Chapter 8: Reunited (and it feels so good)

São Paulo, Brazil

January 13, 1999

The American Airlines 777 touched down at Guarulhos International Airport at 2:30 AM, twelve and a half hours after it had taken off from LAX. Matt Tisdale, sitting in the first-class section of the Boeing aircraft, was a ball of anxiety that even the six Jack Daniels and cokes he had consumed on the flight could not tame. He had not slept a wink on the long flight that had begun in the late morning sunshine of LA and ended in the early morning hours of Brazil. The primary source of his anxiety was not his coming confrontation with one Andrew Hopple II—he was actually quite looking forward to that interaction—but the fact that he had left the safety of the United States and its reasonably advanced healthcare and had traveled to a fucking third-world country (that was how he pictured Brazil—even though he had been there before) without his personal paramedic.

Jim had wanted to go with him. “This is exactly what you keep me around for,” had been the paramedic’s argument when pleading his case. But Matt had refused.

“You don’t want to be involved in the shit that’s gonna be going down when I catch up to that motherfucker,” Matt told him.

“No, I really don’t,” Jim replied carefully, “but it is my job.”

“Not this time, Jimbo,” Matt insisted to him. “I’m gonna be doing shit that could end with me in some fuckin’ Brazilian prison if things don’t go right. I don’t want your ass in there with me if the shit hits the fan. Besides, you’ll just slow me down.”

And that had been that. Jim had stayed in California with Kim and Matt had flown off to the biggest city in the western and southern hemispheres—though it was hard for Matt to even image a city that was bigger than Los Angeles or New York. Until he saw it from the air—an endless expanse of city lights and streets that stretched from horizon to horizon as they approached the airport—he could not even grasp that the concept was real. Someone had simply done their math wrong.

Matt had no checked baggage to collect. Everything he needed for his mission was packed into a carry-on suitcase that fit neatly into the overhead compartment of the plane. As such, he was able to skirt through the airport—which was bustling and crowded even at this early morning hour—and make it to a taxi stand out in front of the terminal building. He hopped in one of the cabs and tried to tell the driver in the pidgin Spanglish he typically used to communicate with the many Hispanics in Los Angeles that he wanted to go to the Hilton Airport Hotel.

“I understand,” the cab driver answered in English after listening to Matt’s drivel for thirty seconds.

“Oh, you speak English?” Matt said, nodding. “Cool.”

“Yes,” said the cabby. “But I do not speak Spanish. We speak Portuguese here in Brazil, not Spanish.”

Matt simply shrugged. “Whatever,” he said. “Do you know where a man can score a little coke around here?”

“Coke?” the cabbie asked, raising his eyebrows. “You mean the soda?”

“No,” Matt said, shaking his head sternly. He mimed the act of snorting a line off a mirror. “That kind of coke.”

“Ahhh,” said the cabbie. “You mean Branco.”

“Is that what you call it here?” Matt asked.

“Yes, among other things.”

“Then you can set me up?”

“No,” the cabbie said. “I cannot. I suggest you talk to your hotel concierge. He will likely be a better source.”

“Oh ... cool,” Matt said with a nod. “Well, let’s do it then.”

“Ten dollars American,” the cabbie told him.

“Fuckin’ A, Taco,” Matt agreed. And then, as they made the trip, he wondered if they even ate tacos in Brazil. Apparently these Brazilians were not real beaners. But didn’t everyone eat tacos? Even if they weren’t beaners? The name was still appropriate, right? He decided that it was.

He gave Taco the cab driver a ten-dollar bill and a couple of singles for a tip. The concierge was not on duty currently, but that was okay. Matt really needed some sleep more than he needed some Branco at the moment. He got checked into his suite, put up the do-not-disturb sign, and was soon drifting off to the sound of jet engines passing over every two to three minutes. It was an almost soothing white noise.

He slept soundly and well until just past 2:00 PM. He got out of bed, showered, shaved, and ordered a little something from room service. After eating, he found his way back downstairs for a word with the concierge, who did indeed know how Matt could score a little Branco.

“It’ll be good shit, right?” Matt asked the man. “Pure. No fucking cut?”

“The purest in Brazil,” he was promised.

