big brother cares and woes
He was the best [of the best] at what he did. What he did was a very important job, and he took it very seriously [even though taking things too seriously can end up with people getting mad at you].
...mad enough to ask someone to give you a sleeping pill fired at the speed of sound from a bottle [which doesn't sound like a bottle because bottles don't go BANG].
He was a copper. THE copper.
Officer Bartholomew Baxter of the International Police Force, Johto-Kanto Division Investigator, "Always gets the job done," it said in his file.
He was going to kill HIS daughter.
Carmelo [the Boss] had experience with Bartholomew. HE didn't like those memories.
The man was the best at what he did, and he was after HIS daughter.
Carmelo knew the man was a threat to her. He knew that she'd hate for HIM to intervene.
HE also knew that Bartholomew Baxter gave no quarter, and that his daughter was good for business (and of course of course HE loved her).
So in a dark room somewhere, HE picked up a phone and made a call [THE call].
The phone rang only once, because you never let it ring more than once when Carmelo called. HIS time was valuable, and if you wasted HIS time HE would make you pay for it with a finger.
No who one ever let the phone ring twice could pull a trigger easily afterwards... and in this business, you only go far if you can pull a trigger.
"Yes?" came the voice on the other end of the line. "What do you need, sir?"
Carmelo didn't talk much. HE didn't need to when everyone knew how to read HIS mind and could tell what HE wanted simply by the way HE breathed.
HE was a man of few words, Carmelo was.
"Baxter."
"Very well, sir. I'll send one to deal with him right away. We've got a man just for the job." The voice was a good mind reader, and still had all his fingers.
Carmelo would have to deal with him soon.
HE answered with one word that said everything HE [wanted] needed to say.
"Good."
In a dark room somewhere, Carmelo Filastrocca, the man with a slight little hiss in every breath, the Boss, hung up the phone.
Few men live long that have crossed Carmelo Filastrocca.
HE didn't like it when people went after his family. It made HIM look weak.
Carmelo wasn't weak.
ring ring ring ring ring ring ring ring ring ring ring ring ring ring ring ring ring ring ring ring ring ring ring ring ring ring ring ring ring ring ring ring ring ring ring ring ring ring ring ring ring ring
Bartholomew Baxter, International Police Officer, was tired as he lay in his hotel bed. He had crossed several time zones to get there, to that little room with one window, a lumpy bed, and shower with no knob for hot water.
It was heaven [hell].
Bartholomew Baxter was a secret. At that moment, he didn't exist. He'd been temporarily wiped from every registry in Kanto, so no one would think he was there. He was an inky little ghost on a blank piece of paper, imprints after the lead was erased.
[Ba-Ba blacksheep have you any w-BANG]
All of three men knew that he was in that hotel, and two believed he was there as an undercover assignment to bring Vanilla Filastrocca, daughter of Carmelo, into custody.
Only three men knew that Bartholomew was there, and only one knew WHY he was actually there. The other two were idiots that would believe anything he told them. He was a talented storyteller [LIAR].
Bartholomew hated the Filastroccas. HIS daughter had killed his brother [poor John Jackson Charles BAXTER… never stood a chance [snowball's in hell]], and so HE would pay for it with HIS daughter. After all, it was only [life isn't] fair.
Eye for an eye makes the world go 'round.
So Officer Baxter had disappeared, and slipped into the darkness to come here, the one place where he could avenge his brother [father mother].
Of course, there were other people that wanted Carmelo's daughter [in HIS shadow] out of the way. But only one person knew he was there to snuff her [scented] candle, so only one would be paying him. That was enough.
Bartholomew was getting paid a lot of money for this.
With only three people knowing he was there, Bartholomew sat up on the lumpy mattress and took a look at the time [to die]. It was 12:06 AM.
He closed his eyes, shifted so he was comfortable, and began to doze off, dreaming sweet little half-dreams of bullets and sunshine and rainbows.
He would be safe because he was invisible, and his eyes were closed.
So he made a basic mistake and let his guard down [just this once].
