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Compos Mentis	By : FantasticPants Category: +M through R > Max Payne Views: 1201 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own Max Payne, nor any of the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

Chapter List
- 1
- 2
- 3
Second
act – conflict.

Following
the unfortunate – for him, not me, obviously - knee incident,
Gognitti loses his balance momentarily, and I use the opportunity to
direct a punch to his barely existent stomach. In a loss for air, he
stumbles backwards, but manages to remain afoot. Raising his fists in
what looks more like a caricature of a real fighting stance, he
begins to back away in a semi-circle.

I
leisurely advance towards him, smiling and demonstratively clicking
my knuckles – it’s a useful skill to have, really.
Gognitti, meanwhile, keeps going on reverse, apparently finding it
hard to decide whether to keep his gaze on me or try to spread it in
all possible directions at once.

“Come
on, Vinnie, you’re not scared of a little karma, are you?”

“Get
the fuck away from me, Russian!”

Making
my first mistake, I turn my head too abruptly, and in the wrong
angle. My still sore neck loudly protests, and I blink from the
sudden pain, missing a hasty swing Gongitti takes at me.

His
fist successfully finds its target. My mouth, to be specific. The
blow isn't hard, but I can sense the taste of blood forming on the
edge of my tongue. He’s a fast, agile little son of a bitch,
I'll grant him that. Always has been. But me – I’m
agitated. And that’s the key to this whole situation,
really.

The
punch serves the same effect a paper cut would. No tangible damage,
but irritatingly acute pain and intensified nerve endings. And it’s
not as if my nerves really required any additional intensifying at
the moment.

I
employ my anger to the full extent as I drive my elbow into the side
of his face, disrupting his attempt to duck and sending him reeling
sideways, where he eventually comes to connect with the bar on a
personal level.

Catching
up with him there, I make use of the accommodating scenery by
slamming his head into the bar. Not too hard, but enough to daze him
for a few seconds. That amount of time is more enough to restrain his
movements by clutching his wrist and bending it at a highly
uncomfortable angle behind his back. An oldie, but a goodie.

“Oww!“
he whines, trying to wriggle out of my grip with little luck, “Shit!
Let go! Let go!”

“What’s
the magic word?” I ask with exaggerated patience, twisting his
arm for emphasis.

“Fuuuck!”

“Good
guess, Vinnie, but I’m afraid that’s not it,” I
twist harder this time. From his cry, I deduce it must feel as if his
arm is being pulled out of its socket. Not the nicest of feelings,
from experience. “Try again.”

“Please!”
he whimpers finally.

I
release a bit of the pressure, “See? That wasn’t so hard,
was it?” I heave a sorrowful sigh, “There’s only
one little problem.”

“What?”
he asks desperately. I don’t answer right away, letting the
tension swell up instead. “What?!”

“When
she said please, you weren’t all that keen on listening,”
I pull on his arm sharply, and he lets out a pathetic yelp. “Were
you?”

“What
the fuck are you talkin’ about, Russian? Who?”

“Tanya
Lionova. Ring any bells?”

“Who?“
he repeats, sounding genuinely bewildered, “I don’t know
anything about-”

“No,”
I intercept roughly, “I don’t expect you to. After all,
she was just another Russian whore to you.”

“What,
like you?” he snaps back. He really is nowhere near as stupid
as his infantile appearance might suggest. Trying to piss me off.
Throw me off balance. He’s not trying nearly hard enough,
though.

“Not
quite,” I reply conversationally. “Smaller. A brunette,
purple highlights. Cute little thing. She had a very pretty face.”
Grabbing a handful of his wispy blond hair, I forcibly turn his head
in my direction. I lean in over his shoulder, so only a couple of
inches separate us, and make him meet my gaze. His mouth is slightly
open, letting shallow, rapid breaths in and out. “Had.
Before you went all,” I toss him a scornful smirk, “raging
bull on her.”

“Look,”
he starts desperately, the scale of the trouble he’s gotten
himself into apparently beginning to dawn upon him, “We were
just having some fun – I got carried away, I didn’t mean
to hurt-“

“You
have a pretty face, Vinnie,” I comment offhandedly.

“What?!”

“Good
bone structure, nice eyes,” I assess out-loud, “Lips
aren’t bad, either,” before he can shape a reaction of
any sort, I close my mouth over his.

It’s
a first date type of kiss; A bit of lips, a bit of tongue. Perfectly
measured. Not at all genuine. I know he can’t tell the
difference, though.

His
eyes grow ridiculously wide, almost like a cartoon character’s.
It suits him.

I
finish the kiss in an unhurried, relaxed manner. Fix him with a wide,
neutral grin which actually requires some effort to construct.
There’s too much repulsion involved.

“The
fuck do you think you’re doing?” he whimpers, his panic
making him sound like a boy who hasn’t even encountered puberty
yet.

