Nicolas Batum stepped out of the Barcelona airport with a single goal in mind. The address of his target had already been acquired. He hailed a taxi, and when he slipped into the backseat of the cab, he handed the driver a small slip of paper with the address written on it. Nic was not confident enough in his Spanish to attempt to pronounce the name of the street.
The driver soon stopped attempting to make conversation once he realized that the only response Nic would ever give was an apologetic shrug. The ride continued in silence as they passed by numerous landmarks that would make any tourist swoon. Nic regarded these things with only cursory interest; his mind was mostly occupied with the task that lay in front of him.
After thirty minutes, they had ascended the hills surrounding the metropolis to a swanky neighborhood of single-family homes. Nic scoffed at the pretentious architecture and overwrought luxury of the place. Of course, his target would accept no less than the most ostentatious accommodations, so vile and boastful of a person was he.
Finally, the cab pulled over in front of one of the houses. Nic grabbed a wad of Euro bills that he had just gotten exchanged and, without bothering to glance at the amount, handed them to the driver. It must have been too much, because there was very profuse thanking and head-nodding from the driver. Nic stepped out of the taxi and simply waved a dismissive hand before proceeding to the front door of the house. He knocked just as the cab drove off.
When Juan Carlos Navarro opened the door, he visibly cringed before regaining his composure. “Oh, it’s you.”
“Yes. It’s me,” Nic agreed. “Who else would it be?”
“Maybe your mother looking for another romp with Spain’s greatest basketball player,” Juan spat.
Nic was unfazed by this attack on his mother’s chastity. He knew firsthand the hate that brewed in the man’s heart. “You’re not going to invite me in? Where are your manners?”
“I would sooner entertain a pack of ravenous wolves in my living room than allow the despicable Nic Batum to set even one toe over the threshold of my home,” Juan replied.
Nic saw his chance while Juan bloviated about his invitation policies. Taking a kick at the shorter player’s legs, he was dismayed when his foot contacted nothing but open air.
“Not again!” Juan moaned, trying to slam the door shut as he turned and ran into his house. Nic barred the door with his arm and then made chase. Juan had turned a corner into a hallway that looked like it looped back into the kitchen. Nic positioned himself behind the refrigerator and waited for Juan to reemerge.
Nic’s hunch was proved correct as Juan sprinted through the ornately-tiled kitchen only to be tackled from behind as he passed by Nic’s hiding spot. “Please! Don’t punch me there again,” Juan pleaded as Nic sat on his chest. “I’m sorry about those things I said!” His words were barely more than breaths.
“It’s too late for ‘sorry'” Nic snarled, reaching underneath his shirt and retrieving a hammer from a hidden pouch strapped to his chest. “I hope that you’ve had all the kids you wanted, because you’re certainly not having any more of them after I finish using this,” he continued, holding the hammer in front of his victim’s face.
Juan had begun to cry. “Please, Nic, please. Not that. Not the hammer.”
Nic turned himself around and got himself in position for the strike. “Maybe now you will learn the meaning of respect,” he said, bringing the hammer above his head with two hands. Then, he brought it down directly on Juan’s crotch. Then, he did it again. And again. Finally, the screams subsided into whimpers, and Nic left the house with a smile on his face.