Two-faced: Part I

I.

�Get . . . the fuck out. GET � THE FUCK OUT � NOW!�

Richie Synger wasn�t having a very good day, from the sounds of it. He was the proprietor of the red brick house located at 919 Lake Robin Drive. The very same house of which the current Ambassador of Jolt � Ken Kaze, to be more specific � resided.

This was the thirty-first � or was it the thirty-second? � time this month Synger had walked in on his tenant sleeping with a prostitute. Well, truth be told, he wasn�t exactly sleeping with her, per say. Synger had blown caution to the wind since the beginning of the month about Kaze�s illegal endeavors and antics. Law enforcement had been sent to check the place out a few times after receiving phone calls about domestic disturbances.

Many neighbors complained of loud animal noises emitted from the inside of Kaze�s home throughout the middle of the night. Others called because they became suspicious of his seeming �mack game.� Several neighbors couldn�t quite grasp the concept of Kaze being a �ladies man.� They knew that with the amount of attractive women he had going in and out of his house, their had to be something illicit involved. There had to be something for these women to gain, because being with Jolt�s Ambassador Champion, despite his celebrity reputation, was no claim to fame.

Sure, Kaze was a renowned megastar in Jolt Wrestling, but his superstardom had arrived quite recently. In the form of the Ambassador Championship, no less. However, he wasn�t raking in the big bucks quite like the former Ambassador, Kenjiro Ito, of whom was a rookie to the world of wrestling. Nonetheless, Ito had climbed the proverbial ladder a lot quicker in Jolt than Kaze had. Ito was the proclaimed Future of Wrestling, and with his innovative Japanese strong-style technique, he proved just why he was one of the biggest draws in the federation.

Soon enough, perhaps, Kaze would be able to claim such status. But he was still a fresh champion, and the buzz hadn�t caught on yet.

However, on this very day, where Synger had found himself intruding upon a very precarious situation, he decided he had received the final complaint about his tenant. Enough was enough. He was throwing him out, kicking him to the curb.

The feminine scream was enough to startle the most un-startled human being ever, or something. Yes, it was blood-curdling. This innocent woman had been walked in on during one of her most intimate moments. If you could even deem it intimate. With Kaze on his backside, the woman lunged from her former position in between his legs toward his chest. His involuntary reaction was to shoot backwards, slamming his head against the headboard. As the woman cradled herself in Kaze�s arms for fear of her life, Synger continued to seethe amidst the doorway.

�Kaze, I warned you, you sack of dogshit. I warned you about bringing these damn whores into my house!�

The prostitute was both oblivious and taken aback by this comment, completely disregarding the obvious insult and under the impression that she had been in Kaze�s home. �You�you mean . . . this isn�t you�your place?� she stuttered.

�No, it�it is,� faltered Kaze, �I�I mean, I�m renting it.�

�Not anymore, you aren�t. I�m kicking your ass to the curb, Kaze, you dimwitted cock smuggling dildo assassin. You�re lucky I don�t give you a fucking curb stomp while I�m at it!�

Obviously offended by the inflammatory comments he was receiving from his landlord, Kaze stood up from the bed with the prostitute still cradled in his arms. She was wrapped up in the bed sheets that draped down to her �John�s� feet, thankfully covering his �bulging member.�

�Listen, you fucking anal crusading midget,� Kaze fired back, insulting his landlord about his height, who � not so ironically � happened to stand 5�5�. �No one can use the terms �dildo� and �ASS-ASS-IN� in the same sentence, other than me! That�s gimmick infringement, and I have a fuckin� patent pending on it!�

Kaze was fuming with steam now, irate at not only the verbal dejection he had just received, but the fact he was being evicted from his own home. The fact that he had been walked in on during one of his most intimate moments didn�t matter much to him, at all.

�Kaze, I swear to God. If you don�t get the fuck outta my house this moment, I�ll fucking bite your toe nails off, use them to dismember your �bulging member,� and force-feed you your own Viagra-crammed, three-inch penis!�

Outraged at Synger�s outlandish threat, Kaze released his firm grip around his �entertainment� of the evening, allowing her to crash to the floor with a thud. Followed by an agonizing groan, of course, for she had landed directly on her head. Staring directly into his landlord�s eyes, Kaze calculated the percentage of chance of survival against the ruthless midget that was Richie Synger. Well, he was hardly a midget, but being five foot tall isn�t exactly tall, either. Then, Kaze realized, he was never good with calculators in the first place and gave up on the entire process.

And he simply walked out the door, butt naked, and cursing like a sailor after walking into an inferno whilst donning a kerosene suit.

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II.

