[fiction] When Angels Deserve to Die - Act 3

Act III:  Gasoline

Biff heard plastic ruffling.  He looked up from his center-stage sprawl on the floor to see Saudade holding a tux in a dry cleaning bag.

"It seems James Bond Jr. needs a little help escaping," she said.

"Lets go dude.  I bailed you out."  Eric was standing behind her.  "High Society Night waits for no one!"

Biff looked at the reigning baliff:  Craig Capulet.  Craig was too busy shooting eye-daggers at Eric.

Eric was the last to leave the tiny station.  Craig intercepted him and shoved him against the wall.

"What fuck are you doing with my cousin's wife?" demanded Craig.

"Way I hear it she won't be his wife for long," said Eric.

"My family will end you.  You'll end up just like your two friends."

Eric shoved Craig so hard the man fell backwards onto a desk.

"The last time one of you boneheads tried to touch us 30 people died," said Eric.  "I promise you, you're gonna run out of family members."  Eric left.

"You're making a mistake!"

"You are a mistake!"

~ . ~ . ~ . ~

High Society Night was a night of low stakes poker game between people that sucked at poker and could barely afford the tuxes and dresses they wore.  It was, by far, the favorite, beating out Toga Night and even School Girl Night.

Eric and Sauda made quite the entrance.  Eric knew how to wear a tux, and Sauda, in her sparkly dress and high heels, looked like a Bond girl had just walked out of a movie.

Biff's good friend Jason jumped out of his seat.  "Is that?  For serious?"

Biff touched Jason's shoulder.  "Yeah, calm down.  Don't pee on his leg, alright?  And don't mention Ed."

Jason looked a Biff.  "Its been like 5 years bro."

Biff shrugged.  "Still too soon."

Jason looked back at Eric and sat back down.

Biff said, "Ladies and Gentleman, meet Eric and his date, Soda..."

"Sauda," corrected Eric.

"Yeah.  Eric and Soda, meet the ladies," Biff gestured at the girls,  "the gentleman," Biff pointed at some dudes, "and also Jason."

Jason gave Biff the finger.  Eric pulled Sauda's chair out from under her.  Biff slapped Candy's ass when she came by with a platter of drinks.  Sauda glared at Biff.

A few sips of whisky, and that's where the blur starts.  There isn't much after that, except for one tiny bit:

"You shouldn't treat girls like that," said Sauda.

"Like what?   Huh?"  said Biff.

Sauda stared at him with her arms crossed, and decided to give up.  "Tell me about this Ed guy."

Biff nearly choked.  "'This Ed guy?'  Are you serious?"

Sauda shrugged.

"You ever hear of Charlie's Angels?"  Biff asked.

"Yes."

"No you haven't.  Not like this.  Ed, Eric, and Charlie were the most badass, awesomest, fucking righteous bros ever.  They called themselves Charlie's Angel's, but Ed was in charge.  Ed was my brother."

"Something happened."

"Did you fuck Eric yet?  I mean like, you know he's dying for it," said Biff.

Sauda slapped him.  "Stay on topic!  What the hell happened to them?"

Biff appeared to sober up for just a moment.  "He got gunned down.  Fucking...gunned down by a bunch of pigs.  The double fist, man, that's what they mean when they talk about pulling an Ed."  Biff looked around for another drink.

"Capulets?"

"Cops.  There weren't all Capulets.  Only the worst ones."  Biff eyes made it clear what he meant.  Suddenly he felt a hand grip his arm.  He knew that grip.  It was the only grip in the world that could inspire fear in him.

"You've said enough," said Eric.  "Go fuck a 22-year-old."

"Gladly," muttered Biff.  Then walked off calling:  "Candeeeeee!"

~ . ~ . ~ . ~


Sometime after that Biff woke with a hangover.  Hangovers were like the sinking feeling he always felt after sex, but everywhere, and a million times worse.  He was busy moaning to himself in the diner when Eric set a Mountain Dew in front of him.

"Drink that," said Eric, "ancient hangover remedy."

"They didn't have mountain dews in ancient," mumbled Biff.

"How much vodka did you drink?" asked Sauda.

"Enough," said Eric.

"Hey!"  Biff looked up at the waitress that just appeared.  "Where is Candy?"

"I'm Monica I'll be your server tod-"

"This is Candy's booth," interrupted Biff,  "where the fuck is Candy?  She said she had to work."

Monica rolled her eyes.  "She was supposed to, and since that tramp didn't show up I have to cover both her tables and mine so you just want to order some fucking pancakes and let me on with it?"

Eric got a bit of a strange expression on his face.  "I need to check on something."  Biff and Sauda watched him ride his Hayabusa out of the parking lot.

Less than an hour later, they saw the sportbike on the tv waltzing with five cop cars on the highway.

"Let's go," said Biff.

"Eric doesn't want you involved in this," said Sauda.  But she looked at Biff when she said it and in his face she saw something other than reason.

~ . ~ . ~ . ~

Eric was smart enough to park the bike out of sight but the danger signs had him too stoked to be anymore careful than listening for a second before he busted the door down.

"I've been expecting you," said a man on the couch.  He sounded like the kind of person who usually gave orders and rarely got his hands dirty.

"Which one are you again?  There are so many I get confused," said Eric.

"Brighton.  Brighton Capulet.  I forgive you.  We've never met before."

"Sounds like a good first-and-last."

"Not for me.  This will be your last, yet.  You'll be dead by the end of the week.  If that."

