X-treme Wrestling Federation

Another day, another fucked up situation to find myself in the middle of. I wish I could say I knew Ramos a little better, but I really fuckin' didn't and hadn't planned on it anytime soon. Not like I was missing much; he seemed like your typical, run of the mill psychopath. The type that was recruited for his size and unwillingness to rat. And he likely only signed on to avoid doing time in prison. I don't know what he'd go in for, but if I had to guess I'd go with gangland murder. That's the thing about this organization. They love their fuckin' gangbangers, don't they? Probably a result of the head being a former mob boss. The fact that bangers are less likely to object to orders on moral grounds has to help too.

There's a pounding in my head. A hard, throbbing pounding ache that plays hell with my concentration and tints my vision with a dull gray. Reacting solely on instinct, I close my eyes and shake my head, trying desperately to knock myself out of it, whatever it is. With a sigh, I open my eyes to see the gray filter no longer there. It just ceases to exist though the throbbing headache's still there; a reminder of the genius decisions I made last night. Of which I have little recollection. Perfect. I love puzzles. How much do I get if I bet sober me wouldn't proud of most of what I did? Oh, and of course; I'm still a little bit fucked up off whatever it was, that shit just goes without saying. I rest my hands on the steering wheel of the company car; I call it that because it's easier to deal with than the bullshit of calling it my own when Heiman handed it to me for my continued commitment to his cause. A load of bullshit there, but if it helped him sleep at night, I guess it didn't really matter. My hands are shaking, another one of those classic symptoms of addiction that I never even tried to hide. It wasn't a big fuckin' deal and if anyone thought otherwise, they could go fuck themselves. With crust settling in the corners of my eyes, closing them a little more with each passing second, I rip one hand from the wheel and pull down the visor mirror to look at myself.

Ah, shit. Forgot to shave. I run the now free hand along my rough, facial hair dotted cheeks and shake my head. Otherwise I look golden; the fuckin' pristine model of "I just got out of bed". Granted, it's not like my employers care much whether or not I look like a halfway presentable human being, for all they care I could show up wearing the stupid fucking Lazarus get up that Gator found in a dumpster and decided to throw on to ride the fuckin' Luca Arzegotti likeness. Not that I'd ever do that of course, because that'd be as all hell and I don't do , unless it's bashing in the fucking skulls of , that is. Finally having enough of my own mug for a little bit, I flip the mirror back up and get out of the car, slamming the door shut and hitting the lock button on the automatic lock.

Without any more fucking about, I make my way through the apartment building's trash littered parking lot. My legs feel stiff and not used to walking distances longer than a few feet. That's too bad, guess they'll have to stop being little pussy cunts and get the fucking show on the road, 'cuz I doubt Ramos' body's gonna be coming to me anytime soon. As I make my way to the back door of the building; the one I'd been instructed to go in through, my legs start to feel a little bit looser and overall, I start to build the confidence I'll probably need to do whatever job it is they need me to do. The door's propped open by a wooden doorstop, some chipped wedge of wood that I guess succeeds in its job but isn't one for looks. Shit, I really shouldn't be commenting on that, considering the fact that I look like I've been interrupted in the middle of a three week coke binge. Look? Fuck it, that's probably what I've been doing. I pull the door open and step into the building, feeling immediately the nerve wracking, damn near crushing weight of tension that tends to always accompany these murders. Like all the air's been sucked out of the collective lungs of everyone in the general vicinity and I can't say I blame them for that. Hell, if someone brutally murdered someone next door to me and I heard jack shit, I'd be a little shook up too. Though, none of them have anything to really fear. Not unless I have other colleagues who live here, which is always a possibility. I don't make it a point to get to know any of them.

The looks I get from the tenants as I walk down the hall range from vague suspicion to flat out disdain as they turn their heads to look back into their abodes. I get it. Not exactly the Eliot Ness type. Matter of fact, they probably think I'm as likely to rob them blind as I am to be of any help funding the fucker who did this to their beloved friend. Doesn't matter if they never talked to the guy in their lives, he lived there, he died there, he's one of them. Fuckin' pathetic, if you ask me. Finally, my trudging feet get the hint to pick up the pace, and I spin around the wall of the stairwell and start to climb up to the second floor; where Ramos' apartment was. Time to turn off the buzzing part of my brain and focus on the task at hand. I'll save what's left of my sanity if I do.

