The Legend of Marty Errols, Episode One

The Legend of Marty Errols
By Andrey Meshcheryakov

There were men who were so physically imposing that they demanded fear from all those around them. There were men who treated world-class boxers like they were footballs. There were even men who made Hercules look like a chess enthusiast, in the sense that chess enthusiasts are puny clumps of ever-atrophying bone bags. Then there was me; Marty Errols, pain-dealer extraordinaire.

People are always doing stupid shit around me. It’s like they want me to hurt them. I didn’t ask for this responsibility, it has been bestowed upon me by some higher power. Like this one time, down in Tijuana. It was a Thursday. I was in a puke-reeking bathroom in the back of a bar, washing the blood and tooth chunks off my knuckle-length black leather gloves. They nicely complemented my vest. Not that I would know anything about that. I’m not some queer. The snake tattoo on my arm makes me look damn sexy, though. No, not sexy. Badass. Yeah, that’s right, badass.
I was nearly finished admiring myself when a slick-haired Mexican dude walked in.

“Hey, man, that was crazy,” the Mexican proclaimed. “You really messed those guys up.”
“They touched my mullet,” I said, giving each word special care. The Mexican got it. “What, you wanna wrangle?”
“No, no, no” the Mexican stammered. “I’m Chico Valente, man, I run a fight club over on Adamo Nervo.”
“Not interested.”
“Aw, come on, man.” Chico put a hand on my shoulder. Big mistake. The next second that sorry sumbitch fight club owner found himself sailing over my left shoulder and into the sink that the blood from my hands had just finished draining down.
“Don’t like to be touched,” I explained

I ambled out of the bathroom to utter silence and a bunch of flabbergasted, gaping eyed bystanders. I snatched a cigarette from the mouth of one of those sheep and ground the business end into my forearm. Nobody here would forget this day, no matter how drunk they were. No sir, every wetback pussy in that shithole would remember the day they saw the whoop-ass can opener that is Marty Errols in Schwarze-fuckin’-negger action. Thousand bucks says a collective sigh of relief exuded from the bar as the door closed behind me.

The next week, I was out walking Cupcakes, my pet Doberman. I was trying to teach her not to attack every single person she saw. That was when they struck. It was the cholo ninjas. A tranquilizer dart hit me in the neck. That was nothing. I put more sedatives in my morning coffee. I spun around and started acquainting my fist with a bunch of eminently smashable faces. Another 12 darts and 35 ninjas were spent before the sweet drugs managed to knock me out.

A welcome dream enveloped me while I was catching some z’s. It was about a world in which not everyone begged me to kick their asses. That fantasy realm vanished away all too soon, though, as I was wakened by water splashing on my face. I was on the deck of a yacht, tied up like a hog.

“You think you can mess with Mikey Barrera?” asked a white-suited Scarface wannabe, apparently Mikey Barrera. His left arm hung in a sling. One of his ears appeared to be missing. “Know what happens to muchachos who mess with Mikey Barrera?”

“Let me go. Now.” I threatened.
“You’re in no position to be making demands, my friend… We have your dog.”
“You have Cupcakes?”
“No, you fool. We don’t have any delicious pastries. Even if we did, you wouldn’t get any.”

Goddamn it. At that moment, I wanted nothing more than to give that fucker a screwdriver lobotomy. I leapt to my feet like Liu Kang, hopped over to Barrera, and head-butted him directly in his baboon nose.

“YOU GIVE ME CUPCAKES RIGHT NOW!!!”

Barrera dropped to the ground and curled up in a ball, trying to protect his tender ex-ears. Animalologists, or whatever they’re called, will tell you get in the fetal position when there’s a bear attacking you. I ain’t no pussy ass bear, though.

“I told you, we got no cupcakes, man. Please, don’t hurt me, please!”
“MY DOG!!!”

I was about to turn his brains into pancake batter when one of Barrera’s goons pushed me from behind. Caught me off balance. Went right over the edge into the water. Oh motherfucker no, they weren’t about to get away with that. The boat was moving. I was getting sucked into the propeller. That is, until I stopped that shit with my teeth. That’s right; I bit the propeller and tore it in half, then used one of the shards to cut myself free.

I climbed right back on the yacht. It was bigger than I thought. Also, it was gonna be in the bottom of whatever body of water we were in. First target; every single thug between me and the engine. Second target; the engine. One unfortunate vato found himself going face-first into some cogs and gears, or whatever. I’m no engineer, don’t ask me to explain it.

Time to finish what I started. Barrera had just renewed his subscription to Pain Quarterly. Chief editor: Marty Errols. En route to the deck, though, everything started exploding like a hamster in a microwave. When I got there, that scumbag Barrera was already escaping in a speedboat. It was on now. Well, it was on before, but now it was really on, and there would be no turning it off.

“BARRERA!!!” I bellowed.

The last thing I remember was that nagging chortle. The next moment, the whole fucking ship blew sky-high. As I sailed through the air, it was one of those moments where time slows down all dramatically. I looked down, or up. Either way, I was looking at my feet. My size 15 steel-toes were singed. I liked those boots, damn it.