Some Bad Mutha

When Craig Hunter saw Junior barge through The Five O’ One Saloon’s front doors, he nearly pissed himself. Although, the lighting inside the bar was intentionally dim, Craig imagined Junior enter a stage with a spotlight that followed his steps like the lead performer in some musical called The Bad Ass. He wore an oversized charcoal-gray flannel that hung over a pair of black Dickies pants and a black beanie he’d pulled so low it partially covered his eyes. Craig knew that beneath the loose garments, Junior was 2% skin, bones and organs, and 98% lean muscle. So when Junior took his seat five stools over, Craig actually pissed himself—just a little though. Back To Black blared out of hidden speakers that surrounded the tavern with Amy Winehouse’s evocative voice. Mixed Martial Artists danced and somersaulted inside octagonal cages across the television monitors that covered the walls and hung from the ceilings. Junior removed his beanie, slapped the counter twice and yelled at Terry, the bartender, for a Dry Manhattan. By this time, Craig had nearly shat himself.

“What’s wrong, Craig?” Jasmine inquired in between sips of her Midori Sour, her voice nearly lost to the discordance of conversations and blaring music. “You look like you seen a ghost.”

Worse. I saw Junior. If you knew that I just disposed of three droplets of urine in my drawers, you’d be inclined to leave. And, get this, I wouldn’t blame you.

Craig didn’t say that, of course.

Instead he said, “you see that guy over there?” He pointed toward Junior with his lips. Junior eyed Terry as she mixed and poured his drink into a glass with the expertise of a chemist while Amy Winehouse whined about going back to black.

“Yeah,” she took another sip of her glow-in-the-dark-green drink. Her red lipstick stained the top of the straw. “What about him? You know him?”

Her light brown eyes flashed green now and then under the bar’s pallid lamps and integrated with her light skin and Midori Sour. Her lustrous brunette hair cascaded delicately around her porcelain face and splashed over her shoulders like one of the chocolate fountains in Willy Wonka’s factory. She wore a black blouse over a pair of white pants that selfishly gripped her hips and faded into a pair of knee-high black suede boots. Without a single blemish upon her beautifully natural face, Jasmine was a collage created with divine hands. Every facial portion, every body curve and each square-micrometer that made up her anatomical existence had been handpicked and collected from the lust of every man and extracted out of the envy of every woman. Jasmine was indisputably an undiluted descendant of Aphrodite, the ancient goddess of beauty.

“Yeah. I beat his ass a couple of months ago.” He felt his voice slightly waver.

“You? For what?”

“Cause he’s a punk.”

“But…you?”

“Yeah.”

Popular perception around the office where they both worked had always labeled him weak and cowardly due to his quiet and meek nature. His wiry frame along with his compulsiveness to be neat and orderly had helped construct the stereotype. What cemented this cowardly nonsense, however, was the time when Craig was confronted by Howie, possibly the scrawniest man in history, over a stapler or something stupid, he couldn’t recall. What he remembered was the way Howie had belittled him in the presence of the entire office. Craig’s mouth had become a library during the Covid lockdown and his legs a pair of tumbling marimbas at a Guatemalan quinceañera. After the overly confident Howie was done cheapening Craig’s dignity before all, he took the humiliation a step further by inviting Craig to the parking lot for—in Howie’s stinging words—a Costco sized can of whoop-ass. Craig declined the offer, put his head down and breathed life into the rumor that would eventually cock block him when Jasmine came around.

When Jasmine stepped into the office for the first time, every jaw dropped and instantly became the office trophy. She, however, made it known that she needed a real man, tough and rugged. For heaven’s sakes, Jasmine was a Demi-Goddess—damned if she would settle for anything less than a champion, or in modern lingo, a badass motherfucker. This put Craig at the bottom. Even Howie had a better chance. The pressure was on. The incident with Howie didn’t help his case. No doubt she’d heard about it. Craig, however, had the ability to be persistent. In addition, Craig had the looks that complemented his smooth talk. He had an amiable face, a smile that displayed white teeth and dimples, black hair that was always groomed and a pair of stunning blue eyes. With this combination, Craig proceeded. His persistence finally paid off. Jasmine accepted to go out for drinks and, in turn, gave Craig one shot to prove that perception was subjective. With this opportunity, he’d teach the voluptuous Jasmine not to listen to rumors and prove, once and for all, that he wasn’t the coward everyone believed him to be. Craig would show this Demi-goddess that he was the badass motherfucker she was looking for.

Craig gently sipped his Long Island.

“Fucker tried to disrespect me.” He paused momentarily for the effect. “I used to come here with my ex all the time. And one night, my ex and I where sitting here and this fool was sitting in the same spot he’s sitting in right now. So he waits for me to go the restroom, right?”

The direct descendant of Aphrodite sat open-mouthed, her red lips formed a circle while her dazzling eyes changed colors.

