Chapter 30 Bobby
Last Resort (Reimagined), Falling in Reverse
Ups and downs.
Ups and downs.
That’s life, right?
Ups and fucking downs.
Well, I’m sick of the fucking downs.
I’m drowning.
Lying in the middle of my flat, I ignore the smell of putrid trash, spoiled food and whatever else I’ve left in disarray since my Tilly was taken from me. The high is slowly spiraling down as I keep my arms raised before me, swaying my hands to the treacherous Beethoven music.
The only things I feel nowadays is chaos, sadness and then fury. Picking the needle up off my most recent “friend.” I use their company to silence the bubbling anguish inside.
Self-destruction is my new coping mechanism, and I don’t plan to stop.
And if someone tries to stop me, I’ll rip their fucking face off.
My sun was taken from me.
So what does one do when their sun goes? They wither. They rot.
Their world dies.
I’ve tried putting a gun to my temple or in my mouth, but as soon as I want to pull the trigger, a fucking drug-induced hallucination will bite me in the ass.
It’s quite comical. I get a fucking phone call from my dead fiancée. Like her soul is still here haunting me, stopping me from meeting her in the great beyond.
Fucking torture.
The needle pierces my skin and the fullness from the metal stretches my vein. Taking one long inhale to try to steady my breath, I press down slowly.
Injecting the substance .
The heat of the liquid slowly soothes me as it flows up my arm.
Before I may reach over to refill my syringe, the telephone rings.
I growl but take a moment to ponder if it might be her .
My angel. My sun.
Thank God for hallucinations.
Swiftly getting up from the ground, unsteady and stumbling, I rush to the bedside table to grab the phone. My shitty shaking hands cause it to clatter to the floor as I crash to all fours and clutch the phone receiver.
My eyes well with tears because I’m so frustrated and hope I haven’t missed her.
“Hello?” I say, clearing my throat and sitting on my ass back against the side of my bed.
There is a pregnant pause. It’s too long. Maybe it’s my fucking brother.
God fucking dammit. What if I missed her? Maybe I need to take some more and she’ll call back.
Then an angelic voice calls to me.
“Bobby?”
It’s her .
Fuck, I miss her.
“Hi, darling, I’m here. I miss you.” I try to keep my voice steady so as not to embarrass myself, but fuck it’s hard. A tear escapes my eye, the warm drop sliding slowly down my cheek.
“I miss you, darling. I need you,” she states softly.
I sit up, grasping the receiver with such force I may crush it in my hand. “Yes, darling. What may I do?”
A couple times she has called not to just haunt me, but to order me as her avenging angel .
If she only knew I’m too far gone to be just that—I’m a fucking demon now.
I’m worse than an Adder.
Fuck the code.
Fuck the business.
I will make all of them pay for taking her from me.
She gives me new orders and details on how to deliver carnage to the next poor, shitty souls. These Italian cunts will pay.
“Anything for you, love. Let me get my shit together and I’ll go get ’em, darling,” I reassure her ghost, then kiss the receiver just like I used to kiss her cheek good-bye.
“Bobby?” she asks quietly, almost like she is fading away from this realm.
“Yes, darling?” I quickly respond.
“I love you,” she states, but before I can tell her how much I love her, the receiver clicks and the call has ended. Running my fingers through the greasy strands of my hair, I sigh, as an unhinged idea rips through my mind.
I walk to my mangled desk and prepare to devise a plan to carefully and chaotically ruin the Italians most sacred tradition. Dinner.
Watch the World Burn, Falling In Reverse
“Oi! Where is the fucking risotto!? I’ve been waiting to serve them and they aren’t going to have patience for long!” the chef yells at me.
I turn toward the head chef in his pristine, perfect, all-white uniform. His arms are crossed and worry is etched into his features. I present two delectable dishes balanced on either arm. I waggle my eyebrows and say, “The last ones are ready, sir. I just wanted them to be perfection.”
He sighs heavily and grabs the plates from me, then ushers another sous chef to take the remaining dishes on the counter into the dining room.
“Jesus, Christof, you had me worried for a second.” He rushes out and I can hear his bellowing Italiano accent through the kitchen doors.
“Gentlemen! Gentlemen! I give you my prized dish, the mushroom risotto. Bon appetit!”
The rattle of the dishes being set down echoes off the walls as I lean back on the prep counter.
The head chef comes back through the swinging double doors with a bright smile upon his face. “My boy, you really impressed me!” He grabs my head and kisses both sides of my face.
