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| Another day, another dollar. | Started by: Taskmaster on Oct 15, '08 19:22 |
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The thunderclap woke me. I could taste the sweet, yet bitter mixture of Chinese food and cheap booze in my mouth as I struggled to sit up from my desk. As I tried to regain feeling in my arms, I heard another thunderclap. Except it wasn't a thunderclap. Someone was knocking at my door. I tried to blink the sleep from my eyes as I quickly brushed the leftover Chinese food and the empty bottle into my trashcan. I could still taste the Chinese food, which made me wish I had more booze. Fucking Chinese food. Probably made out of fucking cats, anyway. I managed to say "come in" just as the dame burst through the door. I could describe this chick as "smoking" but it just wouldn't have done her justice. This one was too beautiful. She had the kind of looks that could only end up causing trouble. As I sat back down in my chair, I managed to close my gaping mouth. "Can I do something for you?" I must have asked, because she definitely told me. "Mr. Taskmaster, I need a job done. I need my husband out of the picture. I need him killed. Whatever it costs," she said flatly. "Whoa, whoa, whoa, sister. I don't know what you've heard, but I am not a contract killer." I leaned over and spoke directly, and loudly, into her cleavage. "I said I'm not a contract killer." She leaned back and lit a cigarette. Smoke rolled from her lips like ethereal poetry. "I'm not wearing a bug, Mr. Taskmaster. I am most certainly NOT a policeman." "Lady, I can tell that you're nothing but trouble. Go find yourself a nice Russian immigrant. Give him a sob story and fifty g's, you'll get your job done." "I have a million dollar check if you'll take the job." "Lady, I have a million dollar check right here. I can write all of them I want to, all day long. And then I can bounce them down the street, like so many rubber balls. And what kind of idiot writes a check for a contract killing anyway? You don't think they can trace that? You're right, you're definitely not a cop." "Fuck off," was her terse reply. "Either you kill the bastard or I tell him I'm fucking you and he kills you. How's that for a deal?" "Listen, lady, killing me is easier said than done. Now, let me show you the door. There it is, see, the door. Use it." "He's a senator. He'd bring down so much heat on you, you'd wish you were back in prison, getting raped by your cell mate." "You're a persistant bitch, I'll give you that. Why do you want this senator dead?" "Does it matter?" Ok, now she was just being rude. I resisted the urge to call the police, mostly because I had a warrant out for my arrest. "Ok, hypothetically, let's say I take the job. Clue me in on some intimate details about the senator. Don't skip anything, not even the dirty parts, I need to know it all." Maybe at least I'd get some decent entertainment out of this deal. "All you need to know is that he and his whore meet at the Broadway Motel on Fifth and Broadway every Wednesday night around eight. They're there all night." She through her cigarette down on the floor and ground it into the carpet. "I don't care what you do with the whore, but he has to die." She tossed a manila envelope onto my desk, stood up, and walked out of my office like she was modeling in a fashion show. She could have been, too. I began to daydream about her, me and a cheap motel room, when I smelled smoke. The bitch had set my carpet on fire. Like a dumbass, I reached into my desk drawer and pulled out the only liquid I had to extinguish the fire. It was vodka and I ended up setting my desk on fire. Two hours and a chastising from the fire chief later, I found myself at the Broadway Hotel, looking at a picture of a young man with slicked back hair. I didn't think I could miss this mug, he had more grease in his hair than most gasoline engines. Sure enough, about half an hour later, Mr. Motoroil and Miss Whore breezed into the lobby, laughing and smiling like they didn't have a care in the world. About this time, something struck me as odd. Then again, most things did. I got into the elevator with them and followed them off. I kept looking at my fake room key and the numbers above the door, like I was lost. When they stopped at their room, I stopped and pulled a pistol from the small of my back. "Ok, boss, let's you and me and the lady go inside and have a drink," I growled as he turned the key. From here, I could smell the lady's perfume. It smelled like coffee. Coffee? Something was off here, I just wasn't sure what. "Ok, mister. Take what you want and leave us alone," the man stammered. He thought he was being robbed. "Surely you know better than to run around on your wife, Senator," I mentioned as I looked around the room. "Senator? Honey, you know I'm not cheating on you, you have to believe me..." Ok, I got it. This greaseball was way to stupid and way to young to be a senator. Not to mention that these two were way to public to be having an affair. Not to mention that they were wearing matching wedding rings. Not to mention that the girl had an apron in her purse that said "Java Jive" on it. "She set me up. Hey, mac, you know a blonde bitch, about six foot even, with heels, with looks that could stop a clock?" They looked at each other and said simultaneously: "Sara." "That's my stepmother," the guy explained. Half an hour later, I was sitting in my office, when the blonde dame came back. "Is it done?" She asked the question like a kid asking if Santa had left him presents. "Did you do it?" "Listen, miss. I don't do shit like this. I'm not wacking your stepkid so you can inherit seven million dollars." "I'll split it with you, 50/50," she said. No denial. I liked that. "This could be the beginning of a beautiful friendship," I said as I pushed a red button. Downstairs, a car exploded. "Sorry about your stepkid." A month later, I met a man at the airport. His head was shaved and he was with a rather plump woman. I gave them a briefcase with three million in cash tucked inside and they left. I don't know where they went, and I don't care. I got half a million out of the deal and I didn't even have to care. Sara bought a new life. She's running for public office next year. I bought a new office. Without the fire and smoke damage. |
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Keats, leaning against a telephone pole, listens intently to the story. As it concludes, he steps forward and applauds. A good story, sir- and a good telling, as well. It's certainly nice to see a leader take the time out of their busy schedule to visit the streets. Tips his cap, bows respectfully, and continues on his way. |
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| Reply by: Keats at Oct 15, '08 20:33 | |
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Stands up from her original spot on the bench close-by with a smile on her face. It's great to be home after a five day vacation... And hearing stories such as these being told by a Leader himself can only brighten my smile. Happy your little endevour ended up well, what is the new place made of if I can be so bold to ask? |
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| Reply by: Alise at Oct 15, '08 20:44 | |
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