|
He put the souvenirs from the Cutty Sark on the dresser and took off his Italian shoes. Then he put the backpack on the queen-sized bed. It felt like Christmas. Like he was opening a Christmas present. He unzipped the backpack. Took out a box. He took his time, opened the box with patience. And there it was. Desert Eagle .50. Not a regular Eagle. This bird was dressed in titanium. He had owned one years ago, but not with this finish. Almost five pounds. Not many men could control an Eagle’s recoil. Its thunder so loud indoor ranges prohibited them. The Eagle was all about the big hunt. It was made for a real man. There was a tap on the hotel door. He put a pillow over the Eagle, left his bird within reach. Adjusted his pants. Looked through the peephole. It was the man from concierge. He was brining up a small FedEx box. The package had arrived. He took the package, gave a tip, closed the door. He opened the box as he walked across the room. Stacks of information and photographs. And a book. He pushed the book to the side. Stared at the photograph. He put his glasses on and took a better look. He muttered, “No way. No fucking way.” He took out his cell phone. The hotline. Sam answered, “Talk to me, Bucky.” “This is the Carmine son of a bitch?” That’s Carmine” “No Fucking way. I was on the plane with this guy.” “What plane?” “The plane I just took to London.” “You’re Kidding me.” “Same fucking guy.” “They say he did the job on the Reverend. Big mess. All over the news.” “Haven’t been watching the news. So, this hit…this about the rev thing he did?” “Let’s pretend I didn’t say as much as I already did.” “So he’s a psycho.” “Be careful. He’s a smart one. He’s sneaky and brutal. I’ll get you photos from this thing that just went down with the Rev. If you get on the computer, I can send you a link to YouTube, they have it out there too. A two-minute clip. This Carmine guy took out a Reverend and his nine guys watching his place, all by himself.” “What weapon?” “No gunshot wounds. No knife wounds.” “Military background?” “Nobody knows. For all I know he was raised by the Shaolin Monks” “What’s the James Patterson book for?” “Show him the book” “What, he in a book club or something?” Show him the book. Look at his eyes. It’ll mess him up.” “Well he go ballistic?” “Not in a public place. Do it and exit. That will fuck with his head. Get him off-balance.” “So this is a cleanup and it has to do with the Reverend job.” “Need anything else, call me.” They hung up. He studied the package. Studied Carmine. Saw Carmine’s cedentials. A few pictures from a bloody crime scene with the Rev were in the package. He was glad he didn’t have a weak stomach. This business had been profitable for Carmine. Very profitable Another knock at the hotel door. He looked out. Saw a short, old man in a nice suit. He opened the door. The old man said, “Mr. Bucky?” He nodded “You need me, no?” “Who are you?” “Friend of Sam. I brought you suits to try.” He was Russian Jewish man, his back mildly crooked, his suit impeccable. The old man entered pushing a tall rack filled with suits and shirts, each suit in its own suit bag, everything else new and in the box. On the rack was a bag filled with belts and ties. Another had shoes. Bucky found two suits to his liking. Four shirts. Two belts. Two pair of shoes. Bucky handed the old man his American Express card. The man sat at the small desk and closed out the transaction. Each suit coast 1,000 Euro. Two thousand US dollars. The belts were 200 Euro. The shoes were 600 Euro a pair. The old man charged him 100 Euro for two shirts, gave him two for free. He’d paid a fortune for his clothing. But he’d pay five times that much today. There was a woman he wanted to impress. A woman who looked like a queen. The Russian gathered the rest of his things. Handed Bucky a business card. “In case you need anything else while in London.” He nodded. “I do need one more thing.” “Tell me what you need, my friend.” “Underwear. Boxes or briefs.” “Sorry, no boxers or briefs. No socks. Only what I have on. You want to buy?” He shook his head. “Well, thanks anyway.” “With a good salesman, everything is for sale.” “Well, I don’t know how they do it where you come from, but where I’m from, men don’t wear other men’s underwear. Sorry, but I’m not one to wear another man’s underwear.” “Stores all over. Get to any high street.” “High street?” “Any main street. Any big street.” “Okay. I’ll find a high street.” “Cheers to you, my friend.” “Cheers.” The old man left, back bent, pushing his cart of wares toward the elevator. Picture of his next job in one hand, gun in the other, the man with the broken nose went back to the window, looked out at the sideshow. He loved the weight of the Eagle in his hand. He wouldn’t need the gun tonight. His hunt would begin tomorrow. - [ * * * ] - Bucky, we’re here. The main-event, the main attraction, fuck we’re the whole damn show and a little bit more. Us two? We are only people that matter, in a fairly irrelevant world. I know, this may be a surprise to