I don’t register the fist flooding my vision until it is too late.

The fatal hit is groundbreaking, rendering my vision a pixilated canvas of white.

At first the pain doesn’t even register, all I can focus on is recovering from the force of the knuckles kneading into my jaw.

When the pain does finally set in (and trust me, it comes like a full speed truck), I clutch my face and stumble back a few paces.

The pain is agonizing and throbbing, a pulsating burn that stretches across my jaw and throughout my entire face.

I narrow my gaze at the perpetrator, though my eyes are likely watery and don’t hold the intended malice I try to infuse them with.

I want to respond with something bold and threatening, something to scare the idiot. But all I can muster are half hearted words.

“I fink yew bwok my jwaw”, I slur, feeling around the tender bones for any abnormalities.

The bodyguard before me crosses his arms and has the nerve to behold me with a look of irritation.

“I told you to get off the property or else you would regret it”, he says cooly. His fist, the one I imagined to be gnarled and bruised and covered with blood appears perfectly fine, as though it were a fist use to punching people.

“Fine, fine. I’ll go; good day, sir”, I murmur, turning away.

I make it two feet before at the last minute, I spin on my heels and dash towards the bodyguard. I aim for the already half opened gate, hoping to squeeze myself onto the property and to the front door. My feet slap against the ground, the brand new the Italian dress shoes kicking up gravel and dust as I move.

I’m fast, stealthy and agile as a panther, and manage to make it through. Somehow, the bodyguard has moved from his post just enough that I am able to bypass him without confrontation.

I make a speedy beeline to the front door, the mahogany double set doors a beacon in my vision.

I am so close, my feet almost to the steps, when I am tackled from behind.

I hit the grassy lawn hard, my lungs deflating from lack of air immediately upon impact.

The pain in my jaw is no longer as sharp as it was before, but only because my entire body now aches from being thrown to the ground with such force.

“Get….off….you’ll get…. grass stains on my Versace…”, I wheeze, attempting to worm my way out from under the weight of the giant.

When I turn to look over my shoulder, I see the sculpted bald top of a pink skinned head, followed by two icy eyes filled with rage.

“ARE YOU STUPID?!”, the bodyguard huffs, his face an impressive mask of anger and disbelief.

I want to respond, and this time the retort is already poised on my tongue, when someone above us clears their voice.

I turn to look in front of me and meet with a pair of beautiful leather shoes.

They are a horsebit loafer with shiny silver hard-wear and a two toned white and navy colorway. The shoes are in prestine condition, not a single scuff or scratch marring their surface. If I had to put money on it, I would say they were Gucci perhaps? But maybe a more modern retake of a vintage-

“What are you doing on my property?”, an authoritative voice bellows.

With considerable effort I peel my eyes away from the shoes and follow the length of the person in front of me.

My eyes find a wrinkled face with a mop of neatly combed salt and pepper hair. Judging by his face, the man seems to be in a terrible mood- and judging by the price tag of his outfit, he’s exactly the man I was looking for.

“Mr Chuck Calloway? Owner of the multimillion dollar Enterprise Calloway Trust?”, I ask, trying to gather enough air in my lungs to speak.

“I’m Vinnie Lombardi and I’m just hear to ask you a few questions-“

The rest of my perfectly crafted introduction is interrupted by the heavy oft on my back.

“Sir, he’s one of ‘em reporters I caught loitering around the premise. He er… managed to slip past the gate and get in somehow”, the bodyguard recites, making sure to not implement himself too much for his poor guarding skills.

With much effort, I manage to shimmy out from under him and get to my feet. I pay myself down, straightening my suit and dusting it off.

With a sigh, after a few useless minutes I finally decide to cease my attempts at saving it. The three piece suit would likely spend a few days at the dry cleaners to get it even close to it’s on the rack condition.

I clear my throat and begin again.

“Actually, my name is Vinnie Lombardi and I’m a private investigator, not a reporter”, I say hotly, shooting a gaze down to the bodyguard still sprawled on the ground.

“I just have a few questions regarding the sudden death of the Vice President of your company”, I start, but Mr Calloway is already waving his hand dismissively.

“No questions. My lawyer isn’t present”, he says, moving to walk past me.

Before he can leave I make the bold choice to grab him by the sleeve.

Mr Calloway has barely turn around to appraise me when I once again feel myself careening off the ground and straight to the ground. My body aches as soon as it thuds on the trimmed grass, throbbing like a canvas riddled with bruises. I groan in pain.

“W-why”, I wheeze, squeezing my eyes shut to ward off the pain. I must’ve broken a bone now- maybe even a few.

“No touching Mr Calloway”, the bodyguard says, his voice a blaring megaphone in my ear.

I’m about to respond, my third chance for the perfect retort hovering in the air before me.

But my vision goes blurry and spotty and a sudden lightness fills my head.

Before I can part my lips to speak, the world turns an inky black and I sink into the perfectly manicured lawn