Canadian mob. Have you ever heard about something equally ridiculous? How do they even get anything done? "Excuse me, I'm terribly sorry to do that, but I would like to, please, extort money from you? I fully understand if you don't have it, I can come by later." Ridiculous. Canadian mob. What do they even smuggle, maple syrup? I guess I'm about to find out. I'm only here for recon but I have a clear shot if things start to get hairy. But I really wouldn't want to shoot them. It's degrading. I feel degraded just thinking about it – it's beneath me. Just look at him, he's gonna piss his pants! He looks more scared of offending that guy than that guy of getting caught! Fucking ridiculous.
"Shit, fuck!" I look down on the phone in my hand. The vibrations startled me. You really can't blame me, about two people in the country have this number. Unknown number. I pick up. Maybe it's Avon.
"Hello, Frank." The voice is nothing I recognize, but surely male. It sounds raspy and synthetic, but not really put through any tech. "Busy?"
"Who is this?" I ask. The guy wheezes and coughs. Gross. "I don't have time for this, who the fuck are you?"
"I am your father, Luke." I hang up. It rings again. I ignore it, but it keeps calling. I can't turn the phone off in case of an emergency; better safe than sorry. I pick up. "Hi, Frankie…" This time the voice is high pitched and the tone was meant to be seductive, I think. My stomach churns. I love nothing more than phone calls from a pervert on the job.
"What the fuck do you want, you psycho?" I growl. "I'm busy." The guy sighs and mewlsand I feel sick. I hang up. I tried, I failed. That's life. But the phone keeps ringing. I ignore it long enough to assess the situation on the docks but it soon starts getting on my nerves. "What?!"
"¡Hola Señor!" That's the worst fake Spanish accent I have heard in my life. My eyes are gonna pop out of my sockets if I roll them once again. "Would you be interested in being the face of our campaign? We want to change the weird looking bird thingy on our national flag to a taco!"
"No." I hang up again. Well, at least it's some entertainment since the Canadian mob seems to be having a Jane Austen Book Club meeting instead of an international whatever they are doing. I bet they're smuggling maple syrup. The phone rings again and I rub my eyes. Suddenly, just because this is my life, there's some movement down there. I really don't have time for this. I pick up and snarl: "If you call me once again Iwill find you and I will skin you alive, do you understand? I really don't appreciate sickos like you getting in the way of my work. I'm really fond of my work, you see. Call me once more and you will experience how fond exactly I am of it first-hand." I hang up and assume my position. The nervous guy seems even more nervous. This doesn't bode well. They're gonna get killed like a bunch of ducks in this city.
The phone starts vibrating again. It doesn't stop vibrating. All I can hear and feel is that vibrating. I don't know why I do it, but I get on my feet and walk across the rooftop, phone in my hand. I pick up once again before I throw the damned thing into the ocean. "Look, you fucked piece of shit-."
"Turn around, Castle, you fucking loser, haha!" Deadpool. Oh no. I turn around, my fingers clenched around the phone and I look at a dock-full of Canadian mobsters getting killed, one by one, quick and efficient. I suddenly feel nostalgic. That could have been mine. I put the phone close to my ear. "Why?"
Deadpool cackles, that maniac. "These devil spawns got what they deserved! You don't know – sorry knew – those guys like I did, Frank! They're fucking crazy evil! Do you have any idea what they did?!" Deadpool clearly doesn't need any signs of me listening, or comprehending for that matter. "They stole $18 million worth of maple syrup, Frank! It's a national treasure, and they took it from us! They only got wh-"
I hang up and let the phone fall out of my hand.
Maple syrup. I fucking told you so.