The moon sagged above the murky Los Angeles skyline like a pendulous goiter. Somewhere far below, disgraced detective Ted Thraxton power-stumbled in the general direction of the 24-hour laundromat, tripping over a seemingly endless cavalcade of trash cans and discarded heroin needles. It had been 3 months since his latest ex-partner, Rick Piston, had been gunned down by the Ukrainian mob during a routine bar brawl and Ted had last seen anything even remotely resembling sobriety.
Twenty minutes and one back alley concussion later, Ted barreled into the laundromat. It was empty save for an elderly Korean woman that Ted wasn't sexually attracted to. He shuffled over to a washing machine and began removing his denim vest, revealing a menagerie of scars on his obscenely muscular back and chest that he had acquired during his career as the city's chief distributor of justice and comeuppance. He was about to peel off his jeans when he heard the Korean woman scream.
Two armed men stood at the entrance of the laundromat. The shorter one stepped forward and aimed his gun directly at Ted's druggedly handsome face.
"Say goodnight, Thraxton!"
"Well," Ted snorted disbelievingly, "I can't say goodnight until I read you your bedtime story. Do you have a preference?"
"I ain't fallin' for your mind games, Thraxton!" the man hissed.
But Ted continued. "Goodnight Moon? Nah, you look like you might be more of a Velveteen Rabbit kind of guy..."
"Goddammit! Shut the fuck up, Thraxton!" The man was screaming now, his aim faltering.
Ted chuckled a warrior's chuckle. "Prince Scumbag's Obituary it is then."
"What?! No!"
He squeezed the trigger.
Ted reflexively shifted into a gar tonk meditation trance, his perception of time slowing to a crawl. He casually sidestepped the bullet that had been meant for his brain and leapt toward its progenitor. The man's eyes widened in abject horror, granting Ted a pristine view of his own murderous reflection as he recklessly drove his semi truck of a fist into the man's solar plexus and transported him to a dimension of pain that, up to this point, physicists had only theorized about, but now would recognize as a scientific certainty.
"Guhrrrk guh bbbbuh," he slurred, random syllables oozing from his mouth like grease from a George Foreman Grill.
Ted looked down at the man's cavernous chest cavity, peering between the splintered ribs to watch the lungs take their final tortuous breath before the corpse crumpled to the floor. Ted glanced over his shoulder at the bewildered Korean woman.
"...And they all lived fatally ever after," he mockingly pouted, shaking the gore from his fist. He relished the subsequent look of disgust she volleyed back at him. Ted realized she looked... different. She was somehow... less unattractive.
Ted shuttered the thought in one of the many cells of his labyrinthian mind prison, then turned his attention to the other gunman, who was just standing there, transfixed by the viscera that seemed to be crawling its way out of the clump of carnage that had once been his partner.
"Hey!" Ted clapped his hands together, sending flecklets of guts all over the damn place. The gunman flinched and then began to tremorously raise his gun up.
"There you go! That's more like it!" Ted started dancing a cute little jig.
The man's lips were quivering like a bucket of sex-crazed eels. Rivulets of urine began streaming from his pant legs. He clenched his eyelids shut and muttered a prayer.
But when he opened his eyes again, Thraxton was gone. He cautiously edged around the rows of laundry machines and determined the Korean woman had disappeared as well.
Heh, looks like I pissed my pants for nothing! he thought, shaking his head.
He turned to leave the laundromat and was rewarded with a surprise party. Unfortunately, the only guest to show up was Thraxton's boot slamming into his left kneecap, completely reversing it. Pain exploded behind his eyes and he fell to the floor like a baby delivered to an armless parent.
Ted Thraxton loomed over him, a hulking monolith of a man. He was sniffing the air, his appetite for his thirst for justice rekindled. He had also just banged the Korean woman in the back closet.
"I want to thank you," he purred. "Your suffering has cured me from my woebegone state. I wish there were some way I could repay you."
The man stared up at Ted, one last hope of survival glimmering in his eye like a grain of sand circling a black hole.
Ted's herculean brow furrowed for a moment before he asked, "I don't suppose I could interest you in some... Pringles?"
The man began screaming again, heralding the dawn of a new age.
Two armed men stood at the entrance of the laundromat. The shorter one stepped forward and aimed his gun directly at Ted's druggedly handsome face.
"Say goodnight, Thraxton!"
"I ain't fallin' for your mind games, Thraxton!" the man hissed.
But Ted continued. "Goodnight Moon? Nah, you look like you might be more of a Velveteen Rabbit kind of guy..."
"Goddammit! Shut the fuck up, Thraxton!" The man was screaming now, his aim faltering.
Ted chuckled a warrior's chuckle. "Prince Scumbag's Obituary it is then."
"What?! No!"
He squeezed the trigger.
Ted reflexively shifted into a gar tonk meditation trance, his perception of time slowing to a crawl. He casually sidestepped the bullet that had been meant for his brain and leapt toward its progenitor. The man's eyes widened in abject horror, granting Ted a pristine view of his own murderous reflection as he recklessly drove his semi truck of a fist into the man's solar plexus and transported him to a dimension of pain that, up to this point, physicists had only theorized about, but now would recognize as a scientific certainty.
"Guhrrrk guh bbbbuh," he slurred, random syllables oozing from his mouth like grease from a George Foreman Grill.
"...And they all lived fatally ever after," he mockingly pouted, shaking the gore from his fist. He relished the subsequent look of disgust she volleyed back at him. Ted realized she looked... different. She was somehow... less unattractive.
Ted shuttered the thought in one of the many cells of his labyrinthian mind prison, then turned his attention to the other gunman, who was just standing there, transfixed by the viscera that seemed to be crawling its way out of the clump of carnage that had once been his partner.
"Hey!" Ted clapped his hands together, sending flecklets of guts all over the damn place. The gunman flinched and then began to tremorously raise his gun up.
"There you go! That's more like it!" Ted started dancing a cute little jig.
The man's lips were quivering like a bucket of sex-crazed eels. Rivulets of urine began streaming from his pant legs. He clenched his eyelids shut and muttered a prayer.
But when he opened his eyes again, Thraxton was gone. He cautiously edged around the rows of laundry machines and determined the Korean woman had disappeared as well.
Heh, looks like I pissed my pants for nothing! he thought, shaking his head.
He turned to leave the laundromat and was rewarded with a surprise party. Unfortunately, the only guest to show up was Thraxton's boot slamming into his left kneecap, completely reversing it. Pain exploded behind his eyes and he fell to the floor like a baby delivered to an armless parent.
Ted Thraxton loomed over him, a hulking monolith of a man. He was sniffing the air, his appetite for his thirst for justice rekindled. He had also just banged the Korean woman in the back closet.
"I want to thank you," he purred. "Your suffering has cured me from my woebegone state. I wish there were some way I could repay you."
The man stared up at Ted, one last hope of survival glimmering in his eye like a grain of sand circling a black hole.
Ted's herculean brow furrowed for a moment before he asked, "I don't suppose I could interest you in some... Pringles?"
The man began screaming again, heralding the dawn of a new age.
Thraxton!
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