A man came to his room just after 4:30 PM. He sold Matt ten grams of powdered cocaine for $500 American, which was a pretty good bargain compared to Los Angeles prices. Of course, the cocaine was not pure—Matt had not been very hopeful that it would be—but the cut was minimal, maybe only twenty percent, and did add a nice, sweet taste to the Branco. The dealer also sold him an eighth of some pretty good bud for another thirty dollars American and even threw in some rolling papers for free.

“Gracias,” Matt told him once the transaction was complete.

“Obrigado,” corrected the dealer.

“What the fuck’s that mean?”

“That is how you say, ‘thank you’ in Portuguese,” he said. “Obrigado.”

“Oh ... yeah, thanks,” Matt said. “Obrigado. I can dig it.”

“Very well,” the drug dealer said.

“What’s up with the Portuguese shit anyway?” Matt asked him. “Why don’t you people speak fuckin’ Spanish like every other country down here?”

The dealer stared at him for a moment and then said slowly, “Because Brazil was originally colonized by people from Portugal and in Portugal, they speak Portuguese.”

“Oh ... okay,” Matt said. “I thought there would be a more complicated reason that that. Well ... thanks for the shit, homey. Obri-fucking-gado, you know what I’m sayin’?”

“I know what you’re saying,” the dealer said tiredly. And then he was gone.

Matt snorted up a few lines, which served to ease his anxiety about not having Jim around. He then mixed up a Jack and coke at the bar and sat down to watch a little Brazilian television. He was happy to see that there were channels where they spoke fucking English. He watched two episodes of Seinfeld before the phone began to ring at 6:56 PM.

“Yo,” Matt said into it.

“This is the front desk, sir,” said a polite voice with a strong accent. “There are two gentlemen here who say they would like to come up and see you. They tell me you are expecting them.”

“Fuckin’ A,” Matt said. “Send them up.”

“Very well, sir,” was the reply.

At precisely 7:00 PM there was a knock on the door. Matt opened it and beheld two rather large and intimidating men. Both were in their mid-thirties, both well over six feet tall, both in exquisite physical shape. They wore jeans and loose-fitting button-up shirts that hung low over their waists—undoubtedly to conceal holstered pistols. Matt did not feel intimidated by them. In a few minutes they would be in his employ.

“Come on in, homies,” Matt said, standing aside.

They came in and introduced themselves. One of them had a dark complexion—not as dark as your average LA black motherfucker, but considerably darker than your average LA beaner. The other was light-skinned with straight, close-cut dirty-blonde hair. The dark skinned one was named Pedro. The light-skinned one was named Lucas. In Matt’s mind they were ‘Darkie’ and ‘Whitey’, respectively. And they were both associates of the Segurança Internacional private investigation and protection firm that was based in São Paulo and reputed to be the very best at what they did. The hiring of the firm and the meeting that was about to take place had been arranged by Alex Garcia, the San Diego PI who had found Hopple in the first place.

Both men spoke impeccable and unaccented English. Both refused Matt’s offer of a drink or a few lines to loosen up the mood a bit.

“Fair enough,” Matt told him. “Let’s grab a seat and talk this shit over.”

They all grabbed a seat at the dining room table, Matt with a fresh glass of Jack and coke before him (this was not really a business meeting per se, so his moratorium on drinking and drugs did not apply). Darkie seemed to be the one in charge. Neither of them had any detectable sense of humor or fun.

“You know who I am, right?” Matt asked them.

Darkie nodded. “Matt Tisdale,” he replied. “Former lead guitarist for the American band Intemperance, current solo artist who is in a significant amount of tax and financial trouble, most of it caused by the subject of this meeting.”

“That’s right,” Matt agreed. “Andrew fucking Hopple the second. Sleazebag extraordinaire. Not only did the motherfucker give me horrible tax advice, he left the fuckin’ country with sixteen million dollars of my motherfuckin’ money.”

“That is our understanding,” Darkie said with a nod. “You know, of course, that there is no chance of recovering any of that money. It is all in offshore accounts and beyond our reach.”

“Yeah,” Matt said sourly, “I know that shit. This ain’t about getting my money back. That fuckin’ ship has sailed.”

“Then this is about revenge,” said Whitey.

“You got that shit right,” Matt replied. “I want a piece of his fuckin’ ass. And I’m gonna get it.”

“We will not kill this man,” Darkie said firmly. “We will rough him up for you, put him in the hospital even, but we will not kill him. That is not what our firm is about.”

