Rock Bottom

Spoilers: LitB and season one.

Rock bottom. An unpleasant place to be. People at the end of their tether, up to their eyeballs, scrapping the barrel and neck deep in crap were glad that they were not yet at rock bottom.

What is often forgotten though is that even when you feel that you have reached said 'bottom' that life can drop a grand-piano-sized anvil on you and drive you a few metres below that critical 'bottom'.

And Logan Echolls has pretty sure that he had hit rock bottom.

It had been a crappy day, truth be told. Started off moderately enough, got progressively worse, culminating in the realisation that Veronica believed him capable of murder and well, a bottle of tequila offered the surest method for oblivion. Weevil was just shitty icing on a day gone to the dogs.

Being pounded by the icing had not been a piece of cake, nor even a walk in the park – not even particularly fulfilling on an anger release level. He was still angry, and could now add a large number of physical aches, nay pains, to the emotional ones on his list of reasons why oblivion was a good idea.

Weevil and his posse of familial justice had proved quite positively the old maxim that one outnumbers only zero and that unless you possess Hong Kong style kung fu abilities, or Neo-like powers, taking on a 'posse' on your lonesome was suicide.

Okay, so maybe it wasn't an old maxim, per say, but even cavemen in yesteryear knew that waving a pointy stick at a herd of angry mammoths was slightly foolhardy. Usually the human gene pool was conveniently spared the continued existence of any caveman, philistine, roman or imbecile who believed otherwise, yet Logan found himself in possession of ample brain cells who believed that one drunk idiot could take on a gang of irate drunk latinos. And win. Possibly the tequila had adversely affected those brain cells, but the end result was the same.

Immanent removal from the human gene pool.

There hadn't been a lot of words exchanged, trash talk was reserved for situations less seriously bent on bodily harm. And it hadn't taken very long for Logan to figure that Eli Navarro fully intended on doing as much harm as he could. Giving as good as you get does not really hold true in a beating. Fighting off one man – ok. Ten, twelve, not so easy, even if they all can't get at you straight away. Break one nose, kick two gonads, and you still got five pairs of angry feet and fists to worry about. Taking it lying down is not an option either, even when just admitting defeat, playing possum or plain passing out would end it sooner. Oh, no – Echolls men stand up to take their punishment.

Perhaps Logan owed his dad a thank you after all. Perhaps the years of abuse and beatings had toughened him up enough to take what Weevil dished out and keep coming back for more to the astonishment and annoyance of the PHC. Perhaps a small thank card was in order. 'Dear Dad, thanks for making me a better man – able to take it and take it and take it…'

Maybe Weevil could show 'Dad' just how much Logan appreciated the lessons – help him come to the same understanding.

Coronado Bridge was silent. The midnight hour was long past, and only the ocean continued to beat its relentless effort against the shore. Everyone else had given up for the day. Including Weevil.

Logan sat propped up against the railing of the bridge, wedged between pillar and metal railing, his legs folded beneath him. The last time he had fallen, he had had to take a minute to gather himself before trying to get up again, get up and take it. His 'minute' had somehow become an indefinable unit of time because when he eventually raised his head, Weevil was gone. And his posse too.

Spitting blood and hopefully not teeth from his mouth, Logan had tried to stand, but his legs refused to co-operate. Obviously not 'Echolls' legs. His XTerra was a yellow blur but as it periodically swam into focus, he soon ruled it out as a viable means of transportation.

Headlights, windscreen and windows were intermingling freely on the tarmac, a dazzling array of colour and light. Tyres gaped knife wounds, hood and roof a few dents and Logan was pretty sure his keys had taken a leap over the rail.

Just like mom.

Yep. His keys were like his Mom.

And he was like his tyres.

Looking down at his hands, his vision flipped and he struggled to keep everything where it should be, head up, feet down, tequila inside. His mouth suddenly dry, Logan leant back on the railing, tightening his hold on his stomach.

Me. Tyres.

It hadn't taken a heartbeat to register – the pain was instantaneous, but the actual source of agony had eluded him. Until Weevil pulled his knife out and his legs disowned him and the Echolls legacy. Even then it was only after the bikes were gone and the silence had returned that he figured it out.


Keys. Mom.

Me. Tyres.

He couldn't say that his life was flashing before his eyes, because the same thoughts chased each other around, relentlessly, as if his life had only taken a day. Pictures of his Mom's car on this bridge, his bridge, their bridge now, Lamb's smirking face, Keith Mars running at him, Weevil leaving, Veronica… Veronica…

Echolls men take their punishment standing.

Traitorous feet.

Besides, he didn't really want to go home anyway. 'Dad' would not be happy that he had managed, once again, to add another black mark against the Echolls name. He'd even wait for bruises to heal, for wounds to scar, before adding his own, as a lesson of course.

Take it like a man, son.

No, he liked his bridge, her bridge, their bridge. It was quiet, and peaceful. Maybe, he would stay.

Yes, Logan believed that rock bottom was a quiet, peaceful place, albeit painful and well.. rock hard. But, still, not such a bad place afterall.

Keys. Mom.

Me. Tyres.

Life. Grand-Piano-sized anvil.


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