Free Enforcer by Travis Hill Page A

previous night’s puke-beer-Nyquil triple combo, he went to the kitchen to see if he had overlooked any alcohol. When no stray or forgotten bottles turned up, he put his shoes on, grabbed his coat, and headed to the Starbucks.
    Dana handed him his coffee with a smile that wasn’t returned. Both girls were hurt that he hadn’t been his usual cheery self, but they figured he’d had a bad game the night before. Instead of going back to the apartment, Connor walked two blocks to Liquor Nation to stock up on booze.
     

CHAPTER 8
     
    “Fuck off,” Connor slurred as the pounding on his apartment door continued. “Fuck off fuck off FUCK OFF!” he screamed, throwing the empty bottle of cheap vodka at the door, unsatisfied at the sound of shattering glass.
    The pounding stopped for a few seconds, followed by two short, almost polite knocks. Connor nearly fell over trying to get out of the recliner. His vision was quadrupled from the alcohol, but somehow he made it to the door without cutting his feet on the sharp remnants of the vodka bottle. It took him three tries to get the deadbolt turned and the door open.
    Petre stared first at the wreck of his friend, then at the shards of glass littering the area around the door.
    “The fuck do you want?” Connor said. His words came out as if he were talking underwater.
    When Petre said nothing, Connor turned his back on the man and made his way to the recliner. He sat down hard, grabbed the remote, turned the television on, and raised the volume of a show that had airplanes and military men scrambling around on the deck of a ship.
    Petre entered the apartment, walked to Connor’s chair and stood there until Connor acknowledged him.
    “Blocking my fucking TV, man,” Connor mumbled, barely conscious.
    Petre reached down and took the remote from Connor, who gave it up without issue. Petre pointed the remote behind him and pushed the Off button, the sudden silence in the apartment making Connor uncomfortable. Petre stared at him for another minute before he reached down and took the bottle of cheap whiskey that had appeared in Connor’s hand. He walked to the kitchen and set the bottle on the counter before going back to the chair.
    “Connor, my friend, this is not good,” he said.
    “Fuck off,” Connor slurred.
    “This is not you,” Petre said.
    “I said fuck off.”
    Petre leaned down and slapped Connor across the face with enough force to make his head rebound off the back of the recliner. A scream of rage erupted from Connor’s throat as he came out of the chair like a spring, his hands going straight for Petre’s neck. Petre chopped down at Connor’s arms, grabbing him in a bear hug. Connor lashed out with his feet and his forehead, trying to connect with some part of Petre’s body. Petre leaned his head in and to the side of Connor’s, giving the young man no ability to do any real damage.
    Within seconds, the big Romanian felt the change come over his friend. The thrashing stopped, replaced by violent shudders and loud sobs. Petre held him for a few minutes until Connor got himself under control. When the big man was sure his friend wouldn’t try to lash out again, he gently pushed Connor down into the recliner.
    “What has happened, my friend?” he asked.
    “Go fuck yourself.”
    “Connor, please, tell me what has happened.”
    “Go ask your pal Dracul, or your fucking boss Ojacarcu,” Connor said. Tears pooled at the bottoms of his eyes before spilling over onto his cheeks.
    “Ah,” Petre said, and squatted down on his haunches.
    “Yeah, ‘ah,’ you fucking asshole. That’s all you got to say? ‘Ah?’ You know, don’t you?”
    “I am sorry, Connor,” Petre said, shaking his head. “I do not know what has exactly happened, I am full of guessing though.”
    “Fuck you and your fucking broken-ass English!” Connor screamed at him.
    Petre tensed, thinking his friend would come out of the chair swinging again, but Connor sat in his misery,