To himself everyone is immortal; he may know that he is going to die, but he can never know that he is dead.

-Samuel Butler

 

 

It's dark.

Okay, let me rephrase that: it's black.

I've never described lighting as black before, but there is absolutely no fucking light source on the inside of this trunk. Forget what you've seen in the movies and all of their lighting tricks, because they're just trying to give you a visual of what's going on inside. If you were to go outside and lock yourself in your own trunk right now, you'd find reality to be contrasting to cinema.

So here I am, stuffed inside of this fucking trunk. The stench of rubber, oil, and gas fill my nostrils, to the point that I'm afraid I'm going to suffocate before this asshole has a chance to kill me. I'm no chemist, but I'm willing to bet that if I inhale too much of this shit, I'm going to be poisoned. So, I keep my breathing shallow and I try to remain calm.

There's got to be a way out.

He didn't tie my arm behind my back; he didn't have time. He didn't have a chance to gag me either, and the fact that I'm in here at all is my fault and mine alone. Don't attribute it to his cunning, but to my unwillingness to kill him. Morality is the only reason he's still alive, which is ironic considering it's something he lacks.

I'm trying to count the miles, count the bumps, count fucking anything I can to figure out where we're heading, but I'm not a ninja, and even if I were, I seriously doubt that anyone could prevent the type of discombobulation that comes along with a pitch black trunk and said trunk being flooded with noxious fumes.

This thing is a fucking death trap, and it may turn out to be my final resting place. Who's to say he won't just leave me in here and push the car off of a cliff, or set it on fire? Fucking car trunks. It's every gangster's dream to stuff somebody in a trunk, drive him out into the middle of the woods and snuff him, but few ever believe that they'll wind up in a trunk themselves.

It was never my dream, but here I am anyway. I suppose that when you live the type of life that calls for you to sleep with a gun under your pillow, you should expect to go out this way. If I said that I didn't think this was a possible, I'd be lying. I just never expected it to happen so soon.

 

 

"Let's fucking go, man", Collin yells through my door.

We've decided not to share rooms anymore due to the high probability of him bringing hookers back. Don't get me wrong, I'm not against prostitution. I think it's everyone's right to use their body how they see fit, and if a chick wants (and hopefully isn't forced, but we all know that's not always the case) to sell hers to make money, then she should be allowed to make that choice. What I am against is getting woken in the middle of the night to the sounds of slapping skin and a scent I could only describe as "flaming trout". I will be forever scarred by the scent of that chick's clam, and even more so by how fucking hot she was. When I say that this girl was a 10, I don't mean she was hot for a hooker. I mean that this was one of the hottest women I've ever seen in person, and if you think I have poor taste in women, then let me remind you that I've met Mia Sanchez in person and my dick was so hard that I thought it was going to break off and fall down the leg of my pants. There's something wrong when a chick that hot has a stinky beav, but Stephen Hawkings is the smartest guy in the world and he can't even fucking talk, so maybe it's karma.

"Yeah, I'll be right out man", I acknowledge, grabbing my bag and heading for the door.

I turn the handle and come face to face with Collin. He raises eyebrows and grins as I look at his eyes, which are redder than the devil's dick.

"Holy shit," I say, laughing as I examine him. "Can you overdose on weed?"

Collin giggles then slaps me on the back.

"I'm certainly going to try." Collin laughs his ass off, then throws me the car keys. "I'm way to baked to drive."

I catch them reluctantly, not having much choice in the matter. If I talk him into driving, he'll probably kill us. If I just suck it up, I'm going to end up with a simple back ache. I don't think the rest of you midgets know what it's like for us big guys to be stuck behind the wheel of anything smaller than a Mustang (Goddamn do I miss my car). It's unbearable. Our knees are in the wheel, are heads are grazing the roof, and we have no fucking space, and this is a Civic I'm talking about. That retard Lidiya used to drive a Mini Cooper, and there were a few times where I was the less-bombed one and ended up having to drive home. It was like a fucking clown car. I had to roll the windows down just so I had somewhere to put my knees. Okay, that might be a bit of an embellishment, but it's closer to the truth than you could imagine.

"Fucker", I mutter as I pull my bag behind me and walk towards the elevator. "Where's Bree?", I ask as I realize that she's not with him.

"She's downstairs", he croaks out, just before going into a coughing fit. "She wanted to catch some breakfast before we left."

I nod, wishing I'd have thought of doing the same. Instead, I sat on my bed and stared at the wall, imagining what the best way to kill Lidiya's new boyfriend would be. Beating him to death with my bare hands sounds like it would be the most gratifying, but feeding him his own dick wouldn't put as much stress on my knuckles, and I need those to do my job well. Decisions, decisions.

