Mr. Big Stuff Loves Victoria Swine: Book 3 Of 'working Class Villain'

Tortured to insanity by his boss and beaten to a pulp by the cops, Freddy is less than thrilled to discover he's still alive. But you know what they say: When life gives you lemons, stage a violent prison break and wreak havoc on your miserable metropolis. After assembling a team of misfits and miscreants, Freddy goes into business selling weird weapons to the crime bosses of his violent town.



~~~~~ Excerpt ~~~~~



It struck the ground with an overwhelming boom, a boom that resounded and pounded around their heads—drivers up and down the two blocks clapped their palms over their ears; the urge to squeeze their hands into their skulls was instinct, the fear of what the almighty sound could jar loose was so basic—brains might barf out their eyeballs, ruined childhood fantasies come galloping out of their nostrils. To be that close to an awesome rip in the noisy city, that embodiment of doom—murderer of the very concept of silence—in an instant aural flash—forced one whole column of traffic to burst out weeping.



The shockwave. The sonic force of the landing was at such a frequency that it caused upset stomachs, distracted thinking, bloody noses, increased aggression, and sensitivity to light.



The tarmac split; broken street folded underneath him, followed by eruptions of dirt. Cars bucked hood-first into the air. Car alarms rang out. The roar was unlike any thunderclap this generation had known in the wild. That sound could swallow everything. That sound punched. It hit. It made every muscle in Sally's body spasm.



The Man stepped out of the smoking pit he’d created. In an instant, he was at her window. The silver helmet caught the light. “ARE YOU HURT?”



“No—no!” she gasped, trying to regain her sight (a part of her knew she could see but her brain just wasn’t getting it).



“ARE YOU OKAY?” The electronic voice crackled at her.



“I’m fine!” she heard herself scream at the window.



“WHERE IS HE?”



“Stop!” she said. “I don’t know!”



She felt him lean down (that is, the entire car rolled towards the shoulder). His sparkling helmet obscured the sun. It loomed over her, its jagged contours dark, outlined in hard angles, the shadow flat, an eclipse. She put her fingers on her forehead and leaned into them, shutting her eyes tight. “I have a headache,” she said.



“WHERE IS HE?” the speakers demanded again.



She whipped off the wheel in a sudden fit. When she spoke, it left her teeth as a hiss and her spittle flecked the glass. She hit the jagged window with a flailing hand but didn’t even feel the pain until later that night when it returned to her as a dull ache. “I don’t know!” she screamed so loudly her voice cracked.



He could see the blood on the seat but Freddy was clearly not there. The cars had begun honking again—not cautiously. “I don’t know! I don’t know!” she yelled at the window.



“When did he leave?”



“No,” she said flatly.



“Sally.”



“No!” she screamed. “Go away!”



He grabbed the car. The whole frame wobbled on its axles. Wildly, Sally grabbed at the door and seatback for support. She felt the front lift, the steady weightlessness of the two-thousand pound car, and she in it, in the air—suddenly, in the air. The street sank beneath her like it was on an elevator going down; the buildings sank too, riding down the lift; the tops of the apartments, and the grocery store, the parking lot, the endless crooked boulevard stretching away into the thicket of West Opolis.