09-07-2014, 02:18 PM
Why did he care?
That's still the fuckin' question that's drilled into my head, even as I put the miles between myself and Ramos' apartment. There was something off about that guy; well obviously, I doubt he'd be standing in a doorway looking doe eyed if he was all there mentally but still. Something more off than usual about a fucking bottleneck. I don't care if that guy was Li's witness, unless he was some real spineless fuck he wouldn't have been that shook up about it. Doubt he was friends with Ramos. Didn't look the type. Never took Ramos for someone who frequented queer clubs and/or male prostitutes, whatever that fuckin' homo was. Oh shit right, I gotta watch my thoughts; never know when the ever so fuckin' convenient XWF mental recreation cameras Shane jammed into my retinas are gonna turn on and with the surplus of faggotry in the fed right now someone'll get offended. Fuck 'em. Not literally, unfortunately for them I don't roll that way. Hell, was it Shane who did that or was it one of the shitheads in management? I don't fuckin' care, blaming Shane for that one. In theory it's a great idea, considering that even me sleeping till noon and snorting ungodly amounts of cocaine is more interesting than most of these jizz stains' attempts at talking or worse yet, wrestling. Hell, it's a better demonstration of skills too.
I flip on my car's CD player and seek refuge in the delightful music of Regina Spektor because masculinity, as I continue my drive back to my place. Back to my sanctuary, where I don't have to deal with the stupid fucking bullshit that plagues my job. Both of them. Oh well, I'll be home soon and once I am I'll be free for at least a few hours. Doubt anyone from the XWF will call me up until the day of the show to make sure I didn't OD or something. Then I can talk about whatever fuck ups the incompetent as fuck GMs of Madness decided to throw at me. Fuck, it's no matter right now. Not like they're sending anyone actually fuckin' talented when their pool of talent gets overshadowed by a kiddie pool as is.
So, down the practically empty streets I go, back home. Where I'll likely end up picking up that strung out junkie bitch from down the hall, split my shit with her, and end up fucking her half skeletal, not fully dead corpse while simultaneously praying I don't get crabs. Day in the life. Also the reason why all these bitches wanna be me. I only fuck the highest quality street trash. I'm a fuckin' used cunt connoisseur up in this bitch.
***
The headlights of a slightly beat up red 2004 Pontiac Grand Prix cut through the darkness of a stretch of road seemingly deprived of streetlights as it pulls left off the road into the parking lot of a convenience store, the only thing illuminating the almost desolate patch of pavement. Its driver smiles as he looks up and into the large display windows of the building, which showcase all the frivolous bullshit that one could desire and as he averts his attention from the almost blindingly bright lights to the space on the practically empty lot that he wanted to take, he finds his attention suddenly engulfed by yet another flash of light. Like a moth to a flame, his eyes dart from the windshield to the flashing light and subtle vibrations of his severely outdated Nokia cell phone in the passenger's seat. With one hand he reaches into the seat and grabs the phone, not bothering to look at the number. The way his eyes light up however, it seems pretty obvious he knows who's calling. His thumb hovers over the green "answer" button for only a split second before he presses it down. And as he pulls into his spot, he places the phone up to his ear, just in time to hear a woman's vaguely foreign accented voice on the other end.
"Forget about me?"
"Of course not," he whispers, killing the engine and unlocking the car door.
"Right," she pauses for a few seconds, almost noticing something off about the man. "Sup with the whispering?"
"Oh, nothing. Just getting ready to head inside a store is all. Don't wanna disturb anyone." With his left hand, newly freed from the steering wheel, he grabs onto the door handle and pulls it, before pushing the door open. From there, he clicks the button on his seatbelt and releases it, keeping the back of his head pressed into his seat so the rapidly contracting mechanism didn't smack him across the face. He leans over towards the open door, about to get out before a lightbulb goes off in his head and he reaches across the empty space over to the glove box. Unhooking the door, he reaches in and slides his hand around until it wipes over a familiarly rough substance. He closes his hand around it immediately and pulls it out; a shiny silver revolver with a single word carved into its wooden handle: "Praise". Smiling, he keeps the gun in his hand, pointed down at the floor of his car.
"Right. Come on, it's like two in the morning why the Hell are you at the store?"
"Couldn't sleep. Not like you're home either, anyway."
"Don't turn this shit around on me," she says with a laugh. "All part of the job."
"Speaking of the job," he says, finally hopping out of the vehicle and closing the door behind him, sliding the gun into his pants' waistband and pulling his shirt down over it. "How's it going?"
"Awful. Fuckin' awful."
He groans. "Do you have to say it like that?"
"Like what?" she asks, confusion leaking like a sieve from her mouth.
"Fuckin'," he says as he takes his first few steps towards the store, hitting the button on his remote lock. The subsequent click and honk like noise echo through the night before he comes back to the conversation and adds; "Sorry. Just, ran into some annoying guy earlier today. Every other word out of his mouth sounded just like that."
