Bad Day: Chinaman, Part One – Short Story

There is proactive, and then there is reactive. One means to get shit in place and sorted before the can is kicked across the yard, while the other is more about figuring out what to do now that some has kicked the can across the yard while you’re standing there with a runny shit slowly soaking through your pants, which by fact also allows you to give birth to your new nickname, Shit Stains. Regardless of how the how’s and why’s took place, I’m at the crossroads of one of those situations right now. Not the shit stains part, but just a step or two before it.

Three hours ago a little turd by the name of Tommy Chinaman walked into one of Mr Killdone’s cleaning joints and popped a load into everyone of the shemps, emptied all the washing machines and walked tha fuck out of the building with three hundred and twenty-seven coins.

Normally shit like this is a straight up kill shot kinda deal, one where we string the body up on his home turf to stir the locals into fevered morons so we could justify the extra body count. But the boss has some pretty important business ties with Chinaman’s brother that wouldn’t benefit from dropping our load prematurely. 

So instead the boss set up a meet and greet between us and Jackie Chan to sort the shit from the corn. The meet went sour straight away, I’m guessing Jackie is still bitter about Chuck Norris being a better Kung-Foo fighter than he is, and probably for killing his other brother Bruce a few years before.

Anyway, we showed him the video from the laundromat, and then he argued over it with us on how it could’ve been anyone as Chinaman’s face was obscured for almost all of the footage.

Once that battle was looking lost Jackie switched his angle and started arguing over how racist he though us white pin dicks were. Once more he found little to no hope, ending up with Filipo dropping his monster out on his face while Bruno and I held him down. It was then that we built the crescendo of the night to its fevered high with a firefight as Jackie’s brother Chinaman crashed our little party like Sally Flubberlips, the one hundred and thirty pound stripping assassin, who’d crush your legs during her world-famous last chance lap dance.

Which brings me back to the whole reactive, proactive shtick from the beginning.

My boys, along with two of Jackie’s sit waiting for their hole to be dug while old Kung-Foo sing is still standing tall like Elton John at a junior pool boy party of the year contest.

Chinaman starts arguing with Jackie over some deal they had, the language barrier is crossed and I’m stuck there listening to them without subtitles, which doesn’t sit well with me at all.

I’m not sure how you are with that sort of situation, but I’m impatient as fuck and generally change the channel. I must’ve caught the corner of Jackie’s eye, because the Tibetan Monk leapt in front of his brother as I was raising my revolver. He screamed at me in Cantonese, or Mandarin, or it could’ve even been fucking Russian for all I knew. Regardless of whatever bullshit tongue Jackie was slipping into his arsehole, he was yelling at me and I’d had enough so I fired a shot at his head, just as a warning. He dropped to the ground like Jenna Haze’s itty bitty bikini, leaving me and Chinaman to decide over the fate of who gets to tell everyone what really happened.

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