When the cab dropped them off at the coffee shop on Telegraph, Jane handed Austen a ten and told her to get what she wanted, Jane would be back soon. Austen went in, and Jane walked to Bancroft and headed west. At Ellsworth she turned south. When she reached Dwight Way, she stopped and leaned against the building at the corner. She scanned up Dwight Way, looking for a blue Mercedes E-Class. Nothing. Looking west on Dwight, still noth--- wait. Late model Mercedes E-Class, blue, sitting in the driveway of a rickety-looking house. Anyone at the wheel would have a clear view of the front of the residence hall.
Jane considered her options. She wanted to have the immediate upper hand, and she wanted Greg gone. A few ideas went through her mind. She began jogging back along Ellsworth. When she reached the apartment building at the corner of Ellsworth and Haste, she stopped in front of a brick planter. The concrete setting the bricks had been of low quality, and was now weakened by years of bay fog. She kicked with her heel at the top of the planter, four, five, six times. About a half dozen bricks broke loose and fell into the dirt.
Grabbing two bricks, Jane continued jogging west on Haste. At Fulton she headed back towards Dwight Way. She crept along, keeping as close to the wall of the building beside her as she could. She could see Greg the Dog-Fucker siting at the wheel. She darted sown a walkway running on the side of the rickety house. The gate in the fence opened with a minimum of fuss. Hoofing around the back of the house, she stepped into the long driveway which ended at the street, the Mercedes up front. Jane judged distance and angle, then lobbed a brick in a high arc up in the air, in the direction of the Mercedes.
Bombs away, a direct hit. The brick bashed down onto the roof of the Benz. Jane waited for Greg to get out of the car. He stayed put. She lobbed the second brick, this time adding a bit more distance. Right on target. The second brick landed with a bang on the hood of the Mercedes.
Now Greg got out. He stared suspiciously at the roofs and windows of the houses on each side of him, trying to locate an attacker. Jane silently trotted up from behind him. He didn't notice her. When she reached the rear of the Mercedes, she leaned on the trunk in a casual way and said, "Good morning, motherfucker."
Greg spun at the sound of her voice. Jane had a sunny smile on her face, posing against the car. Greg's usual android look was installed on his face. He said, "You'll be paying for the damage to my car."
"What are you talking about?" Jane grinned.
"You threw two bricks at my car, the hood and roof are damaged. You'd better be able to scare up the money to repair body damage to a Mercedes."
"Really Gregorious, you're being silly. Did you see me throw bricks? Do the bricks have my name on them? You shouldn't make rash accusations, that's a good way to piss people off." Jane broke her pose and stood up straight. "And some of us can be cranky and short-tempered in the morning."
Jane was five foot five, Greg Dalton-Hires was just over six feet. He stepped up closer to her and intoned, "Where is my wife?"
"What's your wife's name?"
"You know my wife's name."
"Yes, I do," Jane said in a perky voice. "I was wondering if you know her name."
Greg didn't respond, instead trying to affix Jane with his withering glare.
"What's your wife's name?" asked Jane. Still no response.
"You know what's a little weird? Two women can communicate with more efficiency and meaning than two men can. And when two women have had a lot of major shit happen in their lives, that communication increases five-fold." Jane lit a Newport, and kept her hand in her purse when she put her lighter away. Her hand wrapped around the butterfly knife. "Your wife talked about you last night. I learned a lot. I know exactly what kind of man you are now, down to how wrinkled your tiny little ball sack is. Of course, I'm describing you as a man in only the loosest terms, you have an X and a Y chromosome. But you're not really a man. You never have been and you never will be."
Jane saw the hand coming towards her face, she had time to brace and that was it. Her head tilted with the impact, but her body stood still. She could taste blood on her molars. She smiled up at Greg while casually removing her hand from the purse, clutching the knife. Holding it low and to the rear, the knife was slowly spun open. Then she said something she knew would bug Greg. "You hit like a girl."
Greg drew his hand back and began to swing another vicious slap. Jane leaned her head back, out of harm's way, and brought the knife up, holding it right where her face had been. Greg drove the dagger-like blade into the meaty part of his palm, at the base of his thumb. The blade sunk deep. Jane yanked the blade back and free.
The initial sensation of the blade stabbing his hand caused Greg to suck in air. Then he looked down and saw the blood and the puncture wound, and made a strange, high-pitched grunting noise, his mouth open in shock. Panic and adrenaline were battling it out inside him. He kept looking from his open hand to Jane, who spun the knife shut and dropped it in her purse.
Jane looked at Greg's hand in mock surprise. "Gosh, you seem to have hurt yourself. How did that happen?"
"Where is my wife, you subhuman trash?" demanded Greg. His voice actually had inflection to it.
"Oh.... you know. Around."
Forcing his voice to hold its usual tone of calm, Greg said, "You will bring my wife to me. Don't argue with your superiors, do as you are told, woman. Get her and bring her to me, now."
An idea hit Jane. She said, "What's in it for me?"
"What?"
"You heard me. What's in it for me? Everyone has their price. I'll give you your wife back for ten grand. I don't like betraying her like this, but hey, you're got money, and I could use some. Where do you bank?"
Eyes somewhat suspicious, Greg said, "Wells Fargo."
"Perfect! There's a Wells Fargo branch at Ashby and College. We roll up there, you give me ten grand, and I'll take you to where your wife is stashed out."