Ken Kaze�s rental home was unfortunately sited in the worst possible location for his current ill-fated situation. Downtown Charlotte, North Carolina. One of the biggest cities in the Tarheel State. Also, a city with one of the highest crime rates in the nation, landing in the �Top 100 Most Dangerous Cities.� Walking down the street, wearing nothing but your birthday suit, at three o�clock in the morning in Charlotte is definitely one of the most stupid things a person could possibly do.

But Kaze could have cared less at that point in time. Despite the nagging sensation that his balls were freezing off, he was now stranded, with no place to go. Which wasn�t that unusual, actually. He had burned down the last apartment complex he resided in.

Where would he be able to sleep tonight? Most definitely not at a stranger�s house. What sane human being would even think about inviting a nude, psychotic stranger into their comfortable abode in the early morning?

Twice Kaze heard the monotonous drones of the police sirens that were currently under a Code 1415, seeking an angry, nude man cursing to himself as he stalked the streets at night. Twice he hid in the bushes, and wondered what it would have been like being Adam in the Garden of Eden, hiding from police. Then, he realized he wasn�t even sure if God had made policemen yet, and decided to imagine how many fascinating ways his serpent could enter Eve�s body.

�Christ All Mighty! This really sucks. This truly fucking sucks. What am I doing?� he asked himself disdainfully. �What am I doing? WHAT AM I DOING?� he repeated. �How am I supposed to be a professional wrestler, and living on the streets with no money? How am I supposed to be a champion of a federation, and not even making enough money to buy � let alone rent � a house?�

�Maybe, just maybe, if you weren�t such a fucking moron, you�d realize that, instead of buying twelve hookers a fucking day, you�d be able to save some money,� a mysterious voice hissed in ridicule.

Taken aback, Kaze halted in his journey down the sidewalk and scanned his environment for the source of the voice. �Who said that?� he queried. �You know, you cuss too much. Who�s ther��

�Shut up!� the mystifying voice demanded. �Listen to me: With all of that money you wasted on buying whores, you probably have every damned disease known to man, gathered together at the tip of your penis, gambling for who gets to �off the ugly idiot first.� And also, realizing that you suck at the Yu-Gi-Oh! trading card game might help, too. Leave that crap to a nerd like Sean Williams anyway. Why else do you think you get owned every Saturday at Books A Million by prepubescent ten year olds? It�s not because God hates you . . . well, actually, it is because of that, but it�s also because you just suck, period. Stop wasting your money on booster packs!� And with a small pop! the voice had vanished.

�Whoa,� said Kaze, simply stunned, �I think I�m high. Higher than Nova from PRIME, even. But somehow, I doubt it. Mainly because I don�t smoke. Nor inject. Nor pop pills. I guess I�m just high on LIFE! Like a KIKE! Tied to a KITE! Hanging from a TREE! Uh . . . WEEEEEE!�

Upon ending his little song, complete with anti-Semitism remarks, he continued his chilling stride in the dark, illuminated only by the dim streetlights. For blocks, he would hear police sirens. And for blocks, he would hide. It wasn�t until he sauntered past a collection of dumpsters and trashcans blocking an alleyway when an idea hit him right smack in the head. Literally, for he had walked face first into a metal beam.

�George,� he muttered to himself quietly. �My fellow companionated friend. Why didn�t I think of him earlier? Not only is he the highest paid Jolt roster member, but he�s been famous for four years now . . . which is practically forever! He�s made cameos in every movie to date. Gets all the ladies without bribery. Hell, he even went back in time and killed Tyrannosaurus Rex himself AND invented the wheel!�

And he was off, to seek his ever faithful �companionated� trashcan friend in George.

�Wait a minute,� he said before turning around. �Mr. Metal Pole here thinks it�s cool to punch people walking by in the face while they aren�t looking!� He was now standing nose to . . . well, nose to pole with the metal beam he had walked into earlier. �Well, how about this? FECK OFF!�

A swift fist was sent directly into the metal pole. The most devastating punch known to man, simply known as the Fist of Iron. He had devoured that metal beam with one blow, for he was God amongst men. He simply laughed superiorly and condescendingly, standing tall above his fallen foe.

Actually, the end result was Kaze releasing an enormous yelp while clutching his right hand. He should have known better than to fight a losing battle. For now he truly set off to find his good friend George, with a broken hand to boot.

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III.

Ken Kaze found himself standing in George�s front lawn. The house was immense, structured four stories high. The foundation was slightly larger than the rest of the colossal building, surrounded by stone pillars to support the overhanging balconies. Windows were scattered across the front side like an incomplete jigsaw puzzle.

Something lurched inside of his stomach, however. The butterflies felt more like hornets ripping away at his insides, trying to tear through his skin with their stingers. From the outside, George�s home seemed like it welcomed only harmony and serenity, with nothing dreadful to fear. But Kaze felt like something was out of place. Butt naked, freezing, and with a broken hand, he entered the front door.