B B B B B B B B B B B B B B B B B B B B B B B B B B B B B B B B B B B B B B B B B B B B B B B B B B B B B B B B B B B B B B B B B B B B B B B B B B B B B B B B B B B B B B B B B B B B B
tick tick tick
It's so easy to be nothing but a clockwork toy jumping, jittering, click-clacking, no feelings but for cold steel springs of a windup toy [tin soldier] marching forever and ever and infinity in the snow lit up by a sun-like streetlight.
That's what he was. He was a clockwork man on a mission [but not the pretty kind like a secret agent] where having feelings could kill you. He was the dirty kind like a hit man with [no] morals.
But of course the rain didn't care [whatever] about who he was, or what he was about to do. It just fell [if a tree falls in a forest when no one's around, does it still make a sound [scream]?]. The drops pattered against his worn out brown [used to be black] fedora, big drips running off onto his plain old tan trench coat, which sheltered a dirty metal secret.
[boys and their toys...]
He walked out of the rain that didn't care and into the hotel lobby that could barely be called a hotel lobby because the place really wasn't much of a hotel. It was more of a filthy rats' nest on the outskirts of The City, which was a place that'd long forgotten its name, and didn't want another just in case its old name came back.
It was empty, except for the receptionist [but he doesn't count because dead men can't talk to the cops].
There was a clock on the wall [tick tickety counting heartbeats]. It, like the rain, didn't care. It was too enthralled in ticking away the long, slow moments that always preceded someone's death, moments that every clock loved like a drug.
In his experience, not many people [places, things] cared. It was just the way The City worked; nobody cared until there was a b u l l e t heading their way.
He had a lot of bullets, that man.
click click click
tick tock
tha-thump
heartbeat tin soldier
He reached behind the counter and borrowed [stole] the sign-in list, and looked for the [pricked] name that was the one that the Boss had wanted "out of the way".
He didn't know why this guy was the one he was supposed to kill, but then again he'd lost the card game [like always 'cause he didn't cheat] so of course they'd make him [put to sleep] the guy in the outskirts.
He HATED walking in the rain.
Especially on a Monday night.
He HATED Mondays.
Whatever. He didn't really care [like the rain and the clock and the whole damn city].
He scrolled down the list [only it was just a sheet of paper so he couldn't use a mouse like on a computer] and found the copper's name.
It was the only new name on the list in three weeks. The place was empty then.
Goody.
Bartholomew Baxter. Room #142
B.B. 142
Black and blue,
one four two
"Who the hell names their kid 'Bartholomew'?" he wondered aloud. The receptionist didn't answer him, which was likely the smartest thing he'd done since telling the man to "Get your ass out'a my hotel!" which was also the last thing he'd done.
The man didn't know why Carmelo Filastrocca wanted Bartholomew Baxter dead, but then again he didn't know a lot of things. Like how the Happy Brigade was hiding out in their pretty little coffee shop, or how Matthias [good ol' Momo] was hiding there, or how Giovanni was dealing with the crisis in Sinnoh [the motherland].
…or how Vanilla Filastrocca was being targeted by one of those few men who knew what to do about a bombshell that carried a gun instead of blowing up.
He didn't know anything because if Carmelo or anyone else knew he knew things then they wouldn't like him anymore no matter how much he lost at cards. [people seemed to like it when he lost 'cause then he'd have to take another job and they didn't have to get their suits all dirty]
It was a good thing that Skinny Maxim was his brother. The man wasn't as great as Skin at finding out things, but he knew how to deal with shit and if that was how he could keep getting paid then that was what he was gonna do.
But between him and Skinny Max, he was the only one who had enough bullets headed his way to care about family.
The man was the only one who cared about their poor mother and his seven [7] sisters back in the motherland. He loved his mama and sisters, especially Anastasia [she was turning five soon so he would need to go buy a nice warm teddy bear for her to love while he wasn't there to hug her].
They were why he killed people [if you were a man he'd kill you. if you were a woman he'd take his hat off first 'cause it's polite, then he'd kill you], why he pretended to lose so often, why-
[Kill anyone?]
-he'd taken this job to get rid of a man he didn't know, a man named Bartholomew Baxter that he didn't care about 'cause he was the one thing separating him from a paycheck that could help keep Mama and Anastasia and all the others alive.
