Fist First Read online

  At sixteen, he shot hoops (played basketball) and hit home runs (baseball) with the skilful grace and skill of a professional athlete. But football was his one true love. He played as running back – and won national prizes for getting the most touchdowns.

  Girls? Sure. He had plenty. They loved his piercing blue eyes and long, blonde, shimmering, silky blonde hair. His lips were an appealing sandy grey, always dry, and his cheekbones protruded like apple halves from his gorgeous face. His teeth were bright white and his breath always fresh.

  College was a whirl of sex, drinking and making friends. In his first year he was granted the coveted honour of being The Dean’s assistant, carrying The Dean’s books and polishing his shoes. The Dean – real name Dean Michaels – ran the college like one long frat party, and you can guess who was carrying the keg and banging all the babes….

  Yeah, you could say the world loved Michael Janney.

  Upon leaving college he wanted to give something back to the world that had given so much to him. He decided to join the army. Upon watching several war films and attending careers fairs, he realised that soldiers from the normal army were simple grunts, not elite weapons. Janney always wanted to be the best.

  So he registered for the Marines.

  The Marines are the best of the best. Period.

  A marine can swim a length of a full size swimming pool under water.

  A marine can retrieve a rubber brick from the bottom of the pool whilst wearing a three piece dinner suit.

  A marine can swim all four normal swimming strokes, needing each for different battle situations.

  Janney aced the intake tests, raising the hairy eyebrow of the admittedly bald invigilator.

  ‘Jesus Janney, you must be in one hell of a rush to kill Bin Laden…’ (This was before Osama Bin Laden was murdered).

  ‘Hooray!’ Screamed Janney.

  ‘Hooray’ is the clarion call of the marines. They say it when happy, sad, horny or angry. They say it when killing, fighting, or lovemaking. They say it a lot.

  ‘HOORAY, SOLDIER!’ screamed the invigilator back. They embraced, and the invigilator gave Janney a piece of paper which was to change the course of his life:

  ---

  MARINE MICHAEL JANNEY

  DEPLOYED TO AFGHANISTAN

  WITH IMMEDIATE EFFECT

   ---

  Janney wept a single tear, in the feminine way, before wiping it off. He laughed, embraced the invigilator again, and made his way to the helicopter which was waiting to take him to Afghanistan.

  The events of Michael Janney’s time in Afghanistan are detailed in the hard hitting book “Sandy helmet, bloody fist”. A working manuscript is available by contacting the author directly.

  Janney came back from Afghanistan a different man. He was corrupt and lazy, and had lost all his ‘joi de vivre’ (French).

  He took a well-paid job in the Mayor’s personal defence squad, fending off goons from the various city gangs, and keeping Mayor Crawford’s nose clean (not literally).

  Guess what? He was damn good at that too. Janney never lost a fight. He had beaten up countless foes who had stepped over the line.

  Soon, Janney forgot where that damn line was himself.

  He shook down political opponents of the Mayor, and threatened lobbyists by forcefully choking them with diabolical wrestling holds.

  Janney wasn’t afraid of anyone.

  That was (or is) until he met Frank Stoker in the Mayor’s office. He recognised a man tougher than him. He sensed a brutal nobility in Stoker’s handsome face.

  And now he found himself helping this guy out.

  This guy Stoker, who now felt like more of a father than his father ever did.

  Janney’s pop had spent his childhood cruelly working long hours, so was never emotionally available to Janney until after 6pm on weekdays. Janney’s mother was a housewife in the normal way, except that she was more conniving and shrewlike than most.

  It was no surprise that Janney grew up tough.

  His long blonde hair shimmered as he flew down the relevantly numbered interstate. He was nearly at the motel where this girl Chloe Crawford was.

  (You might think that Janney would have met Crawford’s daughter at some point during the last few years seeing as he had been an intimate associate of the Mayor… but it is important to note at this stage that he hadn’t. Through what must have been a series of odd yet plausible coincidences that remain unimportant to the story, they had never met, even once.)