Instantly, he was horrified. Everything had been wrecked. Someone had obviously rummaged through and destroyed everything in their path in search of something. Perhaps there was a struggle of some sort. Furniture was upturned. Tables were shattered, splintered, and thrown amuck. Electrical compliances were smashed. Holes decorated the walls, as well as the pictures that once gave flavor to the home.

A million thoughts coursed through Kaze�s brain. Who did this? What? Why? Where? Well, here obviously. How? What were they looking for? What did they want? George is a good fellow. Was it a robbery? Wait . . . what about George himself?

�GEORGE!� yelled Kaze at the top of his lungs, in deep concern of his best friend�s well being. �GEORGE! WHERE ARE YOU?�

There was no response whatsoever.

Kaze began running from room to room, hoping and praying to God that he wouldn�t fight his friend in a treacherous situation. He hoped George would be okay. He searched the entire house � all four stories � within thirty minutes. And there was no sign of George anywhere. As he searched each room, it was obvious there had been a struggle. Foul play was involved.

After his investigation was over, he found himself in the kitchen, propping a chair right side up, and sitting at George�s miniature bar. A light draft flowed in through a shattered window. Obviously the burglar�s choice of entrance. The fact that he was still naked meant nothing to him for sure at this point, though he did take note that he should probably get dressed before he left George�s home.

With his face resting in the palms of his hands, he heaved a huge sigh. Lifting his head from his hands, he glanced at the window that was allowing the breeze to enter. Then, he noticed something odd rippling from the window. A piece of paper. A taped piece of paper. He immediately rose from his seat.

Snatching the document, he gripped it with both hands. He realized it was a note. A ransom. Complete with letters cut out from magazines or books or newspapers alike. He began to read it aloud: �If you ever want to see your trashcan again, meet us at the Promise Lands. BITCH!�

A million and one thoughts raced through his mind like the Daytona 500, not able to consider one entire rational thought. Who would kidnap � or in this case trashcannap � George, and why? There was more than one person involved; it was a team effort. That made the situation much more dangerous. He�d been in several situations where he was against an enemy. Of course, that�s how the wrestling business worked. But he never found himself against an unknown number of enemies.

�Why the hell are they at the Promise Lands, anyway? Who would kidnap someone, and take them there of all places?�

Kaze had obviously known what the Promise Lands was, and just couldn�t reason why anyone would take a kidnapped individual there.

�Well, I guess it�s off to the Promise Lands I go.�

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IV.

As Ken Kaze stepped out of the front door to enter the waiting taxi, he noticed the perplexed glances from the taxi driver. Maybe it was the fact that Kaze�s hair wasn�t too tidy. Maybe it was the fact he was wearing rainbow colored flip-flops with jeans. Or maybe, just maybe, it was the fact that he was wearing his jeans on his head of all places. With his arms sticking out through the legs of the pants, he had cut a hole in the crotch of the jeans to allow his head to pass through. What covered his lower body was a shirt that read �I�m With Stupid� with an arrow pointing upward, towards Kaze�s head. However, with one sleeve turned behind him, that meant the other one had to be in the front.

And what was sticking out of that sleeve, you wouldn�t even want to imagine.

As he entered the backseat of the cab, Kaze noticed the taxi driver squirmed uncomfortably continuously as they began to drive.

�What�s wrong?� asked Kaze, apparently concerned.

�Nuhzing,� the taxi driver responded in a heavy accent that was alien to Kaze.

�Nuhzing? The . . . fuck . . . that�s not even a word! Let me guess. You�re a fucking kike dyke, huh?�

�Whuh izza kike dyke, zir?�

�Nuhzing. Nuhzing at all,� mimicked Kaze, shaking his head in disgust. �This shirt is a tight fit, ya know? I even had to cut a hole for my head. Since when did they make head-holeless shirts? That�s fucking retarded! And these pants: They�re innovative as hell. Have you ever seen pants with a passage to piss out of AND shit out of? Sure as hell beats the zipper any day of the week.�

The taxi driver simply ignored Kaze�s crude remarks as they drove to the Promise Lands. The drive was only five minutes, as George had lived on the edge of town, and the Promise Lands were barely into town.

�Thanks for the ride, spic,� said Kaze as he departed the vehicle.

�Uh . . . zir? Whuh about my mohnay?�

�What?� asked Kaze incredulously. �Money? The fuck . . . you dirty ass Mexicanos are always asking for money. Mow my lawn and I�ll pay you five bucks. Got it? You fucking cockrocket.� He walked away from the cab, muttering under his breath something about �Mexicans trying to get ahead of the White man, when we own this country.�

He approached a decent-sized building that displayed a pink and green neon sign on the outside. The sign read: The Promise Lands. From the looks of it, the Promise Lands were nothing more than a bar. So, the captives had brought George to a public place. That was definitely in the favor of Kaze.