"I told her no carbs," he says with no reservations. "We don't need her plumping up on us."

As much as I'd like to tell him that I don't like the way he talks to or about her, it's not worth the argument. Honestly, I don't like the way he talks to anyone, but who am I to tell him what manners are? For the past ten years I've tried to help one person live a good life, and in the process, she turned into a rude, distant, frivolous drug addict. Well, I guess I can't really call her frivolous, since she does achieve the one goal she has, but that goal is to get high. Nothing else matters to her, not even her fucking boyfriend of ten years. Not even the guy who risked his life in dating her in the first place. It's not easy to date the only daughter of Yuri Kutsenko, the boss of the Russian Mob, and it's even harder to do so when you work for the Italians. It wasn't easy, and he and I never exactly got along, but I will say this about the man: he gives his daughter whatever she wants, and since she wanted me, he never did anything in the way of harming our relationship. In the end, he didn't have to.

"I'm sure she responded well to that," I reply, hoping that sarcasm will serve in lieu of lecture. After years of arguing with Lidiya, I don't want to argue with anyone anymore. In fact, I'm tired of thinking of the bitch, but I simply cannot stop. Everything reminds me of her, including this motherfucking hotel. The first thing I thought when I walked into my room was that Lidiya would love it. When I wake up in the morning, I expect her to be there, and when she isn't, it's like the wound just opened. If I could remember my dreams, I'm sure they would all be about her.

Forgive me for droning on, but if you've ever dealt with the pain of separation, then you've had the same exact thoughts. However, until you've been rejected by your love and replaced with a drug dealer, don't think your loss was anything like mine. I'm sure if I were to ask my female friends, they'd wonder why I wanted to be with someone like that in the first place. The answer to that is complicated in it's simplicity (yes, a conundrum): I just do. There are reasons why, and I can refute them all, but when I wake up in the morning, and when I go to sleep at night, I wish she were here with me. If she called me right now and begged me to come back, and told me she were sorry, I'd probably tell her to go fuck herself. I wouldn't want to tell her that, but I would. She is poison, and I can't stand to suffer her any longer, but the tragedy (or comedy, depending on your sense of humor) of it is that I want to. She may be a fool, but she is my fool, and I want to suffer her.

My pocket vibrates, and as I pull my phone from it, I expect it to be her. For that brief moment, my heart stops, my stomach tightens, and my adrenaline spikes. In that moment, I have hope that she's finally seen things my way.

All of that hope is quickly crushed as I look at the caller ID and see Tony's name.

"It's Tony," I warn Collin as I answer the call. He motions for me to keep his presence a secret, which I fully intend to do. Tony doesn't need to hear that the guy he sent to serve as my super is higher than giraffe pussy right now. I press the phone to my ear and address the Don of the Philadelphia Mafioso.

"Boss," I say nonchalantly. "What's up?"

"Ace", he hollers in the typical Italian volume of speaking, which, if you know any of them, is ten notches louder than your normal person. "You are one handsome son of a bitch, you know that?"

"You trying to fuck me?", I muse. The best way to deal with Tony is to attack his funny bone as soon as possible, or else suffer his notoriously constant funk. Tony Sigleone, despite being a millionaire, having a smoking hot wife, and anything money can buy, is a well known pessimist, and if I didn't know any better, I'd be inclined to suggest that he likes being pissed off.

"I saw you beat up that prick with the huge eyebrows! What was his name, I didn't catch it."

Even if he had caught it, he wouldn't remember. Tony is about as good with names as Michael J. Fox is with a coloring book. I've worked for him for six years, and he just started remembering my name two years ago. Of course, that remembering my name part started about the same time he found out how useful I can be.

"Dante Anglais", I answer, as a soldier would his commanding officer. I'm annoyed by the question, but I wouldn't dare alert Tony to that fact.

"What a fruit, huh?", he asks, rhetorically. "You whooped his ass!"

I really hate when people call me and don't get to the point. I'm not a fifteen year old girl, and I don't want to talk on the fucking phone. I don't know if he's expecting me to gossip with him, or if he's just lubing up my ass before he fucks it, but I'd bet on the latter. Seeing the writing on the wall, I'm not going to indulge him for any longer than I have to.

"I know you didn't call to tell me how well I did, Tony", I say, hoping it won't bring the rage of God down on my head. "What's up?"

"Don't get your panties in a bunch," he responds, clearly annoyed. "Shit, it's not like you wiped the floor with him."

I don't argue. No good would come of it.