“So when I come back, he’s standing right there.” Craig pointed to the side of Jasmine. “He yells, ‘fuck you then, you cuntceited bitch!’”

“What the…”

“So this piece of crap waited for me to leave my ex unattended. He has the nerve to come talk to her, you know, he tries to pick up on her. When she tells him to pound sand, he gets upset and calls her that shit…cuntceited bitch.” He laughed. “Ever heard that before?”

Jasmine shook her head no, her red lips and straw battled against an army of ice cubes for watered-down alcohol.

“Terry, can we have another…Midori, um, Midori Something?”

“Sour,” Jasmine corrected. “Midori Sour.”

“Whatever. Anyhow, so this guy thinks I’m a punk, right? Talking to my ex and all. So I come back and see what’s going on. She’s sitting and he’s standing inches away from her. I make my way in between them and ask him what his problem is. He says to mind my own business and calls me a bitch. I say, ‘what?’ He says, ‘you heard me, bitch!’ So I try to take the high road and tell him he’s drunk, he needs to leave.”

“And what’s everybody else doing? Nobody try stopping him?”

“You see him? He’s fucking ripped. I’m sure everyone’s scared of him.”

“Weren’t you?”

“I’m not gonna lie. I was a bit nervous, that’s all. But it’s like women say, size don’t matter.”

Everyone at the bar suddenly erupted, “WHOA!” In the screens above, some unfortunate fighter slept in the middle of the fighting cage.

“I’ve been around the block too many times for size to matter to me. Anyways,” he continued. Jasmine’s Midori Sour arrived. “He refuses to leave, right? Instead he tells me I don’t have the balls to meet him outside. And, again, I try and take the high road and say that he’s right. But he just won’t go away. He starts blabbering on how he’d like to show my ‘ho’ what a bitch I am and how she needs a ‘real’ man. And blah, blah, blah. So that’s when I’ve had enough of this fool.”

“So what’d you do?”

“What do you think I did? I followed him outside and put hands on him. Fucker wasn’t counting on these.” Craig curled his wiry arm and pointed at his miniature bicep with the other. “Fucker thought me a punk and I proved him wrong. That’s all.”

“You beat him up?”

“Kicked the living shit outta him.”

“Wow.”

“What I wanna know though is what the hell is he doing here tonight. After the ass-kicking I gave him, I would’ve thought he’d never come back.”

“Well, it doesn’t matter. Just let him be.”

He took another microscopic sip. While she was half-way down her fourth Midori Sour, Craig was still a quarter through his first Long Island Ice Tea. “Fuckin’ pussy.”

“Let him be.”

Craig stared at Junior. Junior looked at his Dry Manhattan.

“By the way, Craig, women don’t say that.”

“Huh?” Craig was still looking at Junior. “Women don’t say what?”

“That size doesn’t matter.” He heard a slight drawl. “Men with large trucks and small penises say that, not women.”

“Well it’s a good thing I drive a small car…”

She laughed.

“I’ll tell you something.” The vodka was beginning to take its place as Jasmine’s copilot. “I didn’t think you were quite the fighter before. But after you told me how you kicked that guy’s ass, I feel secure with you.” She scooted closer to him, wrapped her arm around his and held his hand.

“I feel as you’d defend me and…”

“And now you wanna sleep with me, huh?”

“How stoo-pid.” She laughed again.

“Serious though, don’t women find fighters attractive? Like the Jason Stathams? The Ryan Reynolds? The Brad Pitts?”

“Well, I don’t know about all women but some do…”

“How about you?”

“Yeah, I think fighters are sex-cee. Whoo!” Her eyes where solid green—Midori Sour Green.

In the monitors across the place, UFC commentator, Joe Rogan, interviewed some heavyweight champion, who ignored each and every question about the fight, and thanked coaches, friends, brothers, sisters, his mom, his dad and God instead. Meanwhile, the voice of Amy Winehouse leaped from hidden speaker to hidden speaker: black…black…black.

“So what if you saw me beat the shit of that dude over there,” he pointed at Junior, no longer with his lips but with his hand. “Would you consider ‘coffee’ at my place tonight?”

“Are you serious?”

“Yeah-huh.”

“You?”

“Yup.”

“But you?”

He nodded.

He was almost there. He could feel it.

“Nah…I don’t think so…”

“You don’t think so what? That you’ll have ‘coffee’ at my place or that I can beat the shit outta homeboy?”

“Both! This is crazy!”

“But it’s not.” Craig feigned another sip. “It’s actually simple. I kick that guy’s ass. You become my girl. That’s it.”

He looked into her deep green eyes and saw less of Jasmine and more of Vodka.

Almost there!

“Look, you know I’m no creep. And after beating the shit outta that dude, you’ll also know I can protect you like you said earlier. I’ll be your Jason Statham…”

“No! Ryan Reynolths!”

“Okay, Ryan Reynolds. The point is that…”

“How bouth Goshling? Ryan Goshling. I love Ryan Goshling. Woo-hoo!”

