Personal log of Kowalski, Roger
It was short midnight when I heard her scream and turned the radio off that was playing this old tune. I turned from my desk and could see her vanishing in the alley just behind my corner, the ‘hags’ with her.
On my way down I dialed Virgil. “Virgil? Have you cleared the thing with the girls yet? No? You better hurry, because I’m going to bail her out of a catfight in the alley at my corner just now. Understand? Ya. I’ll talk them out of that. Easy and clean.”
My diplomatic talent is not one of the things ever mentioned on my quarterly psychological evaluation. I pulled the girl behind me and tried to get her up the stairs, unconscious, hanging like a marionette with cut strings. “… Virgil, yes. Someone has to get to that alley and take the girls home. I certainly won’t do it. Not my problem.” He was nearly screaming. “No I didn’t hit any faces. Just a broken arm and a few ribs, I suppose. […] What? That fuckin’ chick pulled a gun on me! A fucking gun! […] No. One of these nasty little lady things. Fucking needler. No fun when it eats you away your face. I really was nice to the girls, man. A fucking gun! Never seen something that stupid! Really, what is on the minds of girls these days? […] No. Unconscious. Not in the face. Tell those idiots that seem to have no control over their girls, that I confiscated the weapons. The one with the broken ribs was in the face of my girl with a fucking knife. […] No man. No harm done, just bad beating and they have put a load full of pepper punch into her face. I confiscated their weapons and with that I confiscated their money too. Just if someone misses the stuff. But if you fuck with my girl, you pay for it. And they fucked her up for a week. Can’t put her out for the rest of the week for sure. […] Okay. Thanks, man. Tell the guys I’m sorry about their girls. I did what I had to. What the fuck was their bizz at my corner anyway? Shouldn’t they be working on their corners? […] Yeah, man. Fuckin’ chicks, mad as a hatter.”
I hung up and pulled her over my shoulders, carried her upstairs. In the bathroom I washed out her face with water. Her lying on that sofa, wrapped in a blanket and I asked myself what gotten into myself?
Sure. The broken arm was just the result from something very very stupid to do in a closed combat situation. The broken arm was well deserved. And I have seen worse beatings, of cause. In my line of duty at Hard Corps, when you have to club down some uprising in an outskirt or to dispense a mob of hungry squatters in front of a mall, you learn to get over that thing quick and hard. To keep yourself sane. And you just see heads and body-parts and nerve-points and not men, women, children or elderly. And you learn to do it like a professional. Quick and with resolve, not anxious slow and hit a second time or sadistic with unnecessary violence or long lasting injuries.
But there was something inside me, that enjoyed this. And this really made me sick. Those girls really were looking like some roadkill run over by a bus back there. And if you do something like that and you are even not drunk, then you really have the urge to get drunk fast.
She was moaning. But she was smart enough to not insist to regain consciousness and fell asleep after a while. A few guys in Crimson were getting the girls out of the alley and in a van. They didn’t look happy about it, but mostly let it out on those girls. Finally I decided to pull the couch down into this bed-thing, she didn’t wake up and got to sleep myself, holding her in my arms.