Undead L.A. 2 by Devan Sagliani Page A

Jewish ass back to the Valley where he belonged. Adam knuckle punched him in the throat without saying a word. Jimmy fell to his knees, clutching his throat and gasping, as hot, angry tears streamed down his pale face. After that no one messed with Adam, not even the gangbangers. The area the store was in served as a corridor between West Los Angeles and Beverly Hills, via the 10 freeway. It had fallen into more or less a slum over the last decade despite attempts from overzealous landlords to lure in new tenants with the designation BHA or Beverly Hills Adjacent.
    While the first set of men looked like they'd come from the neighborhood, or just west towards Venice and the hood, the second group looked more like they'd just stepped out of the pages of a men's fashion magazine ad or one of the billboards on the side of the Beverly Center. They couldn't have been much past their early twenties. They looked so out of place kneeling on the dirty tile floor of the fast food bathroom in their expensive designer clothing that it was almost comical, that is until you realized what they were doing there in the first place. The fresh gleam of the entitled shone off them, giving away their background as privileged children. It was on their perfumed and lotioned skin, their manicured hands, and their cleanly styled hair. Both were white and looked like their ancestors had come over on the Mayflower. The first one had slicked back fire red hair cropped short to his head on the sides, bright green eyes, high cheek bones with a smattering of light brown freckles across the bridge of his nose, and a well-groomed goatee that ringed his small, cherry red lips. The other had a mop of dishwater blond curls, piercing blue eyes, and a big, crooked nose.
    “Come on now, Marcus,” he begged, identifying himself at once by his high-pitched nasal tone. “Hold her still, buddy. If I wanted to fuck a corpse I wouldn't need your damn help.”
    “I'm trying, man,” the older black guy cackled, a sadistic mirth contorting his face into something vaguely demonic. “Shit. She went ahead and cut herself anyway. This bitch is crazy. Don't blame me because she on some Linda Blair shit right now. She tweeking like a BG puffing on his first hit of Sherm stick.”
    “I don't give a fuck if her head spins around and green pea fucking soup comes flying out her nose,” the one with the slicked back hair laughed coldly. “I haven't bust a nut in almost six weeks. If I have to cut her clothes off her and hold her down with the blade to her throat while she bucks and bleeds out, I will. One way or another, this stupid little bitch is getting fucked!”
    Adam felt the pit of his stomach churn once more as a fresh chorus of cruel laughter broke out among the savages who'd snatched the poor girl. Adam couldn't tell for sure, but she looked like she couldn't have been more than nine or ten years old, tops. They'd already blackened her eye and busted her lip, but that didn't seem to deter her will to fight, even against the worst odds imaginable—against four grown men.
    Fucking kiddie fiddlers don't deserve a quick death , Adam thought, as he slowly inched forward into position. Too bad that's all I have the time and stomach for. Otherwise I'd string them up by their ankles from the nearest traffic pole, cut their dicks off, and leave them to bleed to death while biters ate chunks off of them like a Vegas buffet.
    “You a sick muthafuckah, Ronald McDonald,” Marcus hissed.
    “He does look like him a bit,” the rat-eyed one chuckled. “Like a super fancy version of him, anyway!”
    “Who the fuck asked your sorry ass, Ricky? You'll be lucky if we let you go last.”
    “Hey, man! I was just agreeing with you, Marcus. You know I don't mind no sloppy seconds!”
    “Shit. More like sloppy fourths, crackah,” Marcus shot back.
    It had gotten late in the day and the golden rays of Southern California sunshine, the kind that seemed to bend around the entire world