Guns
by Whil-o-whisp
words: 2,570
A/n: sigh. now that I have that out of my system. This chapter was freakind difficult! Freaking christ. Okay, lets go through what this friggen thing went through, shall we? It was written in two weeks because I have issues with dialogue, and then, it took a month to beta cus my sister wasn't up to it, and then I rewrote it, and then she had to beta it again and then I rewrote it again, and she took two months to beta it, and then I took a couple weeks to futz around and not write on it until I just friggen rewrote it again and sent it back to her. She took a couple weeks to beta it and then I didn't want to edit it. So I finally edited it and sent it back and forth between us for two days hammering it out and you get this imperfect piece of crud. You better enjoy it : |
Disclaimer: I own insanity not southpark. Jesus, get it straight.
I knock three times on the thick oak door before flexing my fingers numbly, an attempt to shake off the vibrations throbbing along my hand. I step back away from the door, casting a glance at the nearby window. Although I do not expect a quick answer from the home's occupant, I smooth out the wrinkles in my shirt either way. If my speculations are correct, I hardly believe he is awake yet. The yard and driveway simply scream of college parties: the yellow grass streaked with drunken tire tracks, the Mercedes Benz adorned with key scratches and the air stale with alcohol.
Inside, I hear the voice of Robert Floats, an associate whose informational work was once second to none. He had all the right connections, though, I suppose, even the greatest must fall. He fell hard, and fast, and working with the wrong person. I take an even, calming breath, carefully touching the gun pressing into my back, palming the frigid steel beneath my shirt. I almost smile. Christophe purchased this gun for me, illicitly, of course. He bought it for us, just in case. He wanted to make sure I could fight, instead of, as he put it, "Pulling 'air like a breetish pansy". He seems to find calling me this hilarious.
When we were in the eighth grade I think, although my memory is slightly faulty at the moment, I proposed he teach me. At first he was, at best, reluctant, but I eventually swayed him. It was only a few short months before the bullet incident, if I remember correctly, and every afternoon before and after that day, we practiced for hours together with that gun, a simple, older model he found in his attic, one his father left behind when he left Christophe for good. It was fun, like a little play date for us, a time to be children, though, I suppose most children do not consider play time to include shooting rubber bullets from a modified illegal handgun in my backyard. But, by that time, both of us were completely immersed into the darker side of business, and other things such as cartoons, comics, fart jokes and computer games just didn't interest us. We were bored and plastering our skulls to electronics didn't cut it. Guns could.
We were not as close then, though I believe that the… closeness started around that time, with that gun. Even to this day I remember those afternoons, and his supposed lessons, though I use this term loosely. He preferred showing to telling, often manipulating my hands and arms into position like some pose-able doll. I remember how extremely warm his hands felt and how stifling his gaze was. I made it a point to push his buttons as much as possible in our time together, if only to make him angry, a hobby I have carried over to today. He's almost cute when he's angry. I can only imagine how he must look now. He must be furious.
I will never hear the end of this if I get him back. When I get him back.
My throat involuntarily tightens as the door groans, swinging open with rusted difficulty. Robert, a red headed college student with wide set eyes and coke bottle glasses, stands before me, stuffing a top of the line cell phone into his breast pocket. He's thin, freckled, pimpled, gangly, pale and unattractive. "Greg! Hey! What's up dude? Ya need something?" His voice is forcibly relaxed as he steps aside, allowing me entrance into his home. It reeks of beer, body spray and stale sex. As I step past the entranceway I exhale quietly, trying not to breathe in the horrible fumes. I don't know what to say, and I must admit that frightens me a bit. "Uh, Greg? You want a drink or something?"
"No." I turn to face him, smoothing my shirt over the frame of the gun, as much for the assurance of its location, the power I still had, as to keep from touching the filth that is this house. I am unused to the weight of a gun against my spine, but the power that it gives me is very familiar, despite the foreign feeling of sharp edges on my skin. I suppose, though, I have not had control for a very long time. And that scares me. Every time I loose control, without fail, I loose something, or some one, very close to me.