7 7 7 7 7 7 7 7 7 7 7 7 7 7 7 7 7 7 7 7 7 7 7 7 7 7 7 7 7 7 7 7 7 7 7 7 7 7 7 7 7 7 7 7 7 7 7 7 7 7 7 7 7 7 7 7 7 7 7 7 7 7 7 7 7 7 7 7 7 7 7 7 7 7 7 7 7 7 7 7 7 7 7 7 7 7 7 7 7 7 7 7 7
A hollow little step in a dark hallway, steel clatters [clack clack click] on tile as his boots touch the floor and crush a cockroach.
[Where the hell's room 142?] Wandering the halls was starting to get REALLY annoying especially since he was getting hungry [well more like thirsty but his stomach was asking for food even though he planned to give it vodka instead] and dinner [the bar] had to wait [its turn] until the job was done. Cursing, he turned what seemed like corner number (#) 457,381 [which was really just corner number 7].
There it was, a tarnished bent plaque that was starting to fall off saying "142" over and over again.
142 142 142 142 142 142 142 142 142 142 142 142 142 142 142 142 142 142 142 142 142 142 142 142 142 142 142 142 142 142 142 142 142 142 142 142 142 142 142 142 142 142
He looked at the door next to room 142.
It was the door to the lobby.
He just gritted his teeth and whispered that this fucking job would finally be over soon and it'd all work out fine.
drip drip pitter patter
rain rain go away~
click clickety clack
The rain still didn't care, even as he cocked his dull black gun which fired really really fast when he pulled the trigger. He loved his submachine gun [but not as much as he loved his family]
[click]
BANG
tha-thump heartbeat
It was always like this when he had a job [chore] to do. [yes mommy I'll take out the trash for you 'cause I'm a good boy] Why did his heart always hammer against his ribcage so fast (it seemed like it was trying to pull a jailbreak) when he was on a job? Oh well.
Nothing for it but to open the damn door.
So he opened a door [#142] in a line of a thousand doors.
(click says the doorknob) Sorry I'm locked go away you criminal sonuvabitch
We don't like you here. killers go boom.
Stupid door was locked [duh!] and mocking him. He hated it when a door wouldn't open. So he decided to make it open. ["Always hold a door open for a lady," his mama had said. "That's part of being a gentleman."]
Pull back a leg [crunch shatter bang]
Owch, you big jerk! Off the hinges.
Not so high and mighty now, are you? fucking door...
Three tiptoe [tap dancing] steps to get inside, not that it really mattered since Bartholomew Baxter [black and blue] was already stirring from his beauty sleep. The hit man could hear him rolling over in the big bed in the corner all dark and [less] quiet and warm never-wanna-leave-ever. [please dun leave big brother 'cause I'll miss you so much...]
But Bartholomew was waking up so he had to get it over with. He thumbed off the safety which didn't really work anyway but he just liked the deceptively LOUD click it always made, the threat it clicked out like Morse code.
[D4/\/G3R]
Deep breath, adjust grip.
He grinned like the mad [mad-as-a-hatter] man he used to be and pulled the trigger and-
click.
Nothing happened. He frowned, Bartholomew sat up.
Bartholomew [mew kitty cat] shouted. He pulled a gun out from under his pillow. Like a black sheep he pulled the trigger and-
bang
-then the big man, he hit the damn gun and then
bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang
Bartholomew Baxter wouldn't wake up from the sleep he was [eased] into.
Finally. He breathed a sigh of relief, and then whacked his gun. It always did that, fucking thing. His left [over] shoulder screamed at him.
He l-l-looked at it, and there was a rose growing on his shoulder.
It was his favorite color.
It was red.
It [hurt].
The man, the Sinnohan man gritted his teeth and felt it with his strong hand that could break a man's bone and cook a cake for his sisters and mama when he came home.
There was a clean hole. There was blood. There was something inside his shoulder a-knocking, knocking on his bones like the rattle of tank treads.
He'd liked that trench coat too...