“I don’t want either one of you to touch a hair on his fuckin’ head,” Matt told them. “I just want you to find a place where he does not have a security team with him and take me there so that he and I can have ourselves a talk.”

“A talk?” Whitey asked, raising his eyebrows a bit.

“A very intensive talk,” Matt said.

“I see,” said Whitey.

“You wish to do the roughing up yourself?” Darkie asked, a little respect showing in his eye.

“Fuckin’ A,” Matt said. “I’m looking forward to it.”

“The same stipulation will apply,” Darkie said. “We will not be involved in murder. If you start to move in the direction of killing him, we will pull you off of him.”

Matt looked at the two of them and then nodded. “I’m counting on that shit,” he said. “I don’t want to end up in some fuckin’ third world prison because of this asshole.”

“We cannot guarantee that you will not end up in prison,” Darkie told him. “That all depends on the circumstances at the time. But as long as you do not actually commit murder, even if you do end up in the hands of our law enforcement, a simple bribe would likely solve your problem for you. And, even if you happen to be arrested under circumstances where bribery will not be feasible, you still will not do much time as long as this Hopple continues to draw air. Even if he is in traction in a hospital.”

“That shit’s good to know,” Matt said, “but I don’t want to talk to any fuckin’ Brazilian cops whatsoever. The plan is to do the deed and then get the fuck out of here, post-fuckin’-haste.”

“That would work out for the best,” Whitey agreed with a nod.

“Then let’s start talking this shit out,” Matt said. “Garcia told me that it was your firm who actually trailed Hopple and got his fingerprints and found out where he lived and all that shit.”

“That is correct,” said Darkie. “Mr. Garcia subcontracted to our firm for the actual grunt work here in São Paulo once he established that Hopple was going under the name Alfred Harrigan. Lucas and I were the ones who tailed him from the strip-clubs he has interests in and found his domicile. We are the ones who collected his fingerprints from the glass he used.”

“And we are the ones,” added Whitey, “who were set to work establishing his weekly routine when Mr. Garcia called us last month to subcontract once again.”

“Then you have a time and place I can meet up with this motherfucker?” asked Matt.

“Not a specific time and place we can tell you about right now,” Darkie said. “But we have established the best way for you to confront Mr. Hopple.”

“Let’s hear it,” Matt said.

“First, there is the small matter of our fee,” Darkie said, almost apologetically.

“Right, of course,” Matt said. “Twenty-five thousand American bones, right?”

“That is correct,” Darkie said. “Wired to our account by the close of business tomorrow afternoon. What that twenty-five thousand gets you is our continued surveillance to establish the optimum time and place for your confrontation with Hopple, transportation to that place, our protection from interference by outsiders during the confrontation, and transport to the airport after the confrontation.”

“Sounds like an ass-fuck,” Matt told them. “How we gonna do this shit? We can’t do it at his pad, right?”

“Correct,” Darkie said. “He lives in one of the most exclusive residential towers in São Paulo. They have armed lobby security, valet service, and a substantial security presence around the perimeter of the building. To attempt your confrontation there would be madness.”

“Sounds like it,” Matt agreed.

“Going after him at the strip clubs is out as well,” said Whitey. “They each have a minimum of four bouncers on duty whenever the clubs are open for business. And the only time Hopple goes there is when the clubs are open. He has a fondness for the strippers, it would seem.”

“God knows why,” Matt said, shaking his head. “A bunch of fuckin’ skank-o-rama sluts who are too ugly to get into legitimate porn.”

“Uh ... perhaps,” Darkie said. “Anyway, the deal cannot be done at a strip club without a major fracas erupting, which would lead inevitably to a large police response.”

“What’s the answer then?” Matt asked.

Darkie told him. Matt listened carefully and then nodded. “That could work,” he said. “It makes getting the fuck out a little iffy, but it could work.”

“I do not really see any other way,” Darkie said.

“Then that’s the plan,” Matt said. “Start the surveillance. I’ll keep my ass reasonably sober at night and I’ll be ready to roll at a moment’s notice.”

“Very good,” Darkie said. “Once we have confirmation of the wire transfer of funds, we’ll make the arrangements and call you the moment the circumstances are correct.”

“Hopefully it will happen soon,” Matt said. “I only got nine days in this place before I have to be back to LA.”