The last time, the first time I ever gave up control, the first time I let somebody else take the lead, my only friend died. And now, he might again. That time, I was stupid, and I was young. This time, I did not get all the information for Christophe, I did not have the ability to steer him in the right direction, to give him what he needed to finish this simple mission without being caught. He was forced to improvise because of my lack of insight, and now he is paying for it. "Is anyone else here?" I don't want anybody else around for my… interrogation.
"Is anyone…? Nah, dude, Just you 'n me. Whadya need?" He smiles cheerfully, moving to sit in a plush chaise lounge. He smiles, cheerful and fake, as he swallows. He's nervous, though I have yet to give him reason for it. Seems he is smarter than I assumed.
I put on a nice façade, all smiles and diplomacy. "How did the job go? Did you get your… evidence back?" He smiles again, relieved, but avoids eye contact with me, staring past my right ear.
"Oh, uh, yeah, I got it back. Anonymous drop off just like you said…" He titters off meekly, swallowing and placing one filthy foot on the expensive leather. "Everything's all good, dude. What, was that all you came for?" He laughs tersely, fidgeting with the top buttons on his shirt, watching me in a nervous way. I smile, and he smiles back, but we smile for entirely different reasons. I smile because it keeps me from screaming at him, it keeps me from pulling the gun out and killing him, but he smiles because he thinks everything is 'all good'. I am not sure anything is 'all good'.
"Ah, good." The smile doesn't fade, but it isn't real, a sad imitation of the truth, but close enough to fool a fool. A child like him does not deserve a real smile. "Now that the work is done, might I ask what this was all about? I'm rather curious, I'm embarrassed to say." I'm not. He laughs, just once, and looks away, searching for the right answer, the answer that will sedate my 'curiosity' and get me out of his house. The pulse in his neck is quivering, and I can see sweat on his brow. He's scared, and foolish. There isn't an answer that will make me leave.
I suppose he decides on, "Oh, uh, yeah, sure. I don't see why not." I take a quick breath as I press the hand to the gun again. He continues, "There was this, uh, this murder. I mean, really brutal murder of this one lady, probably by a gang or the mafia or something and they uh, they lied to make it seem like my dad did it so he'd loose his job and go to jail." This isn't new information. I have heard about Senator Jon Floats' investigation for the rape and brutal murder of his secretary. Robert pulls at his collar and swallows past a lump in his throat, the sound loud in the silent room. "So, uh, he's under this big investigation thing cus of them."
"So, they, uh, they thought everything was working great till my dad found some evidence or something that proves it was this other dude and he was going to show the police and stuff when he got back from Washington, so the other dude, he… uh, he… he-." He trails off, finally looking me in the eye, completely by accident. His eyes are beady, wavering and watching me with what I assume is rapt fear.
I have control.
I motion for him to go on and he nods, swallowing again. "So, uh, he, the guy, he got somebody to sneak in during one of my parties and stole it, and I'd be in really big trouble if he found out, ya know? So I called you! My best compadre when it comes to the shady thing, ya know? And you got your merc to get it all done and everything's all good! Dad's never gotta know." He smiles, all braces and tartar. Bile burns my throat, my stomach churning. He really is as ignorant as he looks.
I run a finger over the gun, digging past the thick holster. I have kept my arms behind my back this entire time, carefully fingering the cold metal almost without thinking. I don't need to loose my temper just yet. I am in control, and as long as he maintains the status quo, I might not have to loose my temper at all. "It seems everything is not as… 'All good'," the words feel foreign and childish in my mouth, "as you seem to think, Robert. In fact, things have become complicated." My words are clipped and cold, my eyes dead.
"C…Complicated?" He stutters, placing both feet on the ground once more before bringing them back up to the cushions. "Dude, what the hell are you talking about?" His laugh dies in his throat, as I knew it would. Most seem to see things my way. In fact, I was once told, by a darling French mercenary, that I was the most frighteningly persuasive British 'pansy' he had ever met. I'm still debating whether I am to be flattered or insulted by the statement, but I do not hesitate to use it to my advantage.
"My Mercenary is missing. Taken, more like, and I want him back." I pause a moment to consider this. My mercenary. I seem to be thinking that a lot lately. He's mine, yes, he belongs to me and because of this addle minded idiot, he's gone.