As soon as he pushed through the doors, a resounding, �Hey, baby!� broke the still night air. Surrounding him was a group of men, dressed pretty oddly. Upon further investigation, Kaze realized there was nothing but men in this bar. That meant it was . . .

�A FUCKING GAY BAR?!� yelled Kaze disbelievingly.

�That�s right, sweet bottoms,� interjected a man dressed in a judge�s outfit that was ten times too small for him. �You�ve come to the right place. Might I add, I adore your outfit. I love it when there�s easy access for the Trojan to enter the trapdoor, hehe!�

�But I�m not gay, you fucking fagbox. Keep your fucking trouser snake in your pants, or I�ll rip it off��

�Oooh, a feisty one. I find you guilty as charged, tee-hee!�

�THE FUCK?! GAH! Bollocks on you!�

�Yes! BALLS ON ME, WEEE!�

�No!� exclaimed Kaze. �I meant . . . ah, fuck it. I give up��

�If you know what�s good for you,� a new voice suddenly whispered in his ear, �you�ll acknowledge the nine millimeter that�s aligned with your spine, and pace straight ahead to the bathroom door.� The voice was harsh and abrupt, and it was obvious they meant business. Kaze even assumed that this man couldn�t have been gay.

Kaze began to contemplate on whether or not he should obey the man�s orders. He couldn�t even see this man, nor did he know if he actually had a gun to his back. As far as knew, it could�ve been a gay man with his erect Willy Wonka pushed against. He shuddered at the thought. But it did seem a little convenient for this man to want him to enter the bathroom. But he banked on the fact that this man didn�t sound gay, and that he was the captor of his best friend. Thus, going against his gut feeling, he obliged to the presumed captor�s demands and began to pace forward.

Should I run for it? He wouldn�t shoot me in a public place like this. Unless everyone in here, or mostly everyone in here, was in on the trashcannapping, Kaze thought to himself. After all, the note simply said �us� and that could very well be two hundred people. But I somehow doubt this man�s connections run that deep. If I do run, though, that means I�ll never get to see George again. And this man might kill him.

Before he knew it, Kaze was forced inside of the bathroom.

�Get on the wall, NOW!� the captor demanded.

�Huh�� Before the one-word statement could completely escape from his lips, Kaze found himself shoved up against the wall as the lights cut out. He heard the click of a lock, knowing he was locked inside for good. He realized there would no longer be an escape as he felt the barrel of the nine millimeter press against his lower back.

Unless . . . unless I � I kill . . . unless I kill this man, Kaze realized inside of his mind. I must kill this man to escape. But first, I�ll need him to tell me where George is. Then I�ll kill him. I�ll break his neck in an instant. The gun�s too loud � it�ll alarm others, and they�ll barge in. I need to kill this man in stealth, and walk away as if nothing happened.

�Good,� the unknown captor said. �You didn�t pack anything. I have one question for you, though, Mr. Kaze.�

�What is that?� Kaze wondered aloud.

�Why the hell are your pants on your head?�

Kaze cringed his face in confusion, knowing full well he had his shirt on his head, thank you very much.

�Forget that bullshit,� Kaze said abruptly. �Tell me where George is.�

�What? Ha!� the unknown hijacker scoffed. �Me? Tell you where your friend is? Are you kidding me? We never had plans of informing you about his whereabouts. We were instructed to simply kill you. And that�s it.�

So, the plot was to lure Kaze into harm�s way all along. Their main focus wasn�t to kidnap George; that was a mere step in their plan. But why did �they� want Kaze dead? He had a feeling that this wasn�t the man in charge of the operation, he was merely a pawn in someone else�s game of Chess. Someone wanted him dead, and had ordered this man to perform the execution.

�So, you want me dead, huh? Before you kill me, tell me who you�re working for. And tell me who is involved. And . . . tell me who you are.�

�Fuck that,� the captor said. �I�m not telling you shite. Matter of fact, I don�t even know who the hell my boss is. He talks to me through others. I get a phone call, and I follow through with my mission. As simple as that. And my mission is to simply kill you. That�s all I know. And that�s all I care to know. So excuse me for a moment, as I place this nine to your head and proceed to blow your brains out.�

It was do or die time. And Kaze wasn�t ready to die, not yet. He wanted to catch one glimpse of his best friend George before he left this earth. He felt the barrel leave his back and could feel the air beginning to thin around his head. The barrel was now being pushed against his cerebrum. What was he going to do?

With one last, blind swift kick backwards, Kaze prayed to God it would connect.

And the bullet exploded from the barrel of the gun.

BANG!

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TO BE CONTINUED . . .

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