Hazard - Monk/Louis Vaquez

Featured in YarnBomb Zine: Issue 7, July 2025 

Harlem, NY 7:25 pm

A knock at the door.  
“Who is it?”  
“It’s Snack Pass! Your Chinese is here!”  
“Sweet, I’m starving. Hey, make sure they got chopsticks for—you know who.”  
“Yeah, good thinking. That weeb freak. Hey, man, you got any ch—”

Just then, both men were stabbed in the throat with chopsticks thrown by the delivery driver, killing them instantly.

The killer stepped through the threshold of the apartment building, wearing a bright blue biker helmet, a pink bulletproof vest, tactical boots, and armored pants. A long-sleeved blue and pink Hawaiian shirt matched the rest of the chaotic ensemble. He looked around, shattered the emergency axe case, and began gleefully swinging the weapon as he whistled a jaunty tune—marching through the gang hideout, dispatching every member in his path with terrifying aggression and disturbing joy.

After ransacking the place and grabbing anything of value and shoving it in his bag, he knelt beside a bleeding goon.  
“Did I get everyone?”  
The man coughed, gurgling, “No. You missed the guy in charge. He’s… a demon.”  
The killer raised his axe. “Well then, call me Padre Pío.” And brought it down. “Let's exorcise this demon.”

Grabbing an Uzi, he made his way upstairs. At the end of the hall, a door glowed with light from within. He closed his eyes and visualized only one person behind it.  
“Bingo ‘n Yahtzee.”

He kicked down the door—only to find a well-dressed man with long black and white dreads lounging in a plastic chair, headphones in, katana sheathed, looking completely unfazed.

“Hey, delivery man! Did you bring my chopsticks?”

Without hesitation, the killer opened fire. Each bullet was placed with perfect accuracy—but when the smoke cleared, the man stood unscathed, katana drawn and smoking. He had sliced and deflected every bullet… still wearing his headphones.

The killer stared at his gun and tossed it aside in frustration.  
“This is why guns are lame.”

He instantly hurled the axe. The swordsman sliced the handle mid-air, but the killer had already moved—grabbing a half-finished liquor bottle from the counter and throwing it. Glass and alcohol spray all over. While the swordsman was blinded, the killer cracked him over the head with a frying pan he grabbed from the stove. Before he could strike again, the swordsman recovered and sliced the pan in half.

Blood ran down the swordsman’s face as he pointed his blade.  
“Shit,” the killer muttered, ducking and weaving around the room, grabbing whatever he could while dodging slashes. The samurai cuts shredded walls, wires, and radiator pipes, transforming the apartment into a war zone.

Then—the killer had an idea. He darted in front of the stove.  
The swordsman lunged to strike.  
Just as planned, the killer dodged, letting the blade get lodged in the sliced appliance with gas hissing out of the open wound. He kicked the swordsman square in the chest, disarming him.

“That’s more like it. Good ol’ knuckles to faces,” he said, flexing mockingly.

The swordsman smirked and fell into a karate stance. The killer was loose, almost lazy. The swordsman moved first, leaping into a punch—but the killer was faster, and launched into a flying knee, smashing the swordsman’s nose.

Breathing compromised and unarmed, the swordsman prepared to defend himself as the killer approached with a menacing laugh, ready to end the fight there with the broken axe. But in a flash, the samurai’s eyes glinted—and he countered with a devastating one-inch punch to the killer’s gut. A flurry of blows followed. He cracked the helmet visor, struck the killer’s eyes, and shoved him toward the window.

The killer looked out: a train passed below.

The swordsman readied a final kick. The killer, already flipping him off, shouted, “Try to beat the heat, fuckhead!” as he was launched out past the fire escape.

The swordsman retrieved his blade and looked down—only to see the train pass by with nobody in sight.

He reset his nose, and as he did he got a whiff of the gas that had now filled the room.

And heard the microwave timer tick on.

Inside was the Uzi’s magazine.

It sparked.