  Janney pulled over his American car which was a Chevy Sedan. He left the motor running before turning it off. He had parked about two hundred yards away from the motel, to make sure he wouldn’t be noticed by any unwelcome voyeurs.

  Janney crept through the shrubbery around the motel. Leaves flicked into his eyes irritatingly. He stepped on a root which scraped his ankle. It should be obvious that this was no cakewalk.

  As he neared the edge of the tiny forest, he saw two cops standing outside their police cruiser. The lights of the cruiser was off – unusual. They spoke in hushed tones. They both sipped coffee.

  One cop was certainly of European descent, with German features and a strong, confident legs. He wore his hair cropped close to his head and exhibited a severely prominent brow. He stood at well over six feet tall and had fists like gigantic plums.

  His partner was the same size. In his mid-fifties and tough as boot leather, he wore the smile of a man who had won many more fights than he had lost (which he had).

  Janney thought to himself in his head.

  ‘I can’t just knock these guys out without knowing for sure they’re corrupt. But what the hell are they doing here?’

  Janney did what he always did, which was take the bull by the horns.

  ‘Hello officers, nice evening for a stakeout.’

  Both spun on their heels and reached for their guns. They relaxed when they saw Janney approaching calmly.

  ‘Move along sir, this is none of your concern’, replied the German, in a clichéd manner.

  ‘Isn’t a man allowed to walk to his motel room through the woods anymore?’ challenged Janney, ice cold.

  ‘Listen kid, you’d better get the fuck out of here.’ Replied the older cop, sliding his index finger around the barrel of his Glock pistol.

  Janney had listened to all he needed to. These weren’t cops. At least, not on-duty, good cops. These were bad men. Bad cops.

  Janney backed off, and looped around towards the motel. But as he approached the front door he doubled back and crept behind cars like a little cat, eventually hiding close to the corrupt cops. He needed to know exactly what they were up to.

  They spoke with deep, evil, masculine voices.

  ‘She’s in there, man. I’m telling you. Room 261.’

  ‘OK, OK, stop whining. It’s your turn any way. I did that bitch out in Westchester last month.’

  ‘Hey, you think we have a time for a little fun before we end it? She’s a fine looking girl.’

  ‘Magnelli said no funny business… but yeah, I guess who’d know?’

  The two cops started walking towards the motel.

  They made one mistake.

  They underestimated Michael Janney.

  He walked silently behind them and grabbed both of them by the back of the neck.

  ‘Stakeout’s over, motherfuckers’. He immediately flicked his hands downwards and grabbed the guns out of their holsters, and in one smooth motion, threw them deep into the woods.

  By now, the two cops had realised what was happening. The big German was quicker to react, whirling and throwing his fist into Janney’s midriff.

  It was a wet punch from a tired, wet cop.

  Janney laughed at him. He kicked him in the knee, exploding it like some kid’s waterbomb. Instantly his left hand punched the German between the eyes, knocking him unconscious.

  The older cop had witnessed this destruction in the space of two seconds. This kid who couldn’t have been more
than thirty, was tough. Damn tough.

  He grimaced and raised his fists.

  Janney raised his.

  They darted round each other. Janney was impressed with the old guy’s speedwork. He threw a couple of jabs which caught Janney in the chin. Janney replied with a savage uppercut which would stun most men. The old cop just shrugged it off.

  ‘Listen, kid, I don’t know who you are but you’d better get the fuck out of here. Even if I don’t finish you, Thomas Magnelli will have your balls in a vice.’

  ‘I’ll take my chances… Hooray!’ replied Janney, throwing a flurry of punches at the old guy’s cranium.

  They fought like this, in quite a boring fight, for a couple of minutes, before the old guy picked up what he had been edging the fight towards.

  An iron crowbar, which had been casually discarded by an idiotic itinerant worker.

  ‘Now you’re mine, you little prick…’ cackled the cop.

  He jabbed the rusty crowbar at Janney, three, four, five times. Twelve times in total.

  He brought it down in a devastating arc which caught Janney in the shoulder. He smarted, but he was too tough to let that defeat him.

