Disclaimer: I did not make Sin City, or the Characters. They respectfully belong to Frank Miller and Dark Horse comics. Also, any characters I come up with that aren't mentioned in any of the comics, you can guess are mine.
Foreward from the Author: Jesus H. Christ has it been a while but I'm back for the moment with two new ones for you. Sorry about my extremely lengthy delay.Sin City
Dirty White Lies
Chapter Seven: Bar Room Assassin
"Nothing like a good scotch after a battle royal in a hotel and not killing any innocents." I said saluting Freya who had just poured me a shot.
"Amen to that one." Freya said lighting up a cigarette.
I drank the shot; it burned all the way down my throat, invigorating to say the least. I set the glass down and smiled, I think. I never did understand exactly why I picked the strongest stuff in the house but I always enjoyed it regardless. Freya poured me another glass and leaned back on the island in the middle with all the alcohol on it. She took a long drag and shot smoke out to the side avoiding my face.
I looked up rather upset with myself, "Why do I keel pupole?" I slurred. (Translation: Why do I kill people? H.B.)
She nodded, "That is something only you can do." She said, "I think you've had enough now so go up stairs and get some sleep before I twist your arm and force you."
"Alll right.. jeez joo make it zound lick a bah thing." I answered.
I took another drag on my cigarette as DJ walked upstairs using his head as a cane for the wall. Truth be told I guess I could say I had a soft spot for the guy behind the cold hard killer. Maybe it was the little girl in me wanting to hang out with all the bad guys. I shrugged it off and stood quietly alone in the bar. It was already 4 A.M. and my shift was till 7 so usually I entertained myself by either cleaning my knife collection or using my knife collection. I put the cigarette out in the tray behind the counter and hurdled over the bar top.
In the back room with the closet that that fat fuck O' Callahan called my office was some more personal possessions, namely my old Knife collection that I'd kept from my rather gritty child hood in Old Town. I was an ex-hooker turned Bar Maid. All those nights being next to some drunken sweaty guy or some uptight suit with the pecker the size of a jolly rancher didn't seem to entice me much. Only reason I stayed was because of Dwight, but he left so not long after I decided it high time to walk myself. But getting out of old town isn't as easy as one would think. I didn't walk out easy, they some what tried to keep me. It was after I turned the Triplets into the Twins that they wizened up to my want to leave.
Then I wandered the city looking for work getting dead end jobs with no benefits other then getting me to the next day. Usually bosses didn't like to see Hooker as a previous job and that being said I was not a college grad who just wanted a job on the weekend to pay the bills. Then I met Mike, before he became the unofficial spokesman for fuck you very much, Inc. He was nice back then, a lot slimmer and made a touch nicer. He hired me as barkeep because of my unusual skill and rather nice frame. He liked my ass, which got a lot of his attention if I shook it just right.
Truth be told, I worked Mike's bar for a year before I over heard a couple of low rent thugs talking about a man whom I'd later find out was Renveau. Renveau's little story was rather boring so I pretty much forgot it till a product of Renveau, literally hitman Prodigy walked into the bar and ordered a scotch.
Back then everyone just called him Kirra, nothing more or less. He drank straight scotch which was admirable thing for a guy who looked about 145 maybe 150 and 6 foot nothing. I knew he was packing every time he came in; I saw the bulge on his right side. Not that I didn't always have a spare throwing knife tucked in my pants pocket, just in case the sorry bastard got rowdy. In the past two years he never laid a hand on anyone that didn't deserve a good punch to the face. Usually it was a love tap or something equivalent in force but I could tell the guy had more behind him than he let on. He walked different, ordered different and looked different then the other slobs, perverts and unregistered sex offenders in this bar.
One day I got up the courage to ask his first name, He quickly responded wit DJ and asked me never to speak to him again. I pretended to ignore his little request and tried stirring up conversation. It was the first time I'd ever seen him drink himself to sleep. After that I just left him to himself and his self pity or whatever it was that put him off all the time.