“Having
some fun,” I inform him. I proceed to demonstrate by sliding my
tongue over his jaw, failing to encounter even a slight hint of
stubble, then over his neck. Lingering there, I slowly pull on his
shirt, bearing his collar bone – it sticks out, provocatively
inviting - and extend my journey on to it. The flavor of his sweat
tastes strangely familiar. Salty-sweet with a tinge of fear. It’s
not entirely objectionable, but that’s irrelevant. Pleasure has
nothing to do with this. I draw back, let go of the shirt and award
him with my most harmless smile. “What? Don’t you like
it?”

He
responds with a breathless, baffled pant containing a definitive
hysterical edge. I doubt he even knows the answer to that
question. He probably doesn’t fully comprehend what this is
really about, yet.

Good
thing I do.

He’ll
find out soon enough.

Loosening
the shirt out of his pants, I reach under it with my free hand,
gliding it over his stomach. I barely make any physical contact, but
his muscles tense up instantly, becoming urgently rigid. I wonder
which other parts of him are rigid right now. But that’s
for later.

I
direct my hand upwards, gradually reaching his chest. I apply a bit
more pressure there, very aware of how both his breathing rate and
pulse speeding up as I do. I lightly drag my fingernails over his
skin, occasionally pressing them a little deeper in.

Sex,
I've learned, can be a lot of things – an art, a hobby, a
religion, a release, a mind numbing sensation – but this? This
is pure science, nothing more.

I
notice that his eyes are shut now – it can be either fear or
irrational excitement, or most likely, a winning combination of the
two. Whichever it is, it works to my advantage. I can pick the pace
up.

Letting
go of his wrist – I don’t think he’s in the
condition to put up a fight at the moment– I keep one hand on
his chest, lightly stroking, while my newly freed one I shove into
the waistband of his pants. He offers no response besides a gasp and
a slight jerky motion of his head. I spread my hand over his hip, let
my fingertips brush against it teasingly. I move down towards his
thigh, rubbing it with my thumb to build up friction.

He
makes a sound that has some familial relation to a moan.

That
should suffice for now, I decide, wouldn’t want him to enjoy it
too much. I remove my hands from under his clothes – the sudden
lack of touch makes him shudder - and, grabbing him by the shoulders,
turn him around to face me.

His
expression is stuck between horror and disbelief, with some arousal
wedged in the middle.

I
smile widely. Wolfishly.

“Would
you like to dance, Vinnie?”

Gognitti
whirls his head sideways, probably looking for hidden cameras, or
maybe for a live studio audience. Finding neither, he returns his
petrified glare to me. His reply barely manages to fight its way out
of his throat, “W-what?”

“Come
on, you'll enjoy it,” I tell him. His reaction is irrelevant,
so I don’t wait for it, simply press my left hand to his waist
and take his right hand in mine.

It’s
sticky.

“You
eat peanut butter with your fingers?”

I
hope it’s peanut butter.

“What?
Everybody does that!”

I
shake my head in disgust, “I don’t think so.”

“Well,
I dunno how they do it where you come from, but in America,
everybody –“

“Vinnie,”
I take the liberty of changing the subject, since he obviously isn’t
going to, “Do you know the song ‘Magic Moments’?”

“I
– I think so,” he stammers, doing his best to function
under these less than normal circumstances, “Yeah, yeah, I know
it! With the whistling!”

“How
about we dance to it, then?”

“But
–“ he frowns intently at me, possibly trying to assess
how serious, or how insane, I am, “But it’s not playing.”

“Use
your imagination,” I suggest, “You do that a lot, don’t
you?”

Before
he processes that and decides to subject me to some more of his
nonsense, I pull him closer, fixing him with a nonchalant smile. Then
begin to dance.

Though
I suppose ‘dance’ isn’t the word a casual observer
would employ to describe it. It involves a motion of edgy rhythm on
my part, and the unsteady achievement of being dragged along,
tripping over his feet, on Gognitti’s. The style is closest to
Tango, since I attempt a few would-be-dips, just to see how badly he
reacts – he stifles a yelp at my first try, and almost loses
consciousness at the second.

I
admit, Tango and ‘Magic Moment’ aren’t the most
compatible pair, but then again, neither are Gognitti and I. Which
makes it, in essence, a perfect fit for the occasion. Except that he
does have a valid point, the song isn’t playing, and instead I
have to make do with the version my memory constructs for me, in
conjunction with the background noise the television throws at us.

It’s
an awkward mixture to say the least, but I find comfort in the fact
that as far as Gognitti is concerned, ‘awkward’ would be
a great improvement. He looks ready to have a heart attack. I don’t
mind. It would certainly save me a lot of trouble.

My
recollection of the song comes hand in hand with that of little
Tanya, and how she kept stepping on my toes and blushing. I can’t
resist stepping on Gognitti’s a few times, causing him to
wince. The eternal struggle of shoes versus socks. Not exactly a fair
match, all in all. But - life isn’t fair.

With
the last verse of the song playing in my head, I discern that
Gognitti’s eyes have reached an incomprehensible radius; they
should really conduct some research regarding this strange
phenomenon. It can’t be healthy. The final lines roll in –
The Halloween hop, when everyone came, in funny disguises. Magic
moments, filled with love!