It actually took four days before the circumstances were right. It had been discovered during the surveillance of Hopple that, in addition to going to the strip clubs to bang the strippers, he enjoyed the company of a higher class of female as well. Once or twice per week—the actual day seemed variable and random—he was known to have dinner with such a creature, usually taking her to one of the higher-class downtown restaurants, providing that dinner, and then taking her back to his place for a few hours before sending her home in a cab. Where he found these women was a mystery—it could be they were online hookups or upper-end whores—but that did not really matter. What mattered was that the pattern existed and that Hopple employed no bodyguards for such dates. The last such date he had been on had been five days before Matt’s arrival in São Paulo. The next was on Monday night, January 18^th.

Matt had not left the hotel room since arriving in it. He took all of his meals from room service and had everything else delivered to the room. He did not want people to recognize him and generate reports that he was in São Paulo. The phone in his room rang at 6:35 that evening. He was dressed in a pair of sweat shorts and a tattered Corona t-shirt and had not shaved in three days or showered in two. He was smoking a Brazilian cigarette (they weren’t bad) and drinking from a bottle of Coca-Cola that had no Jack Daniels in it. As promised, he remained sober during the evening hours until after nine, when it could be safely concluded that he would not be able to confront Hopple that evening.

“Wassup?” he said into the phone when he picked it up.

“This is Lucas,” said a voice in his ear. “We’re in business. Our friend just picked up a woman from a residential tower west of downtown. They are heading further into the city right now. It appears this will be a dinner date.”

Matt smiled. “Excellent,” he said. “We don’t know where he’s going yet?”

“No, but we have a team tailing him. We’ll have the information the moment they arrive at their destination.”

“Tonight’s the night then,” Matt said. “How long until you’re here?”

“Thirty minutes,” Lucas replied. “We’ll pull up out front in a red, 1998 Chevrolet Tahoe four-wheel drive. Pedro will be behind the wheel. I will be in the passenger seat.”

“I’ll be waiting out front,” Matt promised.

He quickly shaved, brushed his teeth, and then took a shower. He dressed in a pair of jeans and a button-up short-sleeved shirt. He put socks and tennis shoes on his feet. He combed out his long hair and tucked much of it under a Los Angeles Dodgers baseball cap. He then packed everything that belonged to him back in his carry-on bag. He hefted it over his shoulder and then headed downstairs. Though he was booked into the room for another five nights, if all went well he would not be returning to it.

He made his way down to the lobby and out the front doors. He sat on a bench with a view of the hotel drop off area. Twenty-nine minutes after receiving the phone call, a red Chevy Tahoe pulled into the semi-circular driveway. Matt could see that Darkie was behind the wheel and Whitey was sitting in the front. He stood up and walked over to the vehicle. The moment it stopped, he opened the rear door, tossed his bag inside, and then climbed in after it. Before he could even settle in his seat, the vehicle was pulling away.

“Any word yet?” Matt asked the two Brazilians.

“Just that he’s heading for the Jardin Paulista district,” Whitey told him. “That’s just south of downtown. It’s also where Mr. Hopple’s residential building is located.”

“Any chance he’s just taking this skank back to his place to bone her?” Matt asked.

“Anything is possible,” Whitey said as Darkie pulled out onto the congested street, “but it would not fit the established pattern.”

“Fair enough,” Matt said.

The sun was low in the west as they made their way through the crowded streets and into the city proper. Matt complimented the duo on their vehicle.

“It’s stolen,” Darkie told him.

“Oh ... I see,” Matt said. “What happens if the cops pull us over before we get there?”

“Unlikely,” said Whitey, “but if it happens, I will simply bribe the officer to let us go. In the meantime, however, try to touch as few things as possible. We will wipe everything down before abandoning the vehicle after the mission, but the less you touch the less chance of us missing one of your prints.”

“Right,” Matt said, feeling a little nervous now. “I understand.”

They drove on. About fifteen minutes into the trip, Whitey’s cellular phone began to ring. He answered it and held a brief conversation in Portuguese. He then flipped it shut again and looked back at Matt. “Hopple and his date have arrived at a steakhouse located three kilometers from his residence. They utilized the valet parking and are now being seated.”

“How long until we get there?” Matt asked.

“What’s the restaurant?” Darkie asked Whitey.

Whitey rattled off something in Portuguese.