“Him too.” He was almost there. “The point is…”

“Ac-sully, you look more like Ryan Reynolths. A sh-kinnier version of’m.”

“Yes. I’ll be your thinner, tougher, version of Ryan Reynolds-slash-Gosling who doesn’t drive a large truck but a small car—one of the smallest Jap cars, that is, and you know what that means, right?”

“Oh, yeah!” Midori Sour said with Jasmine’s lips. “You kick dude’s ash. I’ll be shore girl.”

She looked at Junior.

“Oh, shit.” She covered her red lips with her left hand. “I mean, no. Don’t. You might get hurt.”

“Trust me. I won’t.” Then, he looked up at Junior and yelled, “THAT DUDE’S A PUNK-ASS!”

Junior looked up, a glint of recognition flashed in his eyes and got up.

“Oh my gosh, Craig, I think he’sh coming.”

She kept her hand over her mouth.

“Don’t worry about him. I told you, this guy only looks tough but he’s not.”

Junior walked behind Craig and whispered, “Sup, bitch. You wanna finish what we started the last time?”

“Craig, no. Don’t.”

“Fuck this guy.”

“Craig…”

“Relax, Jasmine. This dude’s a punk. He’s not gonna do anything.”

He turned toward Junior and said, “after you, bitch.”

Junior turned toward the door and began to walk.

“Craig, mush you?”

Craig answered her by getting up. He followed Junior. And Jasmine followed Craig.

Although the Midori Sour was driving, Jasmine felt the coolness of the night from the passenger’s seat. She pulled on Craig’s arm, in a useless attempt to stop him for the last time, but Craig was determined. Did he really kick this tough-looking guy’s ass? He must’ve. If he hadn’t, he wouldn’t be out here risking an ass-kicking—

“Let me show you who the bitch is.”

The beefed up dude swung a right fist that harmlessly gazed the bottom of her Ryan Reynold’s chin. He followed with an exaggerated left and faintly connected with her man’s scrawny bicep. For the size of this guy, he was quite the weakling. Maybe Craig and all those guys with big trucks were right, she thought, size didn’t matter. Her Ryan then answered back with a strike of his own. It landed solidly on the buffed guy’s chest. Her Ryan paused for a second. His opponent stared. Her Ryan Gosling then proceeded to punch homeboy straight in the face. Cur-rack! Buffed-dude staggered while taking a couple of backward steps and fell on his ass. He covered his face with his hands, and her Ryan Reynolds-slash-Gosling quickly mounted him.

“Listen and listen up well. If I really wanted to, I could break your jaw and beat you to a pulp, but I’m not going to. What I’m going to do is let you run away.” His words competed against his breathing. “I’m gonna let you run to your car and then let you drive away. I don’t care where you go. Just go. Am I clear?”

With a muffled “um-hum,” Junior responded from under his hands.

“Is that a yes?”

“Alright, man! Yes! Yes! Fuck! Just let me go!”

Craig stood up. Junior proved true to his word and bolted, never to be seen by Jasmine again.

Craig was still catching his breath when he walked back to Jasmine. A group of onlookers had materialized.

“Now,” he said in between breaths. “How about some ‘coffee’ at my place?”

Jasmine responded by wrapping her arm around his and led the way into the night.

#

Two days of hot brewed coffee later, the invoice arrived with a ping early in the morning as expected. Craig grabbed his phone and opened the email addressed and billed to Craig Hunter, customer #13197. He turned. Jasmine slept on his bed. Sent by Junior’s Dirty Deeds, the invoice had a list of lines with amounts. The first line named the services rendered: The Silver Package (Bar Scene). The description was listed beside, four strikes, one facial and three to the body; one mount; and bottomless curse words. The total price for the Silver Package was $1200. The $800 Craig had paid Junior’s Dirty Deeds was noted in between corresponding parentheses and listed as a deposit on the second line. The third and final line showed the balance of $400 that were due in 10 days. Below this list flared a green icon like the green light on a traffic signal. The words, PAY NOW, were stuffed inside it. And below all this, the invoice ended with a short message that congratulated Craig, thanked him for his business and wished him good luck with his accomplishment from Junior. Even though he had 10 days to pay the invoice, Craig tapped the green icon with PAY NOW inside it. He didn’t want to owe Junior anything, especially money, any longer than he had to. Jasmine shifted under the covers and mumbled a plea for him to go back to bed. Craig, nowhere near a badass motherfucker, shook at the thought of crossing Junior, smirked at Jasmine’s resting body and obliged to her request. Warm coffee awaited him under those sheets.

BIO: J. Marquez Jr. has never been interviewed before. However, if he’s ever interviewed, he will be happy to divulge that he likes Pink Floyd. One can find some of this riffraff on recent issues of The Literary Hatchet, The Literary Garage and/or at The Yard: Crime Blog. He sends his regards from Los Angeles with love.

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