Greg hesitated and said, "No. You'll tell me where I can find her. I'll give you your money then."
With some thoughtful chin-rubbing, Jane said, "Okay. Be at 924 Gilman Street in one hour. Your wife isn't there now, but she will be. It's a small warehouse at the corner of Eighth and Gilman. And you better have all ten grand. I don't like selling someone out like this, but hey, a girl's gotta grab a buck where she can."
Removing a roll of paper towels from the trunk of his car, Greg wrapped up his bleeding hand as best he could. He looked at Jane and said, "White trash women like you have only one purpose in life."
With a smirk, Jane said, "Aw, you say that about all women."
"All women have the same purpose, but some are worth more than others. You never learned your purpose, or your place, or your worth. I appraise you at a very low price, you should be chained by the neck in a public park, where any man in the mood can utilize you."
"And they say chivalry is dead," purred Jane. "924 Gilman Street, one hour. You have my bread, I'll have your wife." She walked past him and across the street, heading towards the residence hall. She heard the Mercedes start up and take off, heading up Dwight towards College.
Inside the apartment, Jane grabbed the Yellow Pages and looked up the number of the coffee shop. She convinced the slacker on the other end to yell out for Austen Dalton. A couple moments later, Austen's nervous voice said, "Who is this?"
"Hey toots, it's Jane. I guessed right, Dog-Fucker was stashed out for us. Um.... I'm gonna have to deal with him again for a little while. Stay there, kick back. I'll be by in a few, so I can give you a little more bread to keep you occupied. Then I gotta take off again, but don't worry, I'll be back. Tell you what, meet me at Sproul Plaza in.... 110 minutes. Cool?"
"What are you going to do?"
"Just.... Encourage Greg to go the fuck home. See you in fifteen, later." She hung up and immediately dialed another number.
All nightclubs need bouncers. The unique demands made of bouncers at punk rock nightclubs mean the bouncers are pretty unique themselves. Jane was calling one such man.
His name was Willy, everyone called him Wonka. This came from his love of chocolate, he would always have at least one Snickers bar shoved in a pocket. Wonka was one of the ugliest human beings on the planet. His lumpy, corrugated skull was covered with hair a quarter inch long. His nose was drastically crooked from being broken so often. When he smiled, his mouth looked like a broken picket fence from all the missing and snapped-off teeth. His face was a map of scars and welts. Wonka was a class ten, balls-out, hardcore brawler.
His day job --- actually a swing shift --- was as a longshoreman at the Oakland Cargo Port, where the giant ships loaded with sea containers would be emptied, then refilled. On Friday and Saturday nights, he was a bouncer at 924 Gilman, respected for his level head and utter lack of fear. Any drunk fool who wanted to try and bust up Wonka would run into a problem: there was nothing left to bust. Any damage that could be inflicted on a human body with a fist had already happened to him, probably twice. Some dude would swing a savage punch into Wonka's face. His head wouldn't even move. For Christ's sake, Wonka wouldn't even stop smiling. Then he'd go to work himself. Wonka would systematically lay someone out, calmly explaining the whole time it was nothing personal, but you, sir, are being a disruptive influence at the club, and it's time for you to go. Okay, fine, sir. lie on the floor. We'll drag you outside. You have a good evening.
Wonka lived with his girlfriend in a small house five blocks from the club. For reference sake, Mitzi, Wonka's girlfriend, was the Yang of beauty to Wonka's Yin of ugly. She was a knockout, a mix of Irish, Thai, and Japanese. Mitzi worked as a dancer at the Market Street Theater in San Francisco, shaking what God gave her and getting $80 for a lap dance. Her exotic beauty (and knockout body) meant she would sometimes make as much as an Inana Girl for four hours work. She was the one who answered the phone when Jane called. She mumbled a hello, then savagely jabbed Wonka in the back with an elbow. "Hey babe. Phone. It's Gator Bait."
Wonka took the receiver and mumbled into the mouthpiece, "What the fuck, Gator Bait, it's not even noon. Whassup?"
"I want to hire your professional services," Jane said. "Good pay for a small amount of your time."
"Doin' what, for how much?"
"Cleaning a guy's clock, and I'll give you $2500 and twenty hits of 'E.' The same shit I always get."
This was intriguing enough to make Wonka actually open his eyes. Jane continued, "The thing is, it's gotta happen, like, real soon. In about fifty-five minutes, by my watch. So get up and get sharp. It won't take long, you can fuck Mitzi when you get home."
"Okay.... Who is it, and where is he?"
"Who he is doesn't matter. He'll be meeting me at the club. You be inside, and leave the front door unlocked. We'll walk in to the snack bar. When we do, you come around the corner and go to work. No injuries, I don't want him in the hospital. Just clean his clock. This guy's a yuppie motherfucker, he'll be zero challenge to you, you'll be headed home within ten minutes."
"Okay.... So who is this guy to you?" Wonka asked.
Jane paused, then said, "He's a fucking pest. That's all you need to know, Wonka. Are you in, or do I need to make other arrangements?"
Wonka curved his scarred lips into a smile and said, "$2500 and twenty hits of that choice dope you get? Lemme get my boots on. I'll be waiting."
He stretched over Mitzi to hang the phone up, then gently shook her awake. "Hey honey, you wanna work high tonight? I'm scoring some choice Ecstasy from Gator Bait in a little while...."
