Adult-FanFiction.org : Games

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
- 3
- 4
Fourth
act – the one they conveniently forget to mention.

He
doesn’t look quite human. More like a sobbing, trembling heap
of flesh. It’s really a mixture of sobbing and gasping, though,
like he’s trying, with little success, to come up for air.

I
couldn’t have hurt him that much. There wasn’t
even any tearing involved. I would’ve felt the blood if there
was any.

How
fragile can you fucking get?

“It’s
over,” I tell him, cautiously passing my hand over his back –
wet and sticky with sweat, “It’s alright.”

He
doesn’t seem to share my opinion on the subject. Not moving an
inch from his position, he maintains his unsteady wail. His arms are
spread out across the bed, making him appear like some sort of
misshapen crucifix.

His
sobbing threatens to drill a hole in my head.

It’s
a little too loud. Too shrill.

Too
fucking much.

I
have to get away from it. Fast.

Rapidly
getting to my feet, I almost forget to bring my gun along, only
catching myself at the last moment. That could’ve been a rather
unfortunate relapse. Shoving the gun into my belt, I retreat to the
living room.

The
sobbing is muted from here, becoming an alternate reality.

Finding
a lone cigarette hiding in my jacket pocket, I direct it between my
teeth and let it hang there for a while. I take out my lighter next,
snap it open and roll it into ignition. The flicker dances briefly
before becoming a flame. I glare intently into it, and sense it
staring back.

The
flame is my natural habitat, my soul mate. Right now it looks arctic.
A complete stranger. I keep the lighter in my grip and pass my thumb
through the flame, seeking sensation. I barely even feeling the burn.
Or anything at all. I snap the lighter shut. The flame disappears.

The
cigarette remains unlit. I don’t really feel like smoking, now
that I think about it. I let it slide further into my mouth, before
halting it with my teeth and biting it in half. The bitter taste
spreads through my mouth, combining with the traces of blood, mine or
his, to create something unusual, exotic in its unpleasantness. I
spit both halves out into my open palm.

As
I study the cigarette remains, another episode of ‘Captain
Baseball Bat Boy!’ begins. The announcers’ voice rings
over the sobs – “Episode one hundred and twenty four!”
I slowly flip my palm and watch as the cigarette pieces descend to
the floor mutedly, in almost slow-motion. “Trapped in a twisted
fantasy world constructed by his arch-nemesis, will Captain Baseball
Bat Boy be able to fight his way through the illusion and escape the
clutches of the evil Maxwell’s Demon?”

I
serenely construct a mental picture of myself pointing the gun at the
television and blowing a huge hole in it, but eventually I settle for
using the remote. One simple click and it shuts up. If only it was
that easy with some people.

Well,
potentially, it could be - my Eagle presses against me
comfortingly, silently communicating this encouraging reminder.

But
hey - I’m not a psychopath.

The
sobbing is louder, clearer now. I should’ve kept the television
on.

I
need a drink.

The
liquor cabinet isn’t hard to locate, right there by the bar.
Getting there while avoiding further stares from various Captains
Baseball Bat Boys around the room, that’s the hard part.

I
reach the cabinet eventually. The strongest thing I manage to find in
there, amidst – how shocking - cartoon themed bottle openers,
is scotch. It looks expensive enough, probably of decent quality.

It’s
still scotch, though.

Guess
it’ll have to do.

I
find the appropriate glass and start to fill it. It’s
remarkably uncooperative – keeps tilting in the wrong
direction, like it has a mind of its own. The glass occasionally
offers vague reflections of my face, all twisted and distorted, an
unflattering caricature crawling leisurely on the transparent
surface. I barely manage not to spill anything, but by the time it’s
full, I'm too nauseated to consume anything. Especially this.

I
imagine applying pressure to the glass until it shatters in my grip,
becoming a jagged, biting mess, sprinkled with venomous liquid.

That
would probably sting a bit.

On
the other hand, the glass provides a cool, focused contrast to the
sickening humidity of the room; an anchor of sorts. I decide that
leaving it intact is somewhat more beneficial for the moment.

The
ache in my neck has already reached the base of my skull, where it
now hovers impatiently, threatening to march out onto a cataclysmic
campaign throughout my cerebral cortex.

What
on earth made me think this would be a good idea?

I
could have sent someone to do the dirty work in my place –
Woden’s preferred method.

A
coward's method.

I
may be a lot of things, but a coward is not one of them.

Still,
the nagging sensation that maybe I went one step too far with this
keeps sneaking up on me.

It’s
a bit too late to change anything now, though. And regret is one of
the most redundant, senseless emotions humanity has ever been stupid
enough to conceive.

