Rocks Slahherty
_____With a clang, the heavy metal door slammed open, and Rocks Slahherty walked out into the cold cold night. He wore only a thin trenchcoat, although the temperature was well below -20 below. Celsius. No wait, Fahrenheit. That’s colder. Rocks didn’t mind though. He simply huffed a great breath of white air, struck a match on his eyeball, and lit a massive, pungent cigar. The cigars he had made special by Cuban gorillas, filled with the strongest tobacco man or ape could grow, wrapped in corrugated cardboard. He inhaled until half the cigar was burned away, without coughing, and let the smoke trickle slowly out of all his major orifices. Yup, there were no bones about it: Rocks Slahherty was tough.
_____He was tough the way they don’t make tough anymore, and they didn’t make back then either. Six foot eight, three hundred fifty pounds, and with a twelve-foot wingspan, they didn’t come much bigger than Rocks, or uglier. He had a face that could turn a badminton racket into a two-dollar bill. His skin was a treasure map of scars, pockmarks and slutty tattoos, and his muscles were sculpted with grace and elegance worthy of Michaelangelo… the Ninja Turtle! His ridiculously huge body was crammed into his trenchcoat like a tuna stuffed into an olive (which isn’t even possible), and as he stood smoking in the narrow alley, he seemed larger-than-life, which he was. Let’s face it: Rocks Slahherty was tough. Tough as nails. And not those sissy-ass nails you use to hang up your faggoty kitten poster in January, no! More like railroad spikes, which were driven in by tough, no-nonsense slaves to unite our country’s coasts a hundred and fifty years ago. He was as tough as those specific nails.
_____Assured of his own toughness (as you now are, though not from first-hand experience), Rocks stepped out of the alley, and headed out on his dark errand. He had a man to meet, and he knew just where to meet him. To make sure though, he checked the note he’d carved into his forearm. Then he pulled a watch, still wrapped around the severed wrist of its original owner, from his pocket, checked the time, and replaced it. (Oh yeah, he’s tough.)
_____Rocks made his way toward the 8th St Automat. As he walked through the city streets, pedestrians, animals, and mailboxes jumped, terrified, out of his path. He paid them no heed, his eyes focused straight ahead, while his feet tramped carelessly onward. He took a shortcut through the park, walking audaciously on the forbidden grass, knocking down the fences and buildings that blocked his path. At one point, a blind mugger popped out from behind a bush, wielding a knife. “Gimme all yer munny!” he shouted weakly, unaware of who he was addressing. By way of explanation, Rocks took the man’s knife, ate it, and popped the man’s head off with his thumb like a dandelion. Checking his watch, Rocks realized he was running late, and picked up the pace slightly. Coming out of the park, he hailed a cab. When it slowed near him, he jumped on it, crushing the driver through the roof with his massive boot. He then rode the entire car like a skateboard along the crowded street, knocking away cars that were in his way with his stare. He turned up in front of the automat three minutes ahead of schedule.
_____Striding into the crowded place, the customers ran out in a mad dash. Everyone in the city knew to avoid Rocks Slahherty. In fact, there was a word for people who knew to avoid Rocks Slahherty: survivors. Also: smart. And: everyone in the city. In fact, there were several words for people who knew to avoid Rocks Slahherty. Rocks waited for the customers to leave before approaching the far wall, which was covered in these little compartments where food would be placed by a staff from behind and you could get it out for some money. Isn’t that a cool idea? Why don’t they do that anymore? Rocks didn’t care, though; he simply strode up, reached a hand through the window of a box (shattering the glass) and pulled out Weaselly Lillman from over a bowl of rice pudding.
