Contract Killer Get a Clueby100 Angry Bananas©
The old man was lecturing, so I amused myself by attempting to figure out which customers in the restaurant were really Feds. My money was on a couple in matching sweater vests. They were just a little too cute to be real, and I had caught them sneaking furtive glances towards us one too many times.
Naturally, Pops-- being something of an underworld celebrity-- was always shadowed by eager Feds who, through enhanced listening devices, hung with rapt attention on every garbled syllable that the old mumbled man through his phonetically-challenged lips. So while his lecture seemed to be about one thing, it was really about something else entirely: the ever-growing feud between the old man and Simeon Dread. I listened with one ear while I continued my federal agent guessing game with the other and the rest of my remaining senses.
Pops, thinking he was clever, had disguised the conversation with a completely transparent analogous discussion of chess. He kept referred to an opponent that he called "Simon", all too obviously close to the name "Simeon" even for my wry tastes. Clearly, "chess" referred to the silent but deadly gang war that had started to be played out across the streets of the city and was slowly gaining momentum. Any idiot, including the federal kind, who couldn't see through this shallow metaphor deserved to have his badge and gun shoved elbow-high up his ass (right next to the place where it kept his head).
The old man said something along the lines of: "None of Simon's moves make any sense. He throws pawns away like they were nothing, and his knights seem to be every where at once but without reason."
He meant: Simeon was cutting his losses, and more and more men were leaving his employ (one way or the other) every day. Pops wasn't sure what the end game was for Simeon. His valued men, the ones that Dread kept on or didn't straight out execute in anger, seemed to be merely spinning their wheels. Simeon Dread was treading water and waiting for something. But Pops didn't know what, and that bothered him.
I said, "That blonde woman in the sweater vest has amazing tits." My words had been spoken barely above a whisper, but the woman seemed to flinch in her chair, all the same. Had she heard me through a hidden ear piece? Was that a blush reddening her cheeks? Hard to tell from this distance, and it could have just been coincidence or my imagination. I followed this up with: "Her husband looks like prick though." The man (her pseudo husband/real partner in this little dinner theater drama) frowned. I was more and more positive I had the couple pegged. I gave myself a mental high five.
Pops ignored my ignominious comments (he was used to them by now) and continued his chess lecture: "When one does not understand one's opponent, one can never be too careful. I wonder if Simon is mad or merely playing at appearing mad." Personally, I wondered if the old man knew how irritatingly condescending he sounded. The only people I knew who used less first-or-second person perspective during a conversation were literature professors or gigantically arrogant dick heads. Oftentimes, they were one and the same. Pops went on. "The trick is to get him to keep it up until either he is truly mad or so deeply invested in his strategy that at the point he needs to change it, it is too late."
He meant: Do not underestimate Simeon Dread. Everything Dread did was loaded with purpose, even when it did not seem to be. The only way to beat an opponent like Dread was to outwit and outmatch him at his own game.
My reply: Duh.
The waiter appeared and placed our steaming plates of Italian food before us, so I looked at Pops and replied, "Your sausage is huge."
Whether he knew it or not, Pops had made his point albeit one that I already knew. I was very familiar with the dangers regarding Simeon Dread and his corporation, too much so. If Pops had been aware of how involved I had already become in the affairs of the infamous Mr. Dread, he probably would have keeled over with a heart attack right there and then-- before he managed to have the one his Italian sausage would undoubtably give him during dinner.
Would what the old man say if he knew that Veronica Dread, the voluptuous and deadly wife of Simeon, had offered to hire me to kill her husband? Better yet, how would he react if Pops knew that I had hesitantly agreed? The portrait of such a human expression might be titled, "I Doth Shat My Pantaloons".
The more we stuffed ourselves with delicious food, the less the conversation revolved around a coded discussion of work. Dinner ended with the weekly tradition of the old man passing me a manilla folder and saying, "Here's your allowance. Be careful. Don't spend it all in one place."
If the federal agents and their sweater vests had any clue as to what sometimes accompanied my "allowance" within these manilla envelopes, I would have been sitting in a maximum security facility many years ago. I had a feeling, however, that this week Dad had no contracts for me. The Dread business demanded his full attention, and one did not assassinate employees of Simeon Dread without fear of repercussion. A silent gang war was costly enough. An official one meant blood in the streets, and my dad and Dread both considered themselves businessmen at the end of the day. Blood in the streets was inevitably bad for business.