“OH, F—” BOOM!

The killer walked calmly through the train car, removing his damaged helmet.

Underneath: sun-tanned skin, shaggy dark brown hair that fell to his cheeks, unshaven stubble that made his sunken face look like he’d been cutting weight for a fight. Without lifting his head, he slid on a pair of Oakleys and smiled—like his face had just now come together.

Passengers stared at his bloodied clothes. But when he flashed that charming grin, their tension eased. He sat next to a mother and her son and took a heroic swig from a flask stashed in his vest.

“You look like John Wick. Are you a movie star?” the boy asked.  
“No, but I am a stuntman. In the middle of a scene.”  
The boy’s eyes lit up. “Does that mean I’m gonna be in a movie?”

Just then, a thud echoed above. A katana blade pierced through the ceiling, carving out a hole.

“You just might, kid.”

The swordsman dropped in, burning clothes torn off, eyes locked in a piercing stare.

“I hate monkey suits.”

The killer laughed, genuinely impressed.  
“You are a resilient samurai, I’ll give you that. So—round two?”  
“I recognize you now. The chaotic style. The sunglasses. The stench of ocean musk and cheap booze… You’re Jonny Hazard. The Surfer. Supposedly known as the best there is. Maybe the only one suited to kill me. I will honor you with my full strength.” The samurai grips his sword with both hands for the first time in the fight.

“Alright, we get it, you got a sticky poster of me on your wall. Now quit the jibba-jabba and let’s dance on this love train.”  
Jonny turned to the other passengers. “Y’all might wanna move to the next car.”  
They didn’t argue.

“Well, Mr. Bushido, I think it’s only fair you strike first this time, yeah?”  
Silence.

“If you don’t mind, I’m gonna wet my lips a bit.”  
He took another swig. Still no response.

“Smooth.”

Out of nowhere, a lighter flicked to life and Jonny spits fire like a dragon.

The samurai dodged the flame burst and countered with a perfect horizontal slash—cleaving the top of the train clean off. Jonny dropped flat on his ass just in time to avoid decapitation.

The swordsman brought the blade down again. Jonny rolled away as it stabbed through the floor just before his jewels were nicked off.

“Hey—I just figured out your style!” says Jonny while holding on to a sliced train pole. “You’re one of Old Grey Mullet’s students. Of course, when he cuts it’s with his bare damn hand.”

The swordsman scowled.

“You can’t win. There’s nowhere left to run. I sliced through every trick you got, Surfer.”

“Oh, I got one more up my sleeve, bitch.”

The blade slashed downward—straight into Jonny’s forearm. Blood sprayed onto the face of the samurai—but the cut was shallow. The blade was stuck.

He kicked me, the swordsman realized in thought. This psycho threw a leg kick mid-swing just so I wouldn’t cut all the way through.

He pressed down. Finally, the arm came off. Blood soaked the cart as Jonny laughed—maniacally, defiantly.

The swordsman prepared to decapitate him, right as the train dipped underground.

But—his blade met nothing.

He blinked, and he was no longer on the train.

He was on the tracks.

The platform—now a distant cliff. His sword—gone.

What the hell…?!

He turned just in time to see the headlights of the train mere feet away from impact.

He screamed in bloody terror.

Then—he was back in the cart, coughing blood.

Looking down, he saw his sword plunged through his chest.

Jonny Hazard, arm still attached but bleeding from the deep gash, howled with laughter.

“Oh shhiiit—the look on your face was golden!”

He slung his backpack over his shoulder—full of cash and pills—then took out a roll of pink duck tape. He begins wrapping his cut arm. Then he gently pats the samurai across the face.

“Don’t worry. I made sure to miss anything vital. I want a round three.”

He stepped off the train.

The swordsman’s eyes glowed—bloodshot and furious—as he collapsed, whispering,  
“How…?”

Jonny whistled a familiar tune and vanished up the subway stairs while lighting a smoke.  
This was a job well done.

www.instagram.com/ll_vazz/