The man gritted his [apples and roses] teeth and carefully [gingerly 'cause moving hurt] took a roll of gauze out of his breast pocket, then shrugged out of the blooming trench coat. He unbuttoned his big red plaid shirt, easing it off his left shoulder, hissing [like a giant snake] at the pain [release]. Winding it tight around the wound was frustrating and slow, thanks to [rain]-slick fingers, but he eventually managed it. The dripping stopped.
He grinned a painful grimace like a plumber who has "bad news" [that's really good due to a bigger paycheck]. It hurt but he would live 'til he could take the time to really fix it.
He buttoned up his big red plaid shirt and put on his blossomed trench coat. He was done here.
Turning, the man started to leave, but then he tripped on the door on his way out. Damn door just wasn't willing to let him go without giving him a piece of its mind...
Moron, didn't I tell you? We don't like [tick] killers here.
He got up, wiped his now [drippy red] nose [like his shoulder] and went back to the lobby. Looking through a grimy window, he saw that across the street there was a lonely gas station. He grabbed a bucket from a janitor's closet.
Fucking door would pay for that...
He crossed the cold wet street and didn't look both ways [even though Mama had always said he should] but there wasn't anyone around so it didn't really matter anyway. He paid for the gas [what the hell? $3.97 a gallon? damn rip-off no wonder no one ever goes to this wreck of a gas station] and filled up his pretty yellow bucket.
The rain watched as he went back in the hotel. It didn't care.
He stomped into room 142, stomping particularly hard on the door [which called him a bitch]. He upended the bucket of gas onto Bartholomew Baxter.
Bartholomew Baxter, now wet and cold and stinking of gasoline, fell off the bed and onto the floor.
Quiet little [thump]
The man laughed to himself at how funny Barfy [which was what he decided to call Bartholomew Baxter, since "Bartholomew" sounded like "Barfolomew"] looked sprawled out on the floor.
giggle "hahahahahahaha! you're dead copper. you and your stupid door too."
"ow…" Laughing, he decided, was a bad idea. Hurt shoulders are grouchy like that. It made him want to stomp on something…
…So the man [the Sinnohan man] stomped on the door again. The door called him a bad name in reply.
rain rain go away~
Bartholomew Baxter was bleeding on the [cheaply] carpeted floor.
"aww... look you stained the carpet I'm not cleaning that up."
Reaching down, the man picked up "Barfy" Bartholomew Baxter [with one hand because his other wasn't listening] and chucked him back[ster=Baxter] onto the bed. Wouldn't want him to burn all uncomfortable after all...
red (dead) body in a big warm [beddy-bye time]
"sleep well heheheheheheh."
He checked Barfy's pockets and found a battered red device with the word "Pokédex" imprinted into the cover. Smiling, he thumbed it open and checked what Barfy's registered Pokémon were. He grinned wider as he scrolled down the list on the dull little screen.
Anastasia had always wanted a poochyena, and the one Barfy owned was young and had only been caught last week. It'd be a simple [complex] matter to pay a visit to a friend [Mr. A. Frende], a paper pusher, and get the pup's registration changed. Then all he had to do was write a nice birthday card and it'd work out fine.
Enos liked it when things were simple and fine. He didn't like it when they were red and painful.
His shoulder hissed at him to get on with it.
Pulling out the numerous Poké Balls in the dead man's bags, he checked them over using the Pokédex's scanner, and then grabbed the one that contained Anastasia's birthday present. Kneeling, he pressed the small button at the ball's center, releasing the little canine from its spherical prison.
The gray and black pup [like ashes] blinked in the dim light, looking around at the room with bewildered little eyes before grimacing at the heavy stench of gasoline. Without giving the [adorable] canine a moment [millennium] to gain its bearings, the hit man flipped it onto its back and placed his right [and wrong] hand on its warm furred chest, pinning it down.
Baring its- his teeth, the poochyena growled, attempting to bite at the man's hand. The small dog flailed his legs, scribble-scrabbling at the man's arm, attempting to claw him. However, his endeavor was met with little success thanks to the man's leather trench coat sleeve.
