Grunkle Stan Brass Knuckles Novels & Stories

Then again, his face this time, his head snapping sideways into the wall. Again, right to his stomach. Again, to his chest this time. Again, and again, and again, each kick heavier than the last, each one fueled by a vicious grin spreading across my face. Knuckles, the monster of bare-knuckle fights, the thug whose fists had broken more men than bullets ever could, was reduced to a writhing heap under my boot. His curses became sobs, rage breaking into helpless, choking gasps. His eyes were wide, hateful, and terrified. Those eyes finally told me what I wanted to see.

I gasped, scrambling to my feet as my heart violently hammered against my ribs. "The blade..." Stan choked out, his knees buckling under him. He hit the stone floor with a deafening crash, his chest heaving as a network of black, unnatural veins rapidly spread from his side up toward his neck. "It wasn't... regular steel..."

One Striga down, only a couple hundred more to go. That first exorcism took so fucking long without silver bullets or holy water. Five more of the shrieking bloodsuckers are already spreading their wings on the inside of that jagged, ever widening hole in the door. I slip on a pair of cross-carved brass knuckles I kept tucked into my trench. Even with one messed up and seriously injured hand, I could hold my own against one, maybe two more of these freaks. Eight dozen is a different story. I jab my fist into a snarling face, knocking it aside, but a pair of claws drive into my shoulder blades before I can even finish off my target.

His soft red lips were as pale and white as desert sand. Mr. Starkov sat on another stool and looked him in the eyes. He was surrounded by several men in black suits and others in leather jackets and blue denim jeans. Graham had been beaten to the core, to the point that his body could bleed no more. The old man stared, his red, watery eyes blazing with fury. He raised his hand, and Vlad placed a weapon in his grip. He flexed the weapon in his hand—a nine-millimeter gun—and drew an imaginary line on Graham's cheek. He whistled and aimed the weapon at his chest.

He pulled out a heavy set of brass knuckles—the kind the rich kids kept for 'protection. ​"You want to play the hero, Vance?" Jax asked, sliding the cold metal over his fingers. "Let's see how you look with your jaw wired shut." ​He stepped toward me, the metal glinting. He was done talking. He was ready to finish this.

And, just as before, Ryu nodded, insisting on being honest. "I... I slapped her," Endo stammered in fear. "Knuckle." Kenji extended his hand, and one of the men stepped forward, producing a brass knuckle from his jacket. It was a weapon worn on the hand, made of iron, about a handspan long, with four holes for the fingers. Kenji slid the weapon onto his right hand, ensuring that all four fingers, except for the thumb, fit into the holes, and tightly clenched his fist.

The absolute, terrifying resurrection of the King had violently begun. He aggressively raised his completely shattered left arm, aggressively encased entirely in the heavy, stiff fiberglass cast. With a completely ruthless, terrifyingly brute force, he violently slammed the heavy, solid fiberglass directly against the thick, rusted iron buckle violently securing the heavy leather straps at the absolute back of his heavily bruised skull.

Greg grunted. I quickly scrambled to my feet, ignoring the pain and bracing myself. If they were going to try to have their way, I wasn’t going to make it easy. I would fight tooth and nail. "Oh, I love it when they fight back." Stan said, stepping into my cell after Greg unlocked it. "It isn’t any fun if they just give in." "You’re a disgusting bastard." I snapped, clenching my fists. "I promise if you touch me, I will be the last thing you ever touch."

I yelled as my confidence level started to rise. Justin nodded his head as he took out a lighter and started to light the metal stick, causing it to turn a reddish color. "Take off her clothes." Justin said as Dylan approached me. I shook my head and squirmed as he started ripping pieces of fabric off of my body. Different screams and profanities left my mouth as I wiggled away from him.

“I need to make sure you can hit with your right hand. I don’t want you placing it against your wedding ring,” Aleksei says as I stare down at the brass knuckles he got me for my birthday. I can’t help but warm inside. I didn’t really think he was going to get them for me, but I know he’ll do anything to make me happy. Even if that means giving me a weapon. “My right hook is just fine,” I say, winking at him. He grunts, but I see the pull to one side of his lips and know he’s fighting a smile.