Getaway - Part 15

I have to admit, the idea of beating a fellow earthling to death was something that had never appealed to me, and I was predicting a moral tug-of-war when I walked into that Dublin airport hotel room with murder on my mind. I decided, as is the way with such things, that the best thing to do was get it over quickly. Like ripping a plaster off a grazed knee. Best to get the ball rolling and see where it goes.

Sadly, when I slammed my Bulmers bottle down on the back of Deano’s head it smashed, but failed to knock him unconscious. He staggered forward a couple of steps and manuvered himself behind his burly ally, who swung round on hearing the crash of glass on cranium. I was now faced with the challenge of dispatching two young men energised by the power of the self-righteous. The upside to this was that my nagging human empathy gene was quickly over powered by its animalistic elder cousin, the self-preservation gene. Time slowed down while I stood there facing the two boys, broken bottle stub in hand, with my back to the closed hotel door. Deano was injured, true, but Chulainn, the big fucker, was looking at me with an expression that was morphing from shock to fury. I quickly realised that if I didn’t act before the trauma of being so thoroughly caught off guard had wore off, my young adversaries might well batter the shit out of me.

The idea of losing this game so close to the final finish line was nothing short of disgusting and with that in mind, I threw what was left of the broken bottle straight at Chulainn. The idea was to get him to reflexively cover up, buying me precious seconds to charge in and land a quick flurry of shots, but it didn’t work. The little bastard knocked it away with a swipe of a meaty hand and lamped me with a sweet right hand that I charged directly into. Although the room did swim as my feet flew directly out from under me, it was the mechanics of the blow rather than a momentary short-circuit of my brain waves that landed me on the deck, and I quickly scrambled towards the door and hauled myself up. I thought for a second about opening the door and running screaming down the hallway, but I had nowhere to escape to. If I ran I would be chased, attentions would be roused, cops would be called and my bag would be searched. And without the cash to make good an escape, all I had to look forward too was an epic beating and a bullet in the back of the head. If I wanted a future I would have to stand here and fight for it.

I turned just in time to see Chullainn’s face, contorted with fury and youthful idiocy, for a moment as he launched himself into me. It sounds a bit bent, but did a simple little move that had been drilled into me in the Muay Thai gym; I dipped my head and pointed my elbow in the direction of his on-rushing mush. I could feel the ring of his eye socket around the end of my elbow and he let out a squeal reminiscent of a baby seal having its head caved in by an eager Scandinavian. Blinking furiously and caught in two minds between attack and retreat, he stepped back with his chubby fingers still clamped shut on my shirt.

That was my queue to grab him by the ears and slam my forhead into his nose. It cracked first time, but I gave it three more shots to make sure. My target area began to soften after the second shot and I fancied I was breaking the facial bones around his cheeks and eyes. Sadly, my bid to see if repeated head-butts could cave enough facial bone to enable me to flip the fucker over and wear his hollowed cranium like a Davy Crocket-style scull cap (no pun intended), was brought to an abrupt end when Deano, the little bastard, re-entered the fray.

He’d spotted the room’s tea-making facilities and identified the kettle as the ideal weapon with which to dispatch the black chameleon in his midst. But rather than just bonk me over the head with it or maybe choke me with the cable like a civilised human being, he started swinging the poxy thing over his head by the plug. Then, apparently choosing a moment when I had drawn my bloodied forehead back from the warm, wet mass it had been burrowing into, he whipped it round and slammed me in the face. Well, in the mouth, to be precise. It seemed a ludicrously dramatic means of knocking someone out but when that cheap plastic hotel kettle caught me squarely in the gob, I briefly decided that the shocked, wiry young man with blood dripping from the back of his head, was nothing short of a 24-carat genius.

Getting your front teeth knocked out hurts like fuck, but it won’t make you pass out. Just as well, because although Chulainn was on the ground with every drop of fighting Irish spirit beaten out of him, Deano the cowboy was swinging his lasso around for another pop. First time round I hadn’t a clue that the Kraups-engineered item of kitchenware was coming my way, but the wide arcs it cut were easy for the wary to slip between. A straight left, which was aimed at the unfortunate Deano’s mouth, caught him straight in the throat and while the kettle flew out of the open window (and I’ve no recollection of when, why or by whom it was opened), he dropped to the floor clutching his wind-pipe.

I won’t bore you (or induce vomiting) with the details of how I finished off those two gallant sons of Ireland, beyond a couple of points. Firstly, the room, when I was finished, was a shambles – it looked like a scene from a teenage slasher movie. Secondly, there was a knock on the door from a member of the hotel’s security team as I emerged from the shower. I popped a towel around my waist and held a second to my mouth before opening the door to the extent to which the chain lock would allow.

“Can I help you?”

“We’ve had complaints about the noise,” said some spotty retard wearing a pathetic excuse for a uniform.

“Yeah? I think it was the next room down pal.”

“No, the people in the next room down are the ones who complained,” quipped the cheeky fucker who obviously had little idea how grunts in the service industry should behave towards the individuals on whom their livelihoods depend.

“Well what do you want me to do? Go and apologise to them?” I asked incredulously.

“Actually, don’t answer that… wait one moment.”

I grabbed my wallet, fished out a €50 note and made my way back to the door. “We’ll be quiet boss, we're going to have an early night. And take this..” I say, flicking the note onto the floor.

“Eh…Ok…I,” he mumbles, stooping with the speed of a professional beggar.

“Yeah, I thought that would sort the issue you little prick,” I say as I close the door.

“What?” I hear him moan through the door, unsure of whether to risk losing the fifty sheets in favour of pursuing his pride. The money wins out however, and I hear him trot off down the hallway.

I open the door to make sure he’s off, but I can’t resist having the last word, “Get a real job you fucking loser!”

To be continued.

© Rob Carry. All rights reserved by the author.