1- Rockwell & Stone

1

  Rockwell & Stone

“So I am a Sagittarius now! How about that?”  Officer Bill Cyrus spit partially chewed pieces of food everywhere as he spoke to his partner, Kyle Reese.

Mike Dellen sat in the chair and the same card table as the two officers who would be his protectors, watching in horrified confusion as Cyrus spoke.  This emotion stemmed from the fact that Bill Cyrus was a short, fat, bald man looking like Dennis Franz from NYPD Blue, without the mustache. Mike couldn’t, for the life of him, figure out how he had gotten this fat when half of the food was going onto the table, floor and his own shirt.  In fact, if Mike was good with numbers, and he was an accountant for a high priced bookie, he would have to say that only 5% of the food actually made it down Bill Cyrus’ throat.

“Get the fuck out of town?” Reese responded to Cyrus

“No seriously,” Cyrus began again, “I guess like a hundred years ago the Babylonians decided it wasn’t cool to have thirteen astrological signs, so they just dumped one, figure that?  So