The Many Regrets of a Cyborg Werewolf

Dealing - I

"Another round," was shouted over the bellowing laughs and mixed profanity that buoyed the air of mirth inside the tavern. Said establishment was rustic, old-timey, yet with a contemporary flair that painted the dwellings as traditionalist rather than out of date. Behind the bar, amidst the assortment of spirits and brews, were photos of regulars and hand-written cards from out of state. It wasn't a large tavern, but it had ample seating, with the only patrons occupying only a single round table, hammering back their pints and smoking excessively as they commiserated over a card game. The men all wore matching jackets, some sleeveless, emblazoned with the same image of a fire-ensconced eagle with wings made of knives. There were six men in total, two of whom smoked cigars rather than cigarettes, and chuckled at each other's expense as they traded spoils over their game. The mood was set as the evening was drawing to a close, but all that was changed when amidst the banter the sound of the tavern door's chime jingled.

The door opened as another man entered. Unlike the existing patrons he wore no emblem, and he was smaller than any of them. He kept his head low as he slowly made his way to the bar, ignorant of the sudden silence he created as the table of men watched him with accusing glares. The newcomer took a seat at the bar, right in front of the bartender, who likewise scrutinized the disheveled man who made himself comfortable.

"Vodka," the interloper said in a soft yet rasped tone.

"Fresh out of tap water, comrade," the bartender said with disdain.

"Whiskey then," the man said.

"Out of that, too," the bartender repaid.

"Whatever you got, then," the man continued.

"What Allen is trying to politely say-" one of the burly men from the table finally spoke up. His speech was unrefined yet clear, possibly dulled by the alcohol, "is that this is a private establishment." The man at the bar glanced towards the front door and windows.

"Ain't no signage," another from the table spoke up. "Locals here are smart enough to know who this bar belongs to."

"I'm not local," the man said.

"I can see that," the first patron to speak stood up from his chair. He was large, over six feet tall and built, and loomed over the smaller man who remained at his stool. "Which is why I'm giving you the courtesy of walking out on your own."

"As opposed to what?" The man asked.

"You a cop?" Another patron from the table asked, but the first man to speak held his hand up to silence him. He then leaned in to the patron at the bar, resting his arm on the countertop.

"Even the police know better than to fuck with us," he whispered. "You're about to find out why." The smaller man didn't look at him. He didn't even acknowledge him, instead just turning away on his stool before getting up and walking towards the door.

"Who said you could leave?" The large man asked, but the disheveled man wasn't leaving. When he approached the door he didn't reach for the handle, but the deadbolt. Then the chain lock. Then he turned back to the men at the table who by now had all stood up.

"You're dead now, boy," one of the men pulled a knife out of his pocket, "you have any idea who you're fucking with?"

"A gang," the smaller man said as he scratched the beginnings of his scruffy beard, "don't really care which one. You got a flaming bird on your school uniforms so I'm thinking, what, Hell's Budgies?"

The man with the knife stormed over, brandishing his weapon, and thrust the blade towards the smaller man's gut. The would-be victim extended his hand, the blade piercing his palm and protruding out the back as he pushed it all the way to the hilt. The attacker was stunned to realize the man he'd stabbed hardly even flinched. Even with his hand impaled the scruffy individual looked entirely unfazed, almost bored. He raised his hand up, taking the knife with it, showing clearly to the others the wound even as the attacker still gripped its handle. Then with the simple turn of his wrist the blade was snapped off, wrenched at the hilt even as the man who held it looked on with confusion. Then with the blade still jutting from the back of his hand the man curled his hand into a fist, back-smacking his attacker and stabbing him in the temple with his own blade. The man dropped immediately as his companions watched in horror.

"I know what you're thinking," the disheveled man licked the blood from his own hand even as the wound seemed to have vanished, "and no, I'm not from a rival book group. Gangs, I tell ya, they used to have-" The man was suddenly shot by the bartender, the terrified man brandishing a shotgun from behind the bar. The scruffy man had slumped to the floor as the slug hit him square in the head, and he seemed to be dead.

"Fuck man," one of the gang members exhaled, "fucking tweakers."

"Was he even on anything?" Another asked, "what shit out there does that?"

"Nothing worth the money," the disheveled man replied as he stood up. The hole in his head where the slug entered undulated, oozing blood where his eye had been. Yet the flesh seemed to bubble and congeal, gradually filling in the hole even as a new eye seemed to bud from underneath the gore, until the man's face was intact once more.

He leapt over the bar even as the bartender got ready to fire again, snatching the gun from his hands and turning it on him, and promptly blew the man away. The gang members had drawn their own firearms by now and took aim, only for the scruffy man to turn the shotgun on them and take them each down with clean precision. Six shots and six bodies hit the floor. One in particular was still alive, having been hit in the arm, and cried out in pain as he clutched his wound. The intruder hopped the counter even as the man continued to writhe on the floor, dropping the gun next to one of the bodies.

"The fuck do you want?" He seethed in between gasps of pain. The intruder said nothing, only standing above the man as he removed his jacket. Then he took off his shirt, revealing a body covered in scars, before moving on to his belt. The gang member on the floor tried to scamper back as the stranger undressed in front of him.

"Don't get the wrong idea," the stranger said even as he stripped down until the only article on his body was a necklace with a small stone pendant hung loosely around his neck, "I just don't want to ruin my outfit."

"What the hell are you?" The man's speech stuttered with fear, terrified as the man who shot him crouched down.

"Scared, little man?" The now naked individual asked, "like the people you hurt every day?" He tilted his head to one side as his expression seemed to turn to one of empathy, "no one's going to miss you, you know. Isn't that scary?"

"Please-" The injured man began, only for his breath to leave him as he noticed the glint in the other man's eyes. Not a glint so much as a glow, soft but vivid, a slightly yellow tinge. This glow became more and more intense until his eyes were nearly solid, and the bleeding man could hardly eek out a scream as the person before him loomed more and more, his stature growing until the overhead lights were blotted out by his hulking silhouette.