Page 81 of Wrench

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¡°Fuck,¡± was all I could once again say. My heart was heavy as I remembered meeting

Hollywood for the first time. An older guy, older than Tank even. I asked him how he got

his nickname and he said he fucked a hooker on the Hollywood sign. I didn¡¯t doubt him at

all.

¡°So¡­ what now?¡± I asked, looking around at everyone. No one seemed too confident

they had an answer.

¡°I¡¯ve got no idea,¡± Tank said, and they all seemed to appreciate the honesty. ¡°All I

know is I¡¯m tired and I¡¯ve got a grieving widow. Her and Hollywood went way back, you

know¡­¡±

I looked at the label on my beer that was half-peeled off. ¡°Yeah.¡±

¡°We¡¯ll meet up tomorrow, start to make a plan on how to end this,¡± Tank said,

scanning the table with a fierce stare. ¡°I will not let another man die. We need to be

focused.¡± His eyes lingered on me, ¡°Diligent. Armed. Ready for those Freeway Cunts.¡±

¡°Fuck, yes,¡± Maverick said, ¡°Let¡¯s make some kings bleed.¡±

¡°Yeah, yeah, yeah,¡± Tank grunted. ¡°Enough with the dramatics, it¡¯s almost five in the

morning. Get to bed. Might need you in a couple hours.¡±

As Tank was halfway to the door, it cracked open, and Archer walked inside, appearing

wide awake compared to the rest of us. Bowing his head as he strolled by Tank, he said,

¡°Evening, President.¡±

¡°Fuck off, Archer.¡± My eyebrow raised at him¡­ ¡°Where were you?¡±

¡°Like you¡¯re one to talk.¡± He ripped the chair out from the table and slumped in it.

¡°Why don¡¯t you tell us where you¡¯ve been, huh, Wrench?¡±

I rolled my eyes, growing tired of the interrogation. ¡°Does it matter?¡±

¡°Maybe it does, maybe it doesn¡¯t,¡± he said. Fuck, even though Archer was the closest to

me in the group, he also could piss me off the most. ¡°What? Were you taking care of your

sick dog again? Bet Buddy was so sick, she just had to drop by your house to check up on

him¡­¡±

¡°H-how¡¯d you know?¡±

¡°Oh come on, Wrench,¡± he said, laughing. ¡°I had no idea. But you just confirmed it.¡±

Fucking Archer. I gripped my fist around my beer. ¡°Why does it matter if I¡¯m screwing

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