"Yeah, you'll do well enough... She'll need a fighter to keep her safe, and it looks like you're up to the task," the hit man murmured. At his words, the poochyena stopped [cease and desist] trying to rip his [iron] arm to shreds [of paper] and cocked his head slightly. The pup gave a low bark, almost apologetic [I'm sorry], then licked the numerous cuts and bites on the man's hand with a bloodied pink tongue.
He let the canine get to his feet, scratching that one spot just behind the dog's ears that made the poochyena open his mouth and grin a toothy grin.
The hit man smiled. "Atta boy." Reaching down, he gently picked up Anastasia's warm like ashes present. Shifting him to his screaming left side [gritted teeth], he poked the little fellow's nose lightly. "I guess you're gonna need a name then, huh little guy?"
The poochyena barked his agreement.
"Well, don't you worry. I'll come up with something."
Reaching into his pockets, he flicked a lighter, and then walked away as officer "Barfy" Bartholomew Baxter and the damn door caught fire. The canine gift in the man's arms looked over his pretty colored shoulder at the blaze, briefly wondering with young, innocent thoughts whether or not there would be sausages cooked over the fire to eat...
...young and innocent, and not noticing when the man winced in pain when his paw brushed against the center of the rose.
DEAD OFFICER FOUND IN BURNED OUT HOTEL ROOM, SUSPECTED GANG INVOLVEMENT
The hit man who hated the rain [that didn't care] and loved his family left the stupid hotel [that wasn't much of a hotel] just as the red and blue sirens started wailing in the distance.
"Say, pooch, what d'ya think about the name 'Bartholomew'?"
"Woof!"
"Then Bartholomew it is."
can't catch me I'm the [gingerbread man]~
tap tap tap~
There was a man standing outside the door to the HAPPY BRIGADE CAFÉ, and he was knocking tappa tappa tap on the door. Someone [something [no one]] inside heard this and opened her [his] liquid steel eyes.
Vanilla opened her eyes, her pretty miss-nothing, see-everything eyes. They were gray, those eyes. They were barracuda eyes.
Slowly, [glacier-like], Vanilla Mocha Filastrocca sat up from her beauty sleep in clean white covers on an expensive bed on the second floor of the HAPPY BRIGADE CAFÉ. She was a bombshell, even at 3:21 in the morning.
She was awake.
Slipping her to-die-for legs out of the warm bed, she toed the floor with perfect feet, fitting them into fuzzy white slippers of ninetales fur. Standing, she stretched and gave a little yawn that could steal men's hearts.
tap tap tap~
She brushed a lock [and key] of straw-colored hair [spun into gold by a little old man who flies on a spoon and eats children with pointy dog fox teeth] out of her blue ice eyes.
There was a white robe hanging next to her bed. It had a warm tuft of fur around the neck and was very elegant. It suited Vanilla quite nicely because it had a holstered 9mm pistol with a silencer just above her heart.
She put it on, and slipped gracefully out of her luxurious room [with the best view].
Down the dimly moonlit hallway, to the stairs, down the stairs… she paused at the bottom. She could see the silhouette of a man through the window of the front door.
He was holding something.
Reaching into her [only for her] robe, she pulled out the 9mm. It felt right to hold it, to feel the weight against her strong [but soft] hand.
Cautiously, confidently, she strode over to the door. She left it locked, holding her silent death low in her right hand, where the man outside wouldn't be able to see it if he tried looking it window. She flicked off the safety.
tap tap tap~
Vanilla's barracuda eyes narrowed at the continued knocking.
"Who is it?" She called out in her [mockingbird] perfect voice. She lined up her sights midway up the door, where the man's chest, his so easy-to-steal heart, beat about his ribs. Just in case.
"Pizza delivery. Open up and pay so I go home already! This is my last delivery of the night and you're holding me up!" The voice was young and strong, the person it belonged to likely just out of college. Most hit men were fairly young.
Vanilla knew that the 'pizza delivery' story couldn't be right. No one in their right mind ordered pizza at 3:21 in the morning. Not even [touched up there] Tequila would do that. The delivery boy had to be a fake.
So he had to die.
That, and he'd interrupted her beauty sleep, so he was dead either way.
She squeezed the trigger once, because all it takes is one bullet to end-
BANG
-it all.
