Scourge of Chaos: Savage Healer

‘Small deeds are the mark of a small man!’ So went one of Old Rud’s favorite sayings.

Sunday smiled as he remembered him. Yelling out grand statements or holding lectures on the meaning of life had been one of the favorite pastimes of the old bastard. Especially right before going to the pub to cheat someone out of a drink, or after getting enough drinks to cheat someone out of their sanity.

Old Rud gave lessons on many things and most of them made sense only to seasoned cynics who thought they knew all there was to know. To those who needed spiked coffee and enough nicotine to kill a small child to barely function in the mornings. And to those, who looked at life and critiqued its fashion choices while running naked through the street.

Most of what the old man had taught the orphans was nonsense, but life had a funny way of bringing meaning to the ramblings of old drunks.

Sunday shifted through the colorful crowd, trying to ignore the nauseating smells assaulting his senses and stinging his eyes. It was a warm day and the aroma of various perfumes mixing with the odor of dirty flesh, cars, and garbage from the overflowing dumpsters was creating a bouquet that challenged even his veteran nose.

Despite it all, he walked through the bodies like a ‘better’ man would, with an easy-going smirk and a walk that screamed ‘My family knows lawyers!’

Sunday neither had a family nor knew any lawyers, though. It was simply how he felt today due to his new job. The trip down memory lane was just a bonus.

His hands remained unseen, moving through the pattern of the fast and gentle dance Old Rud had taught them all before his rusty fingers betrayed him. Brushing here, patting there. Small acts, inconspicuous acts. Acts that made some poorer, and others wealthier. In a sense.

‘Evil little gremlins!’ the old man would shout with pride before tallying up the spoils his trusty orphans had brought.

The secret to safe pickpocketing, as Sunday saw it, was to know what to look for. There was a risk in stealing phones or wallets. The latter were growing rarer nowadays and people loved their phones; they needed them like they needed air. He had seen mothers drop their babies on the sidewalk to take a selfie. Jewelry, mechanical watches, the rare bundle of cash, and other weird trinkets were the sort of things to look for. Most were junk, but the odd lucky find made up for it.

Not that Sunday needed to steal to survive. Not anymore.

It was a habit, or a recreational activity, so to speak. Sunday loathed the idea of being mistaken for a common thief. He had grown to be much more, or at least he tried to believe so. He had a proper job now! In a hotel!

The teachings of Old Rud, the orphanage’s grandpa, and the only parent Sunday had ever known, had proven a form of alternative education with surprising value. He had taught them to read, to do math, to bullshit, and to keep their fingers nimble. Most of all, he had taught them to survive when the odds were piled high against them, to fit in, and to make shitty alcohol taste good. The latter had proven invaluable.

Sunday brushed his recently stolen suit, feeling an already bulging pocket in the process. He made a mental note to steal a few more shirts when he got the chance. Good clothes were expensive and he needed them if he was to be a respectful bartender. He still didn’t understand why they wanted him in a dress shirt, but rich people paid well for such things so he wouldn’t complain. Especially considering all the tips he was going to get.

He strolled through the masses and stole with a smile on his face. A good man. A ‘better’ man. A working man. An actor. A liar. A thief and a criminal. A bartender!

Eventually, the nice shops adorned with clean windows and colorful stock gave way to shops with windows that hadn’t seen a rag up close in a while and whose best merchandise was hidden under the table for those who knew how to ask for it. The nice streets became cracked asphalt reminiscent of stretch marks as if the city was growing too fast for its own good.

Rings, bracelets, and watches jingled in Sunday’s pockets. He chose a few of the gaudy ones that fit and put them on. His careless smirk fell off like it had never been. Gone was the charming light in his eyes. He no longer moved as if time was another thing he could buy.

The tie around his neck was pulled off and stuffed in a pocket. The first two buttons of his shirt came undone to reveal parts of a gnarly burn scar starting at his chest and running low to the left side of his neck.