Our dinner concluded, we made our way outside where Pop had a car waiting from him. I looked over my shoulder but didn't see the sweater vest couple. As the old man climbed the vehicle, I held the door. "About the chess game," I said. Pop raised his eyebrows in an expectant but wary fashion.
"Beware the queen," I said and closed the door behind him.
The people in this area of town knew me, if only as my father's son, so I had the privilege of being able to walk the streets without the fear of being mugged. To be fair, everyone who lived for several blocks around were able to live under a relative umbrella of my father's protection. That is, as long as they did as they were told. Such protection wasn't always a guarantee, however, so it helped to have my last name and face. It also helped to know that I could kill any would-be muggers with my bare hands. It wouldn't necessarily deter any muggers stupid enough to try, but it gave me a certain peace of mind. I knew I could walk the three blocks to The Deep End, the bar I owned, without having to look over my shoulder like some kind of paranoid loser who had at least three people seriously wanting to kill him. Which I had.
Considering this and considering the bottle of very expensive wine I had finished off with dinner, it was a miracle that I heard the car at all before the gunman opened fire at me. One moment, I was admiring the stale night air and the aromatic smells of the city (exhaust and asphalt), and the next I heard a roar of an engine, and the night exploded into a bullet-buzzing nightmare.
By instinct, I threw myself down and made myself small, rolling into the nearest doorway and behind a steel trash can. Cement popped up in sharp chips around me, and the trash can echoed with metallic clangs as bullets spattered it. The car flew by, engine revving, in a flash of headlights, gunfire, and then taillights. To my horror, it spun in the street, tires squealing, coming around to make a second attempt.
Of all the streets in the city that I could have been walking down, I'd been on the ONE with no other moving vehicles than the Murder-mobile. I cursed my luck and my timing.
Well, maybe not my timing. On most of the evenings that I met with my father, I did not carry a firearm. Since my run-in with Dread, his wife, his gorilla-suited bodyguards, and a ferocious assassin who went by the nickname "The Black Ghost", I carried a (mostly) legally licensed firearm on me at all times. I reached into my coat, pulled the gun from its shoulder holster, and pulled myself into a firing position behind the trash can. As the car made for me, the gunman leaned out of a window, apparently to get a cleaner shot or to see if perhaps he had hit me during the first pass.
Either way, it was a bad move as it made him an easy target, so I made him pay. I fired once, and I saw the man's head buck backwards as if he'd just experienced a drastic case of spontaneous whiplash. In the sickly yellow light of a street lamp, I saw something red and thick splash across the top of the car. It was going to need a thorough wash in the morning. The gunman went limp and hung from the window. His gun fell from his hand and skittered across the pavement. I fired again, and a small spiderweb crack appeared in front of the driver of the car. I groaned. Bulletproof glass.
The engine revved, roared, and the car became a dark blur. It made a hard right on two wheels at the end of the block, and then it was gone.
I holstered my gun; it was registered to me and had been used in self-defense. I imagined that the dead gunman and the gore-splattered car would disappear before they ended up in any police reports, so I didn't think I had too much to worry about on that end. As added insurance, I kicked the gunman's weapon into the nearest gutter. If I was lucky, maybe it would land in a puddle of shit, and the NYPD forensic team wouldn't want to touch it. But I didn't think I'd be lucky.
My heart pounding in my chest, I spun on my heels and headed in the opposite direction. Towards home.
My mind whirled at how holy fucking shit bad things had just gotten. Someone had tried to kill me, Pop's boy, out in the open. Talk about a surefire way to get the war started. Which was exactly what someone was trying to do. But who? And why? No one would benefit from the kind of all-out destruction my father and Dread would put each other through.
