Four Fangs

002 - Rules are Meant to Be

In a storm, the eye is where you want to be; it's peaceful, calm, and most importantly, not being ravaged by one-to-three-hundred mile-per-hour winds. But this Eye was anything but — rather, it was the storm, an unholy clusterfuck of the most notorious gangs in Stephenville. And there I was, in the Eye, standing outside El Carruaje's headquarters.

"You sure this is the place?" I asked.

Alexis set her gaze at her feet, the hood of her blue jacket up over her head. "Yeah. Can I wear my mask?"

"Absolutely not. We're here as customers today, not heroes. No reason to let them connect our identities together."

"But..."

Ignoring her futile pleas, I strode away, heading to the front of the warehouse. "Just watch and learn."

A flurry of footsteps sounded behind me as Alexis sprinted to keep up.

Decked out in a gaudy, baggy yellow tee and jeans, the man by the metal door stamped out his cigarette and approached us. "Never seen you before. Who are you? We're not expecting visitors." Two men with similarly poor tastes in fashion came out from the warehouse, probably notified from the text he sent on his ridiculously huge phone.

"I heard you sell things that are normally difficult to get."

"Who's asking?"

"A buyer." He sized us up, his eyes scanning every inch of me in that way I hated, reminding me of when I worked for BioPsi, when the soldiers and scientists studied me every day and forced me to do tricks like a fucking circus animal. Nausea rose in my gut. Breathe out. They're gone, it's over now, you never have to go back.

"What do you want? Weed, coke, molly?"

"No."

"Huh, so you girls are into the hardcore stuff. Well, we've got that too. Pick your poison: crystal, tar..."

I cut him off. "No, I want blood."

His eyelids lifted, eyes egg whites and black yolks. "Blood?"

"The red juicy stuff under your skin pumping through your veins and heart. Surely you know what that is."

The acrid tang of nervous sweat permeated the air. "Uh, can't say we get this request too often. Let me check."

I crossed my arms. Incompetent. Completely incompetent, this gang might actually be the worst I've ever seen. Do they have any idea how much money they can make from blood? Well, if they have any for me, I'm about to enlighten them.

Alexis fidgeted by my side. She had been keeping quiet like I told her to, good.

"How much do you want?" the man asked.

"Four liters." Asking for this much was likely wishful thinking, considering the sorry state of this "El Carruaje".

He sucked in a sharp breath. "What kind?"

"Doesn't matter. Just needs to be fresh, refrigerated, and less than a week old."

"Alr-right," he stuttered, glancing down at his phone. "I'll bring it out."

My foot tapped against the dingy concrete while a plastic bag rolled past — an urban tumbleweed. Five minutes turned to ten turned to fifteen and twenty. What was taking so long? Right as I was about to storm in there, the man returned lugging an opaque paint bucket.

It was way over four liters, more like four gallons. Crouching down, I pried off the lid, instantly recoiling at the smell. Slowly, I stood up and looked him in the eyes as I kicked the bucket hard enough that it hit him in the chest with a thud, drenching him in its contents. Loosed from his grip by the slick substance, his phone fell into a red puddle on the ground. Don't think the Apple Store can fix that.