  Janney threw all his strength into one brutal assault – a running barge which the cop could only parry with the crowbar… to no effect. He flew backwards in the air and through a car windshield, setting off the alarm. Janney pulled him out of the car and dragged him round to the driver’s side door. He was pissed off. He slammed the car door onto the old cop’s head a dozen times, leaving it a bloody pulp.

  He sprinted with all the pace of a medium size Labrador (or an old greyhound) through the front entrance, past the frumpy receptionist, up the internal stairs to room 261 and kicked the door in.

  Chloe was lying on the bed in silk pyjamas. She was applying makeup in a mirror.

  ‘Well, I don’t normally like men barging into my room, but maybe I can make an exception for someone like you!’ she pouted.

  Janney didn’t respond. He was blown away by her beauty. He just stared at her.

  ‘Well, speak up, big boy. I guess you ain’t with Thomas Magnelli, else you would have killed me by now.’

  ‘Frank… Stoker. I’m with Stoker. We’ve gotta go.’ Janney had regained his composure.

  ‘Just give me time to pack my things’, she whined.

  Janney watched as she shoved her necklaces, make up and lingerie into a travel bag. He grabbed her wrist firmly and led her down the stairs.

  The receptionist attempted to stop them as they ran past. She had heard the kerfuffle outside the motel and needed her fix of gossip.

  But Janney was too determined, too single minded, to be stopped. As he walked through the lobby, he cast such a unique and distinctive figure as to represent someone possibly worthy of his own spin off series.

  The receptionist huffed and puffed, before sitting back down on the moth eaten chair. She went back to texting the window cleaner who she was disrespectfully cheating on her husband of twenty two years with. She had a bob of blonde hair, tended to wear green, even though it didn’t suit her, and was probably carrying three stone of unnecessary weight. Sounds like her ex-husband was the lucky one! The door to the motel slammed shut on the receptionist, symbolically. That chapter had ended.

  Anyway, as Janney and Chloe walked through the car park, Chloe squealed.

  ‘Help me!’

  Janney turned back and saw a most unsettling sight.

  Oh yes, a most unsettling sight indeed.

  The tall German-origin cop with the prominent forehead and fists like genetically engineered plums had woken up. He sat upright against his Police Car Cruiser, unable to put any weight on his shattered knee. Where once, no red mark lay affixed to his forehead, one now did.

  He brutally held Chloe by the ankle, roughly disregarding the gap in between their two genders and treating her like a criminal man. He was holding a gun in his left hand, pointing it at Chloe, and was whispering alligatorily into the radio:

  ‘I’ve got him, the blonde guy and the bitch. He nearly fucking killed me and looks like he did kill Johnson. Get down here.’

  Janney calmly stated: ‘I guess I didn’t hit you hard enough. That was my mistake.’

  ‘You hit like a pussy,’ screeched the cop, his twisted knee clearly causing him agony. ‘We’re gonna go to work on this bitch back at Magnelli’s, and you’re gonna watch.’

  ‘You should know something’ said Janney, running his fingers through his hair.

  ‘What?’

  ‘I never make the same mistake twice.’

  In one remarkably agile movement, Janney flicked his right foot at the gun with remarkable speed. It flew into the air.

  Janney shrewdly used his own momentum to flick the rest of his body skywards.

  Newton’s fourth law: What comes up, must damn well come down.

  And come down he did.

  With his left boot he stamped on the other knee of the cop, destroying it into smithereens. Then, crouching over the cop’s body, he drove his right elbow up into his groin, testicles becoming pulp.

  Janney again hoisted himself into the air, and landed with his 270 pound frame focused on one knee into the cop’s sternum. The cop was panting by now, pleading for life.

  Janney grabbed both of his hands, and snapped the wrists like he was snapping hard toffee.

  The cop wailed as he was dismantled piece by piece.

  Janney thrust his fingers into his Adam’s apple, driving deep into the tendons. The cop wheezed and gurgled.

  ‘Hoo-ray, Hoo-ray… Hoo-ray’ shouted Janney, as he finished with three savage roundhouse punches into the cops face.

