Painless
Devan Muse
How many bullets hit me again? Was it 13 or 14?
This was the thought going through the man's head after taking a hail of gunfire from several hoods after his charge. Said charge, a young girl – not even 16 – was looking on in abject horror; the man shielding her from the bullets. He bled, but if you didn't know any better – or you were just blind to the color "red" – you'd be fooled into thinking he was just fine. He stood tall and just as scary as any other day you'd see him.
The lead hood stepped out of the firing line. "The rumors are true about you, huh? You really don't feel pain." He shouldn't have been as surprised. You'd be hard pressed to find one story, rumor, myth, or legend in Vitium City –  on 13th street – that wasn't true. " But I wonder how much more you can take before you finally fall over dead." He raised his Uzi, pointing the barrel right at the man's head.


On the corner of 13th street and Broadway, in the brighter, friendlier part of Vitium City, there is a bar called Satan's Sundays. Not a particularly friendly name, but the beers are cold, the patrons are tough, and all in the air there's the scent of adventure. A regular patron of this bar is Volfgange Hass, a German immigrant with a particularly threatening aura around him. If you see him on any given Tuesday, there'll be bloodstains on his shirt: his around the neck, some other chap's on his sleeves. But those who know him well enough know he's an okay guy; just pretty quiet and mysterious. No one knows about his family, his past, or even how old he is. (He looks no older than 25, but he talks like an experienced old man.)
It was on one of these days in Satan's, – in between his second vodka and coke and listening to some drunk old fool telling (or rather, yelling) the same story about the time he clubbed a Black Cross thug in the head with a baseball bat for the hundred-and-eighty-fucking-seventh time – that a girl walked into the bar. This wasn't like one of those cheesy noir films where "The dame walked in" and "I knew she was nothing but trouble from the start"; mostly because the "dame" was only a high-school kid. She walked over to the bartender, ignoring the "cat-calls" from some of the rowdier, inebriated patrons. "Excuse me, sir," she began; obviously nervous being around so many older, battle hardened men, "I'm looking for someone: a Mister 'Volfgange Hass'." The man in question had been paying close attention to the girl since she walked in, and upon hearing his name mentioned, got out of his booth and walked toward the bar – anything to get away from "The absolute best fucking part" of his obnoxious drinking buddy's story.
"You know you're too young to be in here," the barkeep advised the young lady.
"Yes, but I need to find Volfgange. He's the only one who can help me." she replied.
"Do you even know who Volfgange is, lil' miss? Because there's no way someone like you needs what he's selling."
"But--!"
"Why heh-LO there!" screeched one of the drunk customers who leaped right next to the girl. This particular drunkard was already blasted off his ass when she walked in. He was practically jacking it as she walked up to the bartender. "I couldn't help overhear you in that sexy voice of yours. I was wondering if I couldn't buy you a drink." He reached to the left of him and snatched half a gin-and-tonic from the man – the passed out man – next to him.
He put it down in front of the scared teenager. She stared at it for what felt like minutes, too afraid to look the scumbag in the eye. Said scumbag then proceeded to drop roofies in the drink, right in front of her face. "Pay no attention to the drug-like-substance I'm pouring into the glass. It's just... sugar. Yeah! You like sugar right?"
Before the teenage girl could respond – protest, comply, or smack this guy in the face – a person from the other side of the bar called him: "Leave the girl alone before something happens to you Gerry." The man stood up, he was about 5 ½ feet tall with slicked back blue – that's right, blue – hair. His pitch-black blazer was open, revealing a large shark tattoo on his torso, hence his name "The Shark" among other reasons.
"Oh Oh You wanna go! You wanna go Sharkie!?" Gerry the drunkard boasted as he took a boxing stance. Just about everyone in the bar was quiet – it was kind of like signing a suicide note if you want to pick a fight with Shark. Everyone in the tavern looked in anticipation, some ducking under the table as to not get hit by any debris.
While Gerry was so focused on Shark, waiting for him to make a move, he never saw Volfgange right next to him as he grabbed his head and in one fluid motion slammed it into the bar. Pieces of marble flew away from the force of the impact, scattering around the bar – and bashing one poor bystander in the face as he tried to take another swig of whiskey. The poor drunkard slithered onto the floor in his unconsciousness, a substantial gash on his forehead streaking his pasty face red. Where his head made the impact there was a deep hole in the counter, in the shape of the drunkard's face. "You piss me off." were the first words out of Volfgange's mouth, followed by a swiftly apologetic "Er, sorry about the damages. Just put it on my tab." The bartender was so shocked by the events he didn't even hear him.
Shark went back to his drink, as did the other patrons. Volfgange took the drink that Gerry tried to drug the girl with and poured it over his unconscious body. "You were looking for me. Why?" the man asked, as he adjusted the red tie on the neck of his white collared shirt. "You know who I am right?"
"I've... heard rumors.," the timid teenager began, trying desperately to keep eye contact with the man who just made a permanent imprint of a face into solid marble – most people would be afraid of something like that. "You're Volfgange Hass. You're a freelance body guard. You'll take a job from anyone who will pay you. The rumors also say... you're indestructible"
Volfgange's stoic expression finally cracked and he showed a smile. The girl didn't know if she should see this as a good sign or not. "You're right on just-about everything little girl. The difference being I don't take a job from anyone who will pay me." The teenager froze stiff at this remark, fearing he would turn her down. "I don't take jobs from scum. That's my only condition. And I'm free to determine my own definition of 'scum.' So, if you're gonna be my charge, can I ask your name Missy?"
"Stacy." the teenager replied. She'd have said more – like her last name or why she 'd come to find him in the first place, but she couldn't. She was too scared. She heard the cars pull up in front of the bar. They found her.