The cab first whisked Jane up onto Telegraph and the coffee shop. She gave Austen $40 and told her to ask questions later. "Blake's opens in ten minutes, if you want a drink. Just don't be a fish, we still have a lot of day in front of us. Be at the Autonomy Square at Sproul Plaza at 10:15. Gotta run, bye."
"Jane, what is going on?" Austen said, trailing behind Jane.
"I told you, I'm sending Greg home. Don't worry about it." Jane didn't turn to speak. She got in the cab and rolled off. Austen looked at her watch, stared back into the coffee shop, then sighed. She jaywalked across Telegraph and stood outside Blake's, waiting for them to open.
Pulling up in front of the club, Jane was happy to see Wonka's car, an old CHP cruiser, sitting on Eighth Street. She paid the fare, then walked to the front door. It swung open at her push. She called for Wonka.
"'Sup, girl?" he asked. "That stack of readies, plus twenty hits, just to knock a guy around some, and in private? What's the hitch, bitch?"
"It's something that needs doing, and it had to happen today. Just assume I'm paying you well for your willingness to work on such short notice."
"And you ain't gonna tell me who this guy is."
"I answered that already. He's a pest. Look, I'll give you the full story some other time, but not today. When we come in, act like you haven't seen me today. Don't look at the guy, don't say anything to him, just lay into him out of the blue, no warning. If he falls, pick him up. Don't break anything, but don't baby him, either. Got it? I'll give you your bread and the pills after the guy leaves." Jane thought for a moment. "Uh.... Try to not hit him in the eyes. He has a long drive ahead of him today, he's headed back to LA."
"Yeah, no sweat."
Jane stepped outside and lit a Newport. Ten minutes later, a late model Mercedes swept down Gilman St. It slowed as it passed the club, then went to Seventh St. and made a U-turn in the intersection, pulling up at the curb in front of the main door. Greg got out and walked toward Jane.
"Where is my wife?" asked Greg.
"Inside," Jane answered. "Where's my bread?"
"You get it when I have my wife in my possession, not before."
"Motherfucker, cough up. It's not like you don't know where I live, or where to find me. But I don't trust you worth a pile of piss. Cough up."
Greg reached in his jacket and removed a bulky-looking plastic envelope, the ones used for making night deposits. Jane looked inside, then reached in and moved bundles around. Four bundles, $2500 each. Perfect.
Jane looked up at Greg and said, "Okay, let's go in. Once you have her, I'm taking off. I Feel kinda bad about doing this to her, and I don't wanna see her. Shit, I told her I was just stepping out for a smoke, she's probably wondering why I've been gone so long...."
Looking around at his surroundings, Greg was appalled. Spray paint and marker ink covered every surface. A theme seemed to be a stencil image of a girl with a mohawk, put up on the walls periodically. People had added voice balloons, having the girl make odd comments: "I haven't stopped cumming for three days." "Jesse Blatz tastes funny." "Clawed likes to snowball." "I'm the QUEEN of PINOLE." "Green Day are BIGGER whores than ME." Greg snarked, "Yes, this looks like the sort of place you'd enjoy. It's as trashy as you."
"Oh, Gregelstiltskin, you're such a card. Don't worry, I never brought your darling daughter here, I knew it would scare her. I know you'd be frightened too.... But no surprise there."
Wonka walked in, looking carefree. "Thought I heard voices. Hey Gator Bait, whassup?"
"Same old shit, Willy. How's with you?"
"Nothin' new ---" And Wonka drove a fist into the point of Greg's jaw, without even looking at him. Greg's head snapped back. Wonka stood four inches below Greg, but there was no questioning who had the advantage: they guy with the scar tissue on his knuckles. Greg was looking at Wonka in shock. Wonka gave a nod of greeting, like he'd just stepped into an occupied elevator, then put another fist into the side of Greg's jaw. Followed by shots to the cheek, nose, and mouth. Greg turned to run, but Wonka grabbed his arm and flung him against the wall, then continued to work.
Trying to protect his face, Greg wrapped his arms over his head. So, Wonka went to work on his ribs, chest, and stomach. When Greg dropped his arms to protect his torso, Wonka moved his focus back to Greg's head. Greg was barking and grunting from the pain of the blows. Wonka was dead silent, not even breathing hard. His face was placid, almost bored, like he was waiting for a set of commercials on TV to end.
At the first shot, Jane had kept one eye on her watch. When three minutes had passed, she said, "Hey Wonka, step back." He did. Wonka had held to the request that Greg's eyes not be impacted. They were the only parts of his face which weren't swollen and bruised, bleeding from cuts. Jane noticed a front tooth was missing. He was panting through his open mouth, leaning against the wall. His eyes were focused on Jane, and for once they showed some emotion. Hate. What else. He mumbled loudly, "Where's my wife?"
"What's your wife's name?" Jane asked sweetly.
"You know her name!"
"And I want to hear it come out of your mouth, motherfucker." Greg didn't respond immediately, so Jane said, "Hey Wonka, step back up to him. And don't play nice with him anymore. Make him hurt for a while."
Wonka's placid expression split into a grin, and he moved towards Greg, who hunched up and yelled, "Austen! My wife's name is Austen!"
"Hold up, Wonka," Jane instructed. She walked up to Greg and said, "That's still not quite accurate. Actually, Austen is now your ex-wife.... or she will be, after the courts are done. You are now a bachelor, Gregapuss. Go back to Irvine now. Don't stay in Berkeley, don't try and find Austen, go home. She's sick of your shit, you don't get to hurt her anymore."
