Nothing
for mercy.
    I cool. Cooler. Take my time. Go to the crosswalk. Press the button. Green man - cross. Walk back up the sidewalk. Hold up my hand. A piercing red light flashes across my eyes. Largo's laser signal that he has me in his scope. It flashes again. I'm clear. I can proceed. He does not see danger or my target. I walk to the back of the line at Dune. I had weaved my way through the cars on the lot there were still places for the exclusive members. 2 girls in the line in front of me stare at my clothes, look at each other then laugh. I want to pistol whip the one with the fake nails and fake blonde hair. The brunette I would like to wrestle to the ground then smash her face with my elbow. Smash and smash. I would only stop when there was only a bloody sop to clean up.
    I smile at the thought. The blonde makes a face and turns back towards the rest of the line and the entrance doors. 10 yards ahead 2 bouncers and a small man between them are talking to the small intimate crowd at the front of the line. The small man has a clipboard.
    A hobo approaches the rope and the others behind me about 10 feet away. Most of the in-crowd ignore him. He holds a dirty torn  baseball cap moving from person to person He simply says: Change?
    A Californian King says something to Hobo. His friends laugh. I move reflexively but force myself to stop. My jaw tense. A bouncer raises his head to examine what the laughter is. He spots the hobo. As Hobo reaches me, so does the bouncer. He says.
    Hey Terry, I told you twice now, leave the fucking customers alone man.
    I say.
    It's okay.
    I drop a 20 into the ragged baseball cap. The bouncer looks at me. He is a white guy but seems to want to be black. He is about 250lbs and 6'2" with dreadlocks.
    He tells me.
    No it's not okay. Okay?
    He takes my 20 out of the cap and hands it back to me.
    I take the 20 and put it back in the cap. I say.
    Here you go Terry buy some booze or smack or whatever cranks your handle. Blow your hair back man.
    Black-Whitey speaks through his teeth while unclipping the rope from the chrome pole.
    Step out of line please ... Sir.
    I walk past the pole so that Black-Whitey is in front of me. Hobo Terry is behind me. I make a hand signal that tells Largo do not fire. The girls who were standing in front of me start to look wary and back away. The asshole brigade behind take note and also begin to reverse. This tells me that this fucker must be The Bad Ass. The bad cop. Black-Whitey tells me.
    I told you not to put the money in the hat. It encourages him.
    Over my shoulder a strong smell and a 20 flutter towards me as Terry, hands shaking, tries to give me the money back. I swat his hand away.
    Keep it.
    Terry speaks with a booze voice.
    I don't wants cause no trouble.
    You're not causing trouble. Don't worry so much.
    Black-Whitey pokes my chest. Says.
    Tell me you're not causing trouble when it's plain you're a trouble causer. A big mouth.
    You must be one of those tough guys I seen in films. Knock out artist. I mean you're a big guy, wrestler or something. Right?
    Black-Whitey stares at me or something like a stare.
    I like this. This is what I need in a place where Mickey Mouse and Goofy are lauded over. A place where they will drown in rivers of boiling Coca Cola while the apocalypse is sponsored by McDonalds. I hold my stare with Black-Whitey, this does not offend or intimidate me. He looks back over his shoulder at the other Cooler who grins with white teeth. White and straight. White like the moon. The small man with the clipboard looks over. He is either concerned or constipated. Black-Whitey turns back to me and says.
    You're 86'd
    I hit him in the solar plexus. I hit him as hard as my rage could summon. This is considerable. A rib is broken, I was slightly off target. I think a lung may have collapsed. His eyes roll back. He coughs. His lips crimson. He slumps. I take hold of his lapels and lower him to the asphalt beside the red carpet runway.
    He coughs and

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