“What do I look like, Bozo the fuckin’ clown? No I ain’t here for the kid’s party!” I was fuckin’ snapping, I had already jumped through some major hoops just to come back here and report my success and finally, finally get back to makin’ them dollars, and for what, to have these orcs makin’ meatballs at my own expense?
“Yo, who you think you fuckin’ talkin’ to? Don’t get crazy over here.” The orc on the left with the bulldog baseball hat lifted his shirt, revealing the grip of a big, stainless steel .45 caliber pistol, I had the sneaking suspicion it was a Hardballer, a pistol I’d personally coveted for some time.
“Alright, alright, take it easy, it ain’t that deep.” I shook my head and paused a moment, only gettin’ stoney looks in return from the two orcs. “I’m here to see Big Fat, he’s expecting me.”
The chubby, chin strapped orc raised a scarred eyebrow. “It’s his favorite son’s birthday, does he look like he’s fuckin’ expectin’ you, dickhead?”
I was startin’ to panic, lookin’ around, hoping to catch a glance of one of the other jerk off orcs from the other day, thinkin’ that I really didn’t have the patience today for bullshit. I couldn’t get a clear look at Big Fat Ton, the orcs must have erected some kinda big ass party tent over there around Big Fat’s playground throne, covering it from outside view.
“Maybe you should get lost now.” The big orc with the bulldog hat peered down at me, “It’s a private function today…” As he was sayin’ this I spotted an orc that I thought to be one of assholes from the other day, B-Robb.
“Hold on.” I met the orc’s eye confidently. “Go tell B-Robb I’m here or bring ‘em over here, and if I’m wrong, if I don’t have no business to discuss with Big Fat Ton that he actually wants to hear, then I’ll kick rocks. But, if Big Fat finds out you two shitbags turned me away, well...” I looked from one to the other, an eyebrow raised. “How’s that gonna go for you?”
The two orcs shared a mildly alarmed glance, then the fat one with the shitty chin strap, his beard hairs making me think of boar bristles, turned and shouted out, “Yo! B-Robb!” over in the direction where that orc was standin’, drinkin’ somethin’ out of a big red cup, making him turn over our way to see who had hollered his name. Seein’ the fat orc wavin’ his way and me standing there on the sidewalk, B-Robb drained his fuckin’ party cup, tossed it, patted his pockets for a moment but came up empty on whatever he was lookin’ for, and jogged over to the opening of the chain link fence.
“Yo, what is it?” B-Robb huffed, comin’ up to the two orcs and me. “Either of you two got a blunt wrap I can gank?” Fuckin’ Chinstrap shook his head, mumbled that he had just used his last one and was about to hit the bodega down the street.
“This guy here, this hob.” The big orc with the bulldog hat shot me a dubious glance. “Says he’s gotta talk some business with Big Fat.”
B-Robb eyed me up and down for a moment. “Oh, yea.” He nodded. “Yea he ain’t lyin’, the Big Guy is expectin’ him.”
“Thanks.” I shook my head, breezed passed the two orcs, walked right by B-Robb, nodding to him, then headed for the tent.
As I walked into the tent, I really had to take a moment to appreciate the scene. They had done it big for the kid’s birthday party, that was for sure. They practically built an outdoor club in there surrounding Big Fat’s playground equipment throne, there was an orc band on an ad hoc stage, big ass speakers strategically placed around, alcohol everywhere, big coolers with somethin’ called “jungle juice” sloshin’ around inside, marijuana smoke thick in the air, a ridiculously extensive variety of barbecue platters. There were orcs dancin’, big booty orc girls grindin’ the shit out of their partners, and everyone was having a good old time, everyone except me, who was catchin’ curious, and at times, angry glances, and who didn’t want to fuckin’ be there to begin with. Big Fat Ton was sittin’ up top his big jungle gym lazyboy, a giant fuckin’ joint gripped in his fat right paw, while his left was draped around the shoulder of a slightly smaller, younger version of himself, which I guessed to be the son that this party was bein’ thrown for. I noticed Big Fat and the kid next to him had identical thick gold chains hangin’ around their necks.
“Teek!” Big Fat boomed, seein’ me walkin’ towards him. “Well done. I heard through the grapevine you got them two outta there, and without knockin’ any heads around! Come on, come over here, this is my eldest boy, Little Fat. We’re throwin’ a little party for ‘em, he’s a grown orc now, not a boy young any longer.”
