Bryce’s brain churned, drowning in the quicksand of this shitshow, but John ignored him for now. He’s looking at Mar, as if he's waiting for some sorts of confirmation. She stared at her phone, silent for a stretch, then looked up to John finally, fshing her first grin of the day, full of true joy. “John, Tammy replied and says she’s spread the word to the media—new drug’s live at Hensley’s Haul now.”

  She then tapped her news app on her phone, shoved it in front of Bryce's face, and pyed a clip: “New drug hits Hensley’s Haul—Vigorex-level kick, way less fallout.”

  New drug? Bryce’s gut knotted—how even possible? Charles Vanderbilt, who basically oversaw every new drug release, swore no new shit was coming. The word “new drug” echoed in his head constantly, dragging up Tammy’s nonstop tip these past days. Was she giving me legit info? She's on my side?

  John saw through Bryce’s lost look, and that signature shit-eating grin slid back slow across his face. “Bet you’re wondering why Tammy fed you real intel while screwing you with us, huh?”

  He’d pyed nice and dumb too damn long today—needed a smoke bad. He lit one up, exhaling slow, then leaned in, talking to Bryce like he was just a fucking toddler.

  “Cause you’re a fucking idiot, Calhan—cash-stuffed moron with moles everywhere, thinking you own the fucking world. Let me ask you, when your men’s info don’t match up, who you gonna trust? Most folks hear nothing, and just Tammy yapping—some receptionist chick against procurement’s silence. Makes her sound like a liar, right? So we let her spill the truth, knowing you’d call bullshit. Only when you’re dead sure it’s fake, you go all-in on our Vigorex stock.”

  Bryce’s lust was long gone—cold sweat slicked his forehead. He didn't like where the conversation was going, not one bit. John smirked, “Hey, Calhan, we’re just getting started—already pissing yourself?” He put out his ciggy, flicked the butt hard—spt, right on Bryce’s brow—just to see if the prick was too stunned to flinch. “You’re actually pretty smart in some ways, I’ll give you that—not an easy guy to con. All those Vigorex stock talks? You did well and it's tough as hell for us—Mar’s a damn genius, dancing circles around you till now, luring you all the way to this trap.” John grinned at Mar, cpping light to show his respect. She smirked back, pyful and a touch shy, nodding once.

  Fuck, wish she wasn’t a lesbian, John thought, eyeing her—wrapped tight but still sexy as hell.

  John pivoted back to Bryce, “Pnting so many rats in our crew? Smart as hell—threw me off hard at the start. Dug around to sniff ‘em out early, came up empty every damn time. Turns out I didn’t even need to bother—fuckin’ brilliant distraction.” He shrugged, grinning sly, “Best part though? It led me straight to Camil—what a good woman. Already miss her—your wife, I mean. Nah, scratch that—she’s mine now.”

  “What?” Bryce’s mind cracked—Camil, his trophy wife, his shiny badge of wealth and clout, untouchable. “What the fuck you talking about, punk?” Denial roared—he’d guarded her like a vault, no way some nobody got close, no damn way.

  John cocked his mouth, “Don’t believe me? Call her. Rolled outta your pce—sorry, her pce—this morning after she cooked me a big breakfast.” Bryce’s face twitched hard—How the fuck? That bitch never cooks. John caught it, cackling like he’d struck gold, “I know, right? Said she doesn’t cook at first—but I asked real nicely a few more times. Simple like that, huh?”

  He kept the stomps into Bryce’s chest, “She kissed me goodbye, wished me luck, after I told her I'm here to fuck you up today—Brutal for you, huh? Sugar-sweet for me. Damn, she's a fine, good woman. Told her to ditch the booze—said I’d breed her so we’d have a kid or two. She was all thrilled and all in.” All true talks they’d done—just John needed a fixing from that High Goddess first, another tale for ter.

  “Well, if you don’t call, she’ll ring you anyway—all your private assets? Hers now. Lawyer’s gonna hit you up soon about that divorce.” After that, John figured Camil’s bit was done, ready to shift gears.

  But Bryce’s head was still tangled in Camil’s mess, the thought of this nobody screwing his wife torching his guts. “Where’s that shitstain Tyler all along!? Paid him to guard my wife—that only one fucking job!” He was a volcano about to blow, veins bulging. John just drank it in—those furious twitches were gold; nothing beat watching an enemy crack from the core. “Easy, man, again, not your wife anymore. Mine. And Tyler can wait. We’ll get to the big guy ter. Let’s finish the asset chat first.”

  Worried Bryce might shatter too fast and ruin the fun, John snagged a chair, slid it behind him, and eased him down slow and almost gentle before rolling on, “Camil’s asset grab’s shady as hell if you ask me—you could sue her, try cwing it back. Shit, I’d even toss you some evidence to help.” Bryce blinked, thrown off—what’s with this punk? He trying to bargain with me now, for a deal maybe? He reeled in his temper, eyes narrowing at John, waiting for the next move.

  John wasn’t half serious—just dangling a lifeline to steady Bryce’s nerves, so he could yank it away and gut him deeper.