She blew the curls of smoke [claws from the dark] from the barrel, unlocked the door.
She opened it, and looked down as the rain pitter-pattered in her ears.
The kid outside in the wet and cold was a pizza boy. He had a cap and a T-shirt that both gasped with dying letters,
JOE'S PIZZA SHACK
CALL 221-121-2520
She looked at the now-dirty pizza in his [dead] hands and smiled a too sharp and dangerous [like a fighter jet] vixen-shark smile. She didn't like mushrooms on her pizzas anyway.
Served him right, even if it had been a simple misunderstanding [mistakes, Vanilla never made mistakes].
Vanilla frowned an exquisite frown and shut the door. She'd have to get Momo to deal with him in the morning because he was the one who was good at dealing with the bodies and she didn't want to get her robe all red. She actually liked it.
Then she paused, and she listened. Something was off.
She could still hear the rain, so she glanced around the café, with its shadowy tables and chair legs like gun barrels smoking.
Across the room, a window was open.
The window was just open, but Vanilla knew that no window is JUST open in this business. It was cold outside.
Vanilla could tell.
After all, the window was open [maw with icicle teeth].
Little girl Vanilla would've shivered because it was cold but Vanilla ice [cream] was a princess and princesses aren't cold [unless they're cold-hearted killers].
Vanilla Ice took a quiet step forward.
The big fluff of soft [reverse-midnight] fluff on her nightgown grew a big vulpine head, which panted down her neck and whispered little windy warnings. It tickled like ice dripping down her spine [jitters after you drop a knife that lands hilt deep into the floor next to your big toe].
Vanilla danced the rest of the way, skirting tables and feather-stepping around moonlit chairs. She was royalty at a ball, traversing a throng of gentleman and nobles to get a shaft of wine.
She stopped at the window, taking in a deep breath of the cool rainy night [like champagne]. Looking out she could see a man turning the streetlight illuminated corner a block away, a little canine form prancing around his feet.
Vanilla [the queen] closed the window. She holstered her 9mm pistol.
Vanilla [the princess] walked through the silent ballroom to the stairs.
Vanilla [the child] heard footsteps and low curses [it isn't right waking up this fucking early this shit had better be worth it].
Vanilla [the queen again] met Momo coming down the steps.
He was awake and he was pissed and curious and wanted to go back to sleep. But he wanted to know what the hell was going on first, so he asked, "Who the fuck was that at the door and why the hell did I hear a gunshot?"
Vanilla smiled her delicate vixen [barracuda] smile.
The early bird gets the worm.
"It was nothing. Just a pizza boy. Could you deal with him? I think he wants to be paid, but I don't have my purse on me."
"You deal with him, I've had enough of this shit. I'm going back to-," he stopped abruptly as Vanilla held her graceful hands in the universally known position for rock paper scissors. "Fine," he grumbled. "If you win, I'll pay him and shit. If I win, you pay him."
Vanilla won, and Momo called her a goddamn cheater like always.
"Good night, Momo," she called as she went back to her room.
"Fuck you."
She didn't hear Momo's cursing rise in volume at his unhappy discovery on the front porch. She was too busy staring at the small shiny thing in her bed, on her fluffy pillow. It was a badge, and the letters "IP" were imprinted on the argent surface. There was a little wet note next to it.
Baxter has been dealt with.
-Bone
The man turning the corner with a canine at his feet... Vanilla smiled her small vixen smile.
When Momo got back upstairs from dealing with the pizza boy and the perfectly ruined pizza, he went straight to Vanilla's room. He was fucking pissed and why the hell had she gone and shot the guy when all he was doing was delivering a fucking good pizza?
He opened the door, but she was already sound asleep in her warm bed, a shiny little thing clutched to her chest.
To him in the dim moonlight it looked a lot like a gun, and generally girls don't like it when guys barge into their rooms so Momo decided to beat a hasty retreat before the dragon [ice queen] woke up and burned him.
o x o x o x o x o x o x o x o x o x o x o x o x o x o x o x o x o x o x o x o x o x o x o x o x o x o x o x o x o x o x o x o x o x o x o x o x o x o x o x o x o x o x o x o x o x o x o x o x o
A slug. That's what he was. He was a slug.