“So what do you call him now, Medium Fat…?” I blurted absurdly under my breath.
“Eh? What?” Big Fat Ton nodded at me. “What’d ya say?”
“I said happy birthday Little Fat.” I walked up a little closer, nodded up to Big Fat’s pudgy mini-me, who was sittin’ there smiling stupidly. He was obviously in awe of his father and I got the impression he was more pleased about just bein’ close to the big fat fuck than he was about the day being his birthday. Big Fat leaned over some, lookin’ down at his son.
“You see this hobgoblin here, boy?” He glanced over at me, his voice low so his son would think he was being favored with some important piece of information. “He’s a clever little shit. Make sure you keep a few clever sorts around ya, when your time comes.”
“Okay.” The overweight orc youth nodded up at his father. “But dad, how am I gonna know if somebody’s clever or not?”
Big Fat sucked his teeth, his eyes narrowing as he looked down at his son. “You use your fuckin’ head, pup, that’s how.” He hefted his fat left hand and smacked his son’s bald dome, then rubbed it. “And ya make sure your people are usin’ their heads when you give ‘em a job to do. Got it?”
“Big Fat,” I said, clearing my throat, gettin’ impatient, feelin’ like this outrageous orc tryin’ to teach his son useful lessons and tips for when he’d succeed him and he’d be runnin’ this shithole playground, for when his bulk would be shifting in a more comfortable position on the playground throne, if he didn’t fall out from some virulent form of orc diabetes, anyway.
Big Fat turned to face me, taking a major toke on his titanic sized joint. “What?”
“You mind if we talk about some business?” I pointedly glanced at the fat young orc next to him. “I’m tryin’ to be on my way, keep it pushin’.”
“Ah,” Big Fat rumbled, crackin’ a wide grin, “of course, of course. Ya got a real set of balls on ya, to be rushin’ a capo. But it’s my son’s birthday, so I’ll give ya a pass.”
“No disrespect, Big Fat.” I nodded in a manly understanding.
“Ya know, you really set those two junkies up good, how the hell did ya do it?”
“A wise man never tells.”
“Wait, what happened? What’d he do?” Little Fat turned to his pops, a confused look on his face.
“He pulled off the job I gave ‘em, that’s what.” Big Fat smiled strangely at me, without turning to his son. “He was smart about it, he used his head and now he’s here for his reward.” The massive, rotund orc nodded to me. “Ain’t that right, hob?”
“I’d be lyin’ if I said you was wrong about that, Big Fat.” I grinned back up at him. He continued to look back at me without sayin’ anything for a few, and I started gettin’ agitated again. He puffed on his excessively big doobie some more, blowin’ out thick, uneven smoke rings.
Tell ya what, Teek,” Big Fat finally said, leaning forward some. “I got an idea, and I think it’ll make everybody happy.”
“I’m listening.” I spun my index finger in that familiar hurry-the-fuck-up-with-it motion. Little Fat took a liking to that and started doing it while sitting next to his giant father, causing Big Fat to nudge the boy silently telling ‘em to knock it off.
“You familiar with the grid, hob?”
“The grid?” I shot back, wondering what the fuck he was talkin’ about.
“Yea, the grid. I’m talkin’ ‘bout, Philly, the streets.”
�
�Okay, and?”
Big Fat smirked. “Reason why I ask, I know you ain’t been here in a long time.”
“I was born and raised in this city.” My brow furrowed, showin’ the orc that I was offended he thought I could possibly forget somethin’ of such strategic importance. “Just ‘cause I took an extended vacation don’t mean I don’t remember the layout of these streets.”
“Okay, good.” Big Fat peered around ‘til he spotted an unoccupied orc, then, seeing one nearby just sippin’ on a red party cup, he snapped his fat fingers at him. “Yo, bring the hobgoblin a drink, he’s lookin’ thirsty over here!”
“Comin’ right up, Big Fat.” The orc, wearin’ a stretched out red basketball jersey walked over to one of the tables, picked up a red cup, but when he moved over to where the bottles of liquor were sittin’, he looked back over at me and asked, “what’s he drinkin’?”