_____Weaselly Lillman was a weaselly little man. In fact, that’s why he was called “Weaselly,” although his surname was just a happy coincidence. He had a perpetually stooped posture, a perfectly round face under a wave of thinning, greasy hair, and a habit of wringing his hands. God, he was pathetic. His voice was a grating, effeminate whine, kind of like Peter Lorre (or, if you don’t know who Peter Lorre is, like that worm in Corpse Bride that sounds like Peter Lorre). He writhed in Rocks’ iron grip, trying to free his miserable little self. He was unable, however, as Rocks was a great strong antihero, whereas Weaselly was a wretched little pile of rat excrement, just a weak, tiny, horrible… Oh, how I hate him! At length, he began to squeal: “Pleeeeeeze, Rocks! I deedn’t do nothing!”
_____Rocks chuckled toughly: “Yehhhhhh, I’ll betcha did nuthin’. I’ll also betcha din’t tink Iz was gunna come allllllll da way down hee to beetcha up. But Iz did.”
_____”Pleeeeeeze, Rocks! Don’t beet me up! I am eenocent! You were set up!”
_____”Oh yehhhhhhh? Byze whom?”
_____Weaselly stopped squirming. A detestible smile played across his hateful face. “By me! Get heem, boys!”
_____At that, the Automat’s beautiful Art Deco tables flew up in the air, revealing a half-dozen trained assassins. It was a trap! Watch out, Rocks! Ooh, I can’t look! But I have to write about it… OK, I’ll look. Wait, what’s happening?
_____Rocks was smiling as he looked around at the agents of death surrounding him. “Ohhhhhh boy,” he said, “Diz gunna be fun.” The first assassin ran at him. He carried two samurai katanas, and the swishing noise they made as he swung them through the air said he knew how to use them. Also the fact that he was Asian. Rocks blocked both blades with his arm, stopping their cutting power with his rhino-thick hide, and flattened the man with a single blow. A split-second later, the second assassin (counting clockwise from Rocks’ left) attacked. He carried a spiked flail. For those of you reading who don’t know, a flail is a mediæval weapon with a spiked ball attached to a club. You probably know it, but a lot of horribly stupid people mistakenly call it a mace. I’m sorry about the tangent, but a mace is an entirely different thing! It doesn’t have the chain. Oh, and sometimes somebody will correct people who say “mace” by saying “morningstar,” but that’s a different thing too! My God, those people are even worse. They’re even worse than people who spell “mediæval” without this cool symbol: æ.
_____Oh, sorry, Rocks killed three people while I was saying that. The last two came at him at once. He took one and threw him effortlessly through the roof. The other had a whip, which he was cracking menacingly across Rocks’ face. Rocks ignored it, snatching the man up with a single huge hand and swallowing him in one gulp. He then dropped his pants, and with a great grunt, defecated the man’s corpse, strangled with his own whip by Rocks’ amazing digestive tract. The other man fell back down through the ceiling while Rocks was pulling his pants up. Without looking, he absent-mindedly stuck his two fingers through the man’s eye sockets on the way down, destroying his brain. Rocks then wiped his fingers on the man’s pants, grabbed a stray piece of pie, and ate it. He lit one of his cigars from the beginning of the story, with the gorillas, and looked to the corner of the place, past the heap of corpses, to where Weaselly was cowering behind a table. What?! He’s not dead yet? No, apparently Rocks spared him while he killed the six assassins. I hope he kills him now, though. No! He reached out a hand to help him up!
_____”But Rocks,” quavered Weaselly, sticking his tiny hand into Rocks’ giant fist, “Aren’t you goink to keel me?”
_____”Nahhhhhhhhh. Iz got a limit when’t comes tah killin’ guys in a day.”
_____”What’s the leemit?”
_____”48.”
_____And with that, weaselly little Weaselly Lillman scampered to the exit of the 8th St Automat. At the door, he looked back at Rocks, who threw a table leg through his face. Rocks then walked casually over to where Weaselly was pinned to the door frame by the metal shaft, which was sticking through his open mouth (haha, queer) his dead eyes frozen in an expression that seemed to say, “But why?”
_____”Becuzz,” Rocks explained to the corpse, “I’z a tough guy.” And with that, Rocks Slahherty walked out.
