...to talk to somebody.
Just talk. But they make it so hard.
Some asshole puts his hand on me to stop me, so I reach up under his ribcage for a good grip and bring him to me, and then take my other forearm, hard across his throat, and bend him like a wet paper cup down, and the chrome pole holding up the velvet rope crunches into the base of his skull, and beyond.
He slides over, laying back on his own calves, dying.
A whole line full of hopefuls gives me cow eyes...most of them have phones with cameras. Wrong place, wrong time, motherfuckers...
I let rip down the line with the mini-Uzi, and they scatter like quail, and shriek like Japanese schoolgirls at a Godzilla sighting. The rest of the clip goes into the other doorman, goggling like a tourist. He drops like a wet sack of shit and I toss the gun aside, and bring up the shotgun from under my coat. Crowd control, dontcha know...I jerk it, and the shoulder strap comes loose, and I hold it high, letting the crowd take in it's shiny chrome, the disco lights splattering off it, making it look like Thor's hammer, and the crowd parts like the Red Sea, scattering like a herd of sheep.
Some stand. They die. They protect who I want to see, and I blow them open like meat piñatas.
I thumb fresh rounds into the tube as the barrel begins to steam and smoke, the heat shield working overtime, the gun smelling like a new barbecue...
mixed with the burnt meat and fresh shit from torn guts, my own stomach begins to rumble a bit. I haven't eaten since yesterday. Forgot.
He's upstairs. Of course he's upstairs. Assholes like him always take the high ground.
Grunts like me, always have to assault upwards.
I have a five shot bandolier filled with 12 gauge sabot attached to my belt, and I've been counting. I thumb them danger quick into an empty tube, and slam them up through his floor into his office. I see shit fly everywhere through the window, and the lights in the office blow out and somebody is screaming up there like a slaughtered lamb and I turn hard to my right and slam the red hot sawed off into some heroes guts and he screams and screams as his shirt and jacket burst into flames...
...and I reach into the small of my back and grab the pistol grip of my compact AK and yank it out and take the stairs by threes. Two bullets hit me in the back, slamming into the kick plate of my vest, and propelling me to the last step...thanks, asshole...I spin, and open up some Guido like a can of beans, and
explode! through the door and skid flat into the room killing anyone I don't recognize and I see him, there, in a ball, in the corner, behind a bookcase. Unscathed. Good.
I rise, and his head snaps around, and I look into his blood red eyes, fangs rampant.
I cut his legs off at the thighs with a long burst, and I only have to change mags once.
I step towards him, where he writhes and spurts, and hisses, and tears great gouts of wood from the floor with his impotent claws.
I smile, straight into his face, with genuine joy. I cannot remember when I have enjoyed myself so much, without a woman's sweetness surrounding my member.
"Hi, fuckface...let's talk..."
So, We Have Our Little Chat…
I raise my eyebrow, and he grins and rubs his stomach. Yum yum.
The client is going to be pissed…too bad, his daughter is bat shit. Literally. Shouldn’t have gone goth, numb little cunt.
So I pulp his brain with a quick burst, kick him over, and take off his head with my Bowie. Gotta leave the knife. No time to clean the blade, company’s coming, and I don’t want any of his goo on any part of me. Contagious-ass shit.
I punch the blade down through the top of his skull, and the blade squeaks on bone, his teeth still snap at me. I lift Snappy up by the knife handle and put his head on his chest. He glares at me. Fuck but they start to heal quick.
“What you lookin at, leech?” I grab a full bottle of good scotch from the desk, and smash it into his ugly puss. I stomp it and the glass bursts all the way. Step back, flick a wooden match with my thumbnail, and drop it into the shithead cocktail I just made…FOOOMP! His teeth gnash for a few seconds, and then his brain starts to boil.