"Guess I won't be giving you any more compliments. Nice manners, kid."

The fact that Tony calls me "kid" drives me insane, but it's nothing new. He doesn't do it because I'm the youngest guy that works for him (I'm not. In fact, we've got kids who's pubes haven't even sprouted yet on payroll.), but as a way of demeaning me and making sure I realize that I'm not his equal.

"Sorry, Tony." I'm not, but you get the idea.

"Put your sorry's in a sack and shove 'em up your ass. I've got a job for you."

At last, he's gotten to the point of his call.

"Okay," I answer, as if I could say anything else. A "fuck you" would be nice, but would also result in me getting my legs broken, my balls smashed, and being subsequently buried in an unmarked grave.

"You're still in the Midwest?"

"Yeah," I reply. "Unfortunately."

"There's a guy we've been after for about 12 years. The motherfucker used to work for us, but got hooked on heroin and ended up killing one of my lieutenants over a financial dispute and taking off."

"What's his name?", I ask as I pull a notepad and pen out of my bag. I knew this phone call would be coming, so I've kept them close by.

"Joey Carrelli, that fucking scumbag. He's done well to keep off the radar, but a federal friend of ours gave me a call earlier today and let me know that he's been making big moves in the Wisconsin drug trade. They don't know exactly where, so you'll have to find that out on your own."

"Wisconsin is a big state, Tony. Any guesses?"

"Probably up your fuckin' ass," he screams. "What'd I just say? They don't know where, so I don't know where. It's not up to me to find out, it's up to you, motherfucker!"

I almost laugh, but by some miracle am able to stifle it.

"Alright," is the best I can manage without losing my composure.

"Now, when you find him, you tell him we didn't forget about Paulie Bucco, and then you put one right between his fucking eyes."

"What?", I ask, still shocked to have heard the orders. I've tracked down quite a few people, and they've all died as a result, but I've never been the one to pull the trigger, and I've never wanted to be. I can live with being involved in a murder, especially when it comes to pieces of shit like Joey Carrelli, who killed someone because he needed a fix. I just can't kill him myself.

"Did I stutter?"

"No, it's just that-"

"It's just that you don't want to get your fucking hands dirty is just what it is. Those days are over, son. You want to run around the world and be a fucking superstar? You have to earn that right, and you've gotta get blood on your hands just like everyone else."

"Tony-"

"Unless the next words out of your mouth are going to be: Tony, I will do as I'm told, then you had better rethink whatever it is you're about to say, because if you don't do this I'm going to send someone after you. Under-fucking-stand?"

"Yes, Tony."

"Good. Call me when it's done."

 

 

There's got to be something I can do. I can't go out like this, at least not without a fight.

Alright, Ace. Let's assess the situation.

The back of my head is throbbing. I didn't see who hit me, or what he hit me with, but I'm hoping that I have the chance to pay him back. In the scuffle, I dropped my gun, so I know they have at least one. I have nothing. No gun, no pipe, no nothing. I'd take a fucking slingshot right now if one were offered to me.

There's two of them, that much I know, because I can hear them talking. They've turned the stereo up to full blast, thinking it'd mask their voices, but in doing that, those retards are forced to yell at eachother, so I'm able to hear them just fine.

Joey Carrelli is a small piece of shit. I saw that with my own two eyes. The guy who hit me in the back of the head must've been big, and from the sound of his voice, he's either a black guy or Channing Tatum.

They're obviously stupid, as evidenced by their stereo trick, and right now they're having to come up with a plan on the fly, a task that people like them usually find themselves inept at.

My best chance would be to spring out of this trunk and attack one of them, but I have to attack the one with the gun, and in choosing which guy to go after, I'll be playing the ultimate game of heads or tails. I have a 50/50 chance of picking the right guy if I look at this in a positive light, which is all I have with me in this fucked up situation, so I'm going to hold on to it.

My pocket vibrates-

-and I realize what a fucking moron I am for not realizing that I had my phone on me. I pull that motherfucker out of my pocket like it's burning a hole in it and answer it without even looking at the caller ID.

"Whoever this is, you need to shut up and listen to me: I have been kidnapped by two drug dealers, and I'm locked inside of their trunk right now. They're going to execute me, and I need help."

"Is this some kind of a joke?"

Of course it's her.

"Of course it's you."

I pull the phone away from my face and reach for the END button, but hesitate. This may be the last person I ever talk to, and if I'm going to die in a few minutes, there are few people I'd rather share it with.

"What's with the fucking attitude?", she asks me, as if I have absolutely no reason to be upset with her. Narcissists, man.

