Obligatory Disclaimer : I do not own anything (except maybe OC characters) all characters, places, worlds, universes…etc mentioned here belong to their respective owners and/or companies.

This is purely a work of fiction. Not meant to offend or incite, but to entertain and (maybe) inspire.

BLOOD WORK

"I shoot arrows at the moon." — The guy with the arrows.

Harbor Bar, as the name implied, was an establishment by the harbor’s end. I expected it to be as clean as the devil’s asshole, but the place was actually nice. I was stared down by a bouncer by the door as I walked in.

It smelled of money, sex, drugs and blood.

I walked past chairs and tables filled with the drunk, the joyous and those who attempted to drown themselves in liquor.

I eyed the strippers with impossible flexibility contort their bodies around a silver pole with the muscle power of a calisthenic grandmaster, the dim purple lighting gave their oiled up seductive shapes an inviting trancelike quality. The clients in their seats watched the dancers, throwing money at boobs and asses that came in disproportionate sizes as they cheered.

I approached the bar counter and took a seat.

“What will it be?” Said the bartender, a muscular man with a beard that rivaled Omniman’s. I was half expecting a comment to be made on my age but it seemed no one gave a fuck.

“Bourbon on ice.” I said, repeating lines I’d heard from TV. I wasn’t one for alcohol in particular.

I reached into my jacket for a cig, popping the cancer stick into my mouth and lighting its end.

The bartender returned with a glass, he dropped ice cubes into it and poured a cup of aromatic brown liquor into it. He then pushed the glass to me on a coaster.

I took a drag of the cigarette and held the glass in one hand looking like a young Sean Connery. I sipped the drink and stifled a cough that made my eyes water and the urge to spit it out. I hummed as the burning fluid went down my throat and settled, giving my body a warm fuzzy feeling.

“First time?” The man smiled.

“Not at—cough—all.” I said. “I’m looking for information.” I placed the glass down.

“Depends on what.” He went to wiping his glass.

“On bounties and the like. Assassinations, retrievals, bodyguarding. Anything to get food on the table.” He deadpanned at my answer, looking me up and down and shaking his head.

“Kid, go back home. This ain’t a place to play killer.” He advised with a hard gaze. Good man.

“Good thing I’m not playing then.” I exhaled. Sometimes my age can be a curse.

“I can’t help you.” He said, leaving to serve another. I’ll find my answers elsewhere then. But first, I’d like a lap-dance and maybe some head.

“Hey.” I dodged the tap. She was silent but not silent enough.

“Can I help you?” The voluptuous, black haired lady seemed to be in her mid to late twenties.

“Not necessarily, I’m helping you.”

“The people who say that end up doing the opposite.”

“You need to meet better people.” She stated, her face stoic and icy, with a slightly superior tone. Like she’d been through this hundreds of times already.

“Listen, I just killed a guy like fifteen minutes ago because he tried shit with me. I could act all naïve and clueless with you to get you to try and rob or ambush me or whatever it is you want to do, but I’m not feeling it right now. so, I’ll say it straight. I will kill you if you fuck with me.” I told her. She shifted a bit but remained calm enough.

“Ok. What if I just want to fuck you?”

“Well why didn’t you start with that?” I stared into her brilliant black eyes.

“Because I don’t. Well not right now anyway.” She rolled her eyes.

“What do you want with me?” I downed the entire drink in one go and promised to never have a taste of it again. I’d rather have some juice or Pepsi, like an actual person, damn.

“You said you’re a killer looking for work. I’ve got work.”

“Are you a handler?”

“I operate in that capacity on occasion.” She pushed a straight lock of hair behind her ear, propping up her breasts as she did. I had to give it to her, red was her color, she really was killing that low cleavage dress.

“Aren’t you a little too trusting? We just met.”

“For someone looking for work, you ask questions. My current assassin is unfortunately dead, his skills were inadequate. You seem to conduct yourself in a manner that suggests you’re good at what you do, and I assume as you’ve stated, that is killing.”

“Among other things.”

“Yes, and if you die, well it's nothing to me really, since I lose nothing but the time spent talking to you.” Did she know me prior to my arrival in Madripoor? I did run a wide range of missions for the Hand during my tenure with them, y’know, before I killed Ogun.

Well, this is my shot, time to take it.

“Fine by me. Who, when, where and how much.” I let out a smoky exhale.

“That man.” She pointed at a booth where a bald albino guy who was as stacked as a brickhouse on steroids sat with a bunch of girls. His muscles were literally visible beneath the suit he wore, the monstrously sized things threatened to tear the fabric should he even sneeze. Good God I was getting jelly. “His name is Musclehead, a former gladiator of the Tokyo arena. He possesses great strength, enough to lift a small car and toss it over his head. Rumor has it he’s the bastard son of a disgraced Asgardian.”

I regret giving the pirate my silver sword.