  “Real talk, though—your cash flow’s fucked, hands full of ‘bad assets’—yep, that Vigorex you bought from us today. Banks’ll be up your ass for your loans soon, leaving you drowning in debt. I could hand you a mountain of proof—where you getting the cash for a pricey civil suit to get your money back though?”

  Bryce got it now—sucker-punched again. “Who the fuck are you? Why the fuck are you doing this?” he roared, spit flying.

  John saw another chance to twist the knife, slipping back into that slimy, ass-kissing grin from earlier. “Me? Just a nobody, sir. Mighty Mr. Calhan, and I’m messing with you just for fun.” No way he’d spill the revenge angle—that’d give Bryce a shred of sense, a hint it might be karma catching up. Fuck that. John wanted him to feel this pure confusion and despair—a random shitstorm that’d leave him broke and baffled, the ultimate chump.

  Bryce’s brain clung to denial like a lifeline, roaring, “No way—there’s no new drug! Fucking impossible! Procurement didn’t tell me shit—this can’t happen!” His eyes bulged red, fighting to choke back tears and snot. John smirked, pulling some tissues and tossing them over, “Wipe up, Calhan—dirty face ain’t pretty, and you’ll need pretty today.” Then he leaned in, picking apart Bryce’s mess, “Nope, no procurement—new drug’s stolen. I couldn’t do it myself though. That’s a lot of drugs from VP’s locked-down warehouse—big thanks to Vivian and her crew for that.”

  Bryce froze at the name, but John wasn’t letting up—knife ready to twist. “Yep, Mar’s Vivian—they’re back together. Look at you, scheming your ass off and still fucked nothing up right.”

  Bryce snapped—enough. He snatched the tissues, smeared off the tears and snot, chest heaving. It sucked, but he tched onto something big. He shot up from the chair, jabbing a finger at John’s nose, “You’re fucking dead, punk—touch VP’s shit, they’ll kill you. I’ll be right there, watching ‘em grind you slow!” He spun to bolt—today was a bust, but he’d retreat, regroup—still had connections, favors to cash.

  John’s ugh exploded, loud and wild, “You’re so fucking dumb sometimes, Calhan—think we’re done and you can just stroll out?” Mid-sentence, he darted forward—crack—a hard sp sent Bryce sprawling to the floor. John yanked a pistol, leveling it at him, “We ain’t settled yet. Back in the chair.” Then he gnced at Mar, “Mar, head back to the company—secure the cash Bryce so kindly sent. I’ll handle the rest here.”

  Mar didn’t budge—her beef with Bryce ran as deep as John’s. Both of them had been chewed up by his pns and games back then. “No—I’m staying. Wanna see this fucker eat shit.” John knew that stubborn steel in her—sighed, shook his head, fine.

  John swung back to Bryce, gun steady on him, grinning, “Hey, you spped me three times today—remember? Gotta pay that back, right?” Bryce was thinking about some wild torture John might pull, but hearing it was just three sps, his old swagger cwed up. I’m still Bryce fucking Calhan—I know people. This nobody doesn't really have the balls to touch me! After eating shit all day, he spat back, “You’re a fucking pussy—big game for three sps? Got the balls to really fuck me up? See if I flinch, bitch.”

  John’s brows pinched, head tilting to Mar, “Weirdest request I ever heard—guy’s begging me to fuck him up.” He then fished a pair of pliers from his pocket, tossed ‘em at Bryce’s feet with a ctter. “Your call, Calhan—I wasn’t gonna, but you asked for it so nice.” Mar cracked up, his deadpan clowning hitting her funny bone.

  Bryce stared at the pliers, scalp tingling, guts flipping—what the fuck now? John didn’t wait, barking, “Calhan, three sps from you, three teeth from you—we’re square. I’m a fair guy, respect choices, so pick whichever three you want, cool?”

  Bryce’s insides turned green with regret—why the hell did he taunt a dude with a gun, especially after today’s beatdown? Voice shaking, he stammered, “John—Mr. John—I… just got heated. Can we stick to… three sps?”

  No chance John’d let that slide. He widened his eyes, feigning concern—if not for the gun, you’d swear he was soothing a pal—“What’s wrong, Calhan? Not enough options? How about I throw in another one—curb stomp you, let fate pick how many teeth drop? Probably will be more than three—or you stick with pliers and choose your three. So the number of options you got now is your tooth count plus one, right? I'm a math guy.”

  Mar eyed John—she’d clocked his sick humor working with him tely, but this “n+1 math problem” topped it. She ughed soft, shaking her head.

  Bryce’s shaky hands lifted the pliers, trembling under the gun’s cold stare. He cmped the metal jaws around a bottom mor—his breath hitched, ragged and wet. Fingers slippery with sweat, he yanked hard. A sickening crunch snapped through the room as the tooth ripped free, roots tearing from gum like wet string. Blood gushed hot, pooling in his mouth—salty, metallic, choking him. His scream broke loose, a raw, gargled howl, face twisting as pain stabbed deep, spiking through his jaw like a rusty spike. Snot bubbled from his nose, tears streaked his cheeks—he was a fucking wreck, cwing at his own ruin.