“I don’t want a drink.” I put a hand up in the direction of the orc holdin’ an empty red cup at the ready for me. “Big Fat, what’s the good word? What are we doin’ here? What’s the fuckin’ grid got to do with anything?”
Big Fat smiled again, somewhat mirthlessly, a twinkle crossing his eyes. “Have a drink with us, Teek. After all, it’d be rude of you not to, on my eldest son’s birthday.” He turned back to the orc in the basketball jersey. “Get ‘em some jungle juice!” He barked.
I sighed as I took the party cup with its sloshing cold red broth from the orc, grimacing as I took a healthy sip of the exotic yet funky tasting brew. It tasted hard, that fresh fermentation taste, with a tangy sweetness to it.
“Can I have some jungle juice too, dad?” Little Fat looked up at his old man hopefully.
“Maybe in a little while.” Big Fat turned back to me, seemingly pleased that I had taken to the jungle juice, having watched me take a few more sips after the first initial taste. “So, here’s what I’m thinkin’. I got a twenty by twenty that I’m gonna let you have, since the last guy I had runnin’ the spot got pinched and then mysteriously killed in lock up...”
“Wait,” I began, then paused for a moment, feelin’ suddenly woozy. “What do you mean, twenty by twenty…?”
“I’m sayin’ I’m gonna put you on a twenty block radius. It’ll be yours to run how you want, for a modest kick back to me each month.” Big Fat hit his big ass joint a few more times, blowin’ thick plumes of pungent cannabis smoke down at me. “From Emerald Street down to Aramingo, you can do whatever, but I get twenty percent of everything you make.”
“Wow.” I shook my head. “Twenty percent? What am I, an asshole?!”
Some of the orcs standin’ nearby got quiet and turned on me, waitin’ to see if I was gonna act a fuckin’ fool or if Big Fat would give the order to take my ass down.
The big orc farted loudly after a moment, then smiled once more. “That’s how it is, alright? And no hustlin’ dope ‘til I say you can; consider it a probationary period. You got a problem with it, why not take your act over to your own fuckin’ kind? Maybe you’ll get a better deal back on Baron’s Street?” He waited a moment for me to answer, but when I frowned and stayed silent he went on. “Yea, I didn’t think so. It’s twenty percent, so let’s call that a thousand bucks a month. You get that to me and we have no problems.”
“A thousand bucks a month,” I repeated numbly, my voice sounding distant to my own ears, a phantom pain stabbin’ me in the left pocket.
“Yea, for now. If you perform for me though, sky’s the fuckin’ limit. I’ll bump you up to my own crew, shit, I’m all about ‘promotin’ from within’ like the humans say. If I put you on, hob, you’ll only have to hit me back with ten percent a month.” He licked his fat lips, seein’ the calculations goin’ on behind my eyes, thinkin’ that maybe hobgoblins weren’t so fuckin’ stubborn after all when it came down to worshippin’ at the most almighty altar of all: the god of cash fuckin’ money and that bottom dollar.
Realizing I was gettin’ pretty intoxicated, I slowed down drinkin’ on that jungle juice and cocked an eyebrow up at Big Fat Ton. “I’m feelin’ like there’s a ‘but’ somewhere in there that ain’t bein’ said.”
“True.” The giant orc grunted a laugh. “If you’re on my crew, then you’re taking my orders. Even if it means goin’ after your own people, if I call, you better come runnin’.”
“The way I see it, Big Fat, you gotta do what you gotta do to keep your dick up in this world.” I lit up a cigarette as the orc chuckled in surprise, then tossed the cup of jungle juice I was drinkin’ on a little off to the side of me. “And since we’re keepin’ it real with each other, I got no qualms about knockin’ off one of my own, if the price is right, you think us hobs are some fuckin’ close knit community?” Images of me and Shal hangin’ out crossed my mind, and I thought to myself, though if this fat prick asks me to whack my own cousin, that’d be a different story. Blood is somethin’ else entirely, and I’ll put a bullet through this orc’s dome piece real fuckin’ quick before I ever go after Shal. There’s no way I would off him, no way...
A couple orcs of varying ages and sizes came runnin’ up, pushin’ passed me and standing below Big Fat.
“Boss!” One of this crew hollered. “Boss, one of the kids—”
“What is it?” Big Fat thundered, gettin’ real serious at the mention of the orc kids, many of them his own brood. “What happened?”