"Lidiya, just listen to me for a second," I plead.

"Fine," she mutters, as if I'm the one who called her and begged her to listen to me. The queen has deemed that I am worthy of an audience.

"First, I'd like to apologize for not trying to help you sooner. I saw the signs, and I knew you had a serious problem, but I was having too much fucking fun to care."

The car stops, and I hear the two men arguing over whether to shoot me in the trunk or outside. Fucking morons, if they shoot me in the trunk, there's going to be evidence all over this motherfucker.

"Ace-"

"No, shut up!"

She is silent, and she's either listening or she's hung up. Either way, I'm going to say it.

"I am never coming back, and I hope you and your drug dealer boyfriend overdose and fucking die!"

I hang up the phone and laugh. I didn't know what I was going to say when she called. In fact, I was terrified that I would do the opposite of what I just did. She'd call me and apologize, then she'd probably tell me she was pregnant, and even though I'd know she was lying, I'd let her drag me back into her world.

I hear their car doors open and close, but they haven't popped the trunk yet. Idiots. If they'd have been smart, they would've just set the car on fire with me inside of it. The fire would've destroyed the evidence, and I'd be dead. If they were of average intelligence, they'd have gotten out of the car and popped the trunk, waited for me to jump out, and shot me. Instead, they're going to walk right up to the fucking trunk, open it, and be well within range of me when I leap out of this thing like a spider monkey and beat the fuck out of whoever I get my hands on.

Two people are about to die, and I might be one of them. Whoever I get my hands on is about to have my thumbs inside of his eye sockets.

I'm just hoping he has the gun.

 

 

"You're sure he didn't have any message for me?", Collin asks, sitting in the back seat of the car, the look in his eyes that of serious paranoia.

"How many fucking times do I have to say it, dude?"

Collin nods, then lays down and closes his eyes. Enjoy your nap, asshole. As I said earlier, he's high as fuck, and the phone call from Tony has really seemed to rattle him. I don't know how much Collin left out about his punishment, but he doesn't seem too happy about the phone call. Maybe he thinks his death order just came down. I'm sure the fact that I didn't (couldn't) tell him anything about the call isn't helping matters any, but since he's making me drive, I'm gonna let the motherfucker stew in it. We have a few hours until we hit Chicago, and from there I'm going to head to Milwaukee alone, which is where I'm going to start my search for this asshole. Wisconsin is filled with scumbags, and most of them reside in that shithole of a city. If there's a lead to find, it'll be there.

"Something on your mind?"

Bree interrupts my train of thought, and I glance over.

"Just thinking about next week's match with Palmer."

This is an outright lie. In fact, RJ Palmer is the furthest thing from my mind right now, which I realize isn't a good thing considering I've only got a few days left to prepare for him. But, how the fuck am I supposed to think about a wrestling match when I have to plan out a murder? Fuck, that sounds terrible, but that's exactly what I've been ordered to do. Premeditated murder. Murder in the first degree. If you're the God-fearing type, this is the type of shit that automatically punches your one-way ticket to hell, and while I may not fear God, there's something about it that feels so very wrong.

"I don't think you'll have too much trouble with it," she says, and I freeze up, believing for a moment that she's just read my mind.

"With what?"

She looks at me as if I were retarded.

"Uh, the match. I think you'll do just fine against Palmer."

"Thanks," I mutter, not really wanting to talk right now. Bree doesn't seem to catch on.

"So, tell me about yourself," she says through a smile, her body turned completely towards me in her seat. She's wearing a white mesh tank top with a purple bra underneath that is hiking her implants up so high she could use them for neck support if she chose to. As I scan downward (very quickly, and very discreetly), I finda pair of purple booty shorts. Her legs are smooth, tan, and taunting me like cookies taunt fat kids.

"There's not a whole lot to tell," I say, trying to focus on the road. I've been trying to fuck this girl for two weeks now, but have been too much of a bitch to even flirt. It's not that I think she'll turn me down. Hell, she's practically pointing her pussy at my face right now, but for some reason I just can't pull the trigger. The last month has been nothing but one night stands with random bar and club sluts, some of them hot, some of them beastly, but not one of them intimidating. For some reason, Bree just seems unapproachable to me. Maybe she's a dike.

I glance over and spot the look in her eyes and I realize that everything I do makes this girl wet. She's definitely not a dike, but there's something foreboding about her. For the life of me, I can't figure out what it is.

