(I guess I should warn you that this would be rated R)
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RS-shruew presents his latest re-imagination:
Babies.
I hate babies.
Who brings a baby to a bar? I look over to my left swilling the rancid snake oil that passes as booze in this place. The bar maiden. Ah, it's hers. She let me in even though it was close to closing time. I smiled and told her that I wouldn't be long. She looked at my face and she knew I wasn't lying.
My Target was on the other side of the bar. She was drinking an orange colored concoction in one those swirled stem glasses that looks like a cross eyed glass blower formed it. It probably cost her $100 a round. She was My Target. But, she wasn't the problem.
He was. Her Hired Help.
Standing a good six inches taller than me. Could probably bench a hundred pounds more than me. Trained in who the hell knows what. Carrying who the hell knows what.
But, I have one advantage.
I don't give a fuck.
Whatever they do, people always live by rules of how they perceive the world. When you shatter those rules, they don't know how to react. I could pull a tool out of my bag that could be effective. But, I hate birth babies.
The bar maiden is too busy cleaning off tables to notice me moving towards the high chair of the baby. I smile and tell it that it will be fine. Somehow it knows I'm lying.
I grab it by its head and twist hard as I fling it towards Hired Help. I'm too fast for the bar maiden to even scream. Hired Help is stunned.
My opening.
I charge and lay into him with all my might. I pound his weak spots. His nose breaks. His testicles shatter and cripple him. I start to break the fingers on his left hand.
Still, he's strong. Much stronger than I am. He flails at my chest trying to get me off him. The look on his face is priceless. I'm a lot harder than he thought.
I wrap my fingers across his thick throat and I squeeze and I twist. Still, he's strong. Much stronger than I am. Like a twig he lifts me up and throws me across the bar. I crash into the glasses lined up on the counter. Shards stick everywhere into my body.
Advantage lost. A pity; no more babies.
This time it's his turn to charge. Stronger; better trained; he crosses my face with his fist in rage. I break every finger in his last useful hand. I'm much harder than he still can realize. That look on his face...
Advantage: mine.
I attack his knee caps shattering one with a kick and turning out the other with my hands. He lies in agony as I put my foot on his throat. This will be over soon.
I survey the scene.
The bar maiden is screaming over the corpse of her baby. I hate real babies.
My Target is still clutching her fancy high brow drink stunned. She had assumed Hired Help would win. It cannot register in her view of the world how a weakling like me came out on top.
I move to my bag and ponder my options. Scalpel... Hammer... Knife... Screwdriver... Band saw... No - pliers. This seems like a nice job for pliers.
I walk over to My Target and smile and say, "Hello, Signora Rosaura. This won't hurt a bit."
She looks at my face and knows I am lying. She cries. I start my work.
I am Pinocchio.
And I'm going to make every "real" person pay.
