Author's Notes – Although I am still in the process of working on my Bill story. (The Life and Times of a Murdering Bastard) and Jess and I are still planning on adding some things to our Kill Bill: Three Months story, (we might also have some other things in store as well….stay tuned!) I decided to write a shorter KB fic on the side. I wanted to try and write something a little different than what I'd done in the past, something shorter and a little more laid back, that I could keep within three or four chapters. This is what I came up with. I hope it's a somewhat enjoyable read so far. I'll be updating when I can. And I have decided to keep this story at a "Teen" rating for the time being. But it is heavy on the drug use/references throughout, as well as the typical language in many KB oriented stories. Elements of violence and gore will come into play in following chapters as well.

Thanks for giving it a look!

Memoirs of a Former Client

Chapter 1:

The Problem

When you're in prison, you begin to think of doing things you never thought you'd ever do.

Writing about myself, and about the sorta shit I did before I ended up in here; well…I guess I'd never really thought much about it. I wasn't exactly the kind of guy who spent much time creatively expressing myself. It just wasn't part of my gig ya see.

But here I am, sitting in a dimly lit single cell in a United States medium security, Federal Correctional Institution in Jesup Georgia; yeah that's fancy talk for a jailhouse. I've got a pad of notepaper in front of me. It's that yellow lined paper that pulls off the pad easily; ya know the real cheap stuff. And I've been allowed to have pens…shitty BIC ones of course, just as long as I don't lose control of myself and shove one up my ass, or jab one into a guard's eye…or some crazy loony bin shit like that. Maybe they figure us drug dealers ain't as bad as the rest of the guys in here, even though most of us drug dealers will be in here longer than the rest of 'em.

Whatever, it doesn't matter, I can write….I can make paper airplanes, I can draw crude pictures of tits; whatever my twisted criminal heart desires. I think over the last few months of my writing privileges I've done a little of each of those, and they keep givin' me paper and a pen, so I just keep using 'em. I figure if I keep this academic shit up, they might let me out early for good behavior……but probably not.

So, I guess today I feel like writing. I don't know why, but I'm kinda at that point in my despicable life where I don't really care why I want to do things…I don't question it, I just do 'em. So, I'm goin' to fuckin' write, and what I'm goin' to write about might interest you….it might not, I don't really care. As they say around here: "We've got some time to burn", and it's gunna burn no matter what I do.

For some reason today I am thinkin' about a man named Bill. I knew him; well….I did business with him back in '87. He ran this group of female assassins……real deadly types of girls. Ya know, the types that looked as good as they were with guns, and swords and fuckin' kung fu…bad ass shit like that.

Ya see, during that time I had a little problem, and I called Bill and his ladies in to help me fix it. At the time I had no idea just how much the whole experience would end up changin' my life. And believe it or not, given my current location, it was actually a change for the better.

But I guess before I go into my tale about Bill and his ladies I should probably tell you a little bit about myself.

Who am I? Well, to keep a long story short, I was born Gregory James Lincomb in Jakin Georgia on February 2nd, 1953. My pop had been an Army colonel in the Second World War. I knew never ma; she died when I was very young…..cancer supposedly, but nobody knew for sure back then. Dad was pretty much a raging jack ass, and my two older brothers were just smaller versions of him; you could call 'em small jack asses I suppose. They all drank allot. I spent my youth nursing bloody noses and bruised ribs from the daily sibling abuse brought down upon me. I guess I was a small kid, and small kids "always had it comin' as they say. Nobody gave two shits about me, and I learned real quick to not give two shits about anybody else; I considered that a fair enough deal.

Once I was old enough to not piss myself and see over a stolen car's steering wheel I got the hell out of Georgia and headed to the upper East Coast. I spent some time in Jersey, and then D.C., but like anybody who wants to be anybody I eventually ended up in New York. A couple of years in the city, and nobody even knew I'd come from the South. I hid my accent pretty damn well in those days…and believe me folks, that's a good thing.

What I did during the 1970's isn't really all that important. I was a real nobody; a lowlife scum. I moved furniture, I flipped burgers, I even cleaned fuckin' public toilets. I never had a job that lasted longer than three weeks and I usually blew my rent money gamblin' or cheap pussy.

