by Mike McCrary
That’s fucked up.
The ragtag crew cruises through the clouds toward their mission of murder, surrounded by the Gulfstream’s plush leather and luxury.
Leon keeps an eye on everything and everyone, sizing them up one by one. Breaking up his analysis is a constant, dull, thumping coming from the bathroom. Pike and Patience are joining the mile high club. Muffled, awkward grunts and moans seep out from the lavatory, along with bits of dirty talk.
“Spit in my mouth,” barks Pike.
Leon shifts uncomfortably in his seat. Rasnick looks at the ceiling. Vig and Oleg share a vodka bottle. Chats locks an icy stare out into nothing while he cleans his teeth with a tactical knife.
Brobee eyes Leon. “I know you.” Leon turns to find Brobee about two inches from his face.
“No, you don’t.”
“Yeah, yeah I do. Where do I fucking know you?” Brobee asks.
The pleasure moans and thumps from the bathroom get louder, now sounding like rabid monkeys trapped in a box.
Brobee doesn’t let it go with Leon. “You been on TV?”
“No.”
“Prison?”
“No.”
“Punch my nipple,” orders Patience.
Vig leans over, offering Leon a hit from his bottle. Leon declines. Vig insists. “Drink.”
Leon tries being polite. “I’m good.”
Rasnick joins the conversation. “You should take that drink.”
“You my sponsor?” asks Leon.
“You a gay?” asks Oleg.
Vig pushes the bottle at him again. “Drink it.”
Leon works to remain cool. “I’d rather keep a clear head before this…exercise.”
Rasnick says, “Sauce helps Vig and Oleg. Frees the mind.”
“The soul,” add Vig and Oleg in harmony.
“And the soul,” grins Rasnick.
Leon flashes a blank stare. “Congratulations.” A knife flies, sticking with a thunk about an inch from Leon’s face. He whips around to see Chats staring. “What the fuck, man?”
Rasnick puts a hand on Leon. “Chats doesn’t talk. That’s his way of asking, ‘What’s your fucking problem, fucko?’ His words, not mine.”
“Ever consider sign language?” Leon asks. Chats shakes his head. Nope.
A Comanche war cry booms from the bathroom as Pike’s climax rattles the cabin. A moment of silence, then Pike exits. “Now I can get my murder on.” Patience slips out adjusting her dress, flicks something from her finger. She notices the eyes on Leon, the tension in the cabin. She lets the words slip out like releasing a pressure valve. “What’s up boys?”
Rasnick turns back to Leon. “Who are you, dude?”
Pike joins in. “Yeah, chief. I know these other bitches from around the way. Work acquaintances and so on…” Pike’s words are cut short by Patience sliding in with sleepy, bedroom eyes on Leon. She wipes the corner of her mouth with the back of her hand then addresses Leon. “Who the hell are you?”
Tension picks up a notch.
People start fingering weapons.
Brobee addresses the cabin. “Easy, you animals. I’ve seen this guy somewhere, just can’t place him.”
Leon takes a breath. He really thought this wouldn’t come up, but realizes now there is no way to ignore the situation. He clears his throat. “Waingrow asked me to come as a favor to him. I know Big Ugly. Been tracking him for years. Came close in Mexico, but he got the jump on me.”
“But you’re alive,” states Rasnick, a note of disbelief in his voice.
“Yeah, this motherfucker, this Big Ugly?” Pike says. “From what I hear, live and let live ain’t his way.”
Leon tries to deflect the subject. “It’s not important. What is important is we need to…”
“Fairly important, I think,” says Pateince.
Pike wraps an arm around her waist. “Yup.”
“I agree,” Rasnick adds. “I mean, we need to know everything about our team and our target, right?” Chats flips his knife with a nod. Leon takes a beat trying to sort through his words. “He wanted to make an example of me, send a message. So he set me free.”
Brobee heads snaps up. A light bulb goes off, then shatters. He can barely contain himself, fumbling to get the words out as fast as he can. “Holy fucking shit! I remember. Ah man, it’s you! I’m fucking sorry, man. Oh my God.”
“What?” asks Rasnick.
“Nothing. He’s got the wrong guy,” says Leon.
