Track No. 9 Wanted DeadAlive — Acoustic Version （Bon Jovi） #3
Behind ‘em, the girls kept gigglin’, fireworks kept poppin’ off, but Andrew wasn’t movin’, his pulse kickin’ in his ears as he clocked every single one of them—watchin’ hands, readin’ body weight.
They walked up to him, all three of ‘em spreadin’ out to box him in. Streetlights glowed over their shoulders, faces half-snatched by shadow, the universe blurring ‘em on purpose.
The one in the slides had his hood pulled over his eyes.
The guy on the left, in the Nikes with the lip scar chuckled. ‘Ain’t this somethin.’ He cracked his knuckles. ‘You Harding? The pussy whisperer?’
The other two laughed.
Andrew didn’t. He knew talkin’ only made ‘em angrier. Guys like him didn’t wanna hear reason, they wanted to hear themselves. They wanted you humiliated and bleedin’ with your mouth shut.
They stopped about five feet from him.
When Slides finally looked up.
He was younger than the other two with a baby face, but he had eyes as if aggression ran in his bloodline. ‘Yeah, that’s him.’
Then Nikes again: ‘Man’s got girls cryin’ mid-head. That what they said?’
‘Cryin’, singin’, dreamin’, writin’ fuckin’ poetry,’ Timbs mocked. ‘Say his mouth’s magic.’ He wiggled his fingers when he said it, the others ooh-ing.
Andrew scraped a hand across his jaw. ‘Jesus Christ.’
Slides tilted his head. ‘Funny, man. You ain’t even all that. Just some pretty-faced fuckboy.’ Nikes laughed. ‘Yeah, you ain’t nothin’.’
Andrew uncrossed his ankles, slid off his glasses, folded ‘em up, set ‘em on the trunk so they didn’t get crushed, not takin’ the bait but preparin’ for what was comin’.
He’d seen real violence. This wasn’t that.
This? This was drunk Jersey boys tryna flex.
Ain’t nothin’ about a busted lip or a broken rib that scared him. You learned real quick: tough don’t come from the one hittin’, but from the one takin’ the hit.
Timbs walked closer. ‘You a legend, huh. Go down on girls like it’s your last meal.’
‘Problem is,’ Slides cut in, ‘we’re tired of fuckin’ hearin’ about it.’
Nikes nodded. ‘Every girl we know? You been with.’
‘That what you were doin’ just now?’ Slides gestured toward the girls by the car. ‘You on the hunt for more pussy tonight?’
Another firework went off behind them. Red this time, castin’ all three in crimson light for a second, long enough for Andrew to see what was coming.
He stared at the space between them. Then the first hit came from his left.
Knuckles split against Andrew’s jaw so hard it spun him halfway off his car.
Since he was still on his feet, another fist drove into his face, another wet crunch poppin’ in Andrew’s ears as his teeth slammed together.
He felt his tooth chip, blood poolin’ fast under his tongue, copper and spit fillin’ his mouth. He stumbled sideways into the taillight, his jaw lit up hot.
Against him, the car was still rockin’, Mikey still fuckin’, while Andrew was bleedin’ out of his mouth and nose.
He could’ve swung back, could’ve broken a nose or two, but it’d do nothin’ but feed the story, validatin’ whatever they thought he was—the sick fuck, the smug sonofabitch, the fantasy-turned-fuckboy.
But if he stood there and took it? They’d see he ain’t all that.
Just a guy. A tired, busted-up, barely-holdin’-on guy.
Nothin’ mythical about a guy who just stands there. Maybe it’d shut ‘em up. But also, deep down, some fucked-up part of him thought he deserved it.
The next fist blew into his gut, takin’ him sideways. He tried to grab the edge of the trunk for balance, but missed, and he caught another punch from his right, spit flyin’.
It was quiet after, only his pulse in his ears.
Then, ‘Break his fuckin’ mouth.’
A fist barreled into his ribs, pain carvin' through him, and Andrew folded forward, one knee bucklin’ beneath him. He tried to plant a foot, but couldn’t. Air wouldn’t come.
All he could hear was them runnin’ their mouths. And girls screamin’.
Then one of ‘em slammed a boot into his back, sendin’ him into the pavement. His elbow caught asphalt, tearin’ up his skin.
‘Now you’re just a mouth we can shut the fuck up.’
Fireworks kept poppin' off behind him somewhere. He wasn’t sure which explosion came from the sky and which came from his skull.
As he kept takin' hits, cars crawled by to watch, none stoppin’.
‘Legend, huh?’ one of ‘em muttered, hand tight on Andrew’s neck as he yanked his face up for the girls to see. All three of ‘em watched, disgusted and disappointed, as if they could smell the myth fadin’ off him.
‘This the mouth y’all been braggin’ about? This limp motherfucker?’ he spat.
Another hot blow to the cheekbone, and somethin’ cracked.
Might’ve been his name.
He hoped it was. Never fuckin’ wanted it.
Then it just kept comin’—boot to ribs, knuckles to the already split brow, fist to temple. Andrew closed his eyes and thought about the water, about floatin’ face-down in the river. How peaceful it would be to finally get some fuckin’ sleep.
By the time his spine hit concrete, he was gaspin’.
Above, they circled, but he kept lookin’ past them.
At the stars.
And fireworks over the Hudson.
Blue. Then red.
Then nothin’.