"Why are you so shy?", she asks, playfully slapping me on the leg. Her hand brushes against my dick, and blood immediately rushes to it. I have on mesh basketball shorts, and a boner would stick out like a KKK member at the Million Man March, so I do my best to think of baseball. Okay, that's not working. I need to think of something that will kill any boner, regardless of it's size and stiffness. Juggallos! I think of poor, white trash, retarded kids who put face paint on and throw feces at other people, and it works! "You can talk to me, ya know!"

I nod, unsure of what to say or do. What am I supposed to say to her, really? Should I bare my soul to her? Tell her about my fucked up life? My fucked up ex girlfriend? The fact that I'm drinking a liter of Jack Daniel's every night in an attempt to stop thinking about her? Everything I have to say will come across as some half assed attempt to gain her sympathy, and I'm not that guy. Maybe I should tell her about the cougar I boned last week. At least that story is funny.

 

 

"You are so fuckin-so fuckin hot," I somehow manage to get out as I shut the door behind me. "I'm gonna fuck your brains out, lady."

I throw my room key like a fucking frisbee across the room, an act that will cost me twenty dollars to replace it when I can't find it tomorrow.

She grabs my face and kisses me, raping my mouth with her tongue. Seriously, that's the only way I can describe the way this chick kisses. She's the most aggressive chick I've ever fooled around with, and I'd be lying if I said it wasn't kind of exciting. She lets go of my face and grabs my collared shirt, ripping it open and causing the buttons to shoot all over the room. There goes a hundred dollar shirt, but I'm too drunk to care.

"I'm gonna take good care of you," she says as she kisses her way down to my belt.

Now, she certainly doesn't look 35, but they're working miracles in the plastic surgery field these days, plus this girl was obviously a model in a past life. She told me some lame story about marrying a rich guy, taking all of his money, and blah blah blah. The moral of the story is that she's been fucking a boring old man for the past ten years, and now that she's set free, she wants a taste of a handsome 25 year old.

Her name? I can't remember it for the life of me, and as she's sucking my balls right now, I don't really care to. She removes her mouth from my genitals, then stands up and pushes me on the bed. I haven't even had an opportunity to take her shirt off, but as she goes back downtown, well....I'm not going to look a gift horse (or in this case, whore, cue canned laughter) in the mouth. And oh man, can she work wonders with that mouth.

I lay back on the bed, trying to enjoy the blowjob, but I instead find myself nodding off. Holy shit am I drunk. If I stay here for much longer, I'm going to pass out and probably wake up with an aching butthole, and empty wallet, and a missing kidney, so I grab her and throw her on the bed.

"Ohhh, you like the rough stuff?" she asks with a smile on her face.

"Sure," I say, not realizing the demon I've just unleashed upon myself. I lift her up and take her shirt off, amazed by the gigantic titties on this girl's chest. As I take off her pants, I am equally disappointed by her lack of an ass, but as long as she has a vagina, I'm not going to kick her out. I check to make sure as I remove her lace thong, then climb my way back up to her tits.

"Uh, are you serious?" she asks, and I look up at her, confused and drunk.

"About what?"

"I did you", she says. "Now you do me."

She grabs my head and pushes it down towards her monkey, but I have absolutely no intentions of going down on her, and I push her hands off of me.

"No fucking way am I doing that," I say. "It's dark and I just met you. It's got to be serious if I'm going to put my tongue anywhere near a thing that bleeds and gets infected as easily as a vagina does."

"What the fuck is wrong with you?"

"Dude, you could have a yeast infection. I'm not going down on anyone with a yeast infection."

"But you'll fuck me?"

"Look, I'm drunk and horny and we're both naked. At this point I'd probably fuck you if you had AIDS. I just won't go down on you."

She stares at me for a moment, then shrugs and hands me a condom. I manage to get it on after a few minutes of struggling with it, then I go to town on her, which in my head I think of as awesome, but if you were to observe it, I probably look like a dolphin trying to find water. I pound away at this woman for twenty minutes before she gets bored and decides to try some pounding of her own. She rolls me over, gets on top of me, and out of nowhere, the bitch slaps me. Hard.

I want to make sure you understand how hard this chick slapped me: she smacked me in the face so hard you'd have thought she just caught me fisting her mother. It wasn't playful, it was meant to cause serious damage. She slapped me as hard as she possibly could.

I'm shocked, but I'm not going to let it ruin my chances of getting off, so I let it go. Then she does it again. And again. And a-fucking-gain.

"What the fuck, yo?" I ask, blocking an oncoming blow.

"I thought you liked it rough?", she asks with a smile.

"Yeah, I said rough was fine. I didn't say you could treat me like a POW, you psycho."

"Awww, why are you being so sensitive?", she mocks. "The big, bad wrestler can't take a few slaps from a 120 pound girl?"

