THE RETURN OF THE RED BUTCHER

10

The laughter died as Simon pulled the first two men inward and slammed their skulls together.

The sound cracked through the hall.

Both men dropped at his feet, their bodies folding badly against the dirty floor. For a moment, even the music seemed weaker. The men who had been laughing now stared with open mouths.

Varen’s face tightened. “Why are you standing there? Break him!”

The remaining attackers rushed at once.

One man swung a chair. Simon caught it, tore it from his hands, and drove it into his chest. The man flew backward into a table, sending bottles and cards across the floor.

Another came with a knife.

Simon stepped inside his reach, seized his wrist, and twisted until the weapon dropped. The man screamed. Simon struck him in the throat with the edge of his palm, and he went down choking.

“What the hell is he?” someone shouted.

“Get him from behind!” another yelled.

A bottle smashed against Simon’s head.

Glass burst across his hair and shoulders. Blood ran down the side of his face, but Simon did not fall. He did not even stagger.

The man who hit him froze.

His smile disappeared.

“No,” the man whispered. “No, no…”

Simon turned slowly.

The thug stepped back, looking at the broken bottle in his hand like it had betrayed him.

Simon picked up another bottle from a nearby table. “You like bottles?”

The man tried to run, but Simon caught him by the collar and drove the bottle into his head. The man collapsed with a horrible cry, and Simon pulled the broken glass free before letting him fall causing blood to spatter indiscriminately on the floor.

The room erupted.

“Shoot him!”

“Kill him!”

“Move back!”

The ten men were no longer fighting to impress Varen. They were fighting to survive. One swung a belt at Simon’s face. Simon caught it, dragged him forward, and smashed his elbow into the man’s jaw. Another tried to tackle him low, but Simon brought his knee up and dropped him like a sack.

Malo stumbled away from the VIP table. “Boss, this is not normal. This man fights like a metahuman.”

Varen slapped him across the face. “Shut up! He is just one man!”

Simon grabbed a thug by the arm and threw him across the gambling table. Cards flew into the air. Dice rolled under someone’s boot. Men who had been cheering now scrambled backward.

One gangster reached behind his waistband and pulled out a gun.

Simon’s eyes moved.

The gunman raised his weapon. “Die, you mad—”

A tomahawk spun through the air.

It struck him before he finished speaking. The gun dropped from his hand as he fell backward into the bar.

Another gunman cursed and pulled his pistol.

Simon bent, picked up another tomahawk from the fallen weapons near the wall, and threw it. The man crashed into the drinks shelf, dragging bottles down with him.

A third man near the stage lifted a gun with both hands, shaking badly.

“Stay back!” he screamed. “Stay back!”

Simon took one step.

The tomahawk left his hand.

The man fell before his finger fully tightened.

The women near the bar screamed and ran toward the side walls. Some gang members tried to reach the back exit. Others hid behind chairs. But Simon kept moving through them like he had counted every breath in the room.

The Red Butcher had been unleashed.

Not fully.

Not with soldiers behind him.

Not with a war flag above him.

He was only one grieving man in burned clothes, surrounded by murderers.

But it was enough.

A man rushed him with a metal pipe. Simon caught the pipe, slammed his forehead into the man’s nose, and took the weapon. Another lunged from the side. Simon struck his knee, then his ribs, then his face. The thug fell and did not rise.

Varen’s voice cracked. “All of you! Attack him together!”

They tried.

Five men rushed from different sides. Simon moved through them with brutal speed. A wrist snapped. A shoulder broke. One man’s head struck the edge of a table. Another was thrown into the speakers, and the music died with a loud electric crack.

Silence took over.

Only screams remained.

Malo backed toward the rear hallway.

Varen saw him. “Where are you going?”

Malo did not answer.

“Malo!” Varen shouted on top of his voice.

His assistant turned and ran.

Varen looked around the hall.

Bodies covered the floor. Tables were overturned. Glass glittered under the lights. Forty-five men who had laughed at Simon were now broken, bleeding, or dead across the ruined party hall.

Varen’s mouth opened, but no words came out.

Simon stood in the middle of the destruction, breathing heavily. Blood ran down his face. Smoke and ash still clung to his clothes. His eyes were empty and terrible.

Varen stepped back.

Then another step.

Then a third.

He turned toward the back passage hoping to escape.

A large hand landed on his shoulder.

Varen froze.

Simon pulled him back with frightening ease and threw him to the floor. Varen hit the ground hard and rolled onto his knees. His gold chain swung against his chest. His cigar was gone. His pride was gone with it too.

“Wait,” Varen gasped. “Wait, please.”

Simon stood over him.

Varen raised both hands. “Listen to me. I can pay. Whatever you want, I can pay.”

Simon said nothing.

“I will replace your stall,” Varen said quickly. “Double. Triple. I will give you a better shop. I will give you money. Five hundred thousand dollars. One million.”

Simon’s face did not change.

Varen’s voice shook harder. “Please. Name your price. I’ll pay double for your stall… just let me live.”