"All this over a divorce?" asked Eric.

"That bitch has no right-"

"Your family has no right.  Not to take lives."

"Your one to talk," said Brighton.

"You have a shitty family."

"My family--you are completely ignorant regarding my family, regarding the the destruction my family with reign down upon you.  You and your friends."

"I don't have any friends."

"You have that little kid that follows you around.  Biff?  And his girlfriend?  Oh his girlfriend was nice."

Eric didn't say anything.  He just felt a shiver run down his back, and coldness in every muscle.  This was not the road he wanted to go down.

Brighton smiled.  "The closet."

Eric didn't move.  Didn't want to move.  He want to be any other place than in front of that closet, sliding the door open, seeing the precious girl fall out to the floor.  But he did.  There was little clothing left on her, just a bra handing by the straps from one shoulder and some shreds of her jeans around one ankle.  There were bloodly circles around her wrists, and bruises all up and down her limbs.  More blood and bruises on the rest of her body, by Eric couldn't look.  The smell of sex, piss and vomit was turning his empty stomach.

"Don't bother, I made sure she's dead.  I also called it in just as you arrived."  Brighton was trying to torture him.  Went on saying something about even letting the dog have a turn before the end.  He probably said, or would have eventually said, something about Eric bringing Saudade to a certain place and time.  But all Eric could hear was the rushing of blood in his ears.  He felt something hot in his limbs.  It was like the warmth of lust, only searing and painful.  Truth be told, he didn't really hear a word Brighton said after that.

Brighton was expecting physical confrontation.  He was no fool.  He was wearing brass knuckles inside his clasped hands.  But he never got to use them.  In fast the last thing he saw clearly was Eric's outstretched hand, and the white power in his face, blinding him.  No fair.  No fair indeed.

Eric slammed his helmet into Brighton's head.  Brighton landed on the floor.  Eric swung hard and slung his helmet into one knee, and then the other.  On the second knee the helmet smashed.  Brighton cried out.  Eric was only getting started, but then caught a glimps of the cop cars collecting outside.

For a brief instant Eric remembered the last time he was at the mercy of law enforcement, down on his knees on the hot asphalt one summer day, irons holding his wrists behind his back while he watched his best friend, his platonic soulmate, Ed.  Ed was out of the car, surrounded by a dozen cops all pointing sidearms and shotguns and rifles at him, all screaming their lungs out to tell him to get on the ground with his hands on his head.  Ed's last action as a human being was to raise both hands and give them the finger with each.

Eric shook his head.  He would made no stand.  Through the bedroom, breaking glass, on the bike.  No helmet.  Aviators in his shirt.

He had the advantage on the twistys, but suburbia has a lot of natural hazards like minivans and traffic lights with cars actively crossing.  Eric filtered but he was still nearly tackled, twice.  Finally he busted up to the highway.

If he stayed on the highway in any one direction, the cops would radio ahead and gain a huge advantage.  Standard Charlie's Angel protocol prescribed staying in the area by switching highways.  Unfortunately, any prolonged chase would end in his capture;  it was broad daylight and his gas tank was no match for theirs.

Eric knew how this would end.  They would run him down, until he ran out of gas or simply made a mistake like everyone else.  If he didn't high side and die, he would be running on foot, and they'd sick a dog on him.

Eric weaved through the traffic, but the traffic was parting behind him like the red sea.  He stepped up the pace as much as he dared, weaving harder, taking the shoulder.  There was too much fucking traffic!  He switched highways twice.  They'd have a chopper on him soon, if there wasn't one already.  Time was running out.

He saw a cop car spin out behind him.  Strange thing for a trained police officer to lose control of a vehicle while driving down a highway in a straight line, but Eric didn't look miracle horses in the mouth.  Than a second cop car.  Double miracle!

Then his gas light went on.

Eric was fortunate enough to have a bike with a gas light and a reserve tap that activated automatically, saving him from the need to reach down somewhere and twist a knob to keep riding.  That kind of detail can really save you when you're running from the law.  Unfortunately it didn't save Eric.

Eric spotted a break in the median.  Driving against traffic was absolutely insane, but it seemed like his only break.  He needed to stay alive and out of jail.  Someone had to respond for Candy.  Someone had to kill the Capulets.  All of them.  Someone had to save Saudade.

The shift to the grass median was more than Eric was prepared for.  His entry speed was way off.  There was a moment when thought he might save it, but the next moment he was eating dirt with his bike sliding away from him.

He looked up, expecting to see guns pointed in his direction, brown uniforms running, the snarling snout of a canine.  But instead all he saw was Sauda, arms out.

Sauda yanked Eric into Biff's car.  First by the arms, then pulling on his shirt, then his ass, and by the time she was busy folding his legs in to get the door shut, Biff was already crossing 80.  Against traffic.

"Holy shit," said Sauda.

"Don't worry. I'm awesome at this," said Biff.  He sounded like a little kid bragging about a video game.  So innocent.  Eric smiled.

"Did you take your plate off?" Eric asked.

"Yes sir," said Biff.  "And I have a hand grenade in the glove box."

"Toss it," said Eric.  Eric steadied himself against the effects of a particularly hard swerve.  "Those were a terrible idea.  Never make a stand.  Just disappear.  Just disappear like a ninja."

Biff, when he could spared a quarter second, glanced in the rearview mirror.  Eric looked tired.

"Where's Candy?" Biff asked.