WHACK! She slaps me in the face before I have a chance to respond and then starts riding me again.

"Fuck it," I say to myself, then I slap her back. Before I know it, her and I are slapping the shit out of eachother. After a few minutes, she grabs me and pulls me on top of her.

"Fuck me like an oil pump!", she screams. I laugh, but oblige her anyway. She grabs my throat and begins to choke me, but before I have a chance to grab her hand, her other one is making it's way towards my butthole. I jump off of her as if she were on fire.

"What the fuck?!"

"What? I was almost finished!"

"I don't give a fuck, you weirdo! You just tried to finger my ass and choke me!"

"Most guys like that!"

"Yeah, gay ones! Get the fuck outta here!"

I grab her shit and throw it at her.

"Are you fucking serious?" she asks.

She clearly doesn't think I am, so I grab her arm, escort her to the door, and throw her naked ass out into the hallway along with the rest of her shit.

"That is fucking hilarious," Bree yells, laughing her ass off and slapping her leg. "You don't know what happened to her after that?"

I shake my head.

"No," I respond. "And I don't care."

"I would've finished if I were you, then kicked her out."

I raise an eyebrow, liking the way this girl thinks.

"I tried, but I had a serious case of whiskey dick. Couple that with the weird shit she was trying to do to me, and I just couldn't."

"Did you at least jerk off?"

Her interest in my weiner is encouraging. I definitely have a shot at this woman.

"Why?"

"Well, I am your go-to-girl, right?"

I nod.

"I'm the girl that's supposed to take care of you. I'm supposed to make sure your mind's in the right place. You're not going to focus on RJ Palmer if the only thing on your mind is getting your dick wet, right?"

"I guess," I say, mostly to shut her up. I got it, you want my dick in your butt. Right now, my thoughts need to be focused on the crime I'm going to be forced to commit, but she doesn't know that, and she never will.

"If you ever need anything-", she says, then smiles as she gives me the most amazing, direct, and piercing "fuck me" eyes I've ever seen, "-and I mean anything, you come see me."

And suddenly I find myself unable to think about anything but this girl's foo-foo. I'm unsure how to handle such a direct proposition. There are a few ways I could go about it, I guess. "Well, I could use a little tension relief right now." No, that sounds like something you'd say to a hooker. "Anything, eh? How about some roadhead?" The thought alone makes me laugh.

"What's so funny?", she asks me angrily, and I realize that she thinks I'm laughing at her.

"Nothing, I'm not laughing at you-" Just at the way I could respond to you. I'm sure somewhere down the road, probably sooner rather than later, I'm going to take her up on her offer. "-but I'll keep your proposal in mind."

 

 

I'm listening for the sound of a hammer being pulled back (the clicking you hear in movies with guns is usually a soundbite of the hammer being pulled back. The hammer is on the back of the gun, and since I know they have a Beretta 9mm, because I had it, I know that they're probably going to lock the hammer all the way back because it makes the trigger easier to squeeze), for a round being racked, or any type of sound that would point out the position of the holder of the gun, but I'm not hearing shit. I can barely hear them talking.

"Okay, on three," the one on the left says, and I realize that I might only have three seconds left to live.

"One," he says. He's standing right in front of the trunk, and I hear him insert the key. No way does this guy have the gun.

"Two," he continues. So now I've figured out that it's not the white guy with the gun, but I have no idea where the black guy is standing. Say something, you piece of shit. Cough, sneeze, fart, do something. Make some type of noise.

"Three!", he yells. The trunk flies open, and I explode out of it. I thrust my palm into Joey Carrelli's nose and crush it. He reels backwards and into the black guy, who upon a quick inspection is a very strung out, almost emaciated black man. He pulls the trigger on the nine millimeter, but nothing happens. He continues to pull it, and as I rush him and grab the gun, he looks at it as if it was his lover and just betrayed him.

"You forgot to turn the safety off you junkie piece of shit!", I scream in his face as I headbutt him and wrestle him to the ground. I keep my thumb on the safety since the barrel is pointed right at me, and pray to God that I can keep it from moving.

"You broke my fuckin' nose!", Joey wails somewhere behind me. I only have a second before he's on top of me and I'm dealing with the numbers game, so instead of going for the gun, I decide to knee Pookie in the balls until he either dies or lets go of the gun.

He screams in agony as I deliver knee after knee to his groin, but his hands are firmly wrapped around the Beretta, and despite my best efforts, all I'm able to do is keep the safety on.

