Disclaimer: I don't own My Little Pony: Friendship is Magic.
It was the missed opportunity that riled him the most. The thought that he could have had that much more of a payout for such an insignificant extra effort. All he'd needed to do was take a trophy from his victim. An ear, perhaps? Maybe a thumb. Pragmatist that he was, he'd played it safe. Given a final "No" to the stipulation that forever seperated him from his nice little bonus. Who'd have thought he'd bump into the mark outside a convenience store, follow him home, and end his life with a needle full of lye as he lay in his bed for the night? Where's the fun in that?
No matter, $400,000.00 (all payable to a Mr. Nicholas Petrarch, of course) was his now. The sweet, tangible feel of a payday. Blood money. One man's death was another man's profit. Even if the latter had to help the former along in a sense. Regardless, No one should let an opportunity like that pass them by. Especially when you're staring a six-figure number (with his little friend, the dollar sign) square in the face...Metaphorically, of course.
"Far be it from me to deprive a financially well-off customer from a satisfactory result." He thought.
After all that's all life was, then and now. Dog eat dog. Survival of the fittest. And he survived. A jarring bump scattered his train of thought. "Goddamn pot-holes." The city truly had gone to shit in the last decade or so. Christ forbid they just fix their shit without turning the condition of the decrepit metropolis into a campaign platform. (That'd be you, City Commissioner Raddick. Jackass)
"Urban renewal, my ass. Give me a 5 gallon jug of unleaded and a Zippo, and I'll give you results on that front." He mumbled darkly. Nicholas reached over to the center console, fumbling with his cell phone and it's charger. 25 percent battery left. Not that it mattered. Pre-paid phones weren't exactly a permanent communication medium for him. Finally getting it plugged in, he looked back up at the road. In the rear-view mirror, something caught his eye.
Lights.
Behind him.
He'd run a stopsign. Fuck.
His perception of the passage of time slowed as he thought about what to do. A contract killer getting pulled over for a traffic violation. It was almost funny. Deciding to play it by ear, Nicholas guided the Lexus to the curb. His black eyes watched the flashing Crown Victoria behind him. Despite his forced-calm veneer, he began to sweat.
After what seemed an eternity, the officer stepped out of the car and strode up to the window. Nicholas turned his eyes left. The officer had not silhouetted his body against the open window, instead standing behind the door. Typical paranoid city cop...Not without good reason, though. Nicholas rubbed his concealed holster unconsciously.
"Crafty motherfucker." His mind growled.
"License, registration, and proof of insurance?"
"Yes sir." He deftly popped open the glove box. Just because it was a dump vehicle didn't mean his employers gaffed off their paperwork. He slid several official looking paper out of a manila envelope and into the waiting hands of his temporary nemesis. Lastly, he pulled his wallet from his back pocket, silently hoping he'd grabbed the correct wallet from his large collection of stolen identifications.
Grey eyes quickly scanned through the documents. They were handed back. Satisfactory. Good.
"You know why I stopped you tonight, sir?"
"Yeah, that stoplight. That was my bad, sir. Long day at the office. Had a lot of bullshit to deal with today...You know how it is."
No trace of sympathy. No trace of disbelief either. Sympathy was optional. The validity of his story was not.
"Alright, well...Traffic laws are made to be obeyed. Regardless of how much of a dick your boss is, I'm gonna have to cite you, sir."
"Yes, sir. I understand completely." Asshole.
"Sit tight, I'll be back."
The sound of footsteps gradually faded. Easy day.
"Heh, and here I am working myself into a goddamn panic." He reclined his seat.
Cigarettes. He thumbed a Camel out of his pack; flicked his lighter.
Drag.
Exhale.
His mind slid back to his previous thoughts. Why did he do what he did? A flash of memory: Black hills far off in the distance, sand and moondust as far as he could see. A pressure on his shoulders. Flak jacket with a chest rig atop it. M4 carbine in his shoulder. Oakleys on his face. A Marine 20 yards in front of him. A Marine 20 yards behind. Proper dispersion saves lives, right? Sure does. Kill bodies, Chesty. "Seriously, why the fuck do I only get patrol flashbacks, why can't I ever just stay at the FOB?" The memory dissipated like smoke in a squall.
"Man. Fuck that country, dude."
Fuck the sand, fuck the rain, fuck the cold. And fuck the people. Goddamn, he hated the people. Of course, he didn't just limit his loathing of humanity to obscure pashtun tribals. Hell, he hated everyone. He hated himself, especially himself. "Well, that pretty much covers all the bases."
A genuine hatred of humanity. He probed that thought more deeply. Why did he? Hate wasn't like an expired can of ravioli in the pantry. "Oh, shit! How'd that get there?" And there was no way in hell that the bastard who'd killed his wife and kid in a wreck played a part in it. Bonus points to the guy for being balls-deep in a bottle of Sailor Jerry's when he erased Nick's family from existance. Stay classy, boss.
