Punched, Drunk, & All Out of F*cks!

Prologue

It's night. Because it had to be night.

Chaos wants darkness. It demands darkness. He knew this because Chaos whispers it to him.

Chaos told him to sit in the farthest corner of the narrow bar, at the corner of a small table where fingers of darkness were able to reach out from the edges of the dimly lit bar and grab hold of him. He felt the touch of darkness as if it were tangible, a numb and empty cold dancing across his flesh.

Perfect, Chaos whispers.

He agreed. He had no reason not to. Chaos had never once led him astray or made a fool of him. Even if he didn't immediately understand a direction, he understood that Chaos demanded patience.

So he sits.

And he waits.

He wears a hooded blazer in a dark shade of green that brings out a nearly unnatural verdant hue in otherwise dark eyes. A pale, narrow face is resigned to neutrality as he waits, as if he's able to sidestep linear time, his body slipping into a state of hibernation until Chaos whispers.

A stein of dark beer sits on the table in front of him, filled to the top. The foam has long since receded. He hasn't touched it and he's not going to. It's almost as if the beer is for show.

Because it is.

He's been like this for nearly an hour. Sitting. Waiting. Anticipating the whisper.

He is patient because Chaos demands it. He knew surface dwellers would see this as a contradictory observation, but Chaos operates on no timetable. Chaos exists as plainly as time itself, gravity, or humanity's inescapable desire to wage war against itself, murdering and killing in the name of one imaginary god or another.

But he knows there is no god. The glory goes only to Chaos.

And Chaos is patient because Chaos is inevitable.

Soon, Chaos whispers, a silent and breathy voice in his ear.

He feels something stir in his groin.

A small group of three enters the bar and he evaluates them quickly from the shadows. The happy couple exchanges a quick kiss and the friend—an obvious third-wheel hanger-on—beelines for the bar to order the first round.

Light catches flecks of green in those dark eyes as he considers the girl being kissed. He evaluates her in a cold, calculating fashion, like a person reviewing the dinner bill to make sure everything is in order.

Or a cut of meat, to make sure it's the right size and isn't too fatty.

Instinct told him she could be interesting. She's the right weight, the right figure, the right kind of simple, vapid willingness plastered across her face—one of those insipid and dull traits that remain so rampant among surface dwellers.

Instinct told him she could be interesting. Chaos whispered: No.

The boyfriend, on the other hand, is perfect. Strapping. Immaculately scruffy hair, perfected after hours of mirror-time. Arms that long to be twisted and pinned. Full, pliable lips that beg for a forceful touch. Eyes that sparkle and plead to be owned and controlled. Yes, the boyfriend would certainly be interesting to play with.

Chaos is patient, but even Chaos could be tempted.

Wait.

Beneath his neutral expression, an angry flash of frustration sparks, an impatience that would no doubt make Chaos scowl in disappointment, if it only it had the countenance to do so. He took a long, calming breath.

Perhaps they would be tasty appetizers, but the happy couple isn't who he's waiting for. Maybe another day. Too many variables had already been aligned—and there still remains a handful more to nudge into place, like pawns on a chessboard. This singular encounter is essential for events yet to come.

He needed to be ready.

He needed to be patient.

This is too important to allow for frivolous distractions.

Yes, soon, Chaos whispers.

Once again, the door to the bar opens and someone enters. His breath catches in his throat. He feels something tighten in his chest—excitement? Anticipation? Joy? Dark green eyes sparkle, revealing a sense of raw—if not subtle—thrill.

Abraham Owens has arrived.

He recognizes him on sight. It's been years, but the brute hasn't changed in the slightest. He matches almost perfectly the old photos and recent anecdotal descriptions. Owens is massive, easily six-four with wide shoulders and a commanding presence. His head is shaved and his jaw is covered in stubble. His nose looks to have been on the receiving end of too many punches.

No, Abraham Owens doesn't look like a hero. He doesn't even look like a villain. Abraham Owens looks like the goon the villain hires as one of the henchmen fated to die in the first act.

He watches as Owens settles at the edge of the bar. There's an exchange with the bartender. Back in the far corner, over the untouched beer, he muses that Owens probably eschews words for grunts. As he observes the other man, he starts to calculate how drunk Owens must have already been just to have walked into the bar in the first place. Putting aside Owens' condition, a man of his size must have a high tolerance for alcohol. To be in a room this full of people, he must already be wasted.

That sensual, breathy voice tickles his ear with words no one else can hear.

Yes. Now.

He watches as Owens slams back glass after glass of whiskey. This is it. This is what he waits for. Abraham Owens is who he waits for.

This is what Chaos waits for.

Owens continues drinking. He's putting it away fast.

The waiting is almost over.

A smile pulls at his lips, twisting that neutral expression into something demonic.

Now.

He begins to stand before surprising himself by hesitating. When he settles back into the chair, the rage that had simmered for so long continues to bubble and rise. He can taste it like bile in the back of his throat, a stinging acid pricking his nose.

Abraham Owens is right there. And yet he hesitates. Is he denying Chaos? Is he trying to exert some kind of divine control over Chaos?

Impossible. Chaos is patient.

Chaos is inevitable.