Then I thought-- Veronica Dread. Somehow the whole thing had her sexy little fingerprints all over it, but I couldn't figure out what or how she'd gain from my death. She had hired me to kill Simeon. Why kill me before I finished the job? What was her play? I had guessed she wanted her husband out of the way so that she could spend the rest of her days in sunshine and splendor without having to cow tow to Simeon's every demand, but maybe I was wrong. Dead wrong. Maybe it wasn't even her. Now that both Tuxedo brothers were dead, there were a lot of underlings who weren't getting paid and might have a beef with me. Maybe even Dread himself had become so paranoid that he wanted to put me out of commission before I could do the same to him. The only enemy I could totally rule out was the Black Ghost. She was way too good to have put my life in the hands of amateurs. She would have killed me in a much more... classy... way.
I let myself in my building and made my way to the elevator. That's when I heard a whispered voice from the stairwell: "Psst, here."
The door banged closed, and I heard footsteps plod up stairs before I could identify the person who had spoken. Luckily, ice-cold blood runs through my veins. If I had been any other person, I probably would have put a bullet through the door and been done with it. Instead, I pushed it open.
Sheila, my girlfriend, sat on the stairs in one my of dress shirts. On her it hung low, but she wore nothing else. A smile that was somehow equal parts angelic and demonic curled the corners of her mouth. Her blonde hair was messy in that sexy way that women can manage, and her green eyes shone with seductive lust. Any words I might have said in greeting morphed into an admiring moan in the back of my throat.
"Hey, there, lover," she said in a low voice, her tongue running over each word in a way that sent tingles shooting into the tips of my fingers. She fingered the collar of my shirt which revealed a slender neck and lower, a tempting curve of breast.
Somehow all of the thoughts about the Dreads and my dad and the Ghost and all of that other bullshit didn't seem to matter. At least, for the moment. My entire world was just this incredibly cute blonde, this stairwell, and an ever-growing bulge in my trousers. Sheila had this kind of effect on me, and that's why I desperately needed her.
Some shitty, cynical part of me that clearly wanted me to be unhappy all of my life said, "Hon, is this a good idea? We could get caught."
I wondered which shoulder that particular angel sat on who had whispered those words in my ear. Because I wanted to beat it to death with the butt of my gun.
Instead, Sheila (proving why I loved her) said, "In your building? Everyone else is either old or fat. Baby, this is the only time these stairs will ever be used. We'll actually be doing them a favor."
Then she added, "Plus, I bet I can make you cum in less than two minutes."
It had become something of a game for her to humiliate me by owning me with her sexuality. I took a lot of pride in my sexpertise (call it Masters Level Fuckology), so it amused her to no end to show me up in any way possible. And for her, it was easy. She was one of the sexiest and sincerely eager women I had ever known. Her aggressiveness made her a sexual predator to the degree that I was one in all other aspects of life.
I walked over to the stairs, put a hand on the back of her head, and drew her into a hard, starving kiss. Breaking away, I said, "I'll take that bet."
Her pink, moist lips peeled away from her teeth in a smile. She had the kind of face that lit up when she smiled. Have I mentioned how insanely cute she was? Sheila was the kind of girl that made you ache to kiss her when you saw her. If that makes me sound like a hapless romantic, allow me to ruin this feeling with my next sentence: if Sheila caused me to become any harder, my dick would probably be classified by scientists as some kind of newly-discovered metal. Hell, you could have added it to the Periodic Table of Elements and named it Erectium.
Sheila's lithe body pressed against mine, and I could feel her nipples poking me from beneath the fabric of my dress shirt. She maintained eye contact as she slid to her knees, her hands running from my chest to my stomach to my groin. Her fingers found the bulge there, and she caressed it through my pants, continuing to look at me with an expression that could be best described as wanton.
"Gentleman, your two minutes begins now," she said, unzipped my pants, and pulled me out. She regarded my throbbing manhood for a moment and then gave it a soft kiss on the hood. It twitched in her hand and strained in response. I moaned in anticipation. Sheila giggled and whispered, "This is going to be too easy."
She slid me into her mouth, and my knees went weak. I had to look up at the ceiling and suck air between my gnashed teeth. Sheila was right, oh so right, but especially right about this being easy for her. The sight of her on her knees, my dick between her lips, her shiny emerald eyes peering up at me with undisguised lust, the curve her breasts subtly pushing open the shirt she was wearing, Sheila could have me finishing in her mouth in less than thirty seconds. I thought I deserved an award for not cumming as soon as she kissed its head.