Footsteps. Oh boy. The officer reappeared in his window. A slim piece of paper was handed to him. He stared at it impassively. After an awkward 4 seconds, he finally grasped it.
"Thanks." he said sarcastically.
"Anytime." God, what a douche.
As he slid the paper into his breast pocket, his black dinner jacket slid open...Just enough so the handle of a SVI Infinity Carbon .40SW sitting between the seat and the armrest came into view. The officer's eyes widened. Fuck.
Instantly, the man's hand was on his holster. "Step out of the vehicle, sir...Slowly, now."
Nicholas slowly popped the door latch, mind racing. He still had the contract on him. (WHY? WHY WOULD YOU DO THAT, RETARD?) Any half-wit who went through his pockets would find it, read it, and fuck him in the ass (in court) with it. A plan formulated in his mind. A desperate plan.
He swung his legs violently out of the car, taking the firearm with him. Nicholas thrust his elbow into the officer's stomach with all the force he could muster. The man gasped and staggered backwards. From there it became a matter of muscle memory.
Handle. Grip. Up. Sight picture. Squeeze. recoil. Sight picture. Squeeze. recoil.
When his mind came back to him, he looked at the cop. Two in the pig's chest. And he was still standing. Worse yet, he had his handgun out. Nicholas thought with the crystal-clear clarity of a man who was already dead. His supressor. Subsonic rounds. If only he'd remembered to grab his jacketed hollow-point clip instead of his goddamned subsonic one. Not to mention the man had been full of adrenaline when he'd shot him. And he knew those damned subsonic rounds hadn't done shit to his kevlar vest.
"Wow. How did I forget all those factors?"
In the last few microseconds of his life, time seemed to stop. He saw a small white flash build in the muzzle of the Officer's service pistol. He saw a small copper slug speed towards his face. "See? The fucking Cops remember to grab their Jacketed Hollow Points! WHY THE FUCK DIDN'T YOU?" His mind screamed at him.
He felt the bullet touch his forehead. The last thing he heard was a snap. Then he was falling...
XXX
Light. A breeze. Sunlight.
Nicholas opened his eyes. Mother of God.
There was a forest to his left. and a meadow to his right.
For a few seconds, his mind stopped. He tried to process what was around him. He failed. Dumbfounded, he looked around and saw nature at it's finest. What the fuck?
"I'm dead, but this doesn't look like hell to me. And I know I sure as fuck didn't go to paradise." he stammered to himself. "What the fuck, God? So you send the assholes to Shangri-La when they die?"
He sighed heavily and stood up. His pistol was in his concealed carry holster strapped to his torse. He hadn't put it there; kinda hard to when you're dead. What the fuck? He ran a hand through his short black hair. Nothing added up. "Hope that cocksucker came with me." He grunted halfheartedly. Seeing no other choice, he started walking towards a small hill to his left. Might as well scope out the place from a good vantage point.
Once astride the knoll, he looked around. The sun was setting in the distance. Maybe another 30 minutes of light. Great. Nothing like the great outdoors. As if I didn't hate to fucking bivouac enough, now I don't even have a sleeping bag. Fucked again. Awesome.
Nicholas sat on the hill. If he wasn't supposed to be dead, this would be really pretty. He glanced around, looking for a nice flat spot that he could fall asleep on.
And for the first time, he saw it. Well, them. Maybe 150 yards out.
"Holy shit."
2 brightly colored fillies walked down a dirt road that seemed to run parallel to the forest. One was a pastel blue, with a mane the color of iced coffee...And a flower tattoo tramp-stamped across its flank. The other a brilliant shade of yellow, a white mane and 2 lemons slapped across its ass. Nicholas stared vacantly at the sight. They were talking animatedly to each other.
Talking.
Each other.
Horses.
TALKING.
His brain deadpanned. The sight of a creature doing something that it was not only physically incapable of doing, but mentally incapable of doing as well had pulled the emergency brake on his train of thought. Finally after a minute of dumb silence, his brain finally began to tick again.
Horses meant stables. Stables meant shelter. Shelter meant not getting rained on. He looked up. Not a cloud in the sky. With his luck, that meant it would POUR tonight. But how to get to the aforementioned (and still very notional) shelter? Maybe he could follow them. Of course, they lived there, too. And unless he wanted to waste precious, unreplacable rounds on 2 brightly colored ponies, his chances of sleeping under a roof were gone.
A thought floated across his mind. He scoffed. "What, am I just gonna go chat it up?"
"Worth a try." his brain whispered back.
Sighing, he got to his feet and began the walk over to the brightly colored fillies. What's the worst that could happen, right? "I mean, as long as I'm polite, I'll get results." he thought. Heh. Polite... Yeah, ok. As far as ambassadors to colored ponies went, humankind could have definitely done better.
Right now, whatever the deal, he'd take it.
The white filly looked up, and her eyes widened. Something was coming their way. Something different...