"Well then. You hanging out in the slums or something?"
"I had to stop by a less than desirable part of town today, yes."
"Makes sense. See, this guy I'm supposed to meet up with for this work thing? He lives down in the worst part of this city, talks just like that. Habit I picked up from him I guess."
"Odd. You known him long?"
"Long enough. Dude's a grade A asshole."
"Heh," he says as his feet cross into the designated area that triggers the automatic doors to open and walks into the building. "Sounds fun."
"Like a fuckin' root canal. Oops, sorry. Just wish he'd show up."
"Huh?"
"He's blowing me off. Not answering his phone. Dick."
"Too bad."
"Yeah, I think I'm just gonna swing by his place. Be a lot faster."
"You do that. Okay, I just walked in, gotta go. Love ya."
"Love you too."
With that and a click, the line goes dead. He chuckles, sliding the phone into his front right pocket and walking past the front counter, nodding at the man behind the register. The clerk nods back with a friendly smile, before looking back down at the magazine he had spread out on the glass display case.
"Slow night, huh?" he says with an awkward chuckle.
"Tell me about it. This close to tearing my hair out."
"Don't blame ya."
Again he chuckles, before strolling down the small aisles, glancing at the brightly colored packages of candies and other junk food before snatching a baggie of gummy bears off one of the hooks and continuing his walk to the back of the store, where the coolers were. Once there, he pulls open one of the long rows of doors and grabs a gallon bottle of milk, before shutting the door and pacing down the long row, looking for another specific door. A door that ends up being at the end of the row. From the door, he snatches a sixteen oz can of Monster. Carrying the three items awkwardly over to the counter, he lays them out across the glass, all around the magazine the clerk was still eyeballing.
"Is that all sir?"
"As of right now, yeah."
The man's thoughts race back to the gun in his waistband. It'd have to wait for at least a little while longer, a thought that put him on edge. He grits his teeth and drums his fingers along the corner of the glass, which was covered in some kind of metal that he couldn't tell on sight. The clerk races to ring up the items and shoves them haphazardly into a small plastic bag that he sets on the counter atop his magazine.
"That'll be nine ninety-two."
"Okay," the man says, fishing his wallet out of his back pocket and whipping out a crisp ten dollar bill. The clerk takes it and with a few pushes of buttons, places it in the cash register.
"One more thing," the man says, reaching down into the waistband of his pants and pulling out the gun. The clerk takes a step back as the man takes aim at his chest. "Give me the tape."
"The what?"
"This place is hooked up to a CCTV network right? I want the VHS tape you have in right now recording this little altercation." The man's voice took on a more authoritative tone now as he allowed the confidence to wash over him.
"Please man, if you want the money just tell me to get it."
"I don't want the money. I want the tape."
"Fine!" The clerk almost screams, yanking the VHS tape out of the recorder and sliding it into the bag.
"Thank you."
"What now?"
"I'm sorry. You've been very helpful."
The man pulls back on the hammer of the revolver with aim still on the clerk's chest, and fires. He snatches the bag and slings his arm through the loops, before sticking the gun out over the counter as the backpedaling clerk bumps into the rack of tobacco and falls to the floor. He pulls the trigger again; another bullet ripping through the air at nigh light speeds and impacting with his body in a glorious splatter of blood against the linoleum tile around him. Content, the man slides the smoking gun back into the waistband of his pants and takes off out the door, back to his car. In and out with one body, no witnesses, and long before the police arrived.
Another perfect getaway.
***
Fuckin' perfect. I park the car and kill the engine before opening the door and hopping out. No need to waste time with any unnecessary bullshit that'd keep me from my place any longer. I'm glad I left my phone in my apartment. The last thing I need right now is for The Organizer or anybody else to call me with anything requesting my presence. I press the lock down on the inside of the door before pushing it shut and walking towards the front door of my building. The simple joys of living on the lowest of the low sides; no one questions you when you walk into your place of residence in the middle of the night. Plausible deniability and all that shit.
I push open the glass door leading into the lobby of the place. The doorman, some Indian fuck named Jefferson with a shitty pencil mustache looks up from the Hustler he had his eyes on for who knows how long before I came in. His eyes widen with shock and embarrassment, as I walk by without so much as a passing comment. From the corner of my eye I see his face fall into a look of relief as I start down the hall. Fuckin' creep.
After a brief elevator ride up to the third floor, I make my way through the narrow hallway to my door. Grabbing my key from the chain in my jacket pocket, I slide it into the lock and turn it, pushing the door open.
An action that reveals to me that there's someone in my apartment. The lights are on, and sitting on the couch with an annoyed look on her face is none other than Julia, the previously Unnamed Camerawoman that's been my partner in crime in all matters XWF for the better part of a year or so at this point.
"Buenos noches, cockfag. Where you been?"