Disclaimer : Me no own, you no sue.
There is the sound of a paper bag crinkling. Zazie's lips and fingers shine with food grease in the dark.
For once he doesn't seem to mind the glowing fingerprints he leaves on the glove compartment door or the window-up-down button on the front passenger side, where he's slouched into the sleek custom interior. A: Because they were his fingerprints and it was his car and B: because. . .well. . .judging by the look on Legato's face, now was no time to bitch about the grease stains his McDonald's double cheeseburger kid's meal was splotching all over the place.
The car was fourteen-year-old Zazie " The Beast " Kaite-Anderson's trust fund gem. Most didn't know the teenaged mini-menace was the sole remaining heir to an oil tycoon's fortune, but there wasn't a thing that escaped Master Knives's sources or Legato's ears. So there was no need for explaining as to how a fourteen-year-old could afford this kind of super expensive vehicle when he couldn't even drive or register for a license.
And a 2005 Maybach 62 no less! The fourth most expensive car available in the United States, ranging at a price of around 377, 3750 cash or more considering the customized interior and the occasional add-on, just because he could. God bless America.
Zazie licked some of the grease off of his fingertips and slouched further into his (brand new leather!) passenger side seat as Dominique, sitting behind him in the back, continued to impatiently uncross and recross her legs. The woman looked good in black stilettos and smelled of elegant Asian perfumes but no matter how good she was at playing dress-up she was no woman of great glamour or undue patience. It was all about speed with Dominique " The Cyclops ", endeared so for her one functional eye.
And so she uncrossed and recrossed her legs.
The black luxury vehicle was stalled and purring in the almost desolate parking lot outside of Johnson's Jazz Bar & Grill, motor humming and the occasional billow of hot steam leaking out from underneath. Legato gripped the wheel with white-knuckled hands, though his exterior was cool. He was waiting for the small, digital clock on the dash to hit 1:17 AM. It would still be dark outside, just short of closing time, and he would no doubt be able to find the notorious saxophonist lounging in the back room with his dealer buddies and their various cohorts. Exactly where he wanted him.
Now. . .
An important illegal narcotics deal was to transpire around that time, dealing in an especially large shipment of Southwest Asian heroin. Just imported off the coast last week from someplace like Osaka. And what good local musician turned assassin turned drug dealer turned pimp wouldn't want in on that? Midvalley was never one to be out of the loop.
The infamous BDN- or Brilliant Dynamites Neon- was willing to lay down a lot of cold cash for this particular batch of pure opium. Now we're talking pure opium. Un-fucked-around-with, undivided, untouched diamorphine. It was good stuff. So, naturally
The "Bad Lads", a small-time local crime organization, or BDN's personal cronies in other words, would have their biggest and their baddest there to assist their leader and to ensure his safety at all costs. And not to be cliché, but the whole lot of them were begging for a bruising. Legato Bluesummers would deliver in the only way he knew how- but not all at once. Tonight he was out for one man. The others would have their turn.
"Soft as snow but warm inside; penetrate you cannot hide; feeling lost forever - really need you . . ." The burnt CD turns itself over again as the digital clock clicks into motion at 1:17 AM. That gives Legato ten minutes to get in there and whip things into place and fifteen to get what he came for - if not just a little more. Then, at 1:42 AM BDN and his gang will arrive too late for their little undercover transaction. He will leave the disposal of Midvalley and whoever else's corpses to either the Bad Lads themselves or the authorities. In the mean time, Zazie and Dominique keep the car running outside to allow for a smooth, uncomplicated escape. No need to stick around for the clean-up.
Should he not return (and this is unlikely) Dominique, as the only licensed driver present other than himself, will take the wheel and head over to HQ, as it was agreed that they (Zazie and Dominique) were to report immediately back to Knives at the Angelis-Venalis Red Plant Syndicate Headquarters and BASE in the case of an emergency or any other various complications.
He won't keep them waiting.
"Feeling dark and feeling true; this is all I ever knew. . ." 1:18 AM. It's time.
"I'm going." He announces in but two clipped words, his voice the same cold, echoed velvet that it always was. Neither of the other two present in the car speak after him, though Dominique's fingers clench and her thin, red-painted lips press. Something sharp twists in her stomach but she dodges what it means- the thought of having to tell the boss his right hand man is dead- and only nods as their superior climbs out of the front seat and makes his way across the parking lot like a dutiful machine. A private smile touches the corners of pale lips.
