“Well,” Beats spoke to nobody in particular, “Fuck it, right?”
Ace stabbed the bottom of the metal can and then brought it up to his lips as quick as he could. The cold beer launched into his mouth and filled it up quick. Ace couldn’t swallow fast enough and started choking. Beer came out of his nose and he began coughing. Soon it coated his shirt along with his neck and arms. In the end Ace ended up sucking on the bottom of that beer can like a calf at a teat. When he was done he threw it on the ground. It wasn’t graceful at all. Ace had been choked and was soaked. There was a light headedness that permeated his face when it was all said and done. Mission accomplished—but at what cost?
“Yuck,” he grimaced and wiped his mouth, “That shit tasted like straight piss! Goddamn!”
[ Ace Beats Continued From: many men (wish death) ]
The announcements came and they went and this time—shit, they actually brought fuckin’ news! First of death and killings—but at this point that wasn’t newsworthy. Ace had shot at two girls yesterday and both of ‘em seemed to be alive and well. Or at least, y’know, not dead yet. Same with Darlene. That meant that amongst the remaining students—three of them weren’t much to worry about. One little mousey girl and two more wounded ones. So the announcement brought news of Not!Murder as well and that was a blessing. Least as far as they counted out here.
The other blessing the announcement brought was that Ace had won BKA. Killing Justin Greene--the gift that kept on giving! Ace shouldn't disparage the dead but that wouldn't be fair to Justin. Justin was immortal--Justin was gonna live forever. There'd always be a sliver of the twisted specter he called a spirit that'd live on through Ace. Beats embraced that ugly and cruel part of himself. Ace wanted to feel that shit. Beats wanted to feel it all. He didn't feel bad about killing Justin, in fact, Beats felt pretty damn good.
“Did you pops? Did you really fuckin’ know?”Papa Beats wrote: You were born to do this. You’re my boy. I made you. I know what you can do.
Know what? It didn’t really fuckin’ matter. Ace didn’t know jackshit.
“I hope I can handle this thing better than I did that beer.”
Ace held onto a manual and flipped through the pages. The M249 LMG, which was apparently a goddamn military grade machine gun. The gun was fuckin’ huge! The motherfucker came with a kickstand and drums of ammo. Drums?! The only kind Ace was familiar with was 808. What he would do for 808 drums—what he was doing for 'em…
Well, if you don’t got 808…least you could do is settle on mac & cheese and country fried steak.
He brought out a bottle of water and began to work on the meal he had been given. Much like the one yesterday it was of exceptional quality even lukewarm. The steak retained some crispiness and the gravy contained a lot of salty creamy flavor. The Mac & Cheese was country style with a plethora of cheeses and a breadcrumb and herb topping. Ace inhaled the steak and by the time he was done with the Mac his face was equal parts covered in country gravy as it was with cheese and breadcrumbs. Ace took off his shirt and wiped his mouth and body with it. This was a safe space and so he sought to take advantage. Nobody would be coming to the lookout and nobody but Ace would ever step foot here again.
With the M249 there was no need for the BR18. Ace would leave the assault rifle here to rest. Along with the M1 Garrand he had taken from Lori. The three pistols remained on his person, one in each pocket and one in his waistband. Beats had more bullets than sense. That was true now more than ever. Ace looked over the manual and practiced loading the weapon and then he practiced firing it. Quick, six round bursts. Hot shells coated the area of the lookout—the weapon was much heavier than the BR18 but it wasn't exactly heavy on it’s own. This was a forreal deal machine gun. It’d mow down anyone in his path.
This was a prize—but a prize didn’t mean you won. In this game there was only one winner. There was only one contest that concerned Ace.
“Still,” Beats whispered in a hoarse and revelatory ecstasy, “If I felt good about killin’ that fuck Justin before…”
He fuckin’ felt great now.
Beats sat down and sipped his water. Ace then took the time to rebandage himself and clean his wounds. He popped an ibuprofen, not really caring about the combination of it and the alcohol. Beats wrapped bandages on his head for the last time before placing his cap on bill facing forward.
“Alright,” he spoke to himself again, “You done worked too hard and too long,” Beats slapped himself in the face, “I want you to look at the man beside you and say this,” Ace was by himself, Beats was alone, “I am the baddest motherfucker you know!”
This wasn’t no team sport. Beats was his own damned captain.
“I am the baddest motherfucker you know.”
That shit was more true than ever. There wasn’t many people he knew left in general.
Ace looked out at the island below. This place was nothing. A dump in the middle of nowhere—a speck on a stone. Ace was stronger than this island. In body, in mind, in spirit and in character. Still this island had taken so much from Ace.
“It ain’t gonna be easy,” Beats spoke to the camera, “But I’m built for this shit. You made me pops. You’ve always known exactly what I’m capable of.”
Ace Ortega—1 in 1000 and don’t let anybody forget it! Standing at 6’3” and weighing nearly 180lbs of muscle. He could bench 225 ten times and run a forty in 4.5 seconds on a Tuesday in the rain while wearing pads. Beats was the problem on this island. Ace was the one to worry about.
“When I get home,” Beats felt lightheaded from the food and the beer, “I hope you love me like you used to.”
Ace zipped up his duffel bag containing his paltry remaining supply of water and his stolen medical supplies. This game would be over soon enough. On this island? Beats was the big bad wolf. Ace had faced down multiple mass murderers and came out the other side. Ace was capable of looking his best friend in the eye and pulling the trigger. More so than that, he was capable of doing all this stuff and still going to sleep. Beats could murder a boy and shoot a girl in the chest one day and then shotgun a beer the next.
“Even if I ain’t the Aceito that you’re used to.”
With this gun and this meal—Ace could see the finish line. There was nothing but green in front of him. Ace was hard to stop in an open field. The only one who could beat Beats was Beats.
“It ain’t gonna be easy—but do this muthafuckin’ thang.”
It was just another day and it was just another game. Ace loved the game. Beats loved the hustle. Ace was the Son of the Struggle and the Godfather of the Grind. If he lowered his head and heightened his senses—there was none who could stop him. Ace was his own worst enemy, so fuck it, either way he couldn’t lose.
“It ain’t gonna be easy,” he grabbed his bag and slung it over his shoulder, “But do this muthafuckin’ thang.”
Mantras and meditations. Fake it till you make it. Life don’t come with no instruction manual.
“You can do this Ace,” he said to himself, “I want you to look at the man beside you and say,” Beats recited the speech again, “I am the baddest motherfucker you know.”
There was nobody next to him. Ace walked this path alone. Ace was the only man Ace knew.
“I am the baddest motherfucker you know.”
[ Ace Ortega Continued In: To Survive ]