Luckily, Joey crashes into the both of us like a fucking idiot, and I manage to yank the gun away from Pookie. However, I lose control of the gun as well, as it slips out of my hands and soars into it's unknown resting spot, somewhere in the darkness.

Joey tries to wrap his arms around my neck, but I quickly turn around and face him, then dig my thumbs into his eyes. He screams and grabs my hands, so I knee him in the balls, and when he doubles over, I follow up with a knee to his face.

Behind me, I hear Pookie scrambling to find the gun. I rush over and kick him in the face, then spot the gun in the grass, the moonlight shining directly on it, as if the moon itself were showing me it's location. I reach for the gun and grab it, then point it at Pookie, but cannot pull the trigger. This guy wants to kill me, and at the moment, is trying his best to, but I cannot take his life.

"Get on the fucking ground, bitch!"

I rush towards him and ram my boot into his back.

"Eat that grass you fucking bastard!"

Joey is behind me, and by the time I realize it, he's already reached around me and grabbed the gun. Pookie gets to his feet quickly, and pulls something out of his pocket. I realize that it's a switchblade when it catches a glint of the headlight.

"Gut this fucking cunt!", Joey screams.

My hands are still on the gun, with Joey's over top of mine. I muster the last of my adrenaline, and somehow get my finger wrapped around the trigger. I squeeze it as Pookie lunges for the my throat, and he's dead before he hits the ground.

Joey pulls me to the ground, and I'm on top of him, but he has his legs wrapped around me and I can't turn into him. He's trying to turn the barrel of the gun towards me, so I take the only option available to me, and bite his knuckles as hard as I can. I taste copper, then my teeth hit bone as he screams and lets go of the gun. I try to rip it away from him, but due to the blood and the oil (you should always clean your gun before you use it, and oil is one of the things you use) it's covered in, I lose my grip and it once again goes flying into the night.

Joey lets go of me and makes a mad dash for the gun. I trip him up, then jump on his back and sink in a rear naked choke. He claws at my face, so I roll him over and flatten him out. He makes one last attempt to reach for the gun, and even manages to get a finger on it before I decide that I'm done fighting for my life.

I rear back with his neck wrapped up in my arms, and I don't stop squeezing and pulling until I feel it break. He let's out a death rattle, and goes limp. I roll off of him and lay on the grass, looking up at the late night sky.

The moon is full, and the stars are bright. I catch my breath, then look over at Joey, who I vaguely remember seeing when I was younger. I have a picture in my mind of him talking to my father in a big house, but I quickly push it away. I bet he'd never thought it'd be little Ace Vincent who'd take him out. I never wanted to be the guy who took anyone out, but what the fuck else was I supposed to do? They put me in a life or death position, and when I have to weigh my life against theirs, the choice became easier than I ever imagined.

But killing out of necessity still doesn't make killing right. I just ended someone's life. I just killed someone's son. I just made sure that these two men will never speak, breath, or love again. Who's to say they wouldn't reform their ways? Who's to say they were really going to kill me? Obviously, they had the same reservations that I had, otherwise they'd have probably just torched the car with me inside of it. Maybe they were looking for a way out and didn't want to tarnish their souls with the murder of another human being.

I vomit in the grass. The smell of puke and blood fills my nostrils, and I quickly forget about the smell of the trunk.

When I'm done retching, I try to focus. They're dead, and nothing is going to change that. Now I need to figure out how to make sure that no one else ever finds out about it.

Pookie was the lighter of the two, so I grab him, pick him up, and throw him in the trunk. When I'm done with him, I'm covered in his blood, so I throw my clothes into the trunk with him. Joey isn't even close to the same size as me, but I'd rather be in clothes that don't fit than clothes that are covered in murder evidence. I throw on his shirt and pants, then pick him up and throw him in the trunk on top of Pookie. I take one last look at Joey Carrelli, then shut the trunk. I pull my phone out and dial Tony's number. He picks up on the first ring.

"Yeah?"

"It's done."

"Did he beg for his life?"

Tony is ecstatic. He doesn't give a fuck that I just killed two people, and he wouldn't give a fuck if it were him that pulled the trigger. For Tony, murder is just one of the things that we do in this business. It's work, and Tony enjoys his job, so he's never had to work a day in his life.

Right now I'm wishing he were here, so I could put a bullet in his fucking head and stuff him in the trunk with these two.

But he's not, and telling him what a piece of shit I think he is would just put me on his hit list, and then I'd have killed these two for nothing. Right now, all I have to do is kiss his ass a little bit, and I'll live. Shit, not only will I live, but I'm now in his favor.

"Yeah, he begged", I manage to get out. "He, uh-"

"Go on!"