Midvalley. . .it has been too long.
There is the sound of a paper bag crinkling. Zazie cranes his neck and peers back into the one-eyed woman's expressionless face, a french-fry dangling crooked from one corner of his smirking mouth. "Worried about him?"
Dominique uncrosses and recrosses her legs.
"No."
"Soft as skin in leather; and I whisper you . . ."
1:20 AM.
Midvalley knocked back a second glass of vodka on the rocks before handing it off to one of his brute-squad's most available. Indiana, in her red lace lingerie, tapped the button on the answering machine with an acrylic leopard-print fingernail. The pinprick light flickered red as the flashy Brilliant Dynamites Neon's conversational baritone crackled to life. ""Middie, baby. We'll hit Johnson's around 1:45. Watch out for the fireworks show; you know we like to ride in style. (a chuckle, chewing noises) Can't wait to see you again in person, M. You always did really . . . shine. (muffled background/foil crinkling and smoke/ a moderate pause on BDN's end) Could you burn any brighter, baby?"" And then a distinctive click, signalling that the Bad Lad Boss had already disconnected. The red light shuttered off. Indiana licked her lips and Midvalley cracked a smooth grin, stroking the stem of his refilled glass and beckoning her into his lap.
"Sandy. . .get the suitcase ready. Our boys will be here soon."
The suitcase containing BDN's precious million-dollar purchase, expensive Italian leather as was Middie's personal favorite, was now riddled with bullet holes, the locks blown off its hinges and the piled-on bags of substance contained within partially ruptured. There was an explosion of white, sprinkling the ground in joining with the corpses of scantily clad prostitutes, greasy dealers and hired muscle alike. Midvalley "The Hornfreak", now more commonly known as simply Mr. M, had never even finished off his vodka and lime. How unfortunate.
He was in a state of absolute shell-shock, strapped down to a chair and shakily breathing in the sick metal-sugar-blood smell of Legato's jacket and skin. It made him physically sick to his stomach. And to make matters worse
He'd been roughed up. Kicked in the ribs and right hooked in the jaw so hard he figured it could be dislocated. He could feel the loosened teeth swimming in the blood spit pool that was his painfully throbbing mouth. Legato, the bastard, why?
"I do hope you're comfortable in this position, Hornfreak. I would hope that you would be able to relax and appreciate the place that is to be your gravesite in the.. very.. near future." He circles the chair before pausing mid-step, still gazing off into the relative distance. "In fact, I made sure to use this particular chair and this particular location for a very kind and even merciful reason, one in your very best interest, if I do say so myself, this is the nicest thing that I have ever done for a man such as yourself in such a personally compromising situation."
"If you'll look over the mess, bodies excused, you'll discover that the chair that I have strapped you into- securely, so don't get any ideas- is directly parallel to the door. This way, perhaps if you can manage to prolong your obscenely agonizing last minutes in this world until promptly 1:42-1:45 AM, you'll be granted the privilege of seeing our good friend Dynamites Neon's smiling face in favor of my own as you slowly and painfully experience your . . . final curtain call." Legato folds his hands behind his back, looking eerily contemplative.
Midvalley growls through the blood and mess of broken teeth, wrestling with his bonds. When he speaks, it is a slurred, but angry gurgle. "Legato. . .did Knives send you. . .? Is this. . .about that. . .monster?"
He gurgles for a moment, conjuring up the swill in his throat and violently spitting a wad of sticky black onto the floor, narrowly avoiding the other's shoes. Showing a toothy red-stained grin, he leans back against the chair, smirking but breathing hard, with difficulty. Cocky bastard.
Legato's brow bone gives a subtle twitch.
The somewhat taller and very ominous figure leans over the captive saxophonist, making Midvalley's stomach crawl unpleasantly. "Okay. Now I need you to listen to me. I came here for one reason. Do you know what it is?"
Midvalley's brow creases.
"You. . .want the. . .," He coughed, wetly. " the money. . .?"
"No. ...No, Hornfreak, you are incorrect. I have no use at all for the money. Now listen to me. Are you listening?"
"Y- . . . Yeah. . ."