A sluggish slug.
Grimy eyes open to bright light lancing through a little rat-hole in the cardboard. He hated home.
It stunk. Like urine and old cigarettes and drugs and mildew and rotting garbage and bodies in the dumpster just a few feet away.
He was a slug, and slimed his way out of the cardboard, out of the [cool dark dank sleepy tired] filthy box he'd called a house for the past few days.
He wiped a dirty bloody RED hand across his face, poking eyes and retreating for a moment into the drowsy darkness before pulling the hand away and seeing and screaming and cursing and stumbling to his blistered feet.
[hurry up get up wake up] daylight burning like magnesium shrieking through the air and burning like pretty [red bloody] sunrises over the tundra. His shoulder was screaming at him.
Leaned against the nasty muddy red brick wall [follow the yellow brick road~], blow his brains out hangover, vomit all the poison and sin of the previous night out.
blood dripping onto the floor [drip drip drip] thank God for red carpets
He looks at his hand, all red and yellow and smells like alcohol hand.
(trigger finger twitch)
Feeling in his pocket for a cig, only find an [empty] magazine. can't put a [b][u][l][l][e][t] in your brainpan with an empty pack of cigarettes. He takes out the right pack and lights up.
what do you think i should do with the body?
burn it you dumbass. what else?
fuck you bitch
i wouldn't call you a dumbass if you stopped talking to yourself
He looks at the [poison-stained] ground and sees a newspaper headline.
DEAD OFFICER FOUND IN BURNED OUT HOTEL ROOM, SUSPECTED GANG INVOLVEMENT
That was last night and so easy [easy peasy lemon squeezey] though he really hated that door. And his shoulder grew a flower [rose]. At least he got Anastasia's present…
Deck of cards in his pocket, pull one out.
Joker hahahahahahahaha [so funny] joke's on you!
He absolutely hated playing cards 'cause he was nice enough to never cheat [the man in the church said cheating was a sin and Mother said that the man in the church was right] so he always lost and had to do the crappy jobs.
He rubbed his temples as he remembered...
Game today. piece of shit I hate playing with those bastards never leave me anything
but
that one last guy in some piece of shit hotel.
dirty work dirty hands dirty home
just another day for Enos.
just another day night morning evening sunset sunrise moonlight afternoon.
Forever a gangboy sonuvabitch killer.
red dead handed.
[click]
BANG
Enos'll never change because in this city [The City], no one cares who you are, or what you've done. You're just another hunk of flesh to eat. [and Enos' family needs to eat]
...and he's all alone with his beautiful insanity.
joker joker joker joker joker joker joker joker joker joker joker joker joker joker joker joker joker joker joker joker joker joker joker joker joker joker joker joker joker joker joker joker
Tequila (just Tiki), woke up and zipped downstairs [Is Santa here yet?] the next day. It was a Tuesday [Christmas].
He strolled at a run into the kitchen, nodding a good [not really] morning at Always Pretty Vanilla and I HATE MORNINGS Momo. Then he took a carton of milk out of the fridge. Tiki was thirsty [and blood this early in the morning was bad for a person].
Momo threw a dagger at him with his eyes and started muttering about how fucking retarded it was to drink right out of a communal carton of milk. Momo hated mornings, but he hated when Tiki did that too.
Business was always slow on Tuesdays, but then Tequila (not just Tiki) got a text from whoever it was he was always texting. A customer would be coming in [ETA: in a few minutes] soon.
He strolled over to the front door and looked out. He didn't look through the window; he looked through a nice little [9mm] hole in the wood. From the outside everyone saw a door seeing them back with a blue eye that wasn't happy.
So Tequila said, "There's a hole in our front door."
Vanilla took another sip of her heavenly ['cause only dead people can get to heaven] mocha and said, "Momo did it."
But then Momo said, "Fuck you. I don't have anything to do with-"
"Momo~," interrupted Tequila (never just Tiki in this business) in a singsong voice, "I have a job for you."
Tiki had a lovely singing voice, like broken glass spinning through the air after a baseball breaks a window. It was all pleasant to the ears and vicious on the nerves.
