CRASH! That was the sound the door made as I kicked it in. The hinges gave way and the door fell flat. Inside there was a family: A mother, a father and a kid that looked to be around 18 or 19 years old. Close to my age. The mother had a black eye that had swollen shut and the kid seemed unconscious with a broken nose and bruised face.It wasn't an unfamiliar sight but it was still one that I hated. The father was a larger man. Almost as large as me. He stood around 2 inches shorter than I, I had him pegged for 6 feet and 2 inches tall. He was burly and wore a beer stained muscle shirt. I could smell the alcohol on his breath from here even though he was a meter or so from me. It seemed to me he was about to hit his wife again before the crashing door caught his attention.
"I take it you are Charles Fisk." I said. He looked at me and mumbled something in drunken gibberish before coming at me with a wild and crazy left hay-maker. It was a slow and sloppy move, easily countered. I brought my elbow up to block my face and he hit right on target. I heard his thumb and fingers break right before he began to howl in pain. He dropped to his knees, holding his now broken hand and sobbing. I walked casually up to him and began to beat the tar out of him. I brought my knee right into his face multiple times until I heard some of his teeth clatter to the floor. He made a very feeble and last ditch effort to hit me once more with his good hand. I nonchalantly stepped out of the way and snapped his elbow over my knee. I then proceeded to get him back on his knees and roundhouse kick him square in the head with my shin before finally grabbing him by the hair and slamming it into the solid hardwood floor until he had no facial features left. I snapped a quick picture of the fresh carcass and walked out. It was standard procedure. Find the target, kill the target, bring proof of death and get paid. It's what I've been doing since I was 16. But I'm a professional now. Its been three years since I've gotten into this business and it works at keeping me content. I have a number of problems, problems that wouldn't be real if I had led a normal life. For as long as I can remember, I have had no family, no friends, no nothing. Only mentors that taught me one thing and one thing only: how to kill. I have mastered a number of martial arts including muay thai, ninjutsu and jiu jitsu to name a few. I have never learned my real name, though my mentors and contractors have all given me a single name: Brute. It fits me quite well. I stand at six feet and four inches tall, I ripple with power and I have SEVERE anger issues. It doesn't take much to send me off the deep end, which happens often. Its not the typical anger in which most people pout and sulk. This is full blown primal fury. I growl and bare my teeth like a rabid dog, my eyes see no color other than red and it feels as if someone poured a jar of acid onto my brain. But that anger was what kept me fed and put money in my pocket. At least I am putting it to good use most of the time. I take it out on targets. The typical scum found in every city. Murderers, mob bosses, rapists are only a few of my targets. I don't stop there though. Corrupt politicians have also turned up dead after a visited them. But that's probably enough about me for now. I should probably get back to telling my story. After taking my picture and walking out of the house I made it halfway back to my car before I heard someone call out to me. I turned around and there stood the mother and the daughter who had been unconscious. We stared at each other for a few seconds before the daughter spoke.
"Thank you". It came out almost as a whisper from her blood stained face. I grunted in acknowledgement. I don't have time for this stuff. Not in my line of work. Too dangerous. I continued on my way to my car. It was a nice candy red 2006 Mustang Saleen with 2 white racing stripes going from head to tail. I opened the trunk and pulled out a towel to wipe the blood from my hands. After I finished, I looked back to see if the pair had finally gone. The mother had but the daughter just stood there, staring at me with soft eyes. I don't know what made me do it, but I reached into the trunk and pulled out a second towel and brought it over to her. I had two voices in my head that seemed to be screaming at me.
YOU ARE READING
Jaws Of Fury
Science FictionThe temper of a demon and the strength to match. Those words best describe young Brute. Brute has no memory of his past and almost no feelings but anger. But now at the age of 19 he knows one thing- If you're good at something, never do it for free...