"Good. I'm glad we're on the same page. Now listen to this. I planned this out in the car on the way here. So here it is. I figured I would come in, make my appearance, you would grovel- you executed that part perfectly by the way, just as I had anticipated- and I would give you, say, fifteen minutes of pleading tragically for your life before I took the knife I know you keep in the front left inside pocket of your performing jacket; a nice one if I remember correctly. Expensive. Master Knives bought it for you. A piranha mini bodyguard automatic or one of those special mtech butterfly brand knives with the custom scorpion hilt in aquamarine. Refresh my memory, Midvalley, which exactly is it?"
"Th-the. . .butterfly."
Legato licks his lips, cracking a horrible smile. "The Master always did have impeccable taste. But I'm not finished yet. Do listen to this next part. After I take the Master's little gift to you, from you, the next course of action would be to gut you alive. Just one sick thrust, Hornfreak, and loops of wet, gray intestine would go spilling into your lap. And then. . .just to make it gloriously painful in your honor. . .I thought I'd carve your eyes." Allowing a pause, he deadpans in a silky, empty whisper, "You always were hopelessly blind."
"You sick bastard." Blood dribbles down Midvalley's chin in wet splotches, staining his charcoal Armani suit's violet dress collar. "You're so. . .fucked up. . .I can't even begin to. . ."
Legato easily reaches inside the musician's jacket, ghosting fingertips over the hot, fearfully shuddering chest beneath before drawing out the beautiful mtech butterfly. He idly admires the intricately decorated hilt, smiling darkly as he is instantly reminded of Knives and his terrible blue eyes. Then again, was it not a gift from that very man? Yes. . .a gift presented to the Hornfreak four years ago.
"So uselessly human, even to the very end of your pathetic existence." He draws a single fingertip down the scorpion-latticed knife-hilt, fascinatingly slow and precise in each prolonging movement that he makes. He is in no rush to end this. "We should have never been born into this world, you and I. But no matter. I can't say that I'll feel much sympathy. After all. . .you showed me no mercy." He smiles for a second. "Are you regretting it?"
Midvalley cringes and curses under his breath as he feels warm, uncomfortable wetness trickling from the insides of his thighs and winding its way down his legs. Of course he had to piss himself . . . Fucking A. He was scared out of his mind. What now? "Goddamnit . . . Legato."
Legato turns back around to face him at the mention of his name, slightly wrinkling his nose as an expression of reserved disgust crowds his almost horrifyingly handsome face. "Midvalley. . ." He leans forward so that his breath is on the other's face. Touching the blood-gagging male's lips, he looks disdainful. "You disgust me."
"To be brutally honest, I had originally planned on giving you one last good fuck before ending your life." He chuckles, tilting up the musician's chin with the butterfly-knife poised gracefully above his left eye. "But I think I've just recently changed my mind."
The horrible, wrenching violent screaming echoed all throughout the parking lot where the getaway car was stalled, the empty bar and grill- now the bloody site of a local massacre- the back room, and in his stomach, Millions Knives felt it too. Dominique cringed, and Zazie slowly put down the paper bag. It echoed for a long time- tortuous, horrible, nightmarish screaming. And then it stopped.
When BDN and the Bad Lads arrived at promptly 1:45 AM, they were immediately knee deep in corpses. But the most disturbingly positioned of them all was the final one they came across, in the back room, the newest one, bound to a chair and gutted. Wet intestine and piss puddled on the floor at his feet, jugular cored and leaking streams of deepest, blackest red from the awkward tilt of the heavy head on a severed neck. But worst of all were the fleshy, glaring sockets where his deep brown eyes had once been, and the swollen tongue he'd nearly bitten in two as each was individually carved. Some of the Bad Lad Crew vomited on sight, but Brillant Dynamites Neon just looked on.
Could you burn any brighter, baby?
Legato slid easily into the front driver's seat, looking well at ease. Dominique bit back her raging bile and a mixed twinge of both hate and relief as the azure-haired beauty proceeded to lick the gore off of his dripping fingers and the silver shining blade of what she swore was the most gorgeous piece of knife-work she had ever seen.
Noting her intensely repulsed fascination without even really needing to look back at her gaping expression, Legato pressed the key into the ignition, sliding the blade into his hip holster once the luxury vehicle purred to life. He had been saving a place for it there. And he grins, looking sickeningly fond, his tone wistful.
"It's. . .a butterfly."