I pull a Hot Stick out of my vest, snap the cap, and toss it on the body to help out the burning scotch. I close my eyes against the expected phosphor flash, and I can still see it through my eyelids. So can everybody who looked up here by accident, and I yank a grenade off its pin clipped to my vest, let the spoon fly, count to five, and toss it underhanded through the window, where a heartbeat later another flash and boom sends shrapnel into upturned faces. I hear the music of screams
and I jump out of the window through the black smoke of exploded TNT, into them; I hit hard into a crouch and empty a magazine in a blazing arc and snap in another one and fire one handed as I flip another grenade towards the rear entrance, because I can hear sirens through my earplugs, now, approaching the front
and I see a pretty little girl, maybe eighteen, in an electric blue mini dress, laying on the floor in front of me, her titties popped out the top, half her skull gone, brains lead a trail away…there’s a very clear shoe print in the puddle, beginning to fill in with blood.
Too fucking bad…children shouldn’t play with dead things.
As I head for the rear exit, my bullets precede me, and anything that is not trying its damndest to seep into the floor gets cut to pieces. At the door, I turn and flip another grenade behind the bar…fire is good. Cleansing.
Besides, I am pissed. Likely the little bitch I came here to gets Daddy will try to stiff me on my fee.
He’d better not.
The alley stinks of piss and vomit and reefer and fear. I step over bodies in the doorway, and on one that lets out a groan. Time to shag it the fuck out of here. A few of the lucky ones are nearly to the street, where they will wave down the first cop they see. I've killed a few cops, but they always make more.
I hear a helicopter. Fuck.
I sling the AK under the coat on the shoulder strap where I'd had the shotgun, and palm a compact .45 auto from one of my pouches. As I run down the alley, I see white light begin to crawl up the street in front of me...in about five seconds, this alley is going to be lit up like Oscar Night...top o' the world, ma!
I slam my shoulder into a steel door to my left, and the bolt gives and rings down the hallway dingle dingle dingle, me after it, keeping my boots as quiet as I can. I know there are stairs, going down, and passages, and tunnels, all under this part of the city. I do my homework.
The stairs are pretty much right where the old plans showed them to be, and within five minutes, I am four blocks away, climbing the stairs of an apartment building that I had paid $500 for a key to the front door of three months ago.
For $6,000, the denizen of apartment 6A was keeping a package safe for me. I'd chosen him because he wasn't a doper, and wouldn't be tempted to look inside to see what he could shoot up or sell.
No, our hero was a baby-fucker, a regular registered sex offender, and was more than happy to make a little coin from a 'fellow pervert' he had met in a chat room, and then emailed with privately. I had told him that what was in the box was a pile of primo kid vids and photos, that I would cut him in for a share of when I sold them to the right buyer. Plus, I would let him keep copies of anything that he liked.
He opened the door immediately after my knock, and my recitation of the code word we'd settled on. He looked up at me and sighed, and his eyes swam with lust. "Oh my, you're a big one, and sooo butch!" he said, and I slapped him hard on the side of his head as he melted into me.
He slumped, unconscious, and I held him out in front of me so he wouldn't thud to the floor and make noise, or touch me with his loathsome homo fat-body. I chucked him onto the couch, and went back and shut the door quietly. His curtains were already shut, so I just zip-tied his hands and feet, taped his mouth, and then went through his closets until I found my foot locker.
I carried it back into the living room, where he lay, still, his eyes open, watching me. I set the box down, took one knee, and twisted the lock and hasp out of the wood with my hand. Who knew where the fucking key was by now. I threw back the lid, and the sight of all of the guns and ammo in there made his eyes bug.
I shrug out of my leather trench, and grimace at the two holes in the back. I had patches for them. The coat was patched in other spots, but it had been a gift, and I regretted that I would have to get rid of it soon. I set it aside. I shed the rig that only had one grenade left. Man, I hate to get that low. The vest pockets hang, most unsnapped and empty. Shudder. I slide the AK off, and his eyes bug even more. I pull off the T-shirt, and then reach for the clasps of my vest. I turn to him.