“Well, I don’t know how to say it, but one of your sons… He… Well…” The orc looked around nervously. “He jumped on the pony’s back and one of it’s fuckin’ legs broke.”
“What?” Big Fat asked in confused relief, shootin’ this messenger an irritated look.
“Ahahahaha!” Little Fat’s belly wobbled with him, just like his father’s did. “Was it Big Body Gug?”
The orc messenger looked worried, like he didn’t wanna say what he was about to. “Boss, the pony’s wrangler, he’s makin’ a real stink, sayin’ we better pay ‘em for the pony or he’ll go to the cops.”
Big Fat flicked an ash the size of a grown man’s thumb and thrice as thick from the tip of his joint and laughed, makin’ his massive guts bounce. “So? Pay ‘em, I don’t need the trouble. Last thing we need is them animal cops hangin’ around, ‘specially with my kids carryin’ on like they do.” Hearing that orc mention cops, an image flashed across my mind of the cops outside the Dozen Diamonds, the tiefling junkie and his skeezer in the back of their cruiser.
“Big Fat, one more thing,” I called up to the mass of orc flesh, “the Dozen Diamonds. It’s mine now, no?”
The orc turned a stoned eye to me, seemed to consider what I said for a few. “Yea, fine. Consider it a gift, on account of my son’s birthday. Just remember my cut.”
Chapter 21
As I pulled into the Dozen Diamonds front parking lot, I couldn’t resist laughin’, noticing that the crowd of social justice warriors had dwindled down to just a few die hards, all humans, which made it more amusing somehow, still waving their fuckin’ R.D.O. posters around; either they were bored, just had nothin’ better to do, or they simply weren’t aware that the thing they were championing was over. The two junkie scumbags were no longer even there anymore, they were now passin’ love letters through their case managers in the new Philadelphia County jail, the CFCF, or Curran-Fromhold Correctional Facility. I drove back to the office building and parked right next to Mikey Delolo’s old Benz and sat for a moment before gettin’ out, thinkin’ of how I was gonna go about extorting this shithead landlord. The guy’s office was in the basement of the building, so once I got down the steps I adjusted my gat in my waist band then walked through the door.
“Oh, hello,” the pretty tanned skin human receptionist greeted me, sounding a little surprised. Her glasses and thick head of hair gave her that classic porno secretary look, confirming some rumors I’d heard about Mikey Delolo. “Welcome to the Dozen Diamonds. Are you here to rent one of our units? We just had a space become available.”
“Yea, no shit,” I s
narled, causing the bitch to jerk her head back. “It’s ‘cause of my sweat that you can now rent that junkie’s paradise out to someone who will actually pay. Where’s Mikey?”
She kicked back in her office chair from the desk, revealing an incredible pair of legs, long and slim, with a skirt that was far too short for a professional setting, pointed with the pen in her hand to the hallway behind her. “First door on the left.” I nodded to her and strode over to the door she pointed out, knocked hard twice and heard Mikey’s frustrated voice yell back somewhat muffled through the door.
“Sheila, God dammit, I said hold on, I’m tryin’ to figure this pump thing out!”
I turned the knob and shoved the door open, standing there in shock for a moment before I cracked into a grin. Mikey had jumped up, revealing he had dropped his pants and had nothin’ on below his bowler shirt, clothes-wise; however, there was a clear, tubular apparatus dangling from right below his gut, and it seemed to be suctioned somehow around his limp dick that for some absurd reason made me think of a worm. There was some sort of manual opened halfway on the desk in front of him and one of those little black cigarillos he enjoyed sittin’ half smoked in the big crystal ashtray.
“Mikey, what the fuck,” I chortled, closing the door behind me. “I mean really, I’m appalled. This is how you’re gettin’ down? That your wife out there?”
“No!” He snitched on himself, scanning the room for his discarded pants. “I mean… Wait… Why are you here? What do you want?”
I walked forward and held my arms out, with a big shit eatin’ grin. “Ah, there’s the gratitude I was lookin’ for! Real nice to see you too.” I pointed down at the dick pump still hangin’ from his body. “You gonna put some pants on so we can talk or what, you fuckin’ nut?” I paused, a curious thought forming. “Does that thing even work?” I asked after a moment, an eyebrow raised.
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