I felt her hand stroking me, her tongue gliding over my flesh, her lips encasing me, and I closed my eyes. I leaned against the wall, my ass pressing against the stairwell banister, and allowed pleasure to course over me.
I am a bad guy, a villain, an antagonist in every sense of the word. I murder for a living, and I would be dishonest if I told you that I did not derive some enjoyment from my occupation. I would also be dishonest if I told you that I had been entirely faithful to Sheila, good excuses notwithstanding. I did not deserve this girl or this moment, yet I would enjoy it for as long as the ride lasted.
"So good," I breathed. Sheila responded by hastening her pace. I chanced a glance, and saw her blonde hair bobbing, both of her hands stroking me. Glistening with saliva, the length of my shaft disappeared in and out of her mouth. Her sparkling eyes found mine, and then she slid me out, opened her mouth with a huge smile, and slapped my cock on her tongue. I shuddered with intense pleasure. For a moment, my eyes rolled up into my head, and I wobbled, placing both hands on the stair banister for additional support.
She paused to say, "You mean so BAD." Then she stood up, kissed me, and pushed me down to a sitting position on the stairs. I allowed her to manipulate me as I was too woozy from her sexual onslaught to put up much of a fight. She slid my pants to my ankles and hovered over me. The cement stairs were cold pressed against the my skin of my bare ass, but I didn't care. Life lesson: You can't afford to be picky or be a germ-o-phobe when it comes to hot sex in public places.
I watched through hazy eyes as Sheila lowered herself onto my erection, and it was enveloped by the wet, tight, warmth between her legs. She began to move up and down, up and down, slowly, and then with gaining momentum. Sheila unbuttoned the shirt and let it droop from her shoulders. Her pert breasts bounced as she expertly fucked me. The sight of her was like something directly out of one of my pubescent fantasies or even, hell, one of my adult ones. I placed my hands on her hips, gritted my teeth, and dug in while my mind snapped mental photographs for future reference.
I don't know how long I lasted. It might have been only two minutes, but it might have been twenty. At some point, I felt Sheila go all gasp-y above me, and then she went tight and breathless. I knew that she was nearing orgasm, so I opened my mouth to make some smarmy remark. I had not only defeated her two minute mark, but I was going to make her cum before me. Then I felt her hand on my balls. She gave them this little, tickling squeeze, and all I could manage was a senseless grunt as I felt my lust jettison out of me in eruptions of liquid release.
"Oh, my God," were the only words I could manage, and even those seemed to come from a space outside of me.
"Yeah," Sheila said, buttoning the dress shirt. She leaned over and kissed the bridge of my nose. "I'm pretty fucking amazing."
Later, lying next to Sheila in bed, I slept through the night, undisturbed by nightmares and my own thoughts.
*** The following morning, my time with with Sheila as well as the drive-by attempt on me seemed like surrealistic dreams from a Dali-inspired alternate universe. I knew that they had happened, but the incidents seemed to have happened to someone else, long ago. I suppose our brains do whatever they need to do, so we can go about our daily lives without turning us into lunatics. Consider John Wayne Bobbit the day after his wife cut off his dick and threw it out of a car window. A normal person should have been institutionalized after that kind of trauma. Weeks later, his wife was found not guilty by reason of insanity (hah!), and Bobbit starred in a couple of adult films (which I had the mispleasure of seeing). It's truly a mad, mad, mad, mad world.
Part of the routine of my daily life was to check in at The Deep End-- which I had attempted to do last night before nearly being gunned down-- and so that's where I headed. Kross, the bartender who had a head like an anvil, welcomed me with the greeting: "Hey, do you think someone could get seasick by fucking on a water bed?"
Normally, Kross' idea of a conversation was a grunt and a curt head nod, so I was intrigued. I stopped in my tracks, and said, "Of course."
Kross responded with a grunt and a curt head nod. I waited another moment, but he had already turned away to pour a bourbon for a customer who had no ethical objection to drinking hard liquor before noon. The Deep End was a twenty-four hour joint, more or less, and I don't think I had ever managed to enter the bar without seeing Kross behind it. I knew he wasn't the only bartender, but I could barely remember the names of the other ones, much less what they looked like.