But the 80's brought in the glory years of cocaine, and that's when I finally started to be somebody. I'd been on a slow slide towards the criminal life for a few years anyways, starting out with a gig runnin' errands for a local drug trafficker. After that, I started helpin' this guy buy and sell black market weapons, and then had a run as a coke cutter for a big time dealer upstate. That gave me the taste for coke, and I knew right then that I wanted a piece of that action. I set out to become a dealer worth his weight in snow.

Now, that ain't sayin' much since I don't' weigh more than 180, but ya know what I mean. And believe it or not, for he first time in my miserable life, God..or whoever that miserable fuck is, gave me a break. It wasn't easy by a long shot, no….but within a year or so of sellin' my first kilo I was pullin' in six figures…livin' it up mighty big. Yeah, it was a real 'Cinderella story' folks; if you consider that the bitch was really an ugly, foul tempered, chain smokin' bastard.

So was the high life really as good as I had imaged? Hell yeah it was…at least for the first few years. There were allot of guys like me livin' it up during that time; nobodies who'd been doin' the right thing at the right time and scored big. We all strutted around in our thousand dollar suits, drivin' convertible Corvettes, drinkin' martini's; wild eyed with our newfound wealth…as if even we ourselves couldn't quite believe it had happened.

But, as it tends to happen in these rags to riches stories, the protagonist…that being myself in this here story, began to grow bored and cynical with life. The light was losin' its luster, and that wide eyed newness of before turned into the bloodshot, haggard gaze of a man who could care less. I know, how cliché of me…..falling from grace and all.

I'd always been a pretty angry guy, and like any good criminal, I blame that on my fuckin' childhood. But I started getting' worse at this point; losing my temper all of the time and alienating everyone around me…even those who had helped me get to where I was. At the time I didn't give a shit to really ask myself why I was feelin' so god damned hostile. But lookin' back now….I think I was pretty lonely.

Ya see, women pretty much hated me. And if wasn't for the small fortune I'd managed to earn, I'm sure I would have had to resort to findin' hookers to get laid. Luckily, there was an almost inexhaustible supply of shallow, greedy, long nailed, tight cocktail dress wearin' women who'd probably watched Dynasty one too many times, and who'd fuck any rich guy no matter how revolting they found him. They were always around; lookin' for a little snow and perhaps an afternoon's shopping spree in Manhattan. They were often more than willin' to get down on their knees, or spend a few nights in my normally lonely waterbed to get those 'better things' in life.

This fact alone was not much of a condolence to me. I'd always been a little too short, a little too undistinguished. I started goin' bald when I was nineteen. I chain smoked Marlboro Reds as if I needed 'em to breathe; funny irony in that eh? I could never seem to find a suit that fit me right, no matter how much I spent on it. I'd also been snortin' cocaine habitually since 1981, and six years of inhaling snow eventually takes its toll on your already depleting looks, believe me. But, that wasn't going to make me stop. Yeah, I know, one of the dealer's biggest taboos is to use your own product. But fuck the rules; I'd always been about doin' my own thing ya see.

So, there I was, bleary eyed and disenchanted; drivin' my luxury cars around recklessly, doin' lines of coke off of bathroom counter tops, fuckin' hollow women like a man already half dead, and wonderin' in my few moments of clarity just what the hell had happened to the last ten years.

I'm not sayin' I hated myself, or that I even do now. I think I'd done alright for a shoeless kid from the shitholes of southern Georgia. But, I wouldn't be lyin' to ya, if I didn't admit that sometimes….right before I did a line, I hoped that that time would be the time I'd overdo it. They'd find me a few hours later, sprawled out on my Persian carpet, a sticky river of blood oozing from my nostrils, eyes glazed over in the junkie's last look of listless wonder. Maybe I'd just be maggot food after that, or maybe I'd end up the devil's nightly bitch. It didn't matter much to me right then, I didn't believe in anythin' much besides cold hard money and a little blow under my fingernails to keep me feelin' all right.

But hey, enough about me; I'm pretty much a slightly more articulate piece of low life trash who happened to get lucky in the coke game when it hit big. My life story ain't ever gunna make one of those fancy ass A&E Biography things anyways, so let's cut with that shit and get to the point of this whole thing….I'm depressing myself talking about myself as it is. This little story is not so much about who I was…or where I came from, but about my short time workin' with the Vipers.