  Chloe fainted, but Janney caught her. He carried her to the Chevy Sedan, and tenderly yet with great force, dispatched the unconscious Chloe into the passenger seat.

  He calmly walked round to the driver’s side, only casting the smallest glance back to the devastation that he had been part of.

  When you’ve fought for your country as a United States Marine Corps Marine, killing two rapists in a motel car park simply doesn’t register.

  He cruised back towards the city and towards the agreed meeting spot, a grocery store out of the city, to lay low until Stoker’s arrival.

  He looked to his right (he was sitting on the left as he was driving an American car in America) and gazed upon Chloe’s face for a few moments. Her hair was golden blonde, and tumbled down the side of her face like raindrops. Her chest heaved in shallow breaths as she slept. Her beauty was undeniable. To Janney… she seemed simply… radiant.

  He rested his non driving hand in his lap and was unsurprised to feel a sizable erection had developed.

  Chapter 29

  Mr Mayor Eddie Crawford thrust his shaft into the welcoming slot. He twisted and got exactly what he wanted.

  The door opened.

  The sexualised wording of that opening paragraph serves as a pertinent introduction to a chapter containing intercourse.

  Crawford called out.

  ‘Lola? Lola baby?’

  He had called Loretta ‘Lola’ since they had first met at one of the seediest jazz bars in the whole of New York, Slimecats. Slimecats was the sort of place you went if you wanted a dirty skiffle… and the damn jazz wasn’t bad either.

  Loretta walked out from behind the door, immediately changing from invisible to visible from the perspective of Crawford.

  ‘There ye are me baby girl…’

  Crawford strode over and swept her up in his arms. His breath smelt of chewing tobacco and smoking tobacco. Lola physically recoiled in her brain, but her body cleverly acted well, deceiving the Mayor.

  ‘You’re pleased to see me aren’t ye darling?’

  Loretta sighed. Crawford was a good earner, three screws a week providing a steady income for the past few years.

  She knew he loved her… and that made him pay even more.

  Truth was, she hated the man. His constant bragging and double dealing had worn her do
wn, and she had decided she was going to end what she thought of as a business relationship, but perhaps what he thought of as a loving relationship.

  ‘I’ve got something to tell ye, my little darlin,’ he exclaimed, in his scratchy voice. ‘But first, let’s put the poker into the fire.’ He winked, seductively, tastefully plonking Loretta onto the kitchen table.

  He dropped his flannelwool trousers and small, clean white panties to the floor. His penis was long, thick and curved like the neck of a swan. However, it was neither bright white nor covered in downy feathers, but was pink and bald in the normal way.

  He kicked off his shoes and socks, and slowly removed his jacket, exploiting himself sexually. Leaving only his shirt, tie and cufflinks (and watch) on, he carried Loretta over to her sofa on his shoulder, like a fireman lovingly carrying a smouldering corpse.

  Her skin was cappuccino, her eyes like unburnt almonds. Her lips were moist like a peeled grape. Her ears hung onto the sides of her head with a robust elegance, and her eyes faced forward into the thin air in front of her face.

  Yeah, she was a grade-A piece of ass alright. (NB, before you complain, these are the thoughts of the Mayor of the City, not the words or thoughts of the author).

  Crawford tore his shirt off, buttons flying into the air like a cluster bomb of miniature frisbees exploding at some kid’s birthday party. He was now entirely naked, except for his tie (and watch), and lay on the sofa staring at his prey.

  She rose from the sofa, dancing the dance she had danced for years.

  Crawford snorted like a horny pig who had just dodged the abattoir van. He knew what happened next.

  They had full sex, happily conforming to the age-old missionary position with the man on top.

  After the climax, which took well over ten minutes to reach due to Crawford’s age and fitness, they wiped themselves down with hessian sacks lying by the side of Loretta’s bed.

  ‘Well now me darlin’, I believe I was gonna tell ye just why I’m so happy.’

  ‘Go right on ahead, big boy.’ She spoke through gritted teeth and lips. Her nostrils narrowed and saliva flowed into her mouth slower than it would have done had she been relaxed.