Ramos' apartment was at the end of the hall. Of course it was, it gave his killer the perfect fuckin' entrance and exit point. If I killed him, his bedroom window would've been how I got in and out. It's obvious. With a breath, I push open the door leading into his apartment, to find a swarm of people almost identical to me in appearance. As in disheveled and wearing the shit that was closest to them when they got the call. The only real unifying item aside from unkempt appearance and a overwhelming aura of wanting to be anywhere but here were the silver lanyards dangling from our necks. Badges. For a secret organization, we sure were pretty fuckin' public with some shit. If I had to bet, I'd guess the next thing we'd do is build a goddamn theme park.

"Lazarus!" called the unmistakable voice of the Organizer from across the room, as he straightened his tie and waved me over. Shaking my head, I look down at the silver necklace/thing and the badge attached to it, scanning for my name. Not there. Of course not. Officially, I'm to be called Lazarus at all times. Sure made for some interesting looks whenever someone new read my codename off like I was some kind of shitty spy in a Bond movie. Reluctantly, I drop the badge and feel it fall into place, and make my way through the crowd and the body to get to my boss.

"Fuck's sake, got enough people here?" I pondered aloud as I took my place by the older man's side. He shakes his head and keeps his eyes locked on my scraggly face. A look of disappointment crosses over his face for only a moment, before he remembers that there's something more important afoot.

"Not enough, as it would happen."

"Bullshit. How hard can it be? Ramos is dead, it's likely the same fuckin' guy who offed Smith and Jones."

"Different methods."

"It ain't no fuckin' coincidence, man."

I actually laugh. Well, more like chuckle gravelly, like there's a frog or three stuck in my throat, but it's something at least. Something more than a dead fuckin' neutral expression. Like I couldn't care less what's going on around me. The Organizer however, doesn't look so pleased.

"People like this, they're hung up on details. It's not the same person."

For a smart guy, he really could be blind as a bat sometimes.

"There's details here, man. The people he goes after. There's no fuckin' way that our killers, giving you the benefit of the doubt, could kill three different people with ties to our organization in the span of a month without some inciting factor. Even if there's multiple people, they have to be working on some agenda, and that agenda's gotta be pretty anti-us. Whoever's doing it."

He facepalms. Not a good sign as far as getting him to believe my head isn't rammed up my ass, but right now I didn't quite care what he thought. He was wrong.

"Have you seen this body?"

"Nah man, of course I haven't. You've seen me the whole time I've been in here. Of course I fuckin' haven't."

"Please do, you'll understand me more."

"Right," I say, holding the I for dramatic effect as I pace over, weaving through the guys with cameras and the lab geeks scrubbing the sides of the couch and the floor for blood and anything that could get us any closer to unmasking the son of a bitch. Until I find myself at the front of the pack, staring down at an angle towards Ramos' battered corpse. Stale, dry blood cakes his lopsided cheeks, while blood still pools in an indent on the center of his face, where his nose should be. There was blood at the other scenes, but never this much. The Organizer had some kinda point, I guess.

I blink, close my eyes for only a second. It only takes that long for me to leave my body for a moment. And in that moment I have no idea where I am. All I see is the business end of a big fucking hammer falling down on Ramos' face. Crack!

Just like that, I snap back to reality, where on the couch alongside Ramos' body I see a couple of his teeth, chipped and cracked, right by his face. Another victim of the hammer, eh? Too bad. He coulda looked halfway presentable, caved in face aside. The most beautiful deformed man in the funeral home. Beating out the guy who got in a head on collision with a speeding semi by a hair. With those teeth fucked though, I doubt he'd even get bronze. Closed casket for sure.

I'm not no detective. I was never trained to be some forensics guy. I can notice things, sure but so can anyone who isn't brain dead-- ooh, sorry Ramos. I know why The Organizer called me here, wanted me to see this grisly scene.

Because he wants me to get in real close on this investigation. To get the name of the jagoff who did it.

And then kill him.

Or else.

Fuckin' typical.

And, as of right now; fuckin' impossible.

***

The sun was just starting to peak out across the skyline when he made it back to his house. Heart still beating with an unmatched intensity, he forced himself to steady his hands and stuck his key into the hole, turning it and pushing the door open. Down the front hallway, a light shone; the full extent of its illumination muffled behind a closed wooden door and he sighed a sigh of relief, before unzipping his jacket and carefully placing it on the coat rack by the door. He ran a hand through his hair, making sure that not a piece was out of place as the light at the end of the hall died out and the door swung open. A woman's figure appeared at the end of the hall, emerging from the previously lit room.

"You're finally back?" her voice slurred with the unmissable tint of tiredness.

He chuckled for a moment, under his breath before briskly walking down the hall and wrapping his arms around her waist.

"Yeah honey, I'm home."