“No, no I do not,” Brobee continues. “Big Ugly and this poor bastard…there was video online.”
Eyes around the cabin go wide, even Chats. Leon’s lip trembles ever so slightly as he speaks. “I escaped, and that’s it.”
Brobee keeps riding his train of thought. “Fucking awful, horrific. Bad, bad, bad.”
Pike just wants to know. “What happened?” Brobee leans in and whispers into Pike’s ear. Pike makes a face like he swallowed a bug wrapped in dog shit. Can’t even look at Leon, all he can do is glance to his shoes.
Leon spits out, “Nothing happened. I busted out and escaped. Nothing happened.”
Patience is almost bouncing out of her seat wanting to know. Pike whispers in her ear and her gorgeous features melt into a response similar to Pike’s. She looks to Brobee in disbelief.
Brobee says, “It was all over the web. There was this comment forum; it was big deal.”
Leon’s anger ripples just below his skin. “I said nothing happened.” He stops as he watches the whisper-wave spreads the story through the cabin and the remaining members of the crew.
Brobee asks, “Somebody got a laptop? I’ll pull it up”
Leon loses it. Cover be damned. “Nothing fucking happened, you fucking retarded cocksuckers! Now shut the fuck up before I execute every fucking last one of you.”
The cabin goes silent.
Really, what do you say?
Leon takes a shaky breath, pulling it together best he can. “Do you people have any idea who we are going after? This guy will burn down your dreams and eat your soul. If he likes you, he’ll just kill you.” Silence as the crew shares looks. “He is absent conscience, heart, or any form of reason. Living, breathing evil with 2400 SAT score. Do not, please, do not take him lightly or we will all die, badly.”
The crew takes a moment to soak in Leon’s words, his sincerity. It’s all over him; he has seen things that no man should see.
Slowly the cabin begins to swell with laughter. The crew can’t contain themselves. Patience is close to rolling in the isle. Chat snorts.
Pike busts out, “It was on the web?”
“Oh yeah, man, it was epic,” wails Brobee.
A good time, all at Leon’s expense.
12
In the hall in front of the penthouse suite, the same penthouse where the crime lords met, two armed goons guard the door, another at the elevator. The elevator doors open, and as the goon on elevator duty turns he catches a silenced 9mm to the head.
Goon one down.
Buster and Talley spring from the elevator wearing ski masks, black painter coveralls zipped to the neck, shoes covered. Buster blasts out the camera overhead while Talley takes out the two remaining goons at the door with head shots. The whole thing takes four seconds, maybe. Impressive, to say the least.
Inside the penthouse stand more goons, shoulder holsters heavy with guns at the ready. Cherrito and Waingrow are watching a Lakers game. Bosko sits in a chair reading People. Doren is resting comfortably in another room.
The room’s door lock clicks, light going green. The door flies open as the masked Buster and Talley storm in. Their movement is constant, efficient, with not a single motion or bullet wasted. Controlled three round bursts. These are not meth-zombies shooting up a trailer park in search of a hundred bucks and a roll of quarters. These are highly trained individuals who do this kind of thing for a paycheck, pension and dental. The goons are dead before they can even draw their weapons, let alone fire a shot.
Cherrito and Waingrow are next.
They are unceremoniously removed from this Earth with a shots between the eyes. Bosko barely looks from his magazine, a crime lord thinking he’s untouchable, that nobody would have the sack to even think about doing what they are doing. Bosko mutters, “Cocksucking…” before being silenced by Buster’s bullet between the eyes. A plum of blood pops as Bosko’s body is blown back over his chair.
Buster and Talley scan the room for Doren. The cowboys from hell slip into a side bedroom, where they find Doren sitting up in bed, enjoying soup. Doren looks them over, acknowledges his fate. He knew this day would come. Rarely do people like Doren die naturally. He says, “Just do it.”
Done.
Buster and Talley remove their masks, quickly moving back to the living room. They tear away their coveralls, revealing blazers and slacks that look a lot like private security garb. Much like the uniforms the dead goons in the hallway were wearing, actually. They exit into the hallway, where they stand on either side of the penthouse doors with 9mms drawn as if they are about to go into the room for the first time. They wait. Buster rolls his eyes, impatient as hell. Talley knows his brother and instructs him, “Wait for it.” Buster’s eyes dance, his impulsive streak running wild as he spits out, “Fucking useless security shit stains.”