you; but it’s a pleasure to share this moment with you. I mean, somebody had to be there against me, and I really don’t care that it’s you. You know, they say Carmine Vestieri is all out for himself. They say, he only cares, looks out, and fights for himself. It’s not always true. I am happy to be sharing this special moment with you, the NLCW champion. You see, going up against you, I sat back and thought about things. I thought about that very same championship you wear strapped around your waist.. I asked myself, what makes a champion? Is it his smarts? Is it his strength? Is it his talent? Question after question, I quizzed myself and really thought about it. Thought about how you held that title around your waist for so long, and so many times. And I came to a conclusion. All along, Bucky. You’ve never faced a guy like me. You’ve never stepped out of your little box, to face top notch competition like myself. I must admit. You’ve built up an incredible worldly status of yourself. Everyone, everywhere seemingly knows your name and knows what your about. Bucky Skyler, dare I say it you’re even a bigger star than myself. But now, I really want you to think about that. I really want you to raise your big head, and open your eyes and realize the box you’ve been placed in all along. Because with even your star status, even your glitz and glamour? Your standing across from me. And I have you and your recycled promo to thank You’ve tainted that championship and its time for a new champion, one that still believes in the NLCW. One that looks past the falling numbers and still see’s a glimmer of hope. You lost that hope. You lost the heart for the place that created you. You’re a icon here Bucky, and I was thrilled to be facing you. That was until you recycled that promo. What gives you the right to lead this company Bucky? What have you done to prove to the world that you’re a worthy champion? What can you say makes you better than me? Your ferocious words? Your babbling? Please, man, get over yourself. Come tonight, you will be the one way over my head. You’ll be way over my head when I watch you float over my head while you land for a vicious Last Shot. You’ll be the one that floats over my head as we meet eye to eye and I’ll see fear. I’ll see the fear you have when you speak. It’s that quiver you have in your voice that proves to me that you’ll never be on my level. Bring everything you have Sunday, champ. Once you look God in the eyes you’ll understand the hype. You’ll understand why I’m the buzz of NLCW. While it doesn’t matter to me it sure matters to you. So look in my eyes, kid. You’ll see green and gold. The envy you have for me and gold that I well pray from your waist. If you beat me, Bucky -- and that's a very, very big "if" -- you won't be showing pity, and you won't be rubbing it in my face, because if you beat me, you'll barely be able to stand yourself. And that's because no matter who the fuck stands across from me in that ring, when it comes to a chance to be called the NLCW Champion, it’s a opportunity I well do everything to accomplish. But all that is idle speculation. You're not beating me tonight. You're not leaving as the Champion, you're going to lose the belt, then take the injury time off. That is why you posted that injury report right Bucky? Your already laying down and you don’t even realize it. You're living in a dream world, Bucky It is comprised of a quality that, alas, far too many people in this business possess in very large quantities. And those who suffer from an overabundance of it can delude themselves into thinking they're better than they really are. They get so wrapped up in their own, self-professed magnificence that they don't even notice that people barely pay any notice to them. And these people, when they step into the ring with people who can see this quality and exploit it in others, these people are swiftly and decisively beaten by the people who don't have that quality. It is known as 'Suck,' Bucky., and you, I'm delighted to say, have probably the largest burden of it I've ever seen. And I've seen plenty of cases. Sadly, 'Suck' is not something that can be cured or removed via surgery. It's a life-long, terminal illness. Don't think of this as a loss, Bucky Think of it as... assisted suicide. I'll be doing you a favor. Hell, I'll be doing all of us a favor. Wake up, and smell the Suck. So go ahead bring the same ability you did two weeks ago. I’ll bring the same one I had two weeks ago. The outcome will be the same and then you can look up at the house lights with dismay wondering what happened to you. You’ll realize you just lost the NLCW Championship and there’s nothing you can do about it. So let evolution run its course and let the men take over the monkeys. Because if either of you try to stop me, I won’t just stop your career from flourishing… I’ll stop your life from flourishing. That’s not a threat, that’s not a warning, it’s a damn guarantee. I’m a problem, son. You don’t have the solution. -- That’s a Wrap! -- |