This Rotten World (Book 1) by The Vocabulariast Page B

his wife had assimilated to the point of being unrecognizable. With
America had come her freedom. No longer was she the meek little housewife he
had married in China. Instead, she was another lazy American, as evidenced by
the fact that she had gained fifty pounds since they were first married.
    While he
built up The Sleazy Goat into a steady income, she loafed around on her ass,
eating fast food and watching soap operas. The only thing she had ever
contributed to their marriage was a quick spread of the legs, something which
he increasingly cared less and less about. The hand was quicker, less messy, and
didn't smell like onion rings and expensive perfumes.
    He dunked
the mop into the bucket a little too vigorously, spilling blood-soaked water
all over the floor. Another round of cursing flew from his mouth. It was the
only form of English that he was good at, and even then, he was only barely
comprehensible. He began mopping again.
    He was
wringing out the mop when the door opened and a couple of ragged-looking people
walked in. Their clothes were dirty, and they had a blank stare on their face.
It must have been 3:30 in the morning. Stupid Americans. He would be even
richer if the government would just allow them to drink for 24 hours. He had
heard that's how it was in Las Vegas. People drinking nonstop, throwing their
money and their lives away. At least they had a life to throw away.
    The unhappy
thought crawled across his mind, tendrils of depression lacing through his
brain. He took it out on his would-be customers, as he always did.
    "Bar
closed. Come back tomorrow."
    Instead of
turning around, they shuffled drunkenly into the main part of the bar, staring
at him blankly.
    "You
fucking deaf? Bar closed. You already drunk? Fuck off." Now that they had
inched closer, Old Han adjusted his glasses and saw that there was something
wrong with his new customers. The woman on the left was limping badly, and
crusted blood had dried to her leg. She wore a dirty grey bathrobe that looked
like it had recently taken a dip in a mud puddle. The man behind her was
balding and one of his ears was hanging from the side of his head.
    "Get
the fuck out. You leave now. I call cops!" They continued to plod towards
him. Old Han pulled the mop from the bucket, set it on the floor and broke it in
half with one quick kick. Armed with the sharp end of the now broken mop, he
advanced on the customers. He swung at the woman, hitting her in the ribs. She
didn't make so much as a sound. She merely reached for him clumsily. Old Han
stuck out his foot and shoved the woman down with his free hand. She tumbled to
the ground without grace, her bathrobe flying open and exposing her nudity.
    The man
behind her was now upon him. He was big, especially when standing next to the
five-foot-six Han. His meaty paws grasped for Han, and he stepped to the side,
jumped in the air and dealt him a stinging blow to the side of the head with
the mop handle. It did no good. The man's ear fell to the ground.
    Old Han's
heart raced in his chest. He delivered blow after blow to the tall man. His
face rained blood on the already stained floor, but still he came. Han cursed
loudly throughout the process, and when the lady finally got to her feet, he
found himself trapped between the two. Instinct kicked in and he flipped the
broken broom handle in his hand so that he could use it as a spear. He leapt at
the tall man, driving the broom handle into the fleshy part of his throat and
straight into his brain. The man fell to the ground. Han spun around and gave
the woman a short but powerful kick in the kneecap. Her leg buckled and she
fell to the side. There was no scream of pain, just mindless progression. Han
was about to pull the mop handle free and finish her off when the door to the
bar opened and two more lazy Americans tottered in.
    They moved
quicker than the others, and Old Han found himself trapped. He had needlessly
boarded up all of the back exits and windows years