Don't trust her lies

His name was Emilio. Emilio Escobar.

The name sounded like some 90's actor, but the real deal had a lot more to do with SPANK than acting itself. Escobar had an important role in the Colombian Cartel as one of their top drug traffickers—in other words, he was another ruthless drug lord. And he was also pushing SPANK into the Portland district through the shipyards in the harbor.

Using methods undetectable by the Drug Enforcement Administration, Escobar managed to smuggle enough SPANK into Portland to supply the entire city. The funds he amassed from his operations made him a wealthy, powerful icon in the underworld. It also made him nearly untouchable. Everywhere he went, armed guards followed his confident stride and released submachine fire to anyone who so much as disagreed with him. The only way past the thick shell of this drug lord was to do both the unthinkable and the unpredictable. The Man was a master of these two traits.

He studied the photograph Malibu had supplied him the other night. Rugged features, a calm face, and a don't-fuck-with-me demeanor filled his eyes. Despite his ruggedness, Escobar had a rather clean-cut hairstyle; it made him look young while showing off a look that pressed itself against your face and cried: "Colombian narcotics doesn't get any better than this!". From a woman's point of view, he would have been the kind of man who could make a woman spread her legs with a lift of an eyebrow and some fingers poised beneath the chin. But the Man thought otherwise. From his own perspective, Escobar looked a lot better with a bullet shoved in his forehead, along with 80,000 dollars spewing from out of his mouth.

The Man parked his Mafia Sentinel at the Atlantic Quays near an obscure warehouse around the docks. Driving around here reminded him of that noisy broad Maria, in which he had to drop her off at some SPANK-infested rave that was near where he was parked. If memory served him right, it was because of that clap-trap he had to bust up Salvatore's Limo (Given the situation, it was either Maria—who was Salvatore's woman—or the Limo. Your fucking choice.) while he floored it from the cops. But memories were the past, and they were done for. Back to reality.

He leapt out of his car, gasping for breath; the noontime sun was turning the black Sentinel into one of those Japanese, World War II torture boxes. From there, he made his way to the front of the building and awaited for the appearance of a special blue car: the Colombian Cartel Cruiser.

According to Malibu, Escobar was located onboard the Les Cargo freighter at the Portland Harbor. But there was absolutely no way of getting onto that boat alive with anything but a Cartel Cruiser (it also complicated things when you were also white, cabron). And the blue Cruisers were nowhere to be found in Portland…unless you considered making a trip to Staunton Island or Shoreside Vale—but there was no way around that, since the Callahan Bridge was still being fixed.

So it came to this solution. At least several times a day, Escobar sent out a lone Cruiser to pack his SPANK into a warehouse at the Atlantic Quays. Every three hours, the car would make a stop at the warehouse, dump its payload, and return to the ship for additional loading. The last car had made its run at 9 a.m. sharp.

The Man glanced at his watch, smirking as it read 11:55. Just five more minutes before the next Cruiser arrived.

Once the car would show up, he was to steal it and drive it back into the freighter, where he'll improve Escobar's rugged looks with an Uzi round to his head (along with 80,000 dollars spewing from his mouth). He liked the plan; it made him do the unthinkable… and the unpredictable. Both were dual traits he excelled in.

His watch now read 12:05 p.m.

A gust of ocean breeze ruffled his hair. No sign of the Cruiser. The Man continued to stand there as sailors and homosexuals passed him by. He glared at a few of them while flicking a finger at their backs. If that car wasn't arriving soon, he was going to go off on another killing spree. Perhaps those Colombians were a lot less punctual than he last assumed. Malibu hadn't mentioned a thing about any of them being timely, so this was a matter of estimation.

12:20 p.m.

The faint shriek of seagulls began to reverberate in his head. And to add to the monotony, the shrieks were mixed with the sound of a payphone ringing from across the street. The phone had been ringing for the last few minutes without anyone there to pick it up. The Man ignored it, focusing on his mission. He kept his eyes darting from one corner of the street to the next, only to find cheap Perennials and Rumpos cruising the asphalt. He glanced down at the pavement and began kicking a sheet of newspaper that had been skidding near his foot for the past few minutes. When was that Cruiser arriving?

From across the street, the payphone continued to ring. At first, he managed to ignore the ringing without much difficulty—but right now, that ringing was beginning to sound a lot more enticing. He glanced at the phone sitting in the vacant lot. Something about this whole thing wasn't right…and he knew it. And that phone over there looked like it held some answers.