"If I see a boner, I'm going to cut it off, and cauterize it with a hot knife, and leave you alive, comprende?" He nodded frantically. I slipped the heavy clamshell up and off and was left in the black silk teddy I wear underneath so it doesn't chafe. I was sweaty like a fucking pig, and the air against me made me feel good and clear for the first time tonight. I looked down, and my nipples had hardened. I pinched each one between thumb and forefinger, and rolled them around, and moaned a little. I looked over at him, and his eyes were squinched tightly shut, like two little oysters. He was shaking like a dog shitting peach pits. I quietly slid one of my knives out, and poked him lightly in the dong.
Behind his tape, he screamed like a damned thing. Good. He was.
I laughed, slid a .45 into the back of my pants, and headed off to the kitchen to get a beer. I knew he would have a case of my brand in there. I had told him to.
It would be about three days, to be safe, before they cleared the crime scene and it would be safe for me to venture out again. My pervert had some information I wanted, and I had three leisurely days to get it, if he didn't die, first.
I open the fridge. Ahhh, Miller.
When it's time to relax...
With two bottles between the fingers of one hand, and one of his kitchen chairs in the other, I return to the living room and sit beside my box, just in front of him. I uncap one bottle, and drain it in one long gulp, and drop it on the floor as I uncap the other. His eyes look at the bottle on the floor with disapproval. I kick the heel of my boot into his forehead, leaving a nice print, which begins to well with blood. He closes his eyes and whimpers.
From the top tray of the box, I fish out a jar of Skippy, and a box of crackers, and begin to feast. I am starved, and I bless George Washington Carver with every bite.
As I drink beer and gobble, I fish around in a small white box with a red cross on it. I don’t seem to need any of the bandages, but I fish out a syrette of morphine, and pop it into his neck. His face relaxes, and he turns into a flaccid puddle of fag meat on the couch. I yank off the tape and replace it with a ball gag I’d brought, one with a breathing hole in it. I’m going to be pissed if this fucker dies on his own.
I pull out the top tray, and underneath are rows of packages of what looks like green sticks of butter, several green canisters, and oval plastic things that look like smoke detectors. I begin to peel the tape on the adhesive from my mines, and to stick them around the apartment. One goes on the front door, and one on the floor in front of the only window. I flip their switches as I set them, and they grow tiny red eyes, that blink. I set these to the same frequency, and clip the radio detonator to my belt.
I place a few more on walls that will blow out into the hall, or into adjacent rooms, and give them their own group of frequencies.
I pull a long coil of yellow cord out, and make three circles at various places on the floor of the apartment, big enough for me to drop through when I blow the Det Cord, and then staple two more onto the ceiling, and position chairs underneath them. If I have to go up, for some reason, I ain’t fucking Superman, and I’ll be burdened with gear. If I’m lucky.
Mans Voice: all I hear is him walking around…
Mans Voice: I heard some kind of clacking sound…
[sound of van door sliding open]
Mans Voice: hurry up and get off the street motherfucker…
Mans Voice: blow me, cocksucker…
Mans Voice: if you ghost me, I’ll bleed you…slow…
Mans Voice: MOTHERFUCK! I said sugar, no cream!
Mans Voice: that’s not cream, I jerked off in it…
Mans Voice: you faggot…
Mans Voice: no, that would be him up there…
Mans Voice: cocksucker’s asleep, I think…
[Sound of chair springs squeaking]
Mans Voice: let me turn up the gain…there…no, I hear footsteps…fuck, he just opened a beer bottle…
Mans Voice: since when did that little pansy start drinking beer?
Mans Voice: …yeah, I thought he was Master of the Pink Squirrel…maybe it’s a Zima…
Mans Voice: think he’s got company?
Mans Voice: nah, we’d a heard it…
Mans Voice: this shit is good, but it ain’t fool proof, and you ARE a fool…
Mans Voice: suck my fuckin dick…
Mans Voice: I don’t hear any fucking or sucking, but we can’t be sure…protocol says we put a laser on the window to augment the bugs…
Mans Voice: FUCK protocol…
Mans Voice: you are SUCH a lazy prick…okay, I’ll do it…you sit there and drink my cum…
Mans Voice: oh, FUCK you!
Something large and hot punches through the wall and turns the Master of the Pink Squirrel into a bleeding canoe, a blood Canoli...