I
walk across the room and back – once, twice, more - until I
lose track. I try to direct my mind in a neutral direction, somewhere
as far from here as possible. It keeps landing on 'Magic Moments'
with the stubbornness of a broken record. I’m beginning to
truly despise that song. But at least it’s not Beethoven. That
would’ve been…

Disturbing.

I
feel like the contents of my stomach are going to provide carpet
decoration any moment now.

Then
I realize that the sobbing has stopped.

I’m
standing inside complete silence. It's like hanging at the edge of
space.

Thrown
in a vacuum, a human body would explode.

I
find it to be a reassuring thought to grasp to.

Tranquil.

It
can also be an innovative solution to a lot of problems.

Too
bad it’s a myth.

I
looked it up.

Thrown
in a vacuum, a human body would, essentially, slowly freeze to death.
If it didn’t run out of air and suffocate first, that is. At
any rate, the unfortunate person to whom the body belonged would have
some time to muse over the futility of his situation.

I’d
take explosion any day, but it’s not exactly multiple choice.

And
yet, this little tidbit also goes to prove that the human body is a
hell lot tougher than most people give it credit for.

The
human mind, though...

I
reluctantly will myself back to the bedroom, unable to suppress a
wince as I locate Gognitti.

The
human mind is a different story.

He’s
positioned himself in the corner of the room, hugging his legs to his
chest protectively. Still naked, in some kind of shell shock, he’s
staring into nothingness, rocking back and forth. Vanka Vstanka pops
to mind. Then Humpty Dumpty, after the fall. For a second, that blank
look he’s wearing reminds me of Jon.

Bad
association.

I
look away.

I
try to make sense of the spiked, disfigured ball of emotions that
decides to get stuck in the back of my throat. I end up with three
basics.

Contempt,
revulsion, and pity.

One
of these does not belong. It’s too close to sympathy.

And
sympathy for this little fuck is the last thing I need, or want.

However,
getting his mind to crack was never a part of the plan. Which makes
this psychological fallout, in some warped sense, my concern.

I
advance in his direction cautiously, not wanting to spook him, but it
doesn’t look like he’s even aware of my presence. I pick
up a blanket off the bed on my way, and, placing the scotch glass on
the floor, wrap it over him. Partially so pneumonia wouldn’t be
added to the list of undesired aftereffects, and partially because I
possess very little yearning to get a first row view of his
malnourished, bare frame. At least, not any more than I already have.
His left shoulder sticks out gawkily from under the blanket, lending
him the appearance of someone preparing to attend a cartoon themed
toga party.

Leaning
against the wall, I lower myself to a sitting position by his side. I
leave a sufficient amount of space between us, for both our sakes.
After studying him for a minute – his condition doesn’t
shift at all, in either direction - I begin to speak.

“Vinnie?”

No
response. Like talking to a wall. A particularly skinny one, with a
Captain Baseball Bat Boy fixation.

“Vincent?”

Not
much luck with that, either.

“Want
a drink?” I offer, picking the glass up and passing it under
his nose. Maybe the smell will bring him out of his stupor. “It
helps.”

His
head jerks slightly in my direction, but he doesn’t meet my
gaze.

Even
from this limited angle, I can see what a mess his face is. A
personification of blood, sweat and tears. With emphasis on the
latter.

“I
hate you,” he whispers. Childish to boot.

In
a way, I’m relieved to hear those words. It means there’s
been no permanent damage. That it’s still the same Gognitti in
there.

“You’re
breaking my heart, Vinnie, really.” The sarcasm is
half-hearted, due to the light nausea accompanying it. “It can
be worse. Trust me. Think of it as a learning experience.” The
nausea intensifies, now combining with a sense of inverted deja vu.
Trying to come up with something motivational to say, something a bit
more real, I find, “Rise above it.”

I
think I even mean it.

He
won’t, of course. It’s human nature. A lost cause.

Apparently
going catatonic again, or maybe just ignoring me, he doesn’t
react at all.

Some
ancient, long-buried instinct leads me to reach out and pat his
shoulder.

“Don’t
touch me!” He pulls back abruptly into the wall.

Fair
enough. Any other reaction would’ve been disquieting. I pull my
hand away and use it to scratch my chin instead. It’s certainly
more productive that way.

A
few more moments of silence stretch out, and with them, a morbid
curiosity arises.

“Why
did you do it?” I question him, “Why the fuck did you
beat her up like that?”

He
remains quiet for a while, and I figure I won’t be getting a
reply, but then he mutters, just a decibel over silence, “She
laughed at me. Bitch fuckin’ laughed at me.”

“She’s
just a girl,” I remind him, almost astounded by how
close to ground-level his self esteem seems to be, “A fucking
teenager. They laugh at everything.”

