101 People to Kill Before I Die

by Anthony O'Connor

  "Where's Brian?"

  Charlie screamed back at her.

  "Up your fucking ass."

  She howled at him. She'd finally lost her temper. She screamed at him,

  "Just fucking tell me. What is fucking wrong with you?"

  She cut the flame through his penis up into his lower stomach and then down into it.

  Charlie Samuals was screaming out, in excruciating, agonizing pain but also in rage. Deep burning, searing, soul-bursting rage and hatred. As he died he roared out at her,

  "See you in the next world you fucking, fucking cunt. I'll be waiting for you skunk fucker. I'll be fucking you up the ass for the next million years, and then skull fucking you for a million after that. Fuck you, Fuck you."

  Svetlana was surprised by how he died and what he said. It had never happened that way before. They always told her whatever they knew. They always died screaming in fear, howling in pain, shaking, pissing themselves. Sometimes pleading with her. Blubbering. This one was different. Scary different. She shivered slightly. What if there was an after-life? What if he was there waiting for her? That would not be good.

  This was all getting too complicated. All she wanted now was to go home. Find fucking Brian Samuals and kill him. And then Boris and Vadim. And then Jack Williams. And then fucking go home. Being an assassin was a tough line of work. Very demanding. Her torture session with Charlie Samuals had been very disconcerting. She looked around Charlie’s house for a while. She found a large folder of papers and documents, nothing else of interest. She took the folder with her. She’d check through it once she got back to her motel.

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  Natasha and I ran down Haig Street away from the hotel, on Monday night. I knew I had to come up with something quickly. After fifteen minutes or so I saw that we were passing an empty house, no lights, no car out front. Right! It would have to do. They'd never think to look so close to the hotel. I stopped. Natasha stopped beside me. We made our way to the front door. I broke in easily enough and we went on inside. No-one home. Great. We grabbed some water and then collapsed onto the couch. I looked around. nice enough. Big TV. There was plenty of food in the fridge. This would be our home for a day or two. Natasha looked at me and sighed.

  "Brian, what was that all about? You have to tell me."

  Maybe I should have told her the truth. But how could I. Instead of that I said,

  "They're all after me for shooting the Russian. He was a diplomat’s son. The other two Russians are still after you, me too now."

  She didn’t seem totally convinced but clearly decided not to press it. She asked,

  "What are we going to do?"

  I replied,

  "Just one more day here, two at the most. Then we'll head out into the country, lie low. Nobody will ever find us. We'll be safe."

  She looked unsure.

  "What if the owners of this place come back? I don’t want you to hurt them."

  I looked at her as if I was offended by the very idea.

  "Natasha, honey. I wouldn’t do that. Don’t worry. Come here."

  She snuggled up against me for a while, then we went to bed together. We didn’t make out at all. We were both feeling far too stressed.

  I woke up early on Tuesday morning. I hadn’t forgotten the note in Jack Williams’ house. A meeting at 2:00 PM Tuesday! I wanted to get there long before that and lie in wait for his arrival. He would probably have a group of goons with him but I would have the element of surprise. They would never know what hit them. Jack would. I would certainly make sure of that. Otherwise what’s the fucking point. I had breakfast with Natasha. I reassured her. It was taking a risk leaving her here by herself. But I didn’t have a choice. She was in no danger. Boris and Vadim couldn’t possibly find us here. If the owners came back, well not so good for me but she would just be taken into custody by the police, questioned and most likely released. I made it very clear to her that if that happened she had to say I forced her to stay with me. That I wouldn’t let her go. That she was scared of me. I didn’t really make it clear to her why this was important but I made it very clear that it was. It might not do any good. The truth was that for crimes of my magnitude she could do twenty years just for being an accomplice after the fact. It would all depend on how pissed off at her they were.