He rustled his combed hair, rolled up his sleeves, and used a napkin with a bit of spit to wipe off the makeup masking the scar on the left side of his face – a long and jagged stretch spanning from the middle of his forehead to just above the eyelid.

Sunday stopped before a somewhat clean window to check himself and go back to his usual persona for these parts. The ‘don’t fuck with me’ look was a tough one to pull off well. A slight mistake could turn it into the opposite and bring about a bag of trouble.

His skill in the area was developed after a lifetime of observing the patrons of sleazy bars, the tough dogs of law, and the gangs roaming the streets at night. There were many types of confidence, and it was a difficult task to project the right one. Especially when it was faked and worn by someone as young as himself.

Too much, and he would look like a poser – one of those boys who grew up with a silver spoon but held a deep fascination with the hard life and to whom hardship was getting out of bed before noon. That would be catching him a good beating or worse.

Too little and he would look like he had taken a wrong turn. Plump prey with good kidneys and clean teeth.

He liked to practice, though and the familiar faces were no danger, as they knew Old Rud’s orphans even after the man’s death, but the city was big and welcoming despite itself. New faces meant new problems. The right attitude was more important than ever.

Now even some of Sunday’s former friends held it against him for trying to get a job in the nice part of town and ‘betraying’ them. A silly thing. Was he to remain a petty criminal his whole life just to appease them? What a life that would be.

Satisfied with his appearance, he went further into the shadowy and dusty streets he had grown up on.

The scarring helped him blend in and tell people he belonged. Scars were a special type of currency. The one on the forehead he had gotten after a particularly bad meeting with some thugs. If Sunday had to be fair, he had earned it.

The scars on the chest and neck were from stealing where he shouldn’t have been. Second-degree burns were considered a good lesson for a hungry kid at the time.

Oh, how he had screamed then, how terrified he had been. Years had made it all an asset though. Both the experience and the scars that came along with it. He had other scars, but those two were the marketable ones.

He had grown up with quite an intact face all things considered – something Sunday was greatly appreciative of. It took only some makeup and a good lie to present himself as just another face in the crowd. There were kids younger than him who looked like they’d put their faces in meat grinders only to pour some glue on the pieces and jam them back together. A face was an important tool for a street kid. It got him places.

His destination soon came into view – a rundown apartment building that was home to one of the most notorious and popular bars in this part of town – ‘The Dirty Shot’. Home to a unique drink by the same name that had allegedly once made a tough bastard repent for his sins and seek God. Most thought the only thing the drink repented was one's bowels. Sunday had tried it once when he had hit the ripe old age of eleven. It had indeed felt like an exorcism and it had put him off alcohol for a long while.

Sunday took a turn and scowled at a junkie who shifted as he entered the alley. He tried to remember the man’s clothes and position, a worthless venture considering how drunk he was planning to get in celebration. However, he feared those hooked on drugs the most. Sometimes the need for a fix took precedence over fear. Many who had believed their reputation was a shield had fallen to the odd cloud-headed bastard sporting a sharp piece of glass or a shiv.

He reached the entrance which was no more than a door next to some dumpsters. It led to a hallway and an elevator. Nothing alluded to there being a bar in the basement, which only made the spot more popular. People wanted to feel special, privy to secret clubs and interesting places no one else knew about. A round mountain of a guy with a cigar sat on a struggling chair in the alleyway.

“A little early, are you not sonny? Are you even old enough to drink here yet?” the bouncer asked, billowing out smoke and not letting the smile that permanently stretched his chubby face drop despite the way it twisted his words. He was famous for the many golden teeth he had, and, despite pawning a few of them through the years and losing a few more to rowdy patrons, he still liked showing off whatever he had left. It was not much.

Sunday didn’t reply. He rummaged in his pocket pulling out a woman’s golden bracelet covered in small fake and very colorful gemstones. With a quick movement, he bashed it against the brick wall. A few of the gemstones fell off, and he picked away at a few more. He threw it toward the bouncer who caught it with surprising dexterity and examined it.