Then of course was that fateful night when he inadvertently showed me what really did eat at him. He blew a man's head clean off without batting an eyelash and dragged the corpse out like a rucksack with a pair of broken wheels. Course Mike threw hell at the guy and was about a half step shy of getting his shotgun and blowing DJ's ass all over the walls. I intervened and told him he'd better watch it or I'd show him why I was the one working the bar.
The sound of a bottle rolling across the floor caused my gaze to pan over to the door. A slinky looking bastard in a trench coat with the look of a crackpot stood in the door way.
"We're closed." I said to him.
"Kirra… I'm looking for Kirra." He muttered barely audible.
"Excuse me?" I said trying to catch the name again to be sure that my gut might rest easy.
The guy looked over at me craning his neck awkwardly; his crooked smile leaked a string of spittle. He was crazy, period end of story. I lowered my hand down under the bar and removed a throwing knife, no make it 5 of them, he looked like he was on PCP or something.
"oooo….. Kirra, Kirra beer, Kirrable." The guy muttered aimlessly, "Till death and we part, Kirra, Terra, Fearra. HAHAHAHAHA!" He cackled.
I didn't waste time; this nut ball had to go. I flicked my wrist and sent two of those edges straight into him, or I thought I did. He yanked the blades out and crunched one of them like a piece of aluminum. My face slacked in awe.
God damnit… I felt the punch send me off my stool. I hit hard on the floor with my shoulder and felt that ever so wonderful pain shoot straight up my joint. I shot up and chucked the other three right at the guy ad sank them all in his juggler. He took them put with his hands and his teeth. He snapped the blade in half instead of chewing it like tin foil and spit the pieces onto the floor. With a spin he threw the knives back. I felt one embed itself in my bicep and the other hissed past my head into the wood behind me.
I heard a thump upstairs; the loon heard it too and looked up at the ceiling. He removed a desert eagle and fired it. The blow back whipped my hair back as the wind hit me. The bullet tore into the ceiling and there was another thud.
I looked down at the three legged chair that just fell down. Someone downstairs wasn't very happy and he was packing. I could've probably snuck down quiet like had I not fall out of bed. I grabbed my revolver and went quietly over to the trashcan. I leaned over and forced myself to vomit. Nasty reflex but it'd save my liver a whole lot of trouble. The taste of bile still hung in my mouth even after I spit most of it out. I made my way down the stairs gun in hand. Lucky for me O'Callahan didn't stay here in the bar, he had an apartment; he let Freya handle the night shift of 8 to 6. I jumped the last two stairs and froze. How did Renveau find me, which was my first question when I saw Dr. Levi. I thumbed back the hammer of the revolver and fired. It belched out the .44 round and blew through the good doctor backwards. I thumbed back the hammer again as I walked down another step.
Levi knew he'd lost the element of surprised, his tactic usually was killing quietly, this wasn't him MO to come bursting in and killing mindlessly, that was my job. Oh well, I'd sort this out before he bled out from the next slug I'd put in him. He came rushing through the door and fired the gun that he had; a nickel plated Desert Eagle. The bullet bull shot through my baggy unopened over shirt and blew it back. I fired again this time nice and low right at the femoral Artery if I was lucky. The bullet struck the Doc's leg and blew the meat on the left side out like a bomb went off in his leg. He dropped to the ground, he didn't scream. I walked down the rest of the stairs. He looked up at me, the puddle of blood leaking out all over the floor and onto my shoes.
"Kirra… Kirra…Kirra… Kill…Kirra." He said over and over.
I thumbed back the trigger, so much for answers; I fired and blew Dr. Levi's head up like a grenade. Blood spatter flew up all over the walls as the powerful round struck the skull followed by the pressure and heat that detonated his head like a bomb. A whimper made me finally notice Freya in the room. She held a bloody knife in her hand and he arm was bleeding.
"He's dead right." Freya said tossing the knife aside.
I nodded, "He's archives."