  I drove out to Jack Williams' safe house in Holden Street, Coburg round ten thirty. I had to steal another car. It occurred to me I was stealing too many from the same area so I walked a kilometer or so to the other side of St Kilda and stole one there. I found a Nissan with the keys in the ignition. I didn’t need any electronic code breakers for this one, all I had to do was break the front window. Some people are just fucking careless. I brought along my Kalashnikov assault rifle for this job, in a carry bag initially while looking for the car. I parked at a distance and watched the house carefully for twenty minutes or so. There were no cars parked outside. No one arrived. No one left. I remembered Fido from my last visit. I suppose they would have buried him by now. Dumb fucking dog. I wish I hadn’t had to kill him. He didn’t deserve that. Oh well. Finally, I moved in on the place, slowly making my way to the front door and letting myself in. No one waiting inside. I checked all the rooms. Good. I checked the back door. Locked. I settled into my old spot in the front living room, sitting near the window but low down so I could just see out and no one looking in was likely to see me. I had clear line of sight on the front door and the hallway. With a bit of luck, I would be able to move to the corner and wait until his whole party was inside. He would not come alone. No chance of that. Jack Williams was a coward at heart. I knew he had to be shitting in his boots these days. Looking around every corner. Knowing I was coming for him. Well his long fucking wait for the inevitable would soon be over. He would finally be able to rest in peace or, far more likely, rot in hell - if there was such a place. I did find amusing the sudden image of large demons sticking pitchforks up his ass frequently and forever.

  About 1:30 PM a car pulled up. I saw Jack get out and three other men. Show time. I watched them walk up the pathway to the front door. I moved into the corner of the living room as planned. I was holding my Kalashnikov assault rifle, ready, waiting. I still had the Uzi holstered on the left and a Glock holstered on the right. I heard them come into the hallway and then saw them move on into the living room. I was crouched down in the corner. People tend not to look there. They only see you once you move or make a sound. And then it’s too late. Three of the men were in the room when I opened fire including Jack who was on the left. I was careful not to target him directly, though he'd probably catch one or two. The first burst cut into the man on the right dropping him instantly. The second burst caught the second man in the head, splintering it into a dozen pieces - blood spurting from what was left of the top of his neck. Jack caught a stray bullet in his left arm and dropped. I jumped over the bodies to confront the fourth man before he could draw a weapon. But he'd turned and run. He’d just made it to the open door when I fired a burst into his back, killing him too. Jack was trying to reach for his weapon with his remaining good arm. I kicked him hard in the stomach. Pulled the weapon out from under him and tossed it aside. I dragged him into the middle of the room and stood over him, pointing the assault rifle straight into his face. His left arm dangled at his side uselessly. A high caliber round from close range. Not much left after that. He would probably bleed out before too long. But that is not the way this was going to end.

  I stood over him and yelled at him,

  "Why'd you do it? We were mates."

  He tried to smile, and failed. He looked back at me miserably.

  "It was just business Brian. Nothing personal."

  I knew that wasn’t completely bullshit. He was a greedy cunt, and I was simply expendable, and at the time a convenient patsy. I snarled at him,

  "What sort of fucked up excuse is that?"

  He didn’t reply at first and then, in a way that I suppose ma
de sense to him at least, he made his last desperate pitch. He whined,

  "I'll cut you in. Half of what I have. That’s ten million. More to come after that. We can work together. Call it even. I'll help you escape."

  I stared down at him, shaking my head. He was pathetic. I said to him,

  "You know, I was going to cut you up with an axe. But I forgot to bring my fucking axe."

  He tried to grin. He just looked so fucking stupid. He blubbered,

  "Oh, please Brian. Just let me go. Don’t kill me. Please."

  I said,

  "God! You are one miserable gutless fucking piece of shit."

  I reloaded, taking my time putting in the new magazine. He was too scared to say anything. Shaking. White blood-drained face. Then I opened up on him. I emptied the whole magazine into him from three feet away. Thirty rounds. Six bursts of five. Overkill really. It blew him apart. Shredding him into small pieces. I took a few steps back and surveyed the results of my work. Mostly Jack. But the three others as well. It was a bit strange. I had mixed emotions. After all the trouble getting to this point it suddenly seemed something of an anticlimax. I don’t know what I'd been expecting. Something more.

