Title: [ pending ]
Chapter one // Apathetic Antithesis




“The usual – two boxes of .357 Magnum 125 grain JHP.”

Trannie Jane raised her eyes from the monitor screen with an impudent scowl. From the speakers came the sounds of relentless gunshots. She gestured with her thumb to the inventory behind her – a helter-skelter stack of cardboard boxes.

“Still playing CS? It’s 10am in the morning, missus,” I said as I waded through the mechanical junk on the floor.

“I’m testing out Mobo, you see,” and as if once wasn’t enough, “I’m testing it out.”

Mobo is audile shorthand for the current motherboard Trannie Jane had gotten her paws on. She had names for almost everything.

I reached the corner where the bullets were stored, scanned the boxes for ‘Magnum’, and realized that Trannie Jane had once again neglected to label most of them.

“Hey, which one is it? You forgot the labels again.”

There was the sound of mouse clicking, typing and gunshots for a long while, before Trannie Jane began to acknowledge my question.

“Hmm…” she trailed off. “ Probably the topmost box on the right.”

“Right.”

I got a spare PC unit from nearby and used it as a stepladder, retrieved the box from its throne and took out two portions of the .357 from it. Feeling lazy, I dumped the cardboard box on the ground.

Harder to put it back than to take it down.

Lo’ the wonders of Gravity.

“Hey Trannie,” I said as I maneuvered my way out through the packrat’s paradise. “Just put it on my tab, ‘kay?”

“You still owe me for the previous order,” she mumbled, eyes steadfastly fixated on the screen.

“Aye aye captain, I’ll just pay you in one truckload next time,” I hollered behind my back as I walked out of the dingy store with two boxes of bullets in my hands. This area of town, nobody cares if you carried a machine gun.

It was a cool November morning outside. The nocturnal district was still asleep, and the sun was barely waking. The streetlights were hibernating – it felt a lot like dusk.

My head was buzzing from an overdue hangover.

I blamed all this trouble on Lex (real name ‘Alexander’, but it’s a dopey name for a self-proclaimed mafia). He was the one who practically dragged me to the UN 9th Mountain Division, 3rd Brigade Conglomeration. Don’t ask me who the fuck named it. Because that pinhead wouldn’t need a name once I’ve blown his brains out.

And then there was an after-party at Bar Cain, and an after-after-party at… somewhere. I can’t remember. I was smashed. I swear Lex was trying to get into my pants, with the amount of beer he was shoving into my face.

Right then, my mobile rang. The theme song of Spongebob Squarepants tore through my pockets. And no, it wasn’t me. Lex must have re-programmed my phone again while I was asleep. I fished out the phone from my pocket, and answered it.

“I am Jack’s inflamed sense of rejection!” a voice boomed from the tiny phone. A giggle in the background and some sifting of clothes, and then, “You didn’t even leave a goodbye note.”

“Should I have? Seems to me you’re in no lack of company,” I said as I adjusted the load in my other hand.

“Aww, is little Jackie perhaps, jealous?”

“You wish.”

“I did. Crossed my fingers and wished upon a star.”

I faked a puking noise. It made me felt like a pregnant woman on her sixth week of gestation.

Morning sickness would surely pwn hangovers. It’s all the pain of alcohol with none of the pleasure. I’m glad I wasn’t born a lady, thank-the-non-existent-God.

Nevertheless, Note To Self: Never fake barf when having a hangover. Unless Lex is directly inside range of the vomitus projectile. If so, proceed to vomit yesterday’s dinner, lunch and breakfast out, in that order. Preferably in the face.

Forcing my attention back to the mobile before I invented more cruel and unusual ways of torture, I heard Lex waiting – something he didn’t do on a regular (or irregular, for that matter) basis.

I could almost hear him frowning, and Lex frowning was a bad sign. It meant that he wanted to tell me something (probably bad news), but was trying hard to phrase it so that I wouldn’t sock him in the face.

Not that I could do that now, but I could always postpone the inevitable until I next saw him.

“Hey, erm, Jack?”

Yeah, definitely bad news. Probably a 6.5 on the Richter scale, if bad news had a scale.

“If you’re gonna ask me if I want the good or the bad news first, the former please.”

“Sorry jackfruit, there isn’t any,” he said, and before I could let out the breath I was unconsciously holding, “good news, that is.”

Oh, I think I’m turning blue.

“So are you gonna give me the red pill or not?” I told him. “The suspense is kiillling me.”

“Oh, Jackie, don’t die yet! We can’t afford to lose you too after we’ve lost Kia.”

My heart stopped. Forget defibrillation. I’m officially brain-dead.

“Wh…what?”

“Erm, Kia… he died in the previous operation. You know, the one with the President of Syria?”

“Damn you. Alexander Keigwin,” I grounded out slowly, feeling my voice break a little. “…Fuck.”

Silence over the line. Then, “I’m sorry, Jack-”

“How long?” I asked.

“Huh?”

“How long since you knew?” I gripped the two boxes of bullets closer to my chest.

“… 12th November. 2 days after he died.”

“That’s 3 days, Lex. The party. You fucking knew and you fucking partied. And you fucking brought me.”

“Jack, you know Kia wouldn’t have wanted us to mope around and mourn,” Lex tried to defend, “and it’s not as if-”

“Fuck you, Alexander.”

And I hung up the phone.

I taught myself how to breathe again, but I felt like an asthmatic smoker with a major relapse. And even in my windbreaker, the air felt sharp against my skin. Everything in front of me just seemed gray and bleary.

Or maybe it was just the tears.