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View Full Version : By a Kiss Betrayed.



Mr. Hyde
December 15th, 2005, 04:18 PM
Her eyes are green like a Cyprus leaf in the spring and her golden hair caresses the tender peach colored skin of her face out here on the balcony in the darkness of the city. More than sheís wearing it, her spaghetti strap, low cut, black dress is wearing her. Tight and silk smooth, her body is a silhouette in the night. I run my hands over her cheeks and pull her close. Kiss her hard like my life depends on this kiss. Then I tell her goodbye. The poison seeps into her cherry red lips and her angelic eyes roll back in her head. She falls. Convulses. Then she stops. She doesnít breathe. She doesnít move. The angel is dead. Betrayed by a kiss.

I never asked her name. Instead, I walk down to the lobby where the valet pulls my car around. A sleek white sedan with halogen head lights and crystal rims. The windows are tinted. I ease out of the parking lot away from the hotel and head out of town. It starts raining and Iím driving too fast. Red and blue flashes in the mirror and I push harder on the gas. My foot becomes a ball of lead on the pedal as I ease to a hundred on the speedometer. The cop reaches for his radio and I start to slow down. Pull the gun from my glove box. Press it between my legs as I screw on the silencer.

He walks up, gun drawn, flustered and excited. A rookie cop ready to be a hero. I never cared for heroes. I donít get the chance to roll down the window before he shouts for me to roll down the window. Heís young. His eyes wild with emotion. His mouth is probably already drying up from the adrenaline pounding through his veins. I ease open the door. I donít move fast. I move very slowly. I raise my gun to his face. The whole time heís shouting for me to lower my weapon. He stops mid sentence when my gun stares him in the face. I never cared for heroes. I tell him to put his gun up and walk away. He doesnít. I squeeze the trigger. Itís either a reaction or an act of will. I canít distinguish anymore, but I watch his head snap back as the bullet passes through his skull. The blood sprays with bits of his brain as he falls. I pop the trunk and drag his body over to it. Then I stuff him inside. I never really cared for heroes. I put his bike in neutral and shove it into the ravine, close the trunk, and then drive away.

I pull into the junkyard and my extra car is already ready. I pull the car under a giant magnet crane ready to heave it into the compacter. Then I walk over to my waiting ride. Before I step in I pull the plastic strips off my lips and toss them onto the ground. My gloves are fixed tight on my hands and I grip the wheel hard. The woman got to me. I can feel it. There was something odd about her. About killing her. It forces a tear from the corner of my eye. I wipe it away with my hand but it beads on my glove and runs off down onto my pants. My suit. Black. White shirt. Black tie. Generic. Common.

I push my fingers through my hair and glare out the windshield into the rain. I drive back to my employerís place of business and walk inside. I tell the clerk Iím there to see Sarno. He buzzes me in. Sarno is an old man, heavy set, emotionless, nothing but muscle and one of the last believers in honor. He calls me his samurai. To the woman Iím Judas. To the cop Iím a psycho. Everyone has a name for me. My last girlfriend called me nothing. No one speaks from beyond the grave. Especially not with a Colombian neck tie. But betrayal begets betrayal. And revenge is the only real justice.

He hands me a check and a file. The check is for my last job. The woman. The file is for a new target. A mister William Bower. I ask how he wants it done. He says this guy is a really nasty fellow. I should use my imagination. It sounds sensible enough. But imagination correlates with pleasure. I keep business and pleasure separate. But I do as Iím told. So he kisses me on each cheek and sends me on my way. The file says heís drowning his sorrow with gallons of booze at the ďMount OlympusĒ night club. So I ride over, pay the cover fee, show them my card, and head inside.

Neon lights are everywhere and the place is rumbling with eighties techno remixes. I suppose thatís what Zeus might want to listen to. Heís sitting at the bar and I take an empty seat next to him. Heís rambling about how his wife died and how his daughter is marrying some psychotic mobster. How his career has gone in the toilet. How he has no reason to live. I buy two drinks. One for him and one for me. I slip a muscle relaxer into his pint. I slide it to him. We toast to betrayal and the backstabbing wenches that help populate this god forsaken mud ball. Then he starts to slump back and forth. I tell the bartender Iíll take him home.

The drunken mister Bower leans all 200 pounds of his fat self on me as I drag him out to my car. I open the back door and plop him inside. Then I shut the door and head to a field fifteen miles outside of town. I pop the trunk and pull out a shovel. When they give me these cars, they make sure they come with the basics. I called before hand to check. Shovel. Tape. Gas. Rubber tubing. A hunting knife. I dig a fairly deep hole. Then I roll him into it. I pour gas all over him. Then I fill in the hole. Shovel full by Shovel full. If the dirt doesnít end up crushing him, heíll suffocate from the gas and lack of oxygen. Itís diesel so dogs wonít smell him. When Iím done I throw the shovel and jug back into the trunk. I drive home. Take a nice cold shower. Wash the mud and everything off my clothes. Throw them in the dryer. Then crawl into bed for a good nightís sleep.