  As I drove away from Jack Williams place, I found myself getting uncharacteristically reflective. It didn’t happen often but when it did it hit me like a brick in the face. I drove into the heavy mid-afternoon traffic. High Street and City Road from Coburg into the city. It seemed like millions of cars buzzing about, people rushing to and fro. What were they all doing? What was I doing? What was it all about? What could it be about? Nothing! I mean it’s all fucking bullshit really - everything, everywhere, when you get down to it. Almost everyone is full of it from their toes to their eyeballs. Eager slimy little sycophants. Pusillanimous little assholes. They open their mouths to speak, to persuade, to lie, to manipulate or to coerce, and it starts pouring out like a thick brownish colored curry. The world is owned and ruled by cunts. Monumental liars. Greed-crazed fucking lunatics who in their constant never-ending squabbling and bickering for power are going to get the rest of us killed. Reduced to glowing nuclear ash, or choking in our vomit as we succumb to biological or chemical agents, neuro-toxins, nerve gas. They've got it all stocked-piled and ready to roll. Millions of gallons of it ready to drop on each other’s slave populations. Also known as ... us. They themselves have private bunkers on the ready.

  Until that day we work as their fucking slaves, toiling away for their benefit, anaesthetized by an endless gushing of cheap mindless bullshit propaganda disguised as entertainment. Trapped in vast hierarchies of fuckwits and assholes at all levels from the bottom all the way to the top. Significantly more at the top - Darwinian selection of the slimiest and the most treacherous. Smashed to a bloody pulp by beady eyed goons if we dare to protest or show the slightest whiff of dissent, or presume to actually start thinking for once. That or simply ignored if you are in one of the 'safer' more 'civilized' countries. There they don’t give a shit what you say or think, their rule is absolute and unassailable. Free speech for all, when it simply doesn’t matter. A few token dissenters are even allowed for - so long as they know their limit and don’t cross it. A few pet academics spewing out their tame and meaningless critiques. And at the end of all of this, no matter what we do, we crumble back into dust and nothingness.

  Pretty fucking dismal. And it still would be even without all the assholes. Not that that is ever going to happen. Is anything actually worthwhile? Truly satisfying? Genghis Khan reportedly said that the deepest and most enduring satisfaction to be found in life was looking down at your enemies broken bodies, dead at your feet, while his women - his wives and his daughters - warmed your bed, and waited for you to complete your glorious acts of conquest and plunder. I read somewhere that modern genetic studies show that up to twenty per cent of the world's population descends from Genghis Khan. Or to be more precise some male living in Central Asia in the middle of the thirteenth century. Who else would it fucking be? A thief and plunderer of epic proportions, a mass murderer and a rapist and by biological/evolutionary standards the most successful human who ever lived! In Ulaanbaatar, in Mongolia, they have a fifty feet high bronze statue of him. A hero! A giant of history! Welcome to the human fucking race.

  Well, I'd been getting some satisfaction from revenge, but I was almost done with that. I just had one more kill to do, Tommy fucking Barton, and then I was done with it for good. It hadn’t been as satisfying as I thought it would be. Though it was pretty fucking good, I'm not denying that. I'd be gloating over Jack Williams stupid fucking grin for quite some time. But once I'd done Tommy I knew that would be enough. Diminishing returns. Nothing lasts. And that’s the problem.

  What about sex? Well there's nothing quite like mounting a soft, warm, wet and willing female, penetrating her deeply, humping away madly, with her spread open underneath you - or on her hands and knees face down, back arched, with her gorgeous bottom proffered up submissively for your use and enjoyment. Shooting your load into her. Participating in the act of creation - with an element of conquest to it, undeniably - and rewarded with an explosive orgasm, nature's trick to keep us all enthusiastically reproducing. Now I'm sure the female perspective on this would be somewhat different - and worded differently. I don’t have a fucking clue how exactly. But the end-result is the same. We all really like fucking.

  So, once I'd killed Tommy I was going to run off with Natasha and hide somewhere - somewhere in the woods, away from it all. We'd find a nice little shack, cover ourselves in soft warm honey and fuck like bunnies, endlessly - night and day. For a brief time find some small measure of contentment. Until one day, all too soon, I would get too sick and I couldn’t do it anymore. Couldn’t get it up, and never would again. Then I would put a gun to my temple, pull the trigger and blow my own fucking brains out.

