“Just the typical club sluts,” the one with long, greasy, black hair says. The other guy laughs like the joke is absolutely hilarious.
“You’d think they’d throw an Omega our way every now and then. I mean, we work hard, we deserve it,” the older one with the graying goatee supplies.
“No kiddin’. How long has it been?” I respond, thickening my accent.
“Months, Prez has gotten fuckin’ greedy,” Grease-ball replies.
“Maybe we should take one,” Mickey chimes in, and I’m glad the moron didn’t just stand there looking like a fucking idiot.
“Yeah, right. He keeps that place locked up tighter than a nun’s cunt,” Gray goatee dismisses. It’s clear this one knows more information, so I see how much I can get out of him.
“Where is he holdin’ them nowadays?” I ask.
He squints his eyes and looks over at me and Mickey again. When he gazes down at Mickey’s hand, seeing the DPMC signet ring, I know we’re fucked.
Without a second thought, I take out my pistol and quickly fire three shots. The first is right between the older man's eyes. His death is quick, and his body thuds against the ground with a satisfying thud.
I shoot the other man in both the thigh and the shoulder. He falls to the ground, wincing in pain, and I smile as I get down to my haunches. I press a thumb firmly into the wound in his thigh, causing him to scream out in pain.
“Tell me where he keeps them, and I’ll end this quickly.”
“Fuck you. I ain’t tellin’ you shit,” he groans, and I dig my finger deeper into his thigh.
“My patience is pretty fucking thin. You get one more chance. Where does he keep them?”
He coughs and sputters.
“Fuck you,” he grunts.
As a man of my word, I remove my thumb from his gunshot wound and take everything else off of him. His wallet, gun, and cell phone are all in my possession.
I nod my head to Mickey. “Go get the bikes.”
He doesn’t gape or seem surprised at my show of violence. He’s quick to roll my bike over to where I’m standing in the woods. I take out the long piece of nylon rope, tying a secure knot on the triple tree of my bike while Mickey goes and gets his own bike.
“What are you doin’?” the man sputters, blood now seeping out of his mouth. He doesn’t have long, but I plan on dragging this out a little longer.
“I warned you. Unless you’re having a change of heart?” I say calmly as I loop the nylon around his underarms, tying it tightly enough that he can still breathe, but it’s going nowhere. Once Mickey is back with his bike, I grab another piece of rope, securing it around both of his ankles. Both of our bikes face in opposite directions. “Mickey, you wanna start her up?” I ask as he starts his engine, and my plan becomes clear.
“We’re going to rip you the fuck apart,” I explain with a smile as I walk towards my bike, starting the engine.
“Please,” he begs. I can’t control the menacing smile that spreads across my face.
“I mean, I told you I would only give you two chances, and you said no. If I gave you another that would make me a liar.” I have to nearly shout to be heard over the purring engine.
“I’ll tell you where they’re at,” he rasps out.
“Should we believe him, Mickey?” I ask him. He shrugs his shoulders and looks down at the poor unfortunate soul.
“Probably not. He’s most likely lying, and I kinda want to see how this whole medieval shit works out,” Mickey comments, and I smirk at him.
“Where?” I growl behind me, revving the engine, letting him know I mean business.
“The… the home in Buckwood,” he sputters.
“See, how hard was that?” I ask him. “Let’s end this then,” I say, pointing my gun at him. “Mickey, how do we know he’s not lying?” I ask, toying with the man, neither of us leaving our bikes.
“We don’t,” he replies.