But in my dreams, the silence was broken. The imagined pleas of a ghost begging for her life back. A wooly faced man with a red sash, woeful and asking why he was betrayed by a kiss. The lips. The power of the lips. The emotion. The crying departed wanting what had been taken by the lips of the Judases of history. And here I was, staunched and silent, staring them back to their graves. Her black dress. His white robe. I felt the silver weigh heavy in my pocket. The sound of a voice asking if we had a deal. That forked tongue seducing my brain into agreeal. It was by my hand she died. The crimson tears of the dearly departed, the ghosts, the specters, the phantoms of the past haunting. Cursing. Begging. Screaming. They rouse me from my sleep. A nightmare? No. It was a warning.

I walk into the bathroom and wash the sweat from my face. My eyes are bloodshot and weary. I feel thin. Stretched thin like a tanned deer hide. I barely hear the whisper of a key in the lock. Then the creak of the door sliding open just enough. I open the drawers under the sink and pull out a 9mm, also equipped with a silencer. I turn off the light and crouch next to the toilet, just a few feet away from the light switch. The bathroom is far enough away that they shouldnít have seen the light. But shouldnít has never meant didnít. The door eases open. I raise upright. Heís wearing all black and a pair of night vision goggles. I flip on the lights and he goes blind. Then I cut them off again and reach my arm around his throat. I squeeze hard. He canít scream. He canít breathe. Heís helpless. The second man is waiting outside. I ease out to him. As soon as he sees me I can see the light reflecting off his gun from the open window as he raises it to me.

I fire a few times at his torso. He groans and bends down. Bleeds all over my floor. Dies. I push my knee hard into the first manís back and force him to the floor. I pull his goggles off and shove the barrel of the gun against his neck almost shoving it through his skin. Then I ask. I ask who sent them. He doesnít respond. I put a bullet in his hand. Then I ask again. Still nothing. So I shoot him in the foot. He starts to talk. Some results. He says Sarno sent him. He says the man I killed was a made man. Sarno wanted him dead, but now I had to die for killing a made man. I fire through his throat and listen to him gurgle and choke. Then I get dressed. Dressed for a night on the town.

I put on my pants and shoes. Then I slide on my shirt and belt. I hook two clips to my belt. Then I slide on my shoulder holster. I stuff two more clips in one side and my pistol in the other. Then I tie my tie and put on my jacket. I put my gloves on last. Itís said that a samurai must meditate daily on the idea of their master betraying them. To keep them prepared. Focused. I canít say I didnít expect something like this to happen. Bower was a Guido anyways. Seemed natural heíd be tied to the mob in some way or another. So I search the bodies. I find a set of car keys with keyless entry. I walk down to the street. Unlock their car doors. Then I hand a bum the keys to my car. Tell him to take it for a spin. ďKeep it,Ē I say. He thanks me. Runs smiling into the car. And as soon as he cranks it heís blown to pieces.

I pull up to his office. I walk in. I donít ask to see him. I plug the clerk without breaking stride. Head up the stairs. I drop the two men outside his door. A bullet in each skull. Then I reload. Not because Iím out, but because Iím low. I open the door and snap a bullet into his two guards. The gun whispers as the shells fall to the floor. Smoke pours from the silencer like a smoker exhaling. Sarno doesnít look scared. But that changes as soon as I plant a bullet into each one of his arms. He doesnít scream. He just sits there gritting his teeth. I open a small bag I carried with me. He says, ďNothing personal. Just business ya know.Ē I nod and pull out some rubber tubes. I leave them on the floor as I step over and pistol whip him unconscious.

I wrap the tubes around his arms and tape his mouth shut. Then I cauterize the wounds. I tie his arms and legs tight. Then I drag him shaking and whispering screams to my borrowed trunk. Before I shut the lid I tell him, ďYouíre gonna love what I have in store for you.Ē I take him to the same place I took mister Bower. Then I unload him. I pull out the knife. Then I take out a lighter and another jug of diesel. He starts crying and I tell him, ďWhat are you crying for? You told me to use my imagination.Ē Then I pause. I remember the woman. The angel. I pull the tape from his lips and ask him about her. I tell him I know what the file says, but I wanna know what he knew about her.

He tells me she was no one. I drag the knife across his cheek. I tell him lying is a habit heís going to drop tonight. He tells me she used to be a missionary. She was now a district attorney, a dead one anyways. He tells me she wouldnít bend to his influence. He tells me she was a stupid girl. I tell him heís wrong. That she was just honest. Then I cut his other cheek. I put another strip of tape on his mouth. Good and tight. Then I pour some of the gas into his cuts. He whimpers. I remind him the value of loyalty to oneís servant. Then I continue. When Iím done, I drop his body in the hole Iíve dug for him. Then I toss in the knife, the gear, and pour the rest of the gas in the hole. Then I bury him. My career. My life, with him.

sylouette
December 15th, 2005, 07:36 PM
Wow! That was reallllly good!

zephyr999
January 1st, 2006, 03:47 AM
Wow! That was reallllly good!
interesting!that was really good!


Sing me no songs of daylight,
For the sun is the enemy of lovers
Sing instead of shadows and darkness,
And memories of midnight...!