"He said that he'd pay me three times the amount that you were paying me to do the job." Sounds like a line from a movie, so I know Tony will buy it.

"Fuckin' moron! I didn't pay you shit! Did you tell him that?"

"No, I just told him he couldn't afford me."

Tony laughs.

"Good", he says. "That piece of shit got what he deserved."

I remain silent. I can't think of anything to say that won't get me whacked.

Then Tony says the one thing that is guaranteed to send me over the edge, although he doesn't know it.

"Your father would be proud."

I freeze up. My hands begin to shake and my eyes begin to water. My heart pounds so loud that I fear Tony will be able to hear it on the other end of the line. I could kill him right now. In fact, if he were here, there's a very good chance that I would kill him.

I decide to keep my rage to myself, and simply hang up the phone. I figure he'll think that I had to go because of an emergency, but then I figure that I don't give a shit what he thinks. I keep the phone in my hands, as I'll need it in a few seconds, then get in the car. I don't know where the fuck I am, but luckily we live in an age where I can get on my phone and use a satellite to find out.

"A fucking mile outside Milwaukee?", I ask myself, astonished.

These idiots should've taken me much further then that. When I found Joey, he was outside of a shitty dive bar downtown, talking to someone on a payphone. I pulled my gun on him, and I had him dead to fucking rights. He was stuck inside of a phone booth with nowhere to go, and all I had to do was pull the trigger.

Then I felt a blow to the back of my head, and everything went gray. They followed up with a few kicks to my head until it all went black. The rest is history.

I start the car and drive towards Milwaukee. I could dump these idiots out here, but I don't feel like walking back to the city, then taking a cab to where I stashed the rental. I set my phone down on the dash and follow my GPS as it directs me towards the shitty neighborhood I was abducted in.

My hand finds the radio knob as I try not to think about these two rotting assholes in the back. My mind needs to be elsewhere, but I don't know where to hide.

Lidiya is a fucking dead end. The only thing that I can associate with her right now is a drug dealer's dick pounding her face.

Dad-

There's no fucking way I'm thinking about him. Tears are already trying to escape my eyes just at the thought of his memory.

The radio comes to life, and I hit seek a few times before hearing the familiar riff of "Kashmir" by Led Zeppelin. I listen to the song intently, allowing my thoughts to disappear. I nod in rhythm with Zeppelin, and cruise towards Milwaukee, the dead bodies, cheating girlfriends, and murderous fathers slowly leaving my mind.

 

 

I open the door to my hotel room, and shut it quietly behind me. Within seconds, I've removed Joey Carrelli's clothes and stuffed them into the hotel trash can.

I'm fucking beat, having suffered the four hour drive from Milwaukee to Chicago. Before I left, I parked Joey's car in an abandoned lot and set it on fire.

I jump in the shower, turn the water on, and watch as the blood and dirt flow off of my body, blending together to create a dark, maroon mess around the drain.

When I'm done, I dry off, brush my teeth, and head for bed, all without looking at myself in the mirror.

When I collapse onto my bed, I fall onto a body. I leap backwards and turn on the light, my fists raised as I'm ready to defend myself against whoever the fuck is there.

"Ace?", she asks. Bree sits up in bed, shielding her eyes from the desk lamp with her hands. "What are you doing?"

"What the fuck are you doing?", I yell. "This is my fucking room!"

She reels backwards, surprised by my tone and demeanor.

"Sorry," she whispers. "I thought we had a moment in the car earlier-"

And I'm an asshole. She throws the blanket off of her legs, and I see that she's wearing lingerie. I put the pieces together despite my exhaustion and realize that she probably paid a cleaning lady to get into my room so she could surprise me, and then fuck me.

"Bree-"

I put my hand gently on her shoulder and shut off the light.

"I didn't mean to yell at you. I've just had a crazy fucking night."

And that's when I think about what she said in the car about me needing anything. When she said it to me, all I could think of was sex. Now, with the things that have transpired, all I want to do is confess. I want to confess my sins, confess my secrets, and get it all off of my chest.

"I bet," she replies. "It's four in the morning."

"Can I trust you?", I ask her as the thoughts of my father finally fight their way to the surface. They're accompanied by the dead bodies of the two men I killed tonight.

"Yeah, of course," she says, sitting back down and putting a hand on my back. There's nothing a woman loves more than a vulnerable bad boy.

As I feel her hand rubbing my back, comforting me, and I look into her receptive eyes, my own begin to swell and brim with tears. His face quickly becomes the center of my thoughts, and Joey and Pookie aren't too far off in the background.

I collapse and bury my face into her lap.

And I tell her everything.