kevlar.”

Pessolano takes Munchel’s TPG-1, trading it for a vest. Munchel rubs the fabric between his fingers.

“It’s thin.”

“But it can still stop an AK-47. Maybe… if Swanson had one on…”

Pessolano stows the rifle. He looks like he’s going to start bawling again, and Munchel doesn’t think he can stomach another display.

“He’s in a better place,” Munchel says, popping the rest of the granola bar into his mouth. “Where are the Desert Eagles?”

Pessolano reaches into the truck again, comes out with an aluminum suitcase with combination locks on the buckles. Munchel waits, becoming progressively annoyed as Pessolano keeps screwing up the numbers. The dummy finally gets the case open, revealing two huge nickel-plated handguns, nestling in individual foam compartments.

Munchel whistles, reaching for a gun. The damn thing has to weigh more than five pounds. You could kill a person just by hitting him over the head with it.

“This is the Desert Eagle Mark XIX,” Pessolano says. “It uses fifty-caliber Action Express rounds – the biggest handgun bullets on the market. Same length as a.44 Magnum, but wider. It has almost eight times the stopping power of a nine millimeter. What it hits, it kills.”

“Can it go through the Dragon Skin?”

“I wouldn’t want to try it to find out.”

“How many rounds does it hold?”

“Seven. And they’re really expensive, so don’t waste them.”

Munchel spins, aims at the house, and squeezes the trigger. The BOOM is so loud it feels like someone slapped him in the ears, and the recoil jerks his arm back.

Awesome.

“I said they’re expensive!” Pessolano screams.

Munchel grins at him. “Shit, man. I’ll write you a check.”

He helps himself to the box of bullets, popping the clip and adding two more. Seven plus one in the throat. Pessolano says something, but Munchel can’t hear him through the ringing in his head.

“Huh?”

“How do you want to do this?” Pessolano yells.

Munchel considers it. Everyone is holed up in the hallway, behind the refrigerator, except for that crazy bitch with the chain saw in the garage.

“We bust in the front door,” he says. “I’ll take the house. You take the garage.”

Pessolano nods, then he spends a minute untangling his bulletproof vest, trying to get it on. He’s like a child, unable to find the armhole. This convinces Munchel that Pessolano is lying about his military experience. Munchel doesn’t have a problem with lying. He lies to his mama, about when he’s going to visit her next. He lies to his foreman at the English muffin factory, about being sick when he’s actually just hungover. He even lies to hookers, telling them he works for the CIA. But Pessolano’s lies are dangerous. Munchel is supposed to trust this guy with his life, have full confidence that Pessolano has his back.

How good can he watch Munchel’s back when he can’t even put on a simple vest?

Munchel decides he isn’t going to work with Pessolano again. True, the man has some cool weapons and equipment, but someone of Munchel’s professional stature shouldn’t associate with amateurs.

Munchel straps on the Dragon Skin, finishing before Pessolano does. He spreads his hands, to show Pessolano how easy it really is, and then hears a gunshot come from the trees behind him. At practically the same time, he feels a slap in the back.

He drops to the ground, crawling to the other side of the truck, adrenaline raging. Pessolano scurries beside him.

“You hit?”

Munchel nods. He allows Pessolano to turn him around, examine his back.

“Vest stopped it. You hurt?”

Munchel shakes his head. It feels like he’s been snapped by a rubber band.

Holy shit, he thinks. I actually got shot.

I got shot and I survived.

He can picture himself in a seedy bar in South Africa, playing poker and drinking rotgut with a bunch of other mercs, casually mentioning how he got shot on his first job. A crazed smile appears on his face.

“He’s in the woods,” Pessolano says. “If we rush at him from two sides, we can flush him out. You ready?”

Munchel nods, feeling invincible.

“Let’s do it,” Pessolano says. “On my count.”

Munchel doesn’t wait. He stands up and charges straight into the trees.