"Your… your merc? Dude, hah, just get a new one! I mean…" He tries to laugh it off, but I am not laughing. He straightens, stuttering and choking before slouching again. "It's not like they aren't replaceable or nothing!" He laughs again, trying desperately to brighten the mood. To coin a colloquial phrase, he's grasping for straws. He breaths thorough his nose and rubs at his thighs nervously. "They're tools of the trade, right? They use guns, you use them." It's a horrible analogy, and highly ignorant. Mercenaries do not just use guns. Few intelligent ones limit themselves to such a weapon, and surely not my mercenary. He's pushing a thin line, and I can see it in those eyes, he knows it.
"Just uh… Just put a hit on him or whatever you guys call it and it'll be all good. Your name'll stay safe and you can continue whoring your workers to the highest bidder." He seems to find this funny. Another horrible analogy, and I now feel we won't be able to resolve this without me loosing my temper. A shame really. He watches my arm move behind my back, pushing under the hem of my shirt to grasp at the gun.
"Really…"
"Yeah! I mean, he got caught so he can't've been all that good! Look, Greg, I know this guy who can hook you up with this new man, good one too! Not some retard like the last one, right? Right Greg? Gregory?" His laugh withers and rots in the air as he looks me in the eye again. I can see my reflection in his grimy glasses and I suppose he has every right to give pause. If looks could kill, I do not believe the coroners would even have enough for an autopsy.
And rightly so. How dare he? My blood boils, and my head aches. My breaths fuel a fire behind my eyes, scorching my cheeks, I'm livid. He laughs weakly, leaning away from me and looking away, looking anywhere but at me. How dare this imbecile treat the life of my mercenary, of Christophe, as a toy? Treat him as if he were a simple two-bit whore for him to use and toss. What right has he? I do not hold any delusions of sainthood and neither I, nor anyone I care for, will gain a seat behind the pearly gates, but I believe there are special circles or hell for men like Robert Floats.
My jaw clenches and every inch of me tenses as this brat just keeps talking.
"I mean… yeah, if he was stupid enough to get caught he must have been a retard. Just some damn kid, am I right, Greg? Just off him and get a new one." His small eyes flicker and he licks his lips, but now he can't look away. His breaths whistle through his nose and he smiles. "I uh, I mean…" I don't care what he means. I want him dead.
The quick steps I take are a blur, and I pull the gun from the holster, heavy but balanced in my small hands. My voice is loud and angrier then I anticipated. "Shut up." I press the thick metal to his forehead, the heavy rush of blood in my ears blocking out his frantic, frightened breaths. Somehow, the awkward weight of the gun is warm, and it feels exhilaratingly good to have my finger on the trigger, a mere twitch away from ending a life, from pulling the trigger myself for the first time on a job.
I love the power in my hand; the control of a gun is exponentially more heady than a sword. While both are weapons, murderous and beautiful in their own right, there is just something more alluring about guns.
Unlike guns, swords are for chivalry, fair play, talent and diplomacy. Perfectly balanced and precise but primitive, blood stained to their core. While I fancy myself a swordsman, I do not ignore their faults. Swords are slow, weighty and ill concealed, meant to humiliate and murder artfully and elegantly, and used to lead others to do the same. Swords are for leaders. Swords are leaders.
Guns, on the other hand are for cruelty, violence, blunt piercing bullets shredding skin and breaking bone. Guns take very little talent, just a touch of learned skill and natural instincts. Guns are blood stained, but rarely touched by their own carnage, inflicted several feet, or yards, or miles away. Guns are disconnected, to kill with no regard for anything: family, life, or regrets, just their future; a bloody smear and an eventual shallow grave. Guns are a tool, a tool for murder, destruction and death. A hired hand that some would do anything to get away from, or move towards. A mercenary.
I speak slowly, because every muscle in my body screams to pull the trigger, and it's difficult to think straight. "Where is my mercenary?"
A/n: LADIFREAKINGDA! Okay, despite what I said up there, I had fun writing this and its a good chapter. So, review and favorite or don't and give my beta her props. She's an awesome beta. There will probably be two more chapters to this so it will probably not beat out falling for you.