Ya see, in the Spring of '87 I had a problem; a big problem. And this was not one of my many personal problems no, this problem was strictly business. My problem came in the form of a two faced Cuban immigrant by the name of Ricardo Lopez Margolez.

I hated Ricardo. I hated Ricardo like a dog hates getttin' his nose rubbed in his own shit.

The little turd used to be my partner you see…way back when I was first statin' out. And good partners are hard to come by in this business. Ricardo and I had decided to go our separate ways in '82. We agreed that all of our connections would be cleanly severed, and that by no means would we even attempt to use the other's suppliers. It was a fair and even split, and I was satisfied with how the whole deal ended.

But then, for some fuckin' reason, Ricardo turned on me…almost five years later. He ratted me out to the Narc's and I ended up spendin' three months in prison. Luckily, an acquaintance of mine had a few local high powered judges feeding on his wallet and I managed to get out on a mere $250,000 bail.

To say I was irate would have been a serious understatement. Not only had a good amount of my supply been confiscated, my beautiful home raided, my fragile pride wounded and a former trust been broken, but thanks to Ricardo I was on strike two. Ya see, I'd already been convicted of drug possession once before; back in 1980. Now, I had received another. If I was caught for a third time, I was fucked. They were going to put me away for at least fifteen years and no amount of sympathetic bail money was going to get me out.

At this point I had grown extremely paranoid. This was derived from some reasonable circumstances, but my rapidly increasing intake of cocaine was only making it worse. I began to stay inside my house for days on end. I trusted nobody beyond a handful of close pals. I realized in the midst of this that the only solution to my paranoia, beyond quittin' coke of course, was to get rid of Ricardo for good.

It was so simple once I'd thought of it. I would have Ricardo killed, and after that surely the rest of his organization would unravel into shit nothing. I could then go on livin'. I could finally get a full night's sleep. I could stop thinkin' about spendin' the rest of my life behind bars. Maybe I could even clean up.

When I mentioned my plan to Jeff Brewner; a close friend of mine, he thought I was crazy. But he also knew I was stubborn son of a bitch, and told me that if I wanted Ricardo dead I'd better not fuck it up…because if I did, I wouldn't have to worry about prison at all, seein' as I would be dead. I could see his logic, so in turn I set out to find a source that would ensure that Ricardo received a quick and professional death; no room for amateur work here, no sir.

My search eventually led me to The Deadly Viper Assassination Squad. Now, I've never really been hot on the whole code name thing. I once knew this guy who called himself "The Fucking Ferocious Bad Ass Hyena From Hell" and that sorta turned me off to code names for good. But, the Viper's came with a long list of resplendent recommendations; real top notch stuff. They were good I was told; real good. They were run by this guy who went by the name of "The Snake Charmer". And if that didn't intrigue me enough, it turns out that nearly all of his assassins were women. I instantly had some twisted version of Charlie's Angels in my mind, and knew then that I had found Ricardo's future murderers.

I had expected some secretary type to pick up the phone when I called the Vipers; ya know some bubble gum smacking broad with a thick Jersey accent. But instead, a man picked up; one who sounded far too calm and sure of himself to be anybody but the kind of guy that had deemed himself "The Snake Charmer".

But I played it cool, and went ahead and gave him a few details of my problem and what I needed to have done. He was brief with me; spendin' much of the conversation listenin' to my faulty paranoid attempts to not ramble. I could almost picture him on the other end in some meditative state as I, the bumbling client, bored him to death. I guess I felt a little dumb, but he gave no inclination of bein' snide or anything like that. He told me that he was actually goin' to be in New York next week, for "business" and that he would be willin' to meet with me and talk about things in further detail. He also said he would go ahead and bring along the assassin he felt would serve my purposes best, and in turn my "problem" could likely be solved within the next few weeks.

Well, god damn, I wish more criminals were like that. Just because you killed people, or dealt dope, didn't mean ya had to be a crass, difficult type of asshole. I hadn't really even thought about that until then, but shit…it made some real sense to me. Whoever this Snake Charmer was, he certainly was unlike any assassin I'd ever known.

Oh yeah…and the last thing he told me on the phone, before hanging up, was: "The name's Bill."

End of Chapter 1

CHAPTER TWO: "The Solution" coming soon!