“Twenty minutes or so,” Darkie said. “We’ll arrive well before they finish dinner.”

Darkie was right. They rolled into the Jardin Paulista district and navigated to an upper end retail and commerce area. It looked rather classy overall. The vehicles that drove around here were all upper end models and the people were all well-dressed. Darkie drove by the restaurant in question. It was called Churrascaria do Pecuarista. It looked like a pretty snooty joint to Matt.

“That is where the confrontation will occur,” Darkie said pointing to the valet area just in front of the main entrance. There were two valets currently on duty, neither one of whom looked very intimidating in stature. “We will make our move while they are waiting for their vehicle to be collected.”

“Sounds good,” said Matt, smiling, anticipating the confrontation as he had once anticipated his first threesome.

Darkie drove around the block and they parked in the parking lot of a market area that was crowded with vehicles and shoppers utilizing the shops. Darkie assured Matt that their surveillance team had Hopple and his woman in view and would let them know the minute they headed for the doors. From there, it would take less than a minute to make the drive back to the restaurant.

“What if there are cops there?” Matt asked.

“Then we abort the mission,” Darkie said simply. “It is unlikely that there will be any tiras present, however. They are not called to this part of the city often.”

“Sounds like an ass-fuck,” Matt said.

They waited. As they did so, Matt opened the side pocket on his bag and pulled out a pair of MMA competition gloves—the kind with the padding over the back of the hand but with the fingers exposed. Though they would take a little of the sting out of his punches, they would also protect his hands from fractures. He had learned from listening to the tales of Jake Kingsley and Coop how punching someone out could lead to fractures and inability to play guitar.

Forty-six more minutes went by before Whitey’s phone rang again. He spoke briefly in Portuguese but did not hang up the phone. Instead, he kept it to his ear. He looked at Matt. “Subject is paying the bill now,” he told him. “They should be emerging from the establishment in the next five minutes.”

Matt nodded, smiling again. It was almost go time.

“Remember,” said Darkie, “do not kill him. That would lead to a significant escalation of the police response to the incident.”

“Understood,” Matt said. “And you two remember: Don’t let me kill him.”

“Understood,” Darkie said.

The minutes ticked by. Whitey kept the phone to his ear and continued to provide a running update of the situation as it was relayed to him by the surveillance team. “The waiter just brought the check back.” And then, “he’s going through the change now, probably trying to figure out how much of a gratuity to leave.”

“I bet he’s a cheap tipper, the asshole,” Matt opined.

Whitey did not respond to this. Finally, he said the words they were all waiting for. “They’re getting up now. Heading for the door.”

“Let’s fuckin’ do it!” Matt said, geared up for a little violence.

“Not yet,” Whitey said. “The woman has separated from him. Going to the bathroom most likely.”

Matt shook his head. “Isn’t that just like a bitch?” he asked.

Another four minutes went by. Finally, Whitey reported, “Okay. She’s out of the bathroom. They’re heading for the door.”

“Now we go,” Darkie said, starting the engine and dropping the vehicle into gear.

They roared out of the parking lot and out onto the street. Darkie drove them quickly around the block and circled around toward the restaurant once again. On the way, Whitey reported that Hopple had given his claim ticket to one of the valets and that the valet had trotted into the parking area.

“This is it,” Darkie said. “Make it quick. The quicker the better.”

“Fuckin’ A,” Matt said as the SUV pulled into the valet area and screeched to a sudden halt.

Hopple was standing next to the valet stand. Despite having seen recent pictures, Matt almost did not recognize him. His hair was blonde now and he sported a blonde mustache. He had also put on some weight. He was dressed in a pair of dress slacks, a dress shirt with a tie, and a dinner jacket. Standing next to him was an attractive light-skinned woman in her late twenties. She was dressed in a classy red dress and had nylons on. Both of them looked up as the SUV came screeching in, startled but seemingly unworried about their own safety. That would soon change.

Matt jumped out of the back seat. Whitey and Darkie stepped out of the front. The three of them started walking purposely toward the valet stand. It was at this point that Hopple seemed to recognize one of the men walking toward him. His eyes widened almost comically and he took in a sharp intake of breath. He looked left, right, and then behind, obviously searching for an escape route. He tensed up, preparing to run, but he was indecisive for just a few seconds too long. Whitey and Darkie suddenly rushed forward, moving like the wind, and grabbed him by his arms before he could take a single step.