He liked his voice. It got the [needle] point across.
"What the hell do you want? Can't you see I'm busy eating right now?" Momo liked his cereal more than he liked Tiki. He swallowed another spoonful.
Silly Momo! Tricks are for kids!
"We're out of milk. Be a hero and go buy some."
Tequila wanted to say something and you can't say things when there's a fly on the wall. [unless you swat it but tiki tequila didn't want to swat momo]
Momo really didn't like the blonde-haired, blue-eyed sonuva***** bet he's a friggin' Nazi making me go get milk when we've already got some in that damn carton right there in his hand…
He took one last bite of his cereal, stood, and flipped Tiki the bird.
Tequila smiled back. "I love you too, Momo. Now shoo."
Momo slammed the door and stomped off down the street to go get some damn milk they didn't need. You don't argue with a teen [Nazi] who has a gun for a smile.
The door glared at his retreating back.
Doors don't like people and they don't talk, so the café was quiet.
Vanilla didn't say anything.
Tequila didn't say anything.
That was a bad sign, 'cause when people don't talk it means they're actually just doors [only in this business there's no such thing as just[ice]]
Two allies [enemies] were hiding in the same dog foxhole [for Tiki], vixenhole [for Vanilla]. Neither spoke until-
Five, the girl without a scar from the war, said
"...you're going to lock him out again."
(Four), a boy with a perfect smile and a battered helmet on, replied
"I was thinking about it."
/Three/, a woman with a sculptured face and red claws, said
"You know he didn't make that bullet hole."
[Two], the man with glass eyes and a wooden tail, stated
"I know."
*One*, a boy and a girl both grew up and as a woman the girl asked the man,
"Then why did you send him off to get milk?"
…Zero, time out.
Tiki smiled, and flipped the carton over in his hands and let the milk pour out like the rain or a waterfall [only waterfalls aren't quite as white as milk is].
drip drip drip
"We're out of milk. I need milk to have my pizzelles. You can't eat a good pizzelle without milk."
Vanilla Ice smelled a tinfoil hat conspiracy theory. It was like that smell when you open a [new] jug of milk only to find black and green stuff floating in it.
Vanilla Ice Cream didn't like the Chocolate Mint Ice Cream. They just didn't mix sometimes.
Tiki smiled and did a magic trick and out of the [empty] carton fell a shiny shield that a tiny knight could've carried off to save a princess from a dragon [only the knight that carried that one was d-d-d-dead and he was gonna KILL the princess instead of saving her].
Tiki's smiles were like fireworks and radiation.
He smiled, and the shield said IP joh-kan div. officer [even though shields shouldn't be able to talk].
"We had a visitor last night, and I guess this," he twirled the badge in his fingers, "means you won't have to worry about that Baxter you mentioned yesterday."
Carmelo's daughter took another sip of her mocha [mortis]. "I suppose not." Vanilla Ice responded quietly.
"Though the next time someone knocks and it's the pizza boy, at least take the pizza before you shoot him. Especially if it's a three meat with mushrooms."
He tossed her the badge [shield]. "And get rid of that, would you? The fuzz likes keeping track of those things."
Tiki Tequila knew Skinny Maxim, so he knew EVERYTHING.
So he locked the door as he walked by it on his way to the stairs. He didn't like it when Momo made the place smell like a fire [hazard].
Vanilla glanced at the badge in her hand, finished her coffee, and tossed the shield in the trash can. It hit the bottom with a thud and was never seen again.
Later…
Momo sat on the front porch and cursed [a lot]. The door was locked and staring at him with its 9mm eye. It was fucking creepy.
"C'mon! I haven't had a smoke for three fucking days! What the hell?" Momo pounded on the door. "Okay, so I had one last night... alright, two! ...maybe three. Fuck it, just let me in already!"
The door stared at him with a blue eye and winked.
"...This sucks."
Fin
notes: This is an entry for Happy2Bme's asd contest.
Happy = awesome writer. You should read 'a sugary demise'.
Good luck to all the other competitors 'cause you guys are all awesome too! :D
I wish everybody a nice day. Breathe deep, seek peace~ :)