Despite his poor condition, Greg's stubborn streak was still active. He said, "You don't tell me what to do, neither does Austen, or any woman. I own Austen, so give her back."
Wonka knitted his brow in confusion. Jane raised an eyebrow and stated, "Um, Greggy-poo? Stupid? You might want to re-read your marriage license. It's a contract, not a bill of sale."
Somehow, Greg got his mouth to approximate a vague smile. "It will be one day. You fucking women.... Act like you deserve rights, like you're more than just the cattle you are. We're forced to treat you gently. You should all be caged, except for when you serve us, when your only uses are utilized. Women should serve men and stop behaving with disobedience. Some day you'll all know your places.... You'll just be happy we don't kill you when we're done...."
"So.... women are property."
"Exactly. Women are herd animals, like cattle or horses. Property. You should be public property. Fucking white trash, useless plebeian whore, I should have chained you up in your little apartment last night, then gone to find some men --- some real men --- and began training you, disciplining you, showing you where your place is. Showing you your only worth is your holes...."
Jane stared at Greg in silence briefly She finally said, "Damn, Gregatollah, you are one sick, twisted, creepy little boy. Wonka, would you do me a favor? Pull him away from the wall, and hold his arms behind his back."
Again, Greg tried to evade Wonka, to no avail. When he was holding Greg, Jane instructed Wonka to kick his feet apart, nice and wide. There, perfect. Jane stood and gave Greg a thoughtful frown from several feet away. Then she stepped towards him quickly and kicked him in the balls as hard ash she could. This wasn't a jab, Jane acted like she was going for a fifty yard field goal. Greg bellowed and tried to drop. Wonka held him upright, and kicked his feet apart again. Jane did the same kick a second time, then a third. On the third kick, Greg didn't bellow. Instead, just a gasping whistle came out of his throat. His mouth was wide open, gasping for air.
Jane walked up to him and felt his pockets for car keys. Locating them, Jane gestured for Wonka to bring him along. They went outside, Jane stepping to the Mercedes and letting herself in. She put the key in the ignition and checked the fuel gauge. Nearly full. She instructed Wonka to bring Greg to the driver's door and put him in the car. This completed, Jane reached over and turned the key. The engine caught immediately. She leaned on the door frame and said, "What you're going to do is put the car in gear and turn around. There's an on-ramp for the 80 about seven blocks down. Get on the freeway, and don't stop for any reason except for buying fuel. Go home, Greg. Accept your fate and go home.
"So far as the money goes, no, I"m not ripping you off. It's going to Austen, so she has something to live on. And you will provide more when she needs it. Don't argue the point, just do it.
"Me and some friends will be by your house in about a week and a half, so Austen can get her personal belongings. Don't do anything stupid like trash them." She paused, considering the man in the seat. "In retrospect, I made a mistake. I should have killed you last night, you and your friends. I didn't know your full story yet, the things you've done to Austen. Yes Greg, she told me everything. You're an evil piece of shit, and I want you to die slowly, alone, and in pain. See you soon, fuck off, and die." She slammed the car door and stepped away. The sound of the engine changed as the transmission was engaged. Then there was a blank spot in traffic, and the Mercedes spun in a 180 and roared down Gilman St. towards the freeway.
"Were you listening to that shit he was talking? That was one psycho motherfucker," Wonka observed as they walked back in the club.
"Yeah.... I guess you could describe him that way. Hey, can I ask for one more teeny tiny favor? Would you drive me up to Telegraph? I've gotta meet someone."
"No prob with Bob," Wonka responded. "So, did I meet your expectations?"
"An excellent performance," giggled Jane. "Three gold stars. Oh, here you go...."
Jane handed Wonka a bundle of bills, and a sandwich bag with some pills in it. "Too awesome," Wonka grinned. "Hey, you need contract work, you know who to call. Services provided by the minute, hour, day, or week."
"Are you bonded?"
"No, but I got a great review in Consumer Reports."
At Sproul Plaza, Jane explained to Austen she'd convinced Greg to just accept facts and go home. The marriage was over, period, just be happy Austen wasn't talking about criminal charges against Greg.... yet. Why, Jane had actually talked Greg into doing something somewhat honorable. Here, have some money, honey. In fact, you know what? To hell with classes today. We're both tired and stressed. Let's go back to the residence hall and relax with a beer or five.
Greg was around Los Banos on I-5 before the pain from his crotch wasn't the only thing on his mind. Now he was aware of the pain in his torso, hand, and head, too. He knew planning was needed, if he was going to retrieve his property. Women weren't people, they were property. They were human, barely. Some didn't even make that cut. Like Jane. A harpy, a whore, a slut-hole who did not understand how the world worked and kept making sound when she should be silent.
Jane Osborne. That vulgar little white trash.... object.... was a threat. To him, to any Real Man. She thought she possessed qualities that only Men could possess, like courage and intelligence. What a horrible little barnyard animal, like a mentally ill goat. She should be shown her true position in the world.
That's how the world should work, in Greg's mind. Anything with two legs and a cunt should be property. They're only human in a biological sense. Stop coddling them, allowing them to act as if they have minds. No. Women have holes. The holes are the useful parts. The holes are the only reasons they are allowed to exist, they have their purpose. But otherwise they are little more than cattle, and should be treated as such. Own them, keep them penned, use them for the purposes God made them for. Do not allow them to dare assert they are people. Men are people, women are not. Women are property.
