Every bit of the fear Copé had ever felt paled in-comparison to this moment.
It was the shock of it all that really scared him, but once more, he knew he had to react swiftly. He rolled out from beneath the bed and leapt to his feet.
Otherwise, he’d be dragged out by Temps, giving him the advantage. “Look what the cat dragged in,” the mammoth-sized man yelled out. Copé assumed that was what he said, but he wasn’t for certain. There was so much blubber on him that his words sounded muffled even when he enunciated.
Under the bed, Secrat couldn’t even have begun to appreciate the weight that Azlak Temps brought with him. The excess of flesh stood naked in-front him; except for a small pair of tan-colored clothe acting as shorts. His size was insurmountable by even all the broads and Copé combined. Copé wondered how Temps managed not to kill them during sex. He didn’t have long to think though as Temps let out a grunt upon making a lunge in his direction.
Copé moved out of the way. His speed would prove an advantage. He
readied a blade in his hands before making a stab to Temps’ ribcage. The knife pierced his belly like butter, and Copé felt his arm sinking into his stomach. The blood shot out fast, but Temps paid it little mind. The large man simply threw a clubbed fist at Copé, sending the thief spiraling in a daze. Copé struggled, haplessly trying to regain his composure. If he couldn’t, the monstrous man would certainly make ends to his life. He was turned around, but behind him, Copé could hear the loud footsteps of Temps. He desperately threw a boot behind him. It connected, but whether it did much damage, Copé knew not.
The distinctive groan from Temps told him that it did. Secrat Copé turned around as fast as he could, only to run into a wall of fat, strung out like a clothesline. Copé fell off of his feet. He felt the back of his head hit the hard, dirty ground. The view around him seemed to be fading. It was flickering like a candle at wit’s end. He fought back to a seated position. If he fell out of consciousness, everything would be over. He looked up at Temps. The knife was still stuck in his gut like a splinter.
Copé let out a breath of air and watched the man run toward him. He rolled out of the way and shot back up to his feet. He thought Temps might have lost balance, but that was thinking too much like an optimist.
He waited for Azlak to turn around while he took another knife from his ensemble. This one had been strapped to his left-leg. Once Temps obliged, Secrat threw the knife at him. It pierced his skin and went into his stomach the same way the other had.
It didn’t seem to bother him. It was nothing more than an inconvenience. Copé let out a sigh. He wanted to curse but didn’t. He wanted to flee. Beyond all else and more than anything, he wanted to escape. His eyes went over to the door.
It was closed.
The key was most definitely on Temps’ person, but that meant nothing.
“Stop your running, bug!” Azlak Temps yelled. “I’ll crush your skull like nothing!”
The pain felt unbearable beyond all else. The ache from his head felt piercing, he was surely bleeding. Copé readied another knife in his hands. This one had been strapped on his right-leg. However, before he could do anything with it, Azlak threw a fist to his stomach. Copé leaned forward at his whim only to be taken down to his knees with an elbow to his back. The knife flung itself out of his hands as Azlak towered over him.
Copé looked in his eyes. They were eyes of ignorance and impractical strength. The look of somebody that knew he’d always be on the offensive.
Azlak looked at him for a moment. There was a sadistic grin on his fat face. A grimace came to his eyes momentarily as he plucked one knife out of his stomach and threw it to the ground. He grabbed the other and pulled it out as well. He didn’t throw this one. Instead, Azlak held it by the handle and made a fist. His hand nearly swallowed the knife whole.
Copé felt a spark of fear jolt in him. It didn’t look well for him. It didn’t look well for his legacy. Raised by Toucan Veras, and in his first solo heist, he was offed by some merchant?
He was better than that.
And like somebody that was better than that, like somebody with the utmost of class, he drove his head into the giant’s crotch like.
This seemed to get his attention, Temps dropped to one-knee holding his groin. “You fuck!”
The fuck mustered the strength to once more find his footing. His head felt like the Amisoic Seas, swishing and swashing in waves. He walked toward the door where Temps threw one of the knives. He picked that one up, the one he dropped earlier, and the one Temps had kept. He threw two of them at Temps’ stomach. They punctured two more holes for blood to let out. The last one, he kept. This one belonged in the side of Temps’ neck. Copé moved to him. As the blood left his sides, Temps seemed to understand it as his end. Copé didn’t have the energy left to smile. All that was left in him was used to watch over near him, the knife in hand. Except, before he could add the final nail, Azlak Temps fell flat … he was dead.
Secrat Copé looked away from him. The whores were there, lying unresponsive and lifeless to everything that had happened. Beads of sweat fell down Copé’s neck. Sweat and blood. He dropped down. Under the bed, there was the box. That was where the combination numbers were. In the box was the key to all of the wealth. He slid it out weakly.
The box opened easily.
Inside, Copé’s eyes wandered about the contents. Vials of all different shapes and sizes, all of them contained a brown powder Copé had definitely seen before. He flipped the box over, emptied it all out and looked around. No combination code to be seen.
He didn’t have the energy in him to be upset. He didn’t have the energy to do much of anything. The feeling of light-headedness overwhelmed all else. His fingers caressed the thigh of one of the ladies before he used her leg to pull himself up onto the bed. He crawled inside, beneath the covers, pushing and shoving between the drugged whores. That is where Secrat Copé lost consciousness.