My feet punch me out and backwards over my chair, as hot things batter and smash their way through the wall and chuck chuck chunk their way in a linear pattern through the wall and after me...
...my box of supplies is hit...explodes in a fury...adds to the list of things that want to hurt me...
I skid into the kitchen, and roll up to the fridge...
I sweep my arm up and behind the back shelf and sweep every shelf and all of their contents out to the kitchen in a mess of fag food and the bullets are stitching their needlepoint around the room and I leap into the fridge and pull the door mostly closed and press ALL on the remote and the apartment explodes...
...and the fridge door slams shut on me and I hear a click and I'm in the dark.
Fucking fag retro bull-shit appliances...
The Sun Also Sets...
Desert sand licks up to the edge of the place like a receding ocean, dust swirling like dead foam.
The setting sun glints painfully off the chrome of crotch rockets, and dully, from the dead eyes of the blacked out windows of several vans, SUV's, and a couple of battered motor homes.
I cut the motor at 500 yards, and coast up to the edge of the parking lot. I get out, and walk like a normal, heavy footed man, across the sand, to the double doors.
They are used to this sound, and it should draw no alarm, just amusement.The constabulary in these parts are either bought and paid for, or...have other reason to, shall we say, be complacent...
I place my hand on the door. Feel. Breathe. An entrance is so important, perhaps even more so than accessorizing.
I pull the pin from one of my accessories, flick it away into the sand, and palm the sphere up the left sleeve of my duster, and push my way in. The dying light glints off of several sets of glinting green eyes, set aside from the chemically red ones who squint, and turn away from the glare.
I'm in the right place.
I stomp, in my boots, towards the bar, waving a sheaf of 20's in my right hand, and, hollering in perfect biker, "Drinks for the house!"
Music to most ears, not to all. Pitchers are grabbed off tables, wasted waitresses are galvanized, and head to the bar, and the Still Ones, in the back, there, eye me balefully.
I have disturbed their feeding ground.
No one lives, tonight, if I can help it, but best to eliminate the A-Team first, so I let the spoon fly out of my sleeve, and as green eyes widen in shock, the door still creaking shut on its rusty springs, I let my greeting bump and thump across the floor into the middle of them...
About a half a mile from my destination, at the top of a private drive, sat a sheriff's car, its occupant dozing, as again, I coasted up to him.
It's easy. Just remember, your car pushes a cushion of heat in front of it, so don't aim it at your target, and give yourself thirty feet, or so. Practice gently using the parking brake to stop. It's the least stressed item in your car, and done properly, it is quiet. Leave the car in neutral, shifting into park makes noise.
I'd opened the well-greased door about 500 feet ago, or so, so I slipped out silently, and tread softly, on little cat's feet, towards the cruiser.
I had no need to draw my pistol, a noisy operation at best, as it was already on the car seat beside me. Besides, deploying a .50 Desert Eagle, with attached silencer, is damn near like deploying a crew-served weapon. Silencer, you ask? Well, let's just say, it muzzles the bear. A well made can will tame damn near anything, and the more weight on the front of that fucker, the better.
His hat is down over his eyes, and I reach in and take it, and put it on my own head. He, being a pinhead, makes his lid a tight fit, but all I want is the silhouette, anyway.
Staring down the equivalent of a drainage pipe will do that to you, I guess.
"Hi!" I say, cheerily, while motioning to his hands that they should really be on the steering wheel. They comply.
His throat is making a dry clicking sound, like when the battery goes bad on your wall clock. I am taking it all in. The Judge has a cool mailbox. A nearly exact representation of the courthouse downtown, across from the pretty park, with the bandstand in the middle of it, scarred by the Satanic graffiti carved up in its ceiling.
He's got some 'splaining' to do, that Judge...okay, belay that, he just needs to pay for certain, shall we say, misguided decisions? Yes, that'll do.
I open the car door with my left hand, wide, and point to the trunk release. The gun stays steady, centered on his face. He reaches down with his left hand, and pops the release. Gosh, I like working with professionals.