I gave him a small smile followed by a chuckle.
Too bad I’m about to ruin his night. He seems like a nice man, but unfortunately he is one of Sabini’s bitch-boys.
Peering up at the clock, I take note of the time.
“You know, that white truffle balsamic was fantastic! They ate it so quickly, and who would have thought a creamy truffle would bring out so much flavor in the salad? Exquisite, my boy!”
He slaps my back three times, then moves to the other side of the counter and begins pouring a glass of port.
“To a fantastic dinner and more success, my men!” He hands out the glasses to me and the four other men standing in the vast kitchen. Then we toast one another’s glasses.
I watch everyone down their drinks and return to their stations to pick up their small portions of dinner. They take mouthfuls of the risotto, humming and nodding their heads in approval.
One man raises an eyebrow at me. “Why aren’t you eating, dickhead? Come to think of it you haven’t tasted any of the food or drank with us all evening. What are you? Too good for us?”
The chef moves in front of him, the plate of risotto in one hand as he spoons more of the dish into his mouth. “You know, how would you like to work for me full-time? I know you have only been here for a couple weeks, here and there, but this is art. ”
The man behind him rolls his eyes and glowers at me.
“What is your name, my boy?” He asks so politely, like a prideful uncle. His round face is eager, his full cheeks puffed along with his round belly.
“It’s Bobby,” I state.
He chuckles. “I know that, but I forgot your last name.” He peers down at his plate, and you can see his eyes glaze over as his body sways ever so slightly.
“Bobby, Bobby Afton. Sir.” I stand firm and at the ready.
His eyes slowly look up at me, recognition flashing over his face, and then pure anger drains the kind expression he just had.
He doesn’t say anything but furrows his brow, narrowing his eyes at me. He gives a small cock of his head, then a loud crash follows from the dining room.
The other men stand in shock over hearing the news.
Until the asshole behind the head chef finds courage in a rage and lunges toward me.
I step to the side but leave my foot out, so he goes stumbling into the two knives I taped to the table.
Too bad the metal blades blend in with the metal prep table.
Not.
Two men rush out of the room. The drugs will finish them off sooner or later, so I don’t need to chase after them.
The chef stumbles to the floor and sits on his fat ass.
He looks up at me like a pissed-off toddler who just had his day ruined.
Too bad his family made the poor decision to ruin my life and create this monster that stands before them.
As my Baba would say, Make the mistake and accept the consequences of your actions. Dumbass.
I smile, thinking of her sweet face, sassy attitude and long white hair.
She would enjoy the sight of this sweet revenge. I can’t wait to tell her about it after.
Crouching down in front of the head chef, I meet him eye to eye, but stay two feet away in case he tries anything. Chaos erupts from the dining room.
“Wh-what did you do?” he stammers, eyes increasingly unfocused and glazed. His large form sways in a tiny circle as he sits on the floor.
I simply reply, “Carnage,” then give a slow, wicked smile. “You loved your ‘ prized risotto’ so much, I had to add a little bit more flavor. It was lacking some hallucinogens.” His eyes go wide at my wicked smile.
I stand and begin to walk away from a distraught chef, then remember one detail I didn’t share, so turn back around.
“Oh, I almost forgot. The secret recipe for the truffle balsamic didn’t just include heroin and a fuckton of crushed mushrooms , but that extra-creamy white sauce was an addition from…well. Myself.” I wink at him as he realizes what I just explained, then turns to the side and heaves.
As I move toward the metal double doors, the last man remaining in the room comes running towards me.
Poor decision.
I fling out one of the metal skewers hidden in my pocket and thrust it into his eye socket. His scream fills the kitchen alongside the heaving sounds from the vomiting chef.
I spy one of the hot, cast-iron skillets cooling on the back burner of the stainless-steel ovens.
Tilting my head, I think of an interesting way to use it as a melee device .
As I turn back toward my victim, I see he appears to have pulled out the metal skewer from his eye socket. Blood drips down to his white chef’s uniform.
I gasp mockingly and scowl deeply.
“You feckin’ bellend, that’s going to make the situation worse!
” I proceed to swing the cast iron like a bat toward his face, then become overzealous.
Repeatedly, I beat the cast iron skillet into his skull, humming the Beethoven I was listening to earlier and swinging the pan to the beat, until blood spatters on my face.
I cackle with relief, then walk back toward the double doors to witness the carnage I’ve created.
Oh, it’s glorious.