The
conclusion of the song settles a deadly silence into my mind. We stop
right where we started, by the bar. I push Gognitti against it and
kiss him again, but this time, employ my teeth as well, biting into
his lower lip until the taste of his blood reaches my tongue. He
manages to wrestle out of my hold, shoving his hands in front of
himself defensively. I back away indifferently.

“What
are you doing?” he wails, reaching to touch his injured lip,
becoming visibly pale as he views the fresh crimson now covering his
fingers. A gangster who’s afraid of blood. What a novel
concept. “God! I’m fuckin’ bleeding!”

“I’m
sorry, Vinnie,” I reach out and stroke his cheek, giving a
weightless smile, “I must’ve gotten carried away.”

I
let the words settle into his mind, watch as the fear takes on a more
wholesome form. I can practically smell it radiating off him now.

I
want to see if I can taste it again.

However,
my plan is foiled when I lean towards his neck and run into his
flailing arms instead. I’m guessing that means he doesn’t
want to play anymore. Raising my hands in pretense of surrender, I
straighten up.

“Oh,
don’t be like that. I’m just getting warmed up,” I
exhale sadly, “But if you’re tired already, I’ll be
glad to make some thematic adjustments.”

With
that, I grab him by the collar and before he gets a chance to
retaliate, make a sharp turn and let go.

He
stumbles down diagonally, first colliding with the couch then
completing his descent to the floor. Recovering rapidly, he attempts
to get back on his feet, but I halt that redundant development by
placing my foot on his chest.

“No
need to get up,” I assure him, pressing my foot down to flatten
him. I find that his sprawled body compliments the floor perfectly,
“I’d really prefer that you stayed down for now. You
don’t mind, do you?”

He
gapes at me frightfully from his horizontal position, and I grin back
at him. Not my most charming of grins, I reckon. I lift my foot then
plant it into his stomach, using more force. You could even call it a
stomp. Gognitti doubles over, producing a muffled cry. Muffled by his
standards, that is. To me, it sounds just like a whine.

“So
tell me, Vincent, does it feel good, taking your aggressions
out on those weaker than you?” I punctuate the question with a
light kick to the ribs, meant to focus his attention more than to
cause actual pain. He still winces, but keeps from wailing. Good boy.
Making progress. “Does it make you feel like a man?”

He
takes the fifth, rolling onto his side and attempting a fetal
position to shield himself from the blows.

“Or
is it just an unusual hobby? You know, for kicks?” My foot
makes a violent visit to his forearms, which are currently protecting
his face. “Because,” I give a shrug, “I don't know.
Personally – I find it a little dull. I mean, where’s the
fun in that? Where’s the challenge, Vinnie?” I leave the
question open, slamming my foot into his already hurt knee, “Though
I suppose in your case, beating up teenage girls could be quite
challenging.”

He
remains in bunker-mode, and I decide I need to lower myself to his
level to further my point. Placing my feet at his sides, I kneel down
on top of him and, persuasively flipping him to his back, straddle
his hips. The first act I introduce in my new position is the
archetypal ‘fist to the jaw’. It doesn’t pass
smoothly, receiving an unfavorable reaction from the Gognitti party –
a yowl that I decipher as disapproval.

Sadly,
it’s not a democracy.

“Don’t
make the mistake of thinking you’re the victim here, Vinnie,”
I grab him by the hair, raising his head so we can see eye to eye.
“You’re a man – give or take. She was just a girl.
So save your whining for later,” I drop his head abruptly,
letting it hit the floor unpretentiously, extracting a pained gasp
from him, “This is just a preview.”

After
that, I mentally paint Tanya’s photo in front of me, and
consider reconstructing the image on Gongnitti’s face, bit by
bit. But after several blows, he seems to retrieve into an emergency
island in his head, reacting to my blows with the occasional hushed
sound and nothing more. It's like punching a pillow that has bones
instead of feathers. I’m not likely to get through that way,
and it’s not my idea of fun.

Alright
then.

Enough
foreplay.

I
lift him off the floor by the shirt – he renews his struggle at
this point, which adds to his weight somewhat, but it remains as
small and insignificant as the rest of him. I proceed to drag him
across the room, ignoring his minuscule attempts to break free –
he even goes so far as to bite my arm, the undomesticated little
shit, but serving a backhand slam to his teeth resolves that dilemma.

We
soon reach the bedroom, where he intensifies his resistance, kicking
at me ineffectually and thrashing about like a hyperactive Tasmanian
devil.

Worn-out
by this kindergarten-styled scuffle, I keep a hold on his shirt as I
draw my gun and stick it suggestively under his chin. “That’s
enough.”

He
goes instantly limp, which implies he still retains some mental
functions, or that his survival instinct is stronger than I’ve
estimated. I calmly holster my gun, taking some time to inspect the
surroundings.

Two
doorways, no doors – in case the monsters from under the bed
decide to attack? Brick tiled walls, covered with posters of the one
and only Captain Baseball Bat Boy. It’s unlikely I’ll
ever be able to forget that name now. The bed set is themed after the
cartoon, too. How enigmatic, that he has problems with his sex life.

I
toss Gognitti onto the bed.
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Compos Mentis