Making Them Pay
Apr. 4th, 2009 at 9:51 PM
goaliemom1104
Chapter One
Damian Spinelli reached into the back of his underwear drawer in his room at Casa de Stone Cold. He located the single black sock in the far left hand corner of the drawer and retrived the stash he had not used in over a year. He gingerly removed the papers, ripped one off carefully and proceeded to fill it with the weed he had been abstaining from over the past several months. He was surprised how easy it was to expertly roll and secure the joint. As he searched the drawer for the matchbook he had taken from the Metrocourt, Spinelli told himself that he deserved this moment of weakness.
Spinelli turned on his I-Pod and selected Pink Floyd's "The Wall" album, kicked off his shoes and sat back on his bed. He allowed the bullshit of the past weeks to play over in his mind. Tonight he had finally realized what it meant to be the best friend and essential person of one Maxie Jones. He had seen her on the docks playing tonsil hockey with Johnny Zacchara, mob prince and perfect 42 Regular. Spinelli lit the joint and took the first long draw from it. He needed this, dammit, he needed to feel good about something in his life.
She was a piece of work, Maxie was, he admitted to himself. She was more than he had ever anticipated, and so much less as a matter of fact. She had told him that she was no good for him, that he had placed her on a pedestal, and he had been naïve enough to believe that he meant something to her. In reality, she was just what she said she had been. Maxie Jones was a hot mess. Spinelli drew another toke on the joint and laid back to let the music wash over him.
This had been an educational experience for the Jackal; that he had to admit. Their two sexual interludes had taught him a lot and he chuckled that at least he had to give her credit for that. He had been able to satisfy her sexually, and he now realized that he was not inept in that department. Damian Spinelli realized that if he wanted to he could fuck with just about anyone he wanted to, and the best part about it was that they would never know until it was too late.
The smoke was beginning to relax him and he found himself relishing the feeling that the weed was giving him. They all underestimated the Jackal, thought he was a child, that he couldn't even find his way across town without help. Spinelli laughed as he acknowledged that he had allowed their perceptions of him to become their reality.
It was good when people didn't really know what you truly thought; it protected you from being hurt. He had allowed Maxie to get too close. That wouldn't happen again. Since he had been working with the Goddess, he had been looking into who had conspired with Ian Devlin to put out the hit on Mr. Sir that had caused Michael to become a veritable vegetable.
What they didn't know was that he knew who was behind the hit. He had watched the Great Sonny Corinthos be taken in by Vixenella. He had watched the Bad Blonde One cover for the Mob Prince as they supposedly were working doing publicity shots for Crimson. He had been able to trace the blood money Claudia had paid Ian Devlin. He was sitting on the information just waiting for the day he could tell Stone Cold.
Spinelli was high and it felt so damn good! He knew what he had to do, and he laughed out loud as he recognized that this whole mess was in his control. Spinelli had nothing against Vixenella, but acknowledged that she just may be collateral damage in this situation. He knew that she loved Johnny; would do anything to protect him.
As a joke, Damian Spinelli pulled a coin out of his jeans pocket and flipped it. It really didn't matter who found out; the results would be the same. His hands would be clean. Poor , pathetic, infantile Spinelli just had to pull the puppet's strings. The bastards, all of them, had underestimated him. He snubbed out the joint, opened a bag of chips and an orange soda, and powered up his laptop. Dude, this was gonna be wicked fun!