“Shut. The. Fuck. Up.”
“You shut up.”
Elevator dings.
Buster and Talley get into character, snapping on the looks of panicked, dumbfounded, dipshit security guards. They start with the heavy breathing and plant looks of fear and concern on their faces. A team of security guards pours out of the elevator with guns drawn. Everything about them is identical to Buster and Talley. The lead guard slips up next to them, looks them over. He doesn’t recognize them, but they are wearing the correct uniform and a good supervisor tries to avoid looking like an idiot at all costs. “What happened?”
The two brothers give the performance of a lifetime. Talley pants like a mutt, fakes terror and stutters while saying, “I think…I think…they’re still in there, sir.” Buster squeaks out, “They’re armed, sir.” The lead guard puts a calming hand on Buster’s shoulder. Buster looks into his eyes and nods. I’ll be strong for you sir. The lead guard motions for the rest of the team to move in around the door. As they do, Buster and Talley slip back toward the elevator. The lead guard address whoever he thinks is in the room in his best movie badass voice. “Okay, let’s not get anybody hurt.”
The elevator door closes.
Buster and Talley are gone baby gone. In the elevator, Buster giggles. That was enjoyable. Talley pulls out the GPS monitor that’s tracking their brother, Rasnick.
“Where the fuck are they?” asks Buster.
Talley scrunches his nose. “They keep going in circles. It’s like they’re…”
13
“Lost?”
Rasnick stares out in the wilderness. “Fucking lost? You have no clue where we are?”
The bus of an SUV cruises down a one-lane road that snakes through a seemingly endless patch of dense woods. The crew fills the three rows of Chevy seating, Patience nestled in Pike’s lap. A lot of pissed off looks fire in Brobee’s direction, and he tries to hide the truth as he rides shotgun, Rasnick at the wheel.
“I’m not lost.”
“Really? Fantastic. Where are we?” snaps Rasnick.
“We’re close.”
“Bullshit,” snorts Vig. On cue Oleg chimes in, “Fucking bullshit, man.”
Brobee can’t believe this; he knows what he saw dammit. “It was dark as shit that night. Take it easy, you animals, I’ll find it.”
Pike fidgets, annoyed. This makes Patience annoyed. She barks, “This is a joke, right?” Leon keeps to himself, but his face says it all. Fuck me. His mind even drifts to a place that thinks his office building security gig maybe wasn’t all that bad.
Brobee is completely flustered. “Look, goddammit, I trying here. I’m trying, damn, ok?”
Chats jams a knife into the headrest next to his ear. Leon looks to Chats then taps Brobee. “Think he’s saying trying is for pussies.” Leon leans into Chats. “Close?” Chats nods.
Brobee’s eyes lock.
Just over the hill.
In the distance, shining like a diamond in a goat’s ass.
Brobee yelps, “There!” His stolen Caddie sits on the side of the road like a hooker’s corpse, right where he left it. “Stop!”
The Suburban’s brakes lock.
The crew moves through the same woods Brobee braved less than 48 hours ago. A heavily armed band of the most ill-tempered, badass Cub Scouts ever known, Brobee leads the way, still not completely confident where he’s going. They’ve been trudging through these woods for a while and the natives are getting restless, again.
Pike looks up, down, all around the suffocating woods. “He build a nest or some shit?”, “You’ll see, fuck face,” spits Brobee.
“Been staring at trees for two hours now,” says Patience.
“We’re good. Trust. Please?” begs Brobee.
Rasnick and Leon are bringing up the rear, staying a few steps behind the rest of the pack. Rasnick turns to Leon. “You said you tracked Big Ugly for a time, right?” Leon nods, not sure where this is going. “Who is he?” Rasnick asks. Leon fights off a grin. “Nobody knows for sure. Some think he was a Marine once, maybe CIA. Maybe trained in Asia. Contract killer for a time. Some even believe he was a cop for awhile.”
“About to be a broke, dead bitch,” interrupts Pike.
“Absolutely,” purrs Patience.
