Something Wicked 🏳️‍🌈 (bxb)

7: My dumbassery is staggering

MARÍA POLICE DEPARTMENT, October 24

Rayan flicked the latch of the confiscation box and threw open the lid. His eyes lit up like a cabin boy sneaking a peek at the captain's treasure.

Pistols, revolvers, flick-knives, knuckledusters, kukris, machetes. Years ago I'd have given anything to own this much hardware. Now it gave me nothing but sweaty crawling nausea.

Rayan's hand teetered at the edge of the box, afraid to touch its contents. "Did you train with any of these?"

"All of them, and more." I began to sort through the jumble of murderous black steel like a grandma rifling through clothes hangers at a thrift store. My eyes alighted on a familiar circular steel box. "Hey! These are mine!"

I snatched up the pancake of a box and twisted it open. Inside sat three throwing stars, each inscribed with the tiniest writing.

"Must have been confiscated when you were arrested." Rayan squinted at the miniscule text. "Incendiary, buzz-saw, tracker?"

"My Alcor initiation gift. I never used them."

"I get the incendiary star; it blows shit up. The buzz-saw star starts cutting once it embeds into something, but what about the tracker?"

"Throw it somewhere discreet on a vehicle, or slip it into someone's bag," I snapped shut the box, "and you can track wherever they go."

Rayan's look of delight turned devious. "I'll let you take your stars back...if I can have the incendiary one."

"No fucking way, acho. Sylvia'd have my nuts for earrings if I steal this illegal shit back."

"Please, man!" Rayan grabbed the box, stroking it like a pilgrim at the Hajar al-Aswad. "My Dad never lets me near cool shit like this."

I plucked the box outta his hand and stuffed it into the pocket of my María PD regulation sweats. "Because he's a good Dad."

Dejected didn't begin to describe Rayan's face. "Fine. I'm gonna run reports for Gabi," he muttered.

Fucking Saudi kids. Why did they have to be so emotional and cow-eyed and whiny?

"Fine." I fished a star outta my sweats. "Take the tracker."

"The tracker?" Rayan squealed in teenage indignation. "That's the shittiest one!"

"Take it or leave it," I said, flipping the star between my knuckles. "I'm gonna be late for my parole interview."

After long moments of scrunchy-faced deliberation and exasperated sighing, the little punk held out a hand. "Thanks, Jay. I'm borrowing the incendiary star next time, right?"

"Ain't gonna be no next time, acho." I wrapped the star in a kleenex and pressed it into Rayan's palm.

"Great." He slid the tiny package into his sock, his whole body a huffing puffing scowl in motion. "Track me if I get lost on my way to the candy store."

His eyes then caught something else glittering in the black box of aggravated assault.

He lifted out a box-cutter. "My Dad lets me use these!"

Encased in orange plastic, totally ineffective as a weapon, but somehow the box-cutter had my background nausea suddenly whipping into a raging storm.

My scar began to pulse with agony.

"Put that down, man," I wheezed, my insides rolling. I squeezed my eyes shut but it was like the box-cutter blade was burned onto my retinas. Screaming pain tore through my scar.