I give him the 'come to me' gesture, and he rises out of the car. His ass fell asleep with the rest of him, so he's a bit creaky. I direct him back towards the trunk, and a teensy flicker of hope dawns in his eyes. I'm five feet away. He can lunge at me, if he wants. He doesn't want. His shoulders drop, and he shuffles back around to stand in front of the open trunk.
There's two rifle cases in there, and all kinds of boxes and cases of this and that. This is like sending a kid to their room. All their stuff is there. The hope glows like a blown-on ember. Am I that stupid? Well, let's just play along and see!
I give him one last chance to die like a man.
I wave the gun out and at him, using it like a pointer, to tell him where I want him, which is in the trunk. He sits on the rubberized edge, and swings his feet up and over and inside, and lowers himself into his coffin.
I direct him to move where I want, with his head up against the spare tire. I step back several feet, and his eyes begin to widen "I've got a wife and two kids!" he blurts, like I give a shit, and I take careful aim, and squeeze the trigger. The huge bullet phumps into his head and thence into the steel wheel with a 'ptank!' and I am greatly relieved. I bend down and pick up an empty cartridge nearly the size of a lipstick, and drop it into my duster pocket.
Between all of the ammo and flares in there, not to mention the gas tank, I was really worried, because I needed that car...
What Happens Next...
Oh, I'm sorry, I just checked, and my computer is out of ink. I'd go purchase some more, but silly me, my purse is empty of everything but lint!
I know, I know, egg on my face.
Well, too bad. I had such plans. Nope, no car ride. Nice guess, though. I had every intent of shooting a perfectly good dog. And a woman. There may have been torture.
You'd put a quarter in the door if you had to shit, so...
Down The Lane...
The pavement ends after about five hundred yards, and turns into that fine whitish gravel rich people use. I wind through the woods, at the first turn, something in the trunk shifts, and there is a moist thump.
The tires crackle like they're popping a long, continuous sheet of bubble wrap, the tiny stuff, that you use to wrap crystal, and Hummel Figurines, and such. The cruiser's nose finally pokes out of the woods, and I see a small lake, or a large pond, a thing of beauty, green lawn oozing up out of the water at the far side, crawling up a gentle slope to a fine, lemon-yellow house. A manse, really.
I hate yellow.
The brakes squeal slightly as I crunch to a stop, to take it all in. Across the way, at the land-side end of a small dock, I see my target. He sees me, too, and waves. He points down to a gaggle of fish on a stringer in one hand, using the segments of a fishing pole, already disassembled, in his other hand, as a pointer.
I, there, a distant silhouette in my borrowed Smoky Bear hat, raise my left arm out the window, and wave lazily. Sure, welcome me in.
There's a box on the passenger seat, that I brought with me. I flick a switch, and all cell phone and radio traffic for a half mile radius ceases. No matter, I have no one to call.
I nose the cruiser around the pond, the pursuit engine growling like a hunting beast, not caring who holds its leash.
The circular driveway at the front of the house is finished concrete, and I pull to a stop, and kill the engine. The engine clicks and tinks, and air conditioner coolant hisses and spatters on the hot parts, like baby fat, frying.
I step out of the car, and toss the hat back in. The key alarm dings softly, a few times, until I gently shut the door....
A Dog's Life...
He comes running at me, across the yard, his happy tongue flapping about like a pink fish, a handsome Yellow Lab.
I raise the .50, and core him out like an apple, brown and red sauce exploding out of his ass like thrown oatmeal. Dogs will still make noise, even when mortally cored, so I flicker out the Browning .380 and phut two into his skull, and there's nothing left but the twitching.
Chasing rabbits in Hell, I suppose.
I stride purposefully towards the front door, and find it unlocked, as I expected. Just makes it easier.
His wife is crossing the hallway, down near what I'd bet is a kitchen, so I shoot her ankle out from under her, and she flips like a Cirque Soliel acrobat and her skull thocks to the floor like a dropped melon.
I see the judge, out on the back deck, his fish forgotten, looking up and around, like he's sniffing the air, like he suspects something is wrong.