Total pages in book: 128
Estimated words: 119011 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 595(@200wpm)___ 476(@250wpm)___ 397(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 119011 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 595(@200wpm)___ 476(@250wpm)___ 397(@300wpm)
“Fuck you!” Ivan put more strength into the next shove, and this time Zolt lost balance. The world spun as he tumbled to his knees, but before he could have picked himself up, Ivan spoke again, addressing someone Zolt couldn’t see. “He promised me the Rolex!”
The shadow Zolt had spotted earlier emerged from the dark, and as he attempted to get back on his feet while his body refused to remain steady, the vulnerability of his own position became clear as day. “Not promised. Offered for a service,” he uttered and eyed the edge of the building, where light could offer safety from this misunderstanding.
“Yeah, and then you pull that rug from under me. This a joke to you, asshole?” Ivan asked, and Zolt focused on him, ready to take a punch, but the hit to the back of his head came out of nowhere.
His knees hurt from the fall, and through the haze in his rattled brain he was realizing that Ivan could be a hooker, and Zolt was now meeting the pimp.
“Pay what you offered!” the guy behind him said in a cool, merciless tone just as Zolt’s chin hit the concrete. His thick beard couldn’t cushion the impact, and the shock rolled up his skull, making his thoughts scatter. The faint glow of the lamps at the front of the bar turned red, but when Zolt tried to drag himself to his feet and run for the safety of the bar, his body met a bulldozer of a man, who knocked him over again. When the stars above stopped spinning, he realized he laid on his back, facing two blurry figures looming above.
He sure as hell wasn’t about to give them his Rolex.
“F-fuck off!”
A kick to the stomach made him fold in two, blinding Zolt with pain so intense he couldn’t think of a way out. Another came right after before he could have recuperated. The impact had nausea rolling up his throat, but he kept the alcohol down, breathing slowly while the two men talked.
“Take it off him,” the pimp barked.
Zolt’s instinct was to throttle the fucker, but when he attempted to roll to his knees, the reality of his drunken state pulled him right back down. He only managed to roll away by a few inches.
The taste of blood was prominent in his mouth, keeping him aware of the danger. He pulled his wrist close, trying to curl around it when the pimp’s shoe collided with his back. It wasn’t even about the Rolex anymore. He wanted to prove a point.
“Yeah? You pussies want it? You have to try harder than that,” he declared, sucking in air to fuel his desperate roll forward. Momentum allowed him to regain his footing, but as alcohol took the reins, buzzing in Zolt’s arteries, he stumbled and hit the back wall of the bar, looking frantically for something he could use as a weapon.
His eyes barely caught the huge shadow upon approach, but Zolt didn’t get to see the pimp’s face before a fist collided with his jaw at such force, the vertebrae in his neck screamed in warning. But while the wall kept his neck from snapping, it became the anvil to the pimp’s hammer-like blow.
Tension grew inside Zolt’s skull as if it might rupture at any second, but the next punch made him spin and collapse like a lumbered tree, his head filled with a furious ringing.
A heavy shoe landed in Zolt’s crotch, curbing his will to fight back, and he curled into a tight ball, shuddering through his pain. It felt like having needles stuck into his balls while someone crushed them with a vise. Everything around him became a blur for reasons other than alcohol.
He might have been punched in the head again, but by the time he heard hurried footsteps, he was still a ball of pain with blood on his tongue. For a moment, he was relieved that he’d managed to at least protect his Rolex, but he must have blacked out at some point, because when he checked his wrist, the prized watch was no longer there.
He searched his pockets next, and while his fingers felt somewhat numb and his head dizzy after the beating, he couldn’t fool himself for long—they too had been emptied. He didn’t have his wallet, his phone, not even the keys to his pickup.
A laugh tore out of his lips when he turned to the side, but that simple movement had his battered ribs rolling over concrete and sent waves of nausea all the way up his throat. “Fuck… bastards,” he uttered, but with the world spinning at an erratic angle and the alcohol he’d had threatening to come back up, he stayed still, watching the darkness until he realized there was something lying in front of him.