  Even John, who’d seen plenty of ugly shit, winced inside—but his face stayed stone, that pyful smirk locked tight. Mar, though, turned away sharp—couldn’t stomach it.

  Bryce’s teary eyes begged John, pleading for a stop. John went quiet, face bnk for a beat—yep, dangling that fake hope again. He even lowered the gun, rubbed his face like he might have seen enough. Bryce lurched up, staggering toward the door—then click—John’s gun snapped back up, barrel wagging him back to the chair.

  Hopeless, gutted, Bryce gripped the pliers again, jamming them onto a front tooth. One brutal tug—pop—it tore out, blood spraying, spttering his chin. He wailed loud, a sloppy mess of sobs and shrieks, face a smear of crimson, snot, and tears—fucking pathetic, a clown in carnage. John squinted—ugly as hell. But Calhan, where was this mercy when you were drugging folks, especially those girls?

  Bryce knew John wouldn’t quit today—better end it fast. He raised the pliers for the third, hand shaking wild, but John cut in quick, “Hold up, Calhan—almost forgot, stop! Nearly fucked up big time!” He grabbed a towel, chucked it over, “Forgot—you gotta stay pretty today.”

  Bryce snatched it, smearing his wrecked face—blood and muck streaking the cloth. A flicker of relief hit—maybe I’m out—visions of revenge already brewing. He’d come back, gut this prick. Didn’t catch John’s “pretty” line looping again.

  Why need pretty? Cause a good fuck was coming his way—just as John promised earlier.

  “Hey, big guy, you’re up.” John cpped twice, and Tyler—Bryce’s hulking security guy—strolled out of the bathroom. John jabbed a finger at him, eyeing Bryce, “Calhan, you know your gig for Tyler’s fucking inhumane? Squeezed him dry when his family was sick and desperate—forced him 24/7, a workload for three guys. You get that?”

  Bryce’s head swam, still stuck on escaping—hell, maybe Tyler was here to bail him out. John didn’t give a shit about his thoughts anymore—gotta wrap this up now—he pressed on, “Tyler’s just a human, man—nonstop grind, no rest, no time to hook up, sip a drink, or get id. Imagine how pent-up this dude’s gotta be.”

  Bryce’s gears clicked—oh fuck. Tyler’s gay—that’s why he’d picked him to guard Camil. John’s line smmed back: “A good fuck’s coming your way”—literal as hell now.

  He was done fighting—every squirm just sank him deeper, like quicksand swallowing him whole. Eyes bnk, he sat limp, waiting for the axe.

  John stepped to Tyler, handed over the gun, “Thanks for the gun, big guy. Come in handy—sorry he’s not so pretty anymore. Got carried away a bit.” Tyler cpped John’s shoulder hard, a bear-like whack nearly popping it loose, “No problem, Sly—I’ve seen through much worse.”

  John’s twig frame reeled, sharp sore coming from that shoulder—damn, he almost felt bad for Bryce. Almost.

  He tossed Tyler a bottle of the new drug, “Well, have fun, big guy.” Halfway to the door, he paused—shit, something’s missing—spun back, and yanked Mar, who's still trying to watch along. “Nothing to see here anymore, Mar—let’s roll—give ‘em some privacy, shall we?”

  They stepped out, the hotel room’s st sounds trailing—Tyler’s low “yeah” cshing with Bryce’s weak “no”. Hey, not that different from the soundtrack when Charles and Bryce shared a room—same old groans, different stakes.

  In the hotel parking lot, John and Mar hit her car, driver already posted up waiting. Mar fshed a grin, “Today was a fucking riot—thanks to you, John.” Then she stretched slow, peeling off that bck, airtight jacket. Underneath, a white tank top hugged her tight—bck bra bring through, framing her huge, bouncy breasts, perky and damn near popping out, a tease that’d crash a truck.

  “Fucking sauna in that thing,” she muttered, eyeing John. He clocked her switch—stone-faced, silent, probably still chewing over the day’s chaos， yep, as the mastermind behind this whole shitshow. Mar caught his quiet, tossing out, “Hey, he had it coming. Plus, all these twisted, nasty moves? Your brainchild, buddy.” John shrugged, smirking, “Damn right. Ain’t my first rodeo either.”

  Mar sized him up, Vivian’s horny plea echoing in her head: “Once this mess is done, drag that foul-mouthed John back to fuck me again—st time wasn’t enough. Mar, you’re joining too, call it thanks!”

  She’d rolled her eyes—Viv’s lesbian ass pimping her own wife out to fuck a dude together? No fucking way. She can bang him herself—I’ll just “lend a hand,” call it thanks. So she still threw the hook at John, smirking, “Hey, wanna have some celebratory fun? Tammy’s jammed up with the media, but me and Vivian are down—a real thank-you fun. Vivian’s practically soaking for it.”

  She then grinned, tossing John’s own line back, “John, a good fuck’s coming your way today too.”

  His dead-fish stare scraped her killer curves and sharp face—half-snagged by the offer. But st time’s blue-ball hell smmed back, hitting like a brick to the skull—pissing him off all over again. These lesbians might just fuck with my head again.

  “No. Fuck no.”