Clyde Murphy || Best Friend

The stale, smoky air of the auto shop was thick with the familiar scents of motor oil and cheap cigarettes. Clyde wiped his greasy hands on an even greaser rag, the metallic tang of a repaired engine a satisfying finish to his day. He was just heading towards the small, grimy office to grab his keys and maybe a beer when he heard it. Raised voices from the other side of the partially open door that led to the alley.

He hadn't meant to eavesdrop. Truly. It was just goddamn luck, or maybe misfortune, that his path had taken him right into the line of fire. He recognized her voice instantly, that sweet, melodic tone now sharpened with a pain that made his gut clench. And then his voice. That slick, accented drawl of Pierre's, the French fuck who ran the pretentious little pub down the street with his father. The one who thought his shit didn't stink because he could pull a decent pint.

Clyde froze, his body going still as a predator catching a scent. He leaned a shoulder against the cold brick wall just beside the door, and listened. He heard the tears she was trying to hold back, the tremor in her voice. He heard Pierre's dismissive, condescending tone, calling her 'dramatic', telling her she was 'overreacting'. The words were a familiar poison, the kind men like Pierre used to make women feel small. He never appreciated what he had right in front of him. The stupid, entitled bastard.

Then came the final blow, the sound that would seal Pierre's fate. A choked sob, followed by her voice, clear and broken, yet filled with a final, furious resolve. The words were a dismissal, a curse, a severing of ties. 'Just go to hell, Pierre!'

There was the sound of a door slamming, followed by the rapid, fading click of her heels on the pavement. Silence, then a muttered French curse from Pierre before his footsteps retreated in the opposite direction.

Clyde remained against the wall for a long moment, his jaw working, a muscle ticking in his cheek. A cold, methodical fury settled over him, washing away the last of the day's mundane fatigue. She had cried. Because of him. That was all the reason he needed. It was a pretext, a beautiful, justified pretext, and he was going to enjoy every fucking second of it.

The next day, her older brother, Charles, already knew everything. Of course he did. In their world, news like that traveled faster than a grease fire. That evening, they found themselves standing outside 'Le Coq Doré', the golden rooster on the sign looking smug and out of place. Clyde gave Charles a nod, a silent communication that had been perfected over years of shared trouble. They pushed the doors open.

The place was half-full, the usual crowd sipping wine and picking at overpriced cheese plates. Clyde didn't say a word. He just walked to the center of the room, pulled a heavy, nickel-plated revolver from the back of his jeans, and fired a single, deafening shot into the ceiling. Plaster dust snowed down.

"The party's over," Clyde announced, his voice a low, dangerous rumble that cut through the stunned silence. "Everyone. Out. Now."

There was a moment of frozen panic, then a frantic scramble for the door. Within sixty seconds, the pub was empty, save for Pierre, who stood behind the bar, his face pale, a wine glass still clutched in his shaking hand.

"Gentlemen, please, what is the meaning of this?" Pierre stammered, his French accent thickening with fear.

Charles was already at work, calmly splashing gasoline from a can he'd brought along, the sharp, acrid smell cutting through the pub's floral air freshener. It sloshed over the polished wood bar, the velvet stools, the imported tapestries.

Clyde walked slowly towards the bar, his boots crunching on the broken plaster. "The meaning," Clyde said, his tone conversational, almost friendly, "is that you've been a very bad boy, Pierre." He vaulted over the bar with an easy, menacing grace, landing right in front of the trembling Frenchman. "You made a very good girl cry. And around here, that's a capital offense."

Pierre tried to back away, but there was nowhere to go. "Please, I can give you money, anything you want!"

Clyde's fist connected with his stomach, hard and efficient. Pierre doubled over with a guttural gasp. "Don't want your money, macaroni," Clyde snarled. He grabbed a handful of Pierre's perfectly coiffed hair, yanking his head back. "We're here to give you a geography lesson. To show you exactly where your place is."

What followed was a symphony of pain. A few precise, brutal blows. The crack of a nose breaking, the wet thud of a fist sinking into a soft abdomen. Clyde worked with a cold, focused rage, each impact a punctuation mark to the insults he'd overheard. Pierre crumpled to the floor, a bloody, moaning heap at Clyde's feet. His formerly pristine white shirt was now a canvas of crimson.

Clyde looked down at him, a slow, dark smile spreading across his face. He pulled a cigarette from his pack, placing it between his lips. He lit it, took a long, deep drag, and savored the smoke.

"She told you to go to hell," Clyde stated, his tone matter-of-fact. He pulled a cigarette from his pack, placing it between his lips. He struck a match, the flame flaring in the dim, gasoline-soaked air. "I'm just helpin' you get there a little faster."

He took a long drag, then casually flicked the still-burning match onto the floor.

Whoosh.

The flame caught and raced across the floor, climbing the bar, engulfing the velvet curtains. The heat was immense, immediate. Clyde didn't look back as he walked out, the orange glow of the inferno lighting his way. The message would be clear to everyone: this was their town. And you didn't fuck with their people.

Later, after a beer with Charles that tasted like victory, Clyde found himself walking to his house. The adrenaline had faded, leaving a pleasant, satisfied hum in his veins. He was fumbling for his keys when the front door flew open.

The force of the slap snapped his head to the side. For a second, he was just stunned, his ear ringing. What the fuck? He slowly raised his head, his hand coming up to rub his jaw, and there she was.

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She stood before him, chest heaving, her eyes blazing with a fury that could have rivaled the fire he’d just left behind. She was magnificent.

A slow, amused smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. "Ouch," he drawled, the word laced with genuine amusement. "That hurt." He looked her up and down, his gaze lingering. "What's the matter, doll? Some hot news just reach your pretty little head?"

He pulled out his pack of cigarettes, offering her one with a casual, unrepentant gesture. When she didn't take it, he simply shrugged, tapped one out for himself, and lit it.

"You said he should go to hell,"he reminded her, his voice a low, reasonable purr. "I just helped him get there a little faster."