Greg realized his crotch was throbbing with pain again. He had a raging erection, all three inches of it. He made himself think of other things for a while. Like how to reclaim property that had been stolen from him.
Jane considered her options. She wanted to have the immediate upper hand, and she wanted Greg gone. A few ideas went through her mind. She began jogging back along Ellsworth. When she reached the apartment building at the corner of Ellsworth and Haste, she stopped in front of a brick planter. The concrete setting the bricks had been of low quality, and was now weakened by years of bay fog. She kicked with her heel at the top of the planter, four, five, six times. About a half dozen bricks broke loose and fell into the dirt.
Grabbing two bricks, Jane continued jogging west on Haste. At Fulton she headed back towards Dwight Way. She crept along, keeping as close to the wall of the building beside her as she could. She could see Greg the Dog-Fucker siting at the wheel. She darted sown a walkway running on the side of the rickety house. The gate in the fence opened with a minimum of fuss. Hoofing around the back of the house, she stepped into the long driveway which ended at the street, the Mercedes up front. Jane judged distance and angle, then lobbed a brick in a high arc up in the air, in the direction of the Mercedes.
Bombs away, a direct hit. The brick bashed down onto the roof of the Benz. Jane waited for Greg to get out of the car. He stayed put. She lobbed the second brick, this time adding a bit more distance. Right on target. The second brick landed with a bang on the hood of the Mercedes.
Now Greg got out. He stared suspiciously at the roofs and windows of the houses on each side of him, trying to locate an attacker. Jane silently trotted up from behind him. He didn't notice her. When she reached the rear of the Mercedes, she leaned on the trunk in a casual way and said, "Good morning, motherfucker."
Greg spun at the sound of her voice. Jane had a sunny smile on her face, posing against the car. Greg's usual android look was installed on his face. He said, "You'll be paying for the damage to my car."
"What are you talking about?" Jane grinned.
"You threw two bricks at my car, the hood and roof are damaged. You'd better be able to scare up the money to repair body damage to a Mercedes."
"Really Gregorious, you're being silly. Did you see me throw bricks? Do the bricks have my name on them? You shouldn't make rash accusations, that's a good way to piss people off." Jane broke her pose and stood up straight. "And some of us can be cranky and short-tempered in the morning."
Jane was five foot five, Greg Dalton-Hires was just over six feet. He stepped up closer to her and intoned, "Where is my wife?"
"What's your wife's name?"
"You know my wife's name."
"Yes, I do," Jane said in a perky voice. "I was wondering if you know her name."
Greg didn't respond, instead trying to affix Jane with his withering glare.
"What's your wife's name?" asked Jane. Still no response.
"You know what's a little weird? Two women can communicate with more efficiency and meaning than two men can. And when two women have had a lot of major shit happen in their lives, that communication increases five-fold." Jane lit a Newport, and kept her hand in her purse when she put her lighter away. Her hand wrapped around the butterfly knife. "Your wife talked about you last night. I learned a lot. I know exactly what kind of man you are now, down to how wrinkled your tiny little ball sack is. Of course, I'm describing you as a man in only the loosest terms, you have an X and a Y chromosome. But you're not really a man. You never have been and you never will be."
Jane saw the hand coming towards her face, she had time to brace and that was it. Her head tilted with the impact, but her body stood still. She could taste blood on her molars. She smiled up at Greg while casually removing her hand from the purse, clutching the knife. Holding it low and to the rear, the knife was slowly spun open. Then she said something she knew would bug Greg. "You hit like a girl."
Greg drew his hand back and began to swing another vicious slap. Jane leaned her head back, out of harm's way, and brought the knife up, holding it right where her face had been. Greg drove the dagger-like blade into the meaty part of his palm, at the base of his thumb. The blade sunk deep. Jane yanked the blade back and free.
The initial sensation of the blade stabbing his hand caused Greg to suck in air. Then he looked down and saw the blood and the puncture wound, and made a strange, high-pitched grunting noise, his mouth open in shock. Panic and adrenaline were battling it out inside him. He kept looking from his open hand to Jane, who spun the knife shut and dropped it in her purse.
Jane looked at Greg's hand in mock surprise. "Gosh, you seem to have hurt yourself. How did that happen?"
"Where is my wife, you subhuman trash?" demanded Greg. His voice actually had inflection to it.
"Oh.... you know. Around."
Forcing his voice to hold its usual tone of calm, Greg said, "You will bring my wife to me. Don't argue with your superiors, do as you are told, woman. Get her and bring her to me, now."
An idea hit Jane. She said, "What's in it for me?"
"What?"
"You heard me. What's in it for me? Everyone has their price. I'll give you your wife back for ten grand. I don't like betraying her like this, but hey, you're got money, and I could use some. Where do you bank?"
Eyes somewhat suspicious, Greg said, "Wells Fargo."
"Perfect! There's a Wells Fargo branch at Ashby and College. We roll up there, you give me ten grand, and I'll take you to where your wife is stashed out."
Greg hesitated and said, "No. You'll tell me where I can find her. I'll give you your money then."
With some thoughtful chin-rubbing, Jane said, "Okay. Be at 924 Gilman Street in one hour. Your wife isn't there now, but she will be. It's a small warehouse at the corner of Eighth and Gilman. And you better have all ten grand. I don't like selling someone out like this, but hey, a girl's gotta grab a buck where she can."
