a dead man on the second level. rick oahu. ballina noir.
… continued from here
They came for him in the carpark –
– in a BMW series 7.
So much for the throttled gargle of Harley-Davidson’s old warbike. Then they all got out of the car, fanned themselves around a bit and walked in on Oahu. The same three, his Jetstar row 27 buddies.
Rick had already clicked up the hire car and was at its door – which he opened and threw in the leather case. Threw in his leather glove. Straightened up and and turned around like all his moves were on a fluid supergrease – and there the Babyeater just an arms length away. Another shit-eating grin. The other two bikers left and right just over by the way. Short starpickets handy. One each. Everybody looking happy.
Big men attack like sharks on Diazepam. Their instincts and positioning and hunger and bloodfuckinglust kind of engages down the closer they get to their feed. This is because everybody goes to the floor too soon – like the fuckwit in the middle of the kicking ring – nobody fights up. Everybody lays down and cries. Then it’s an opera on speed.
The Babyeater and Oahu hold each others gaze. They are in that small corridor that two cars parked alongside each other make, about as big as two coffins. End to end. Not a lot of room to use a swinging weapon. Just fine for something coming up from below though.
The Babyeater blinked as three inches of sharpened bone punctured his drawn eyelid – the left one, then scored through his sclera, his extraocular muscles, cornea, choroid and then all the remorseless way the whole three inches into the middle of his head. The core. The Catch.
Oahu looked into the Babyeater’s right eye as he gave his hand a little twist, then pulled all of the attitude out of where the big man’s left eye used to be, flicked it away, all over the idling BMW.
It slowly slid down onto the concrete of the car park leaving a greasy traceway down the car doors – and who knows, Oahu thought, there might have been a tear hidden in all the gush coming out of the hole in the Babyeater’s face.
There it is Ricky, show the boys what the old aloha spirit is all about!