Unincorporated Gotham.
They called it Billyland. Rednecks and peckerwoods from all over Appalachia flocked to the city during and after WW2 to work the industry jobs all the upstanding crackers left behind when they went to war. The Hillbillies, Billies to those in the know, made unincorporated Gotham a hicktown haven and had been there ever since. Billyland was a running joke through the city. You going through Billyland and hear banjo music? Roll up those windows and drive faster, boy. How do you castrate a Billy? Kick his sister in the mouth. What do you call a Billy girl who can run faster than her brothers? A virgin. Billyland: 10,000 people and only six teeth.
Slam drove down streets in his heap. He nursed a flask of gin and kept his eyes peeled for Peter Dubose.
THE JOB: Peter Dubose has a huge crush on Glenda Glitter, feature dancer at the Gold Rush Strip Club. Dig Gorgeous Glenda grind on the floor. Guys go gaga over Gyrating Glenda. See Pete pop his peepers at that sight. Pervert Pete likes to watch Glenda glide around the Gold Rush. Paramour Pete's heart pumped passion for Glenda. Purser Pete won't take a pass. Persistent Pete paws at Glenda and takes no prisoners. Pugnacious Pete gets violent. Glamourous Glenda gets a shiner. Enter Slammin' Sammy. Slam gets six bills and lapdances gratis for putting the fear of god into Pesky Peter. A straight up muscle job, just the way Scary Slam liked it.
Slam cruised through Billyland for two hours and took in the sights. Dig those trucks and big ass tires. Dig that Billy music. Fat girls in tight jean shorts and tighter tops. Muffin tops abound. Tweaker sores abound as well. Teenage mothers pushing babies, rebel yells, motorcycles, more jacked up trucks. Confederate Flags and "Heritage, Not Hate" signs as far as the eye can see. Slam hit the gin and sang country songs under his breath.
"Sun's coming up... something-something griddle, blah blah blah fiddle, thank God I'm a country boy!"
FEATURE: Peter Dubose coming out of a bar. Pudgy Pete looks like he's three hundred easy. Pimply Pete picks acne and pops zits. Slam cruised sloooow and watched Pete climb into a shitbox of a truck and speed off, blowing exhaust behind him. Slam counted seconds, got to twenty, and went. The exhaust smoke gave him a beacon to follow. He gave Pete a long leash and cruised, polishing the gin off and kept singing.
"Let's go to Luckenbach, Texas, with Waylon and Willie and the boys. This... something-something feuding like the Hatfields and McCoys."
Slam caught up with Pete when he was leaving his shitbox parked outside a grocery store.
"Peter Dubose?" Slam asked.
"Yeah. And you are?"
"I'm a friend of Glenda Glitter."
Pete's eyes went wide just before Slam laid into him. He had big hands. Once upon a time the hands pulverized light heavyweights and cruiserweights without prejudice. Not so long ago they worked over murderers and robbers in the GPCD interrogation pen with beaucoup prejudice. Now they turned Peter Dubose's sides into shredded beef and sent his teeth flying across the parking lot. A three combo sent Pervy Pete flying against the side of his truck. He slid down the side and spat teeth. Slam rubbed his knuckles and watched Pathetic Pete sob.
"You touch Glenda again, you're dead. You get within ten miles of her, you're dead. You even step one foot back in that strip club and you're dead."
Slam took the driver's side mirror and ripped it off. He cradled the mirror in the palm of one hand before smashing it into the ground.
"Get what I'm saying, boy?"
---
Slam stumbled out the bar seeing double. Every cent he got from Glenda, all six hundred bucks of it, went to settling his tab at The Handlebar and running up a new one. The Handlebar; call it a dive bar for the people that were too rough or too drunk or too sorry for regular dive bars. O'Shea's had been his watering hole of choice for nearly twenty years but he was banned. O'Shea's was a cop bar and he was big time persona non grata anywhere cops gathered.
He turned his collar up against his neck. The old thing stunk of booze and smokes, just like its owner. Streamers and shit going off all over the street; people down the street were celebrating a birthday or something. The Handlebar didn't celebrate birthday's and he was glad for that. A birthday was for people dumb enough to believe they had a future, it was for the people who had hope. Slam knew what hope felt like, the same way a guy with a voice box remembers what it used to feel like to not have a hole in their goddamn neck.
Big hands rifled through the coat, searching for his cigs and lighter. The big hands were passed down from the old man, the only thing he'd given Slam that was worth a damn. Pa Bradley went splitsville in the early 70's, leaving Ma Bradley and little Slam to fend for their own. The big hands were helpful back when he was a kid growing up. The scar on his third left knuckle was from Bobby Shaw's tooth when Slam beat his ass.
Slam lit the cigarette after his fifth attempt. He headed down the street, blowing smoke while the people celebrated. He passed more drunks stumbling to parts unknown just like he was, both parties giving silent acknowledgment as they passed that they were both part of the fraternal order of drunken bastards.
Halfway down the block, tires screeched and an engine revved. Slam turned too late. Four big men in black tracksuits jumped out a black SUV and drove Slam hard against the side of a building. The cigarette went flying along with the air from Slam's lungs. He gasped while one of the men worked on his ribs.
"Where is our money, asshole?"
Thick Russian accent, bad breath. Call it: Pasha's men on a collection call. Pasha ran book for the Russian mob and held a note on Slam for seventeen hundred. It was only five hundred until a few weeks ago, he doubled down on Preston Harper in the fight against Juan Lopez. Lopez had a glass jaw. By round four he'd be on the canvas crossed eyed while the ref called it. Harper went down in the second. Lopez's glass jaw, it turned out, was trumped by a fantastic left cross.
"Where is our money?"
The beating stopped. Slam sucked air, gulped and nodded.
"You try looking up your ass?"
Wrong answer. He always got mouthy when he was shitfaced. The Russians held him against the walls while their buddy started tenderizing his sides again. He got into it, went high and punched Slam right across the face.
"You owe Pasha money. Two thousand."
"Seventeen hundred, Boris."
Backhanded slap smacked Slam's head back against the brick side of the building. He pulled away from the wall tasting blood, a cut somewhere in his mouth. Slam spat blood. It dribbled down his mouth and on to his tie.
"Two thousand, with interest. You don't pay in a week, it's four thousand. You don't pay a week after that, we kill you..."
"Not an effective way to run a collection service, Boris. But I guess all you Soviet fucks don't realize how capitalism really works..."
More slaps and blows, teeth rattling punches knocking him every which way. Boris breathed deeply; shook his head and spat in Slam's face.
"I was born in Gotham, asshole. God bless America."
The muscle tossed Slam to the ground with a few more kicks in the ribs for good measure. He stayed still on the sidewalk, waiting until the car was gone before moving. He sat up and leaned against the wall, bruised and bleeding and did an inventory; no broken bones, ribs hurt like hell but were intact, ditto for the teeth. No serious damage, but their message was delivered loud and clear. Slam lit up another smoke and breathed in deeply. The smoke hurt the cut in his mouth but he didn't care. Singing down the block.
"Happy birthday to you, happy birthday to you-"
Slam laughed and stubbed the cigarette out on the cement. He leaned against the wall and sighed, wishing he'd just stayed at home and got shitfaced there.
Morden Man,
O O,
xVampire3go,
Captain Uni,
Memoria,
Eddie Brock,
Master Bruce,
parelaxis,
Cyrania,
mattmanganon
