Die Another Day

2

…

Beep.

Beep.

Beep.

BLAM.

I awake groggily, the shot ringing in my ears. Mello is slumped in a semi-upright position on the side of the rock-hard hotel mattress, smoking gun still in hand. The alarm clock smolders on the nightstand, and there's a singed hole in the wall behind it from the bullet.

Bloody gee-wiz. Here we go again. Him and his goddamn mood swings.

"The fucking shit mother…" he grumbles under his breath, and shuffles to the grimy bathroom. A roach skitters away before being squished under one of his steel-toed boots. We hadn't even bothered to change once we got here; we just crashed in our clothes. Once he's fully awake, then the whining will begin. It's his fault he slept in his leather, so he shouldn't take it out on me. I inspect the hole in the wall, and gently pry the bullet out. If someone's following us, it sure would be a help to them if we left behind a fucking bullet. They could trace it back to us. There is a hesitant knock on the door, and a nervous Mexican voice commands from the other side.

"El señor, abre por favor la puerta… que un tiro fue oída y si usted no sale inmediatamente, llamarán la policía."

I stash the gun under the pillows, and shift the lamp to cover the hole in the wall. Why do I always have to be the one to cover Mello's ass?

"Era la televisión." I smile in an utterly false manner at the maid at the door, and gesture to the TV. Hopefully she'll buy it. She shifts her weight uncertainly, and her blue linen dress ruffles in the warm Mexican air. Whatever happened to air conditioning? Was it really necessary to flee to Mexico? And while I'm complaining, why can't maids look like those cute little whores they're depicted as?! Mello struts sleepily from the bathroom, and death-glares the maid from behind his hair. His scar twists in unnatural ways, and she squeaks before scampering off down the hallway to the lobby.

"Where's my gun?"

I ignore him, and fish a cigarette from my pocket. Nicotine floods my bloodstream, and I gradually regain my energy. I need coffee. Not the Mexican kind. Good fucking black coffee, from a good fucking American store.

And I'm going to act like a bitch until I get some. Maybe then Mello will see what it's like to have to live with him. I reach behind the pillow, and pull out the gun. I cock it, and point it at his chest, my finger on the trigger. Now, for some information.

"Right here, in my fucking hand. You've got one bullet left, and five chances max to tell me everything you know about who blew up my car."

"What the fuck Matt?! I don't know anything!"

Click.

Mello flinches as I pull the trigger.

"Four more tries, if you're lucky. Now, are you so sure about that?"

"Matt, you fucking psychopath, give me the gun!"

Click.

Flinch.

My hand is shaking now, not from fear but from excitement. It's great to be the one in charge, for once. Here I am, with a mafia leader cowering before me. I laugh, high on a power trip.

"Three tries left…"

"I know how to count, dumbass."

Click.

Flinch.

"I'm not telling you anything! You're not the one in charge, Matt, I am! Without me you'd be nowhere, just a nerd locked away in his room at the orphanage, hacking into area 51 for kicks and jerking off to pictures of ME!"

I fire twice, once at his chest and once at his head. Neither one is deadly, but there's only one shot left. One shot, the shot that will prove fatal. I circle him, smiling, and pin his hands behind his back with one hand, and hold the gun to the base of his skull.

"If you're in charge, how come I have the gun?" I cock it one last time and I'm sure he can feel me shaking. "Tell me what I want to know." I grit out.

"Matt, I swear to god, I don't know." His voice breaks, and when he breathes in, he shudders. I brush the hair softly away from his neck, and press the cold metal against his skin. The small hairs on his neck rise, and he breathes in sharply.

"If you're going to kill me, just fucking do it already."

I pull the trigger.

Click.