“The hit on his head expires in the next hour, which I assume is why he’s here to celebrate. The location is up to your discretion. As for the price on his head, it’s a moderate fifty-thousand dollars.”

“Fifty thousand for a half Asgardian? Seems a bit low.” Shit, what did I know about the prices? I just had to say something to not seem completely clueless.

“Rumored. And as I said, it’s a moderate pay. There’s also the matter of my fees.”

“Of course there is.”

“Here’s my contact detail. You can call me if you happen to take and complete the mission.” She handed me her name and number. Amelia ‘Amy’ Chen, her name.

“He’s the guy that killed your last assassin, right?”

“Indeed.” She nodded.

“Give me a minute.” She raised a brow, the first show of visible emotion since we began speaking. I cataloged the aptly named Musclehead’s physiology and planned out the most efficient way to kill him. Those muscle fibers provided too much protection than I could cut through with the weapons on hand. His pecs were large, too large for the blades to be able to effectively reach his heart. Under it then, just by the ribs.

Neck, eyes, head, temples and brain stem were viable options. Achilles also an option to cripple him. Need to be fast. Kill, not capture.

“What are you doing?” I ignored her for the moment, handing her my still lit cig as I approached the booth.

“Holyshit! Musclehead!” I shouted like a diehard fan.

“Hmm?” The man had his hands between the hookers lips, the one between their legs. And by the look on his face he was clearly annoyed at my interruption.

“OhmyGod! I can’t believe you’re here! Can I please have a selfie? My dad’s been taking me to your games since I was old enough to walk. Man, watching you fight was a fucking work of art.” I closed the distance between us, whipping the smartphone out.

“Fuckoff.” He glared, I didn’t even register as a threat to the man. My age was a blessing sometimes. I’d get fucked up if I neared him anymore he said through his eyes as he went back to fingering the hookers who sat on both sides of him, the other girls around him giggled and sipped on their expensive champagne.

“My bad man.” I turned to leave, hitting the phone’s flash on, which I pointed at his pinkish eyes. Causing him to squint. I pounced in that moment, blades drawn and stabbing down.

“Ahhh!” Screamed the hooker on his lap as my blades were buried through both sides of his neck, a picture-perfect replica of Lady Bullseye’s senbon strike, I still missed that bitch.

I slashed through his jugular and pulled, flipping back as his arm whipped for me, missing me entirely, crushing the hooker’s skull by his side instead.

“RAHH!” He roared, spilling more of his blood in rage, ripping through the booth and his clothes, throwing the hookers into the bar’s furniture.

He bound for me, I charged into him. Yes, he was physically powerful, a typical mindless brawler who was too used to overwhelming his opponents with his superior strength. He was nothing compared to my swiftness and immense skill.

I weaved beneath his punch and stabbed two inches beneath his left pectoral, lodging the blade through his ribcage and into his heart. I used the weapon as a handhold and pushed up, vaulting over his head, digging both fingers into his nostrils to pull myself back, stabbing the dagger in my right grip to the hilt through his temple. I twirled it around, mushing up his brain and jumped off him.

The fact that he could stumble and babble nonsense was a testament to his strength. Too bad the injuries were all fatal. He fell to the floor in a loud boom that even cracked the ground. Blood puddled beneath him from the furrows in his neck, chest and head. The switch blade was broken, meaning the dagger was all I could retrieve from the man. I could’ve killed him in half the time had I used my claws.

I would search his pockets, but those were torn and strewn about the now quiet bar.

I went back to my seat, took my cigarette from the handler’s frozen hand and took another drag.

The bartender looked at me like I grew a second head. I did tell him I wasn’t playing.

“Who are you?” She asked, regaining her composure.

“Some call me Akuma, some call me Oni. Name’s Hunter Manzo, but please, call me Daken.” I said, throwing out a bunch of names, making sure those eavesdropping heard them clearly. I refused to go by the weakass birth name of Akihito, fuck that noise, Wolverine and the Akiko could choke on it for all I care. I was my own creature, not bound to anyone, either by blood or relation.

A slight smile etched itself across her lips. “This is the start of a beautiful partnership, Daken.” She extended her hand. I shook it, she held on for a moment longer.

Look, I wasn’t going to be stopping her if she wanted to seduce me. It’d be her mistake if she thought throwing the coochie at me would turn me into a simp.

“I hope so, Amy.” I said.

“Here’s the bill.” Said Mr bartender, handing me a receipt.

I took it and “What the fuck?” It was $10,380. “Did you put diamonds in the bourbon?”

He gestured to the damaged interior, furniture and flooring. “Damages.”

“At this rate, I’ll continue being homeless.”

This place really was amazing. Damn.

“If you happen to need a place to stay, I have a spare room.” Of course she did. “For rent.”

“You people make this place a heaven to live in.” I hope the sarcasm in my voice burned. It is what it is, what’s the use of money if you can’t spend it? Exactly.

*.*.*.*.*.*