Leon hopes they’re right.
Pike keeps spewing testosterone. “Don’t know everything, but I know my skills, and they are sharp, tight and ready to light some fire on his ass.” Patience throws an arm around him and Pike spanks her backside. Leon thinks about using a nail and hammer to keep his eyes from rolling. Instead he says, “Confidence is cute, but a healthy dose of fear might keep you alive.”
Patience stops cold, stares at Leon as if he slapped her Mama. “Fear? You be afraid, pillow bitter.” That earns a laugh from the rest of the crew.
Leon looks to Rasnick. Be afraid.
Rasnick gets it.
The crew stops under a massive tree, its roots spiraling out of the ground and back in like a ride at a water park. They’ve reached a bullet-riddled body slumped against the tree’s trunk. Brobee recognizes the face. “Ahhh, man.”
“You knew him?” asks Rasnick.
“I—yeah, I stole his truck when I left. Feel bad, a little responsible.”
Leon looks on. A little? These people are unbelievable.
Rasnick motions for them to keep moving and they continue their march through the thick woods. Something bothers Leon, a question he needs answered. “Hey, Brobee.”
“Yo.”
“Did he see you?”
“Who?”
“Santa. Who do you think? Big Ugly, asshole.”
“No, no way.”
Leon’s face tightens. “You sure about that?”
Rasnick joins in. “If we’re walking into a goddamn slaughter, so fucking help me.” Brobee attempts to reassure them. “I’m damn positive, man. C’mon.” Everybody stops. All eyes bore through Brobee. He can’t believe the lack of trust from his brothers and sisters in arms. “He did not fucking see me.”
He’s sure.
Really sure.
So sure.
Kinda sure.
Part III
some kinda Willy Wonka prick cocksucker.
14
Less than 48 hours ago…
Brobee stood at the edge of the clearing, mouth and eyes agape.
Up ahead was the object of his horror.
Up ahead…
Big Ugly.
Forty-something, dressed in a slick, tailored Fioravanti suit and, oddly enough, not ugly at all. Actually better looking than probably 99% of men walking the earth. Cigar in his mouth, scotch in hand, and his baby b
lues locked on Brobee from across the yard. Big Ugly flashed a chilling smile, took a beat, then gave a tiny finger wave to Brobee.
Piss flowed.
Brobee bolted.
Big Ugly stood in front of a 28,000 square foot sprawling mega mansion. His mansion. Aside from the open land that immediately encircles the home, the area is completely surrounded, protected by the dense trees and wilderness. This place won’t show up on any map. A stable of cows sits to the side of the jaw-dropping home. There is no visible road that leads in or out of Big Ugly’s land.
This is a lap of luxury that does not want to be found.
Big Ugly’s right-hand man, Bobby, runs from the house. Big Ugly’s gaze is still fixed out into the distance as Bobby races up to him. He’s knee-deep in a thinking man’s trance. Bobby controls his breath. “Big Ugly, I saw something breached the red line.” Big Ugly doesn’t bother with eye contact as he cuts Bobby off. “Somebody. Somebody breached, Bobby.
“I’ll get the dogs.” Bobby pulls an old school Uzi while springing into Code Blue mode.
“No, Bobby. Not this time.”
Bobby stops. “Did they see you?”
Big Ugly cracks a grin. “Oh, yes. Saw me…knows me.”
“Interpol? CIA?”
“No.”
“How did he find you?”
Big Ugly puffs his cigar. “Luck. Fate. Doesn’t really matter.”
“I need to get you out of here. They’ll send people.”
Big Ugly finally turns to Bobby. “Oh, people will come, Bobby. Nasty, filthy, scary people. People with bad childhoods and questionable morals will descend on me with guns, bloodlust, and visions of murderous mayhem dancing in their heads. But Bobby, make no mistake…” Big Ugly puts the cigar out in his own palm with a sizzle. “I’m not fuckin’ going anywhere.”
Inside the mega mansion Big Ugly glides through a foyer that rivals the lobby of Caesars Palace. Bobby stays close, trying to reason with the unreasonable. “I know you haven’t been yourself recently.” Big Ugly appreciates the concern—not really. Bobby continues, “Depression is a natural response…”