Removing a roll of paper towels from the trunk of his car, Greg wrapped up his bleeding hand as best he could. He looked at Jane and said, "White trash women like you have only one purpose in life."
With a smirk, Jane said, "Aw, you say that about all women."
"All women have the same purpose, but some are worth more than others. You never learned your purpose, or your place, or your worth. I appraise you at a very low price, you should be chained by the neck in a public park, where any man in the mood can utilize you."
"And they say chivalry is dead," purred Jane. "924 Gilman Street, one hour. You have my bread, I'll have your wife." She walked past him and across the street, heading towards the residence hall. She heard the Mercedes start up and take off, heading up Dwight towards College.
Inside the apartment, Jane grabbed the Yellow Pages and looked up the number of the coffee shop. She convinced the slacker on the other end to yell out for Austen Dalton. A couple moments later, Austen's nervous voice said, "Who is this?"
"Hey toots, it's Jane. I guessed right, Dog-Fucker was stashed out for us. Um.... I'm gonna have to deal with him again for a little while. Stay there, kick back. I'll be by in a few, so I can give you a little more bread to keep you occupied. Then I gotta take off again, but don't worry, I'll be back. Tell you what, meet me at Sproul Plaza in.... 110 minutes. Cool?"
"What are you going to do?"
"Just.... Encourage Greg to go the fuck home. See you in fifteen, later." She hung up and immediately dialed another number.
All nightclubs need bouncers. The unique demands made of bouncers at punk rock nightclubs mean the bouncers are pretty unique themselves. Jane was calling one such man.
His name was Willy, everyone called him Wonka. This came from his love of chocolate, he would always have at least one Snickers bar shoved in a pocket. Wonka was one of the ugliest human beings on the planet. His lumpy, corrugated skull was covered with hair a quarter inch long. His nose was drastically crooked from being broken so often. When he smiled, his mouth looked like a broken picket fence from all the missing and snapped-off teeth. His face was a map of scars and welts. Wonka was a class ten, balls-out, hardcore brawler.
His day job --- actually a swing shift --- was as a longshoreman at the Oakland Cargo Port, where the giant ships loaded with sea containers would be emptied, then refilled. On Friday and Saturday nights, he was a bouncer at 924 Gilman, respected for his level head and utter lack of fear. Any drunk fool who wanted to try and bust up Wonka would run into a problem: there was nothing left to bust. Any damage that could be inflicted on a human body with a fist had already happened to him, probably twice. Some dude would swing a savage punch into Wonka's face. His head wouldn't even move. For Christ's sake, Wonka wouldn't even stop smiling. Then he'd go to work himself. Wonka would systematically lay someone out, calmly explaining the whole time it was nothing personal, but you, sir, are being a disruptive influence at the club, and it's time for you to go. Okay, fine, sir. lie on the floor. We'll drag you outside. You have a good evening.
Wonka lived with his girlfriend in a small house five blocks from the club. For reference sake, Mitzi, Wonka's girlfriend, was the Yang of beauty to Wonka's Yin of ugly. She was a knockout, a mix of Irish, Thai, and Japanese. Mitzi worked as a dancer at the Market Street Theater in San Francisco, shaking what God gave her and getting $80 for a lap dance. Her exotic beauty (and knockout body) meant she would sometimes make as much as an Inana Girl for four hours work. She was the one who answered the phone when Jane called. She mumbled a hello, then savagely jabbed Wonka in the back with an elbow. "Hey babe. Phone. It's Gator Bait."
Wonka took the receiver and mumbled into the mouthpiece, "What the fuck, Gator Bait, it's not even noon. Whassup?"
"I want to hire your professional services," Jane said. "Good pay for a small amount of your time."
"Doin' what, for how much?"
"Cleaning a guy's clock, and I'll give you $2500 and twenty hits of 'E.' The same shit I always get."
This was intriguing enough to make Wonka actually open his eyes. Jane continued, "The thing is, it's gotta happen, like, real soon. In about fifty-five minutes, by my watch. So get up and get sharp. It won't take long, you can fuck Mitzi when you get home."
"Okay.... Who is it, and where is he?"
"Who he is doesn't matter. He'll be meeting me at the club. You be inside, and leave the front door unlocked. We'll walk in to the snack bar. When we do, you come around the corner and go to work. No injuries, I don't want him in the hospital. Just clean his clock. This guy's a yuppie motherfucker, he'll be zero challenge to you, you'll be headed home within ten minutes."
"Okay.... So who is this guy to you?" Wonka asked.
Jane paused, then said, "He's a fucking pest. That's all you need to know, Wonka. Are you in, or do I need to make other arrangements?"
Wonka curved his scarred lips into a smile and said, "$2500 and twenty hits of that choice dope you get? Lemme get my boots on. I'll be waiting."
He stretched over Mitzi to hang the phone up, then gently shook her awake. "Hey honey, you wanna work high tonight? I'm scoring some choice Ecstasy from Gator Bait in a little while...."
The cab first whisked Jane up onto Telegraph and the coffee shop. She gave Austen $40 and told her to ask questions later. "Blake's opens in ten minutes, if you want a drink. Just don't be a fish, we still have a lot of day in front of us. Be at the Autonomy Square at Sproul Plaza at 10:15. Gotta run, bye."
"Jane, what is going on?" Austen said, trailing behind Jane.
