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[M] A Dame To Kill For: Marty's Tale

Thick smoke consumed the air around me, causing my throat to clench as a painful and raspy cough erupted from it. My footing was slippery, and my surroundings were unfamiliar. Bloodcurdling wails filled my ears like a symphony of scraping cogs and gears. Metal screams alerted me to a car coming right for me and I felt something hit me square in the chest.

There's no up or down, and my body is weak; I don't weigh a thing. I don't remember a thing. I try my best to put together pieces of what had just happened, but I keep coming up short. This doesn't look good at all. Running my hand through my hair, I feel the familiar sticky wetness of blood. I've gone and done something stupid again, and I wish I could remember what.

I took a deep breath, reached into my trenchcoat pocket, and pulled out my lighter and smokes. Wherever I was, it smelt like shit, making everything worse. The sound of the flint was comforting, and the sweet sensation of nicotine was just what I needed to take the edge off.

I was in an alley for sure, and the buildings beside me were tall enough to block out most of the artificial moonlight, leaving only dark, eerie shadows to cover everything — a little ways ahead, under one of the few working street lights, I saw a crashed car and a group of fresh dead bodies all around.

It all didn't make sense, and I couldn't help asking aloud "How did I get here? What have I done?" No matter how I got in this situation, the most important thing I wonder is: why? The only explanation I could come up with is: I must've forgotten my medicine and someone rubbed me the wrong way.

I've got a condition. It's bad to forget your medicine when you've got a condition. Sharp pain in my chest reminded me that I needed to get to the doc right away.  Looking down, I see my white tank is soaked in blood; the fresh blood is mine. Caught myself a bullet and it's new, maybe an hour old. I can't remember how I got it.

For the life of me, I can't remember. My big and brooding presence has always seemed to draw a crowd wherever I go, but now was not the time to be the center of attention; I was vulnerable as a chicken in a foxhole. One thing is for sure, and that was that I somehow found myself in one of the scummiest projects in Coruscant, it was ugly as ever. What the hell am I doing here? Put the pieces together.

Come on, remember. It's Saturday, so I must have started the night at Big Daddy's joint. I needed to high-tail it out of the slums, and I found my motorcycle a few meters out from the alley I left the bodies in. The familiar vivacious pops the of the pistons firing put me in a therapeutic trance, and I started to piece the parts of the night together. While my mind struggled to come to terms with the hours that passed, I headed to the one person I knew I could trust.

Looking back, I remember it was just another Saturday night. Me and all the other losers like me were sucking back the sauce and drooling like fools over Scarlet. Scarlet was the leading attraction over at Big Daddy's Bar and Saloon. A place where you can drink, find drugs, and get other pleasures. Scarlet shook her ass to the beat of futuristic techno and cracked a neon whip on the bar table as she danced. I remember that something strange did happen, and I remember Scarlet stopping right in the middle of her set to run off to give some old guy some tongue. Strange.

I was in a mood and even watching Scarlet couldn't cheer me up. Kitty behind the bar must have noticed and felt sorry for me, because she slipped me a bottle on the house. I felt like a blue balloon with all the air forced out. Of course, it was not due to Scarlet, as she moved her hips with those red curves that drove everyone wild.

I get that way sometimes. It's like I am empty in the gut, hollow in that lonely place, and wishing I had an excuse to break somebody's face. What did I do to fill the void? Took shot of after shot of whiskey and followed it with brews until I couldn't feel my face anymore. The last thing I could remember was Scarlett's sexy ass.

What I remembered was that it was just another Saturday night. I was wondering what I was going to do with myself when I smelled something awful. It smelt like burning hair or burning flesh and meat. That is when I noticed a man in a corner booth being brutally burned in the face by a cigarette. Now that my drunk ass was paying attention, I could make out his screeches, and his cries.

The more I thought about it, I remembered that this scene made my ass itch. Like these poor old Bimms didn't have it bad enough already. Many Bimms traveled the galaxy working as merchants and artists; they were virtually harmless. The bloody Bimms still had dicks though, and they had a right to get a chubby, just like everybody else. To pick on a Bimm is cowardly and nothing’s worse than a spineless bitch.

Damn Coruscant upper Escalon frat boys. Damn rich, spoiled brats. I decided I couldn't take the cunts anymore and I walked over to their table. They were too distracted to notice me approach them, and it took me breaking a damn bottle over their table for them to realize. "Just leave him be." I ordered the punks.  

"Piss off you old cocksucker!" the boy retorted as he took out his gun and took out a chunk of my shoulder.
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Why did he have to go and call me a cocksucker? The frat boys didn't push their luck though, and high tailed it out of there. At least I know they're bad guys. I quickly got on my motorcycle and I remember being thrilled by the chase. It looked like this night wouldn't be so bad after all.

It did not take long to find them, see the projects of Coruscant is my hometown and I grew up here. When I saw them, they were creeping in an alleyway and had some sorry girl cornered behind a dumpster. Poor little thing was almost entirely naked when I snatched one up by the neck and smashed his face into the brick wall.

I always got a thrill from when a skull compresses after I crush it. The frat boys cracked noggin splashed blood all over the place, like a scene out of a horror movie. Nothing wrong with killing the bunch of them. Hell, it's practically my civic duty. The only part I didn't like was how much they would beg afterward.

Just thinking back to them on their knees makes me want to drink. Oh, those wormy little twits. I hate those guys. The potholes in the street jumped me back to reality, causing my chest to ache. God, this really hurts. I have not even tried to stop the bleeding.

I remember that some of the punks tried to make a run for it. I did what any good citizen would do. Stupid fools just left their car, like a bunch of jackasses, so I ran them over. One sorry fool was left crawling on his hands and knees. Mama always told me to finish what I started, so I walked over to him and put my boot down on the middle of his back.

The frat boy cried out in pain then yelled, "Go to hell!"

He tried to reach for his gun again. This was the guy that gave me that cheap shot and took a chunk off my shoulder. I stomped on the back of his hand hard, to remind him of his mistake, fucking with me, and just like that he was begging.

"No! No, please!" he screamed, while I dug me heal into his hand. "Please, I..." he said in tears, “I've got money. I've got a trust fund. I can pa-".

"You'll pay alright, you punk bitch," I bellowed at him while turning him over to face me, "you put a hole in my jacket, asshole, and you are going to give me yours!" After I made my demands, I ripped off his coat, then slit his throat.

And one fine coat it was. Somebody must've spent a fortune on it.  I wonder who. And while I'm at it, where the heck did I get these gloves? I couldn’t remember for the life of me.
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