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  Imagine some somber, moody music with a thick heavy beat playing in an endless loop as plane load, after plane load, after plane load of gun-men arrive at Tullamarine Airport on the outskirts of Melbourne - all Tuesday evening and continuing on into the early hours of Wednesday morning.

  “Bom bom bom, ba baba bom ... bom bom bom, ba baba bom ...”

  Two hundred Chinese gangsters under the command of Mr. Cheng distributed over eight different incoming flights from Hong Kong. Making their way through customs and immigration, silent, stolid. Purpose of visit to Australia. Tourist. Purpose of visit to Australia. Tourist. Making their way through the airport in small groups and on to secret locations to collect their weapons.

  “Bom bom bom, ba baba bom ... bom bom bom, ba baba bom ...”

  One hundred Russian gangsters under the command of Victor Krikov, Mr. Alexandrovistch’s most trusted lieutenant, distributed over six incoming flights, all from Moscow via Tokyo. Making their way through customs and immigration. Purpose of visit to Australia. Business. Purpose of visit to Australia. Business. Making their way through the airport in small groups and then on to secret locations to collect their weapons.

  “Bom bom bom, ba baba bom ... bom bom bom, ba baba bom ...”

  Fifty Americans, additional CIA gun-men, requested secretly by Chuck Miller, arriving on three different incoming flights, two from San Francisco and one from Los Angeles. Making their way through customs and immigration. Purpose of visit to Australia. Sport. Purpose of visit to Australia. Well I'm here to see some of the god dam kangaroos. Language Sir. Ah yes. Sorry. Sport. Making their way through the airport in small groups and then on to secret locations to collect their weapons.

  “Bom bom bom, ba baba bom ... bom bom bom, ba baba bom ...”

  A large fleet of buses carrying hundreds of already heavily armed Australian Federal Police officers including members of the Federal Counter Terrorist Unit arriving from Canberra along the Hume Highway just a kilometer east of the airport. Another large fleet of buses also carrying hundreds of heavily armed police officers on loan from New South Wal
es arriving from Sydney also along the Hume Highway.

  “Bom bom bom, ba baba bom ... bom bom bom, ba baba bom ...”

  The anti-terrorist squads of the SAS Regiment had been authorized and activated by the politicians and the upper echelons of the military and were currently on-route from Perth. They would land at the nearest Air Force or Army Base as determined by operational requirements and ongoing intelligence.

  A total of well over a thousand highly trained, hard, fierce and determined gun-men waiting in various locations around the city, or still on their way, checking their weapons, locking and loading. And they all had only one thing on their mind. Kill Brian.

  Chapter 17. Somewhere quiet.

  On Wednesday morning, we left very early. I drove out along the M3 and then into the lower Dandenong Ranges through Lilydale and Neerim, coming back down onto the Princes Highway at Warrigal. I didn’t want to risk using the Princes Highway going out of Melbourne. There was a good chance they'd have checkpoints on all the major roads. They had cameras for sure. I still had the Nissan. It might have been reported as stolen by now. I should have stolen another one, just to get a bit of extra time. But I didn’t. We were in high spirits. Natasha hadn’t been out of Melbourne much in the last few years. She enjoyed the scenery. We could have been just another happy couple on an early morning drive into the hills, except for the massive police hunt spreading out eagerly and anxiously, desperate to crush me in its razor-sharp jaws. A hunt aided and abetted by military and intelligence units, counter-terrorist units. I'd killed bankers and an ambassador and a premiere. I was public enemy number one. There would be unlimited land-based surveillance, cameras everywhere, satellites peering down from above - vast arrays of supercomputers trolling through all available records, cross referencing, comparing, hungrily analyzing the incoming streams of surveillance and satellite imagery. There were also hordes of Russian gangsters competing with the cops for the prize, and in addition to them and unbeknownst to me at that point, equally ferocious hordes of Chinese gangsters. I would be lucky to get out of this alive. But then again, I never intended to. What about Natasha though? I should have separated from Natasha long before but the thought of this never even occurred to me. I know. I'm a selfish, self-centered prick and a bit of an asshole. I've been told that often enough. But when it really comes down to it, who isn't?