"I told you, I'm sending Greg home. Don't worry about it." Jane didn't turn to speak. She got in the cab and rolled off. Austen looked at her watch, stared back into the coffee shop, then sighed. She jaywalked across Telegraph and stood outside Blake's, waiting for them to open.
Pulling up in front of the club, Jane was happy to see Wonka's car, an old CHP cruiser, sitting on Eighth Street. She paid the fare, then walked to the front door. It swung open at her push. She called for Wonka.
"'Sup, girl?" he asked. "That stack of readies, plus twenty hits, just to knock a guy around some, and in private? What's the hitch, bitch?"
"It's something that needs doing, and it had to happen today. Just assume I'm paying you well for your willingness to work on such short notice."
"And you ain't gonna tell me who this guy is."
"I answered that already. He's a pest. Look, I'll give you the full story some other time, but not today. When we come in, act like you haven't seen me today. Don't look at the guy, don't say anything to him, just lay into him out of the blue, no warning. If he falls, pick him up. Don't break anything, but don't baby him, either. Got it? I'll give you your bread and the pills after the guy leaves." Jane thought for a moment. "Uh.... Try to not hit him in the eyes. He has a long drive ahead of him today, he's headed back to LA."
"Yeah, no sweat."
Jane stepped outside and lit a Newport. Ten minutes later, a late model Mercedes swept down Gilman St. It slowed as it passed the club, then went to Seventh St. and made a U-turn in the intersection, pulling up at the curb in front of the main door. Greg got out and walked toward Jane.
"Where is my wife?" asked Greg.
"Inside," Jane answered. "Where's my bread?"
"You get it when I have my wife in my possession, not before."
"Motherfucker, cough up. It's not like you don't know where I live, or where to find me. But I don't trust you worth a pile of piss. Cough up."
Greg reached in his jacket and removed a bulky-looking plastic envelope, the ones used for making night deposits. Jane looked inside, then reached in and moved bundles around. Four bundles, $2500 each. Perfect.
Jane looked up at Greg and said, "Okay, let's go in. Once you have her, I'm taking off. I Feel kinda bad about doing this to her, and I don't wanna see her. Shit, I told her I was just stepping out for a smoke, she's probably wondering why I've been gone so long...."
Looking around at his surroundings, Greg was appalled. Spray paint and marker ink covered every surface. A theme seemed to be a stencil image of a girl with a mohawk, put up on the walls periodically. People had added voice balloons, having the girl make odd comments: "I haven't stopped cumming for three days." "Jesse Blatz tastes funny." "Clawed likes to snowball." "I'm the QUEEN of PINOLE." "Green Day are BIGGER whores than ME." Greg snarked, "Yes, this looks like the sort of place you'd enjoy. It's as trashy as you."
"Oh, Gregelstiltskin, you're such a card. Don't worry, I never brought your darling daughter here, I knew it would scare her. I know you'd be frightened too.... But no surprise there."
Wonka walked in, looking carefree. "Thought I heard voices. Hey Gator Bait, whassup?"
"Same old shit, Willy. How's with you?"
"Nothin' new ---" And Wonka drove a fist into the point of Greg's jaw, without even looking at him. Greg's head snapped back. Wonka stood four inches below Greg, but there was no questioning who had the advantage: they guy with the scar tissue on his knuckles. Greg was looking at Wonka in shock. Wonka gave a nod of greeting, like he'd just stepped into an occupied elevator, then put another fist into the side of Greg's jaw. Followed by shots to the cheek, nose, and mouth. Greg turned to run, but Wonka grabbed his arm and flung him against the wall, then continued to work.
Trying to protect his face, Greg wrapped his arms over his head. So, Wonka went to work on his ribs, chest, and stomach. When Greg dropped his arms to protect his torso, Wonka moved his focus back to Greg's head. Greg was barking and grunting from the pain of the blows. Wonka was dead silent, not even breathing hard. His face was placid, almost bored, like he was waiting for a set of commercials on TV to end.
At the first shot, Jane had kept one eye on her watch. When three minutes had passed, she said, "Hey Wonka, step back." He did. Wonka had held to the request that Greg's eyes not be impacted. They were the only parts of his face which weren't swollen and bruised, bleeding from cuts. Jane noticed a front tooth was missing. He was panting through his open mouth, leaning against the wall. His eyes were focused on Jane, and for once they showed some emotion. Hate. What else. He mumbled loudly, "Where's my wife?"
"What's your wife's name?" Jane asked sweetly.
"You know her name!"
"And I want to hear it come out of your mouth, motherfucker." Greg didn't respond immediately, so Jane said, "Hey Wonka, step back up to him. And don't play nice with him anymore. Make him hurt for a while."
Wonka's placid expression split into a grin, and he moved towards Greg, who hunched up and yelled, "Austen! My wife's name is Austen!"
"Hold up, Wonka," Jane instructed. She walked up to Greg and said, "That's still not quite accurate. Actually, Austen is now your ex-wife.... or she will be, after the courts are done. You are now a bachelor, Gregapuss. Go back to Irvine now. Don't stay in Berkeley, don't try and find Austen, go home. She's sick of your shit, you don't get to hurt her anymore."
Despite his poor condition, Greg's stubborn streak was still active. He said, "You don't tell me what to do, neither does Austen, or any woman. I own Austen, so give her back."