His
next whisper is lower. Harsher. “Everybody laughs at
me.”

Well,
I’d have thought he would have gotten used to that by now. It’s
a little difficult not to be laughed at, when you’re nothing
but a sad joke with no punchline. Unless you count the line between
his chin and his forehead. I’m about to tell him just that,
possibly with some sugarcoating, but then my treacherous mind
surfaces the faces of all the stuck up bastards in the Circle, hiding
their uppity disdain behind plastic smiles. I feel the familiar hate
rise up, burning and consuming. I have no use for it this very
moment, so I channel it back into its hiding place, making sure it
stays put. Maybe, I pass my gaze over Gognitti, we’re not that
dissimilar after all.

Or
maybe I need to get some sleep, and soon. It would keep me from
reaching absurd conclusions.

“Then
laugh back,” I recommend. Can you spell hypocrisy, boys and
girls? “Laughter is the best medicine, right?” Especially
if it’s the last laugh brand of it.

“Do
you have more quotes to spew, or can you leave me the fuck alone
already?”

Well,
ouch.

“I’ve
got more,” I say in mock-offense, “But I can take a
hint,” subtle as it may be. I begin to rise, “Are you
sure you don’t want the drink? Would be a shame to put it to
waste.”

The
stare he sets on me almost sends a shiver down my spine. But then it
connects with the bigger picture, and becomes pathetically laughable.
Or laughably pathetic.

“I’m
gonna fuckin’ kill you,” he hisses out.

“I
doubt that,” I smirk, somewhat amused by the ludicrousness of
the statement, “But I suppose it doesn’t hurt to have
dreams.”

Just
in case he actually decides to go see the wizard for some guts, and
seriously act out on this newfound fantasy, I need to drive a point
in. I grasp his chin and lock his face against mine. “You so
much as twitch your cute little nose in my direction, Vincent,
and I’ll blow your head,” I tap my index finger against
his temple gently, “Clear. Off.” I lean in closer –
he tries to withdraw but I grip on, holding him in place. I spread my
hand in a sudden motion and whisper, “Kaboom.”

He
doesn’t even blink, just stares straight into my eyes instead,
transfixed. Emphasis on the trance. Maybe he’s just afraid to
move. Prey instinct.

I
let go of his chin, but he remains perfectly motionless. A
Gognitti-shaped statue. He looks better when he’s not moving.
Or talking. “Capice?” I ask him.

“Clear
as vodka,” he mutters back. His voice is the same annoying high
pitched whine, but his tone as close to being mockingly defiant as
it’s ever likely to be.

For
a brief moment, I encounter a flash of respect for him. Desperation
does funny things to people.

But,
funny how? Funny like a clown?

I
hate clowns.

And
I really ought to stop playing this strange association game.

I
don’t say anything. He can keep his anger. It’s as good a
motivator as any.

I
have enough of my own.

And
this, I’ve had just about enough of, too. More than
enough.

Time
to split our paths. Hopefully for good this time.

And
where there’s life, there’s hope, right?

Of
course, the guy who patented that quote had his head and hands
chopped off by a political adversary. You’ve got to hand it to
ancient Romans – they knew how to handle their business. That
is, up until that delicate point when their great, invincible empire
collapsed onto itself, brought down by common thugs.

So
much optimism all around, really, if you only know where to look.

My
sleep-deprived mental state rears its ugly head again, and I suddenly
begin to wonder if maybe my little Italian friend has some of his
ancient ancestors’ blood in him. An undercover gene concealing
the same capacity for bloody vengeance.

I
pass my gaze over him for the last time.

Well,
if he does, the gene is obviously too recessive to notice. Or maybe
it has mutated into the love for tacky cartoons that he inflicts upon
his victims.

“Do
you know anything in Latin, Vinnie?”

Following
a long pause, he replies monotonously, “Romanes eunt domus.”

It
sounds vaguely familiar, but I can’t tell from where. I really
need to brush up on my Latin.

I’m
sure Woden would more than love to help me out with that. My esteemed
mentor has a considerable Latin fetish. Among other things.

Omnia
Vincit Amor. The old man is losing his grip on reality with that
newborn, cancer-induced hobby of his. I suppose it’s true in a
way, though. After all, love is a very relative concept.

I,
for one, love the idea of riddling his antediluvian, decaying
body with bullets.

And
that particular love indeed conquers all.

Everything
else is a side note. And Gognitti - just a miniature blemish on that
note.

Having
set my priorities straight, I start to walk away, but first make a
stop by a table housing several figurines of the good old Captain.
One is about a foot tall, its oversized head taking up almost half of
its size. Interesting design choice.

