Fuzzy Navel

11:55 P.M.
MUNCHEL

THE SPLIT-TAIL is at his mercy, and Munchel likes the feeling.

He likes the look of defeat on her battered face. Of submission. She’s resigned herself to death at his hands.

But he’s not ready to kill her yet.

He backhands her, and she doesn’t even try to block it. Such a far cry from the cocky cop who almost shot him.

Munchel grins. It’s always been a secret shame of his that he hasn’t ever had sex without paying for it. But he’s going to now. Her face is all bruised and puffy, but she’s got good legs, a nice ass. He’s going to ride this bitch like-

“Hey! Rambozo!”

Munchel whips his head around. Sees the man with the bionic hand standing in the doorway. In his real hand is Pessolano’s Desert Eagle.

“I wanted you to see it coming,” the man says.

Munchel backs away, his hands up in protest.

The man fires six times in rapid succession.

Miraculously, the first five shots completely miss.

Unfortunately, the last one doesn’t.

It drills Munchel in the stomach, and feels like getting hit with a miner’s pick. Munchel doubles over, dropping the knife, falling to his knees, and then to his side. He curls into a fetal position, clutching the fire in his belly. This isn’t like the other time he got shot, that wussy slap in the back. This is awful.

He lifts a hand to his face, sees the blood.

But I’m wearing body armor, he thinks. This isn’t fair.

“You okay, sis?” The man bends down next to the cop, helps her up.

“I’ll live. Where’s Mom?”

“I’m here.”

Munchel looks left, watches an old broad come into the garage. They all share a group hug. It’s a big happy goddamn Walton family reunion, and he’s lying here in agony, bleeding to death.

“Help me,” Munchel whispers.

The bionic guy walks up to him, squints. “You’re lucky I suck lefty. I was aiming for your head.”

“It hurts.”

“I can fix that,” the man says. “Don’t worry. I won’t miss this time.”

Munchel feels the barrel press against his forehead. His bladder lets go, soaking his fatigues.

“You… you have to help me,” Munchel states. “You’re a cop.”

“She’s a cop,” the guy says. “I used to be a cop, but they kicked me off the force for not following the rules.” The man grins. “I’m not big on rules.”

Munchel’s entire being is focused on the cold steel between his eyes. This isn’t how things are supposed to end.

“I’m begging you. Don’t kill me. Please please please don’t kill me.”

“Do me a favor. When you get to hell, give Hitler a kick in the balls and tell him it’s from Harry McGlade.”

He cocks the Desert Eagle.

“No!”

“Harry, don’t.”

The split-tail. She won’t let him do it. Thank God.

“You want the honors, Jackie?”

“Don’t waste the bullets. Alex is still out there.”

“Gotcha. How about I use the chain saw? See what this guy had for breakfast?”

Munchel starts to cry.

“Go find the cuffs, Harry. Check the kitchen.”

“Your house, your rules.” He hands the gun, butt-first, to Jackie the cop, then trots out of the garage.

“Call an ambulance,” Munchel whines. “Jesus, it hurts.”

“That might be a problem,” Jackie says. “Some assholes cut the landlines and are using a cell phone jammer.”

“Roof,” Munchel says. “Pessolano threw it on the roof.”

“Where on the roof?”

“Somewhere over the garage. Switch it off. Call for help.”

“Was it just the three of you?” she asks.

“Yeah. Me, Pessolano, and Swanson.”

“If there’s another one of you idiots out there, I might get killed, and then I’ll let Harry go Black and Decker on your ass.”

“I’m the last one. I swear. Find the jammer.” Munchel moans. It feels like he swallowed a hot coal. “Jesus, the pain is getting worse.”

Jackie pats him down, taking the Desert Eagle from his holster, and his wallet from his back pocket.

“James Michael Munchel,” she says, reading his driver’s license. “You have the right to remain silent.”

Munchel tunes out her spiel. He doesn’t give a hoot about his rights. He’s focusing on something else. Something only a few feet away.

Harry returns with a pair of handcuffs. Jackie snicks a bracelet onto his wrist, and then they drag Munchel across the floor over to the workbench.

Perfect, Munchel thinks.

Harry tries to pull Munchel’s fist away from his burning gut. Munchel fights it as hard as he can.

“Please! I’ll bleed to death!”

“Don’t worry about it. We’ll get the stains up with some bleach.”

Harry wrestles his hand away, but again the cop stops him.

“Just cuff the other end to the leg of the bench. It weighs a ton. He’s not going anywhere.”

Harry obeys, locking the cuff around one of the metal pipe legs, above a crossbeam so Munchel can’t lift the leg to escape.

But Munchel has another way to escape. The real reason he wants his hand free is because he spotted something under the bench, next to a cat litter box, only a few feet away.

A revolver.

Munchel should be able to reach it if he stretches. Then he can shoot away the cuffs, kill everyone in the house, and use Pessolano’s truck to get to a hospital.

But he can’t do it while he’s being watched. Everyone has to leave the garage first, give him a little privacy.

James Michael Munchel groans again, biding time until he gets his chance.