Wonka knitted his brow in confusion. Jane raised an eyebrow and stated, "Um, Greggy-poo? Stupid? You might want to re-read your marriage license. It's a contract, not a bill of sale."
Somehow, Greg got his mouth to approximate a vague smile. "It will be one day. You fucking women.... Act like you deserve rights, like you're more than just the cattle you are. We're forced to treat you gently. You should all be caged, except for when you serve us, when your only uses are utilized. Women should serve men and stop behaving with disobedience. Some day you'll all know your places.... You'll just be happy we don't kill you when we're done...."
"So.... women are property."
"Exactly. Women are herd animals, like cattle or horses. Property. You should be public property. Fucking white trash, useless plebeian whore, I should have chained you up in your little apartment last night, then gone to find some men --- some real men --- and began training you, disciplining you, showing you where your place is. Showing you your only worth is your holes...."
Jane stared at Greg in silence briefly She finally said, "Damn, Gregatollah, you are one sick, twisted, creepy little boy. Wonka, would you do me a favor? Pull him away from the wall, and hold his arms behind his back."
Again, Greg tried to evade Wonka, to no avail. When he was holding Greg, Jane instructed Wonka to kick his feet apart, nice and wide. There, perfect. Jane stood and gave Greg a thoughtful frown from several feet away. Then she stepped towards him quickly and kicked him in the balls as hard ash she could. This wasn't a jab, Jane acted like she was going for a fifty yard field goal. Greg bellowed and tried to drop. Wonka held him upright, and kicked his feet apart again. Jane did the same kick a second time, then a third. On the third kick, Greg didn't bellow. Instead, just a gasping whistle came out of his throat. His mouth was wide open, gasping for air.
Jane walked up to him and felt his pockets for car keys. Locating them, Jane gestured for Wonka to bring him along. They went outside, Jane stepping to the Mercedes and letting herself in. She put the key in the ignition and checked the fuel gauge. Nearly full. She instructed Wonka to bring Greg to the driver's door and put him in the car. This completed, Jane reached over and turned the key. The engine caught immediately. She leaned on the door frame and said, "What you're going to do is put the car in gear and turn around. There's an on-ramp for the 80 about seven blocks down. Get on the freeway, and don't stop for any reason except for buying fuel. Go home, Greg. Accept your fate and go home.
"So far as the money goes, no, I"m not ripping you off. It's going to Austen, so she has something to live on. And you will provide more when she needs it. Don't argue the point, just do it.
"Me and some friends will be by your house in about a week and a half, so Austen can get her personal belongings. Don't do anything stupid like trash them." She paused, considering the man in the seat. "In retrospect, I made a mistake. I should have killed you last night, you and your friends. I didn't know your full story yet, the things you've done to Austen. Yes Greg, she told me everything. You're an evil piece of shit, and I want you to die slowly, alone, and in pain. See you soon, fuck off, and die." She slammed the car door and stepped away. The sound of the engine changed as the transmission was engaged. Then there was a blank spot in traffic, and the Mercedes spun in a 180 and roared down Gilman St. towards the freeway.
"Were you listening to that shit he was talking? That was one psycho motherfucker," Wonka observed as they walked back in the club.
"Yeah.... I guess you could describe him that way. Hey, can I ask for one more teeny tiny favor? Would you drive me up to Telegraph? I've gotta meet someone."
"No prob with Bob," Wonka responded. "So, did I meet your expectations?"
"An excellent performance," giggled Jane. "Three gold stars. Oh, here you go...."
Jane handed Wonka a bundle of bills, and a sandwich bag with some pills in it. "Too awesome," Wonka grinned. "Hey, you need contract work, you know who to call. Services provided by the minute, hour, day, or week."
"Are you bonded?"
"No, but I got a great review in Consumer Reports."
At Sproul Plaza, Jane explained to Austen she'd convinced Greg to just accept facts and go home. The marriage was over, period, just be happy Austen wasn't talking about criminal charges against Greg.... yet. Why, Jane had actually talked Greg into doing something somewhat honorable. Here, have some money, honey. In fact, you know what? To hell with classes today. We're both tired and stressed. Let's go back to the residence hall and relax with a beer or five.
Greg was around Los Banos on I-5 before the pain from his crotch wasn't the only thing on his mind. Now he was aware of the pain in his torso, hand, and head, too. He knew planning was needed, if he was going to retrieve his property. Women weren't people, they were property. They were human, barely. Some didn't even make that cut. Like Jane. A harpy, a whore, a slut-hole who did not understand how the world worked and kept making sound when she should be silent.
Jane Osborne. That vulgar little white trash.... object.... was a threat. To him, to any Real Man. She thought she possessed qualities that only Men could possess, like courage and intelligence. What a horrible little barnyard animal, like a mentally ill goat. She should be shown her true position in the world.
That's how the world should work, in Greg's mind. Anything with two legs and a cunt should be property. They're only human in a biological sense. Stop coddling them, allowing them to act as if they have minds. No. Women have holes. The holes are the useful parts. The holes are the only reasons they are allowed to exist, they have their purpose. But otherwise they are little more than cattle, and should be treated as such. Own them, keep them penned, use them for the purposes God made them for. Do not allow them to dare assert they are people. Men are people, women are not. Women are property.
Greg realized his crotch was throbbing with pain again. He had a raging erection, all three inches of it. He made himself think of other things for a while. Like how to reclaim property that had been stolen from him.
* * * * * *
Comments
Post a Comment