“O que está acontecendo aqui?” asked the remaining valet in a shaky voice.

“Nada que te diz respeito,” Whitey told him. “Sair daqui.”

Matt did not understood what had just been said, but he picked up the context quite easily. The young valet turned and bolted into the parking area as if his pants were on fire. Whitey then turned to the well-dressed woman standing next to Hopple. “Vá, agora,” he told her. “Não olhe para trás.”

She too turned and walked quickly away without the slightest of hesitations. She headed off down the sidewalk. She did not look back.

“Whu ... whu ... what’s going on here?” asked Hopple in English, his eyes staring at Matt’s.

“What the fuck do you think is going on here, Hopple?” Matt asked. “It’s time for you to pay your fuckin’ bill.”

Hopple shook his head rapidly. “You have me mistaken for someone else,” he said quickly. “My name is Alfred. Alfred Harrigan.”

“Your name is Hopple,” Matt told him. “And don’t even try to pretend that you don’t fuckin’ know who the fuck I am or what this shit is about. You stole sixteen million dollars from me, motherfucker, and I’m here to take it out of your ass.”

“I’m not Hopple!” Hopple cried desperately. “You have the wrong guy!”

Matt considered for a moment that maybe this was all just a case of mistaken identity so he looked carefully at the man’s face. He received the reassurance he needed after only a few seconds. True, the hair was now blonde (obviously dyed) and he had a mustache (also obviously dyed), but those beady brown eyes were the same, as was the puffy chubbiness of the cheeks, as was the particular rounding of the double chin, as was the whiny-ass bitch voice. Yes, this was Hopple standing before him. There was no mistake about it.

“Let him go,” Matt directed his two companions.

They took their hands off of Hopple’s arms. He immediately tried to turn and run, thus necessitating that they grab him again. Meanwhile, a crowd was forming across the street and in the windows of the restaurant. The clock was definitely ticking here.

“Goddamn it, Hopple,” Matt said. “I’ll beat your ass while they’re holding you if I have to, but that ain’t a fair fight. I’m willing to give you the chance to defend yourself here but you ain’t gonna run away like a bitch.”

“I’m not Hopple!” he insisted. “Please! You have to believe me!”

Matt ignored this. “They’re going to let go of you again,” he said. “And when they do, I’m coming for you. Defend yourself when I do. They’ll stay out of it. If you can defend yourself from me, then you win the fight. You ready?”

“Listen ... Matt...” Hopple said.

“How’d you know my fuckin’ name if you’re not Hopple?” Matt asked.

Hopple grimaced, realizing his mistake, but he recovered quickly. “Because I listen to Intemperance! Listen, you can’t do this!”

“But I can,” Matt said. He looked at Whitey and Darkie again. “Release him.”

They released him. This time, he did not try to run. Instead, he began to cry and plead. “Please don’t do this, Matt! I’ll get your money back for you! I swear!”

“Defend yourself,” Matt said. He then moved in for battle.

Hopple did not defend himself. Not even a little bit. Matt swung a right hook and connected with the left side of Hopple’s ribcage, driving the air from him. He followed it up with two more vicious jabs in the same spot. Hopple fell to the ground and tried to curl up in a ball. Matt kneeled down next to him and hammered him six or seven more times in the same basic location. He felt the distinct crunching of several ribs breaking under the force.

“Please ... please ... please!” Hopple kept crying, breathless from the blows.

“Fuckin’ pussy!” Matt yelled, standing again. He reached down and grabbed the lapels of Hopple’s dinner jacket, yanking him forcefully to his feet. “Fuckin’ defend yourself, asshole!”

Hopple tried to lay back down. Matt did not let him. Holding him up with his right hand, he threw several brutal punches directly into Hopple’s face with his left hand. He felt a pop of the man’s jaw, felt the crunch of teeth breaking. He then hammered him in the solar plexus, driving the air from him once again. He shifted hands, now holding the accountant up with his left. He punched him multiple times on the left side of his head, feeling more teeth break. He drove a straight right directly into Hopple’s nose, shattering it and spraying blood everywhere. He then threw him to the ground, where he crashed down in a heap, barely conscious. He stepped forward and cocked his right foot back, preparing to kick the motherfucker in the head.