“Here, nicked this because it reminded me of you. Just made it match your smile better,” Sunday said and without waiting for a response slipped past the man and through the door. A beer and a pat on the shoulder would fix everything later. Maybe a cheap cigar? Sunday was feeling generous today.

After all, he had a proper job.

He pressed the button and the doors opened with a heavy thrum. His short descent was made longer by the ominous song of unmaintained gears and coils, until finally, the doors opened and the sound of overly loud music assaulted his ears. Time to live it up, he thought.

***

The fist flew in an arc and Sunday dodged out of the way, barely finding his balance in the process.

“I didn’t know she was with you man!” He tried again. Who knew offering a drink to a pretty girl would derail things so fast? Granted, pretty girls in this part of town were a dangerous thing, but alcohol made fools out of wise men. That’s why it was so popular after all.

His supposed friends were nowhere to be seen. Not that many had shown up. Only Blu who was probably hiding somewhere. He was not one for confrontations, the poor sod. The rest were still mad that he had gotten a job. Some friends… jealous pricks.

The large bouncer from the entrance watched from the side with a grin and an unlit cigar in his mouth. His golden teeth were especially eye-catching as they reflected the cheap lights.

Should’ve bought him a beer sooner! Sunday thought.

The crowd around them cheered at each swing and egged the rampaging lunatic on, while Sunday danced around his wide attacks.

The man knew what he was doing. Kind of. Being drunk made it difficult to determine if he could fight or not. Was he trying to trick Sunday with a feint or was the world dodging along, but in the opposite direction?

The man yelled something. Sunday ducked under another wide haymaker and tried to head for the exit, but the crowd pushed him back into the circle they had made. He fell on his butt and instantly covered his head. The punches of the man above him rained like hail.

I don’t need more scars, you bastard! Not now!

He turned on his butt, kicked his attacker in the shin, creating a temporary window of opportunity, and scrambled to stand up. The crowd cheered again. Bloodthirsty motherfuckers.

Sunday made it to a nearby table and grabbed a full glass. He took a sip of the strangely colored drink inside, then ducked another hit and spat the liquid into the man’s face. For some more flair points, he backhanded the bastard too. This wasn’t his first fight and he wanted to keep things fun despite the anger inside of him. Sunday banked on the guy getting too tired or too humiliated. Or in the best-case scenario, going blind from the cheap liquor.

However, rather than guiding him toward more peaceful ways the dirty move unsurprisingly only angered the man further. Half-seeing, he tried to tackle Sunday. Instead, he found only the table and crashed into it. It was bolted to the floor so rather than fall it only shook slightly. With a roar, the man grabbed one of the other glasses and threw it in Sunday’s general direction.

It missed by a lot and someone in the crowd yelled out in pain. Sunday chuckled. Serves you right.

A fist found the side of his face mid-laugh and sent him reeling to the side.

“Not the face!” Someone yelled jokingly and others laughed. It was a woman’s voice and Sunday grinned despite the pain as he dodged another haymaker. Damn right. He briefly considered finding her and giving her a wink, but the mad attack didn’t give him a chance.

Sunday ducked again and responded with an uppercut that connected with the man’s chin like they were old lovers going to bed. The man’s eyes turned and he crumpled to the floor. There was silence, broken only by the music. Some of the sleeping bastard’s friends took a step forward but hesitated under the scrutiny of the excited crowd.

Sunday checked the guy, and when it was certain he was breathing released a sigh of relief. This was dangerous. Too dangerous.

He straightened up and smiled, before scanning the crowd. There she was. Pretty and smiling back at him. He took a step.

A single step.

His foot found a stray ice cube from one of the spilled drinks.

The world slipped.

Sunday fell and everything slowed down.

‘Small deeds are the mark of a small man!’ a voice in his head reminded.

He tried to catch himself, only to feel his head hit something hard.

Then came dizzying blackness.

And a voice. A whisper, like a feather’s caress against his soul.

Do you want to live?

Yes! Of course, he wanted to live!

No matter what.