Absent
mindedly rotating it around a fixed axel, I comment, “Nice
dolls.”

“Action
figures,” Gognitti mumbles a correction, “They’re
fucking action figures.”

I
leave him with the last words, idiotic as they may be.

When
I open the front door, I hear the sound of glass shattering. So much
for that scotch. Too bad. A drink would’ve helped.

The
disheartening image I encounter as I leave Gognitti’s apartment
makes me wish I hadn’t taunted him about his night watch
arrangements.

Andrei
is slumped against the wall, his eyes shut in a not-quite-vigilant
fashion, while Cheburashka is hovering over that damned comic book he
looted from the Italian. The only one at least attempting to keep
watch is the new guy. But he’s young, still has a lot to learn
about the henchmen business.

Moments
like these make me wish I was one of those stereotypical movie
villains who had pools infested with sharks to handle such delicate
matters.

All
I have is the palm of my hand, which, after figuratively
slamming into my forehead, I literally connect sharply with the back
of Cheburashka’s head. He shoots me a look of ignited alarm.
“I’ll be confiscating that,” I slide the comic book
out of his grip, “if you don’t mind.”

“But
what did I do?” he complains loudly, “Big A. is fucking
sleeping, why don’t you hit him?”

I
heave a drawn out sigh.

Henchmen.
Just like fucking children, only without the cuteness factor. And
with guns.

“Well,
I didn’t say anything about not sleeping, did I?”
I point out, “But feel free to hit him all you want. Or let him
stay here for all I care. Even better.”

As
Cheburashka goes to wake his sleeping comrade through methods too
unsound to describe, I look over the comic book. The cover reads
Captain Baseball Bat Boy never gives up! Never surrenders!

Good
for him. Very inspirational.

I
think I just might, soon enough.

I
roll the comic book up and instead of rightfully disposing of it,
stick it in my jacket pocket. Memorabilia.

Not
that I particularly want to remember tonight’s little
encounter. My mind, however, already begins to wander back to
Gognitti. It’s as if the man is composed entirely out of
inadequacies and fears. A little bundle of phobias. He probably still
believes in the boogie man.

And
me?

I’m
already stuck living out my biggest nightmare.

What
else could I possibly have to fear?

Except
clowns?

We
exit the building, and I offer a silent thanks to the god of
disintegration for keeping it intact throughout our visit. We head
for the car.

There's
something alienating, terribly lonely in the shadows tonight, and I
consider calling Max. I dismiss that ridiculous idea immediately –
what would I say? ‘I just fucked Vinnie Gognitti up the ass.
How was your day?’

No,
it just doesn’t seem like the best conversation starter.

I
bark out a sharp laugh. The Henchman Without a Name gives me a
startled look. Can’t say I blame him.

I’m
not exactly myself, these days.

No,
Max is out of the question. Whatever question that is.

It
will just be me and my old friend the darkness.

“Boss,
do you want to drive or should–“

“I’ll
walk,” I decide for some reason. It’s not the most
logical of decisions, but it fits more than any other. To add an
element of unnecessary risk to impulsiveness, I conclude, “Alone.”

The
henchman gives me a funny look, but rightly chooses not to question
my judgment. If you can call it that.

Separating
myself from the pack, I find an ambiguous direction and start
following it, perfectly aware of the fact that this isn’t the
best place for me to be strolling through unaccompanied.

Well.

Come
and get me, Mrs. Karma.

If
you dare.

I've
always been a relative fan of the living on the edge concept. It
provides a more interesting view on the world. These days, though, I
sometimes wonder whether I've overstayed my welcome there, and am now
beginning to lose my balance. Or whether I've already gone over, and
haven't even noticed.

I
doubt that's the sort of thing one would notice, really.

I
begin to whistle. When I recognize the tune, I suddenly realize where
Gognitti’s ‘Latin’ came from.

I
grin.

Life’s
a laugh and death’s a joke, it’s true. You’ll see
it’s all a show, keep them laughing as you go. Just remember
that the last laugh is on you.

And
always look on the bright side of life.

Good
song.

Maybe
things will sort themselves out once I take control of the Circle.
Once all of those pretentious fucks are dead. Once the one-eyed
bastard’s body lies rotting before my feet, his remaining eye
feasted upon by crows.

I’ve
really got to get some crows.

I
keep my next laugh in my head; let it loop around aimlessly as I
walk, the night swallowing me up whole.

I’m
probably every bit as delusional as my dearest friend Gognitti.

But
it doesn’t hurt to have dreams.
- 3
- 4
You need to be logged in to leave a review for this story.You need to be logged in to leave a review for this story.
Report Story

Compos Mentis