He walked up to the blubbering payphone and unhooked it, placing it against his ears. His eyes scanned around, making sure he wasn't part of a trap. Nothing peculiar happened, so he tucked his head in and listened. He breathed heavily into the mic, producing that snowy sound. He always did this so the speaker on the other line could identify him.

"I know who you are," a deep, accented voice said. "And I have important information for you. My name is Emilio. You can call me Mr. Escobar if you wish."

The Man narrowed his eyes.

"Some dirty whore by the name of Malibu has been looking for you. I know this, since word spreads like wildfire when some stupid undercover cop tries searching for the right hitman to kill some malo hombre like me, eh."

Malibu…an undercover cop? the Man thought, drawing a breath. His eyes widened. How was this possible? And why would some dirty whore of a cop hire him to murder someone like Escobar?

"You see, my friend, the police have begun an investigation of the incident at Callahan Bridge…and I believe their trail has led to you. Have you not noticed the recent up in police activity around you, amigo?"

The Man spun his head around, surveying his surroundings with frantic, darting eyes. He watched as a squad car passed him—the officer glared at him from inside…with a walkie-talkie to his mouth. Paranoia at its heightened bliss. Fuck.

The Man looked away. This wasn't making any sense. His police files were hacked during the incident—and along with that, they had assumed he was dead when the Callahan Bridge went up.

"That isn't all, muchacho. They have sent an undercover cop by the name of Malibu to find you and bring you back to jail. She is posing as some dirty whore and is trying to frame you for murder. Why they are after me, I do not know. Perhaps the DEA wants me dead, and they are trying to kill two birds with one stone."

His hand clenched into a fist. Why hadn't he suspected it earlier? Malibu…the busty blonde with the suitcase. The blue eyes with the mole below it. The one he fucked last night. He was being set-up once again—this time, by the law. Did history always have to come right up to you and tell you that it always fucking repeats itself!

The memory of Catalina raising dual pistols at him flashed in his eyes. Except this time, she had blonde, wavy hair, which seemed to ride the wind whenever she let it down. Right before she shot him and grabbed that suitcase, those azure eyes—like the bright blue of Hawaiian surf—pierced his gaze.

Sorry babe, I'm an ambitious girl and you, you're just small time.

He struck the glass on the booth with enough force to shatter it. Bits of crystalline shards pierced the Man's knuckles; blood oozed from the wound, producing a crimson river dripping over the ground. He didn't feel the pain. Whenever he was angry, pain and remorse were the last things the Man ever felt.

That fucking cunt.

"Lucky for me, I have found you first," Escobar continued, flashing an audible smile. "And I also know you serve the highest bidder…after all, all you care about is money, I hear."

Damn right.

"I want this Malibu dead by tonight—no questions asked. I hear the price for my head goes for 80,000 dollars, my friend. That's a fucking insult, my friend—I cost much more than some chump change coming from the suitcase of some dolled up pig. Don't trust her lies, muchacho. She is full of more nonsense than a thousand pounds of South American donkey-shit."

The Man nodded, straining his ears so he wouldn't miss anything.

"While that disillusioned pig pays 80 grand, I'll mark her death for 200,000 dollars—that whore has insulted me enough. Go to her room in Hepburn Heights and shut her filthy mouth with a couple of bullets. Slap that senorita around if you have to. Shegonna be sorry."

He put the phone back on the hook. 200 grand…the Man thought, smirking. Now Malibu was looking prettier with a bullet in her head (and this time, the money was spewing straight out from between her spread legs). He made his way back into his Sentinel, igniting its engine. Opera music, pouring from out of Double Cleff FM, soothed his rage, bringing him back into a state of control. The bittersweet music conjured a kind of Mafioso savagery from him. As he took off and cut through Trenton, the squishing of his tires against an unfortunate pedestrian sounded beautiful when mixed with the operatic voices from his radio.

As he roared in the direction of Hepburn Heights, his pager screamed, beeping out a long-winded message he failed to believe, let alone consider. The message read:

THIS IS MALIBU. ESCOBAR KNOWS YOU'RE AFTER HIM AND HAS SENT MEN OUT TO KILL YOU. MEET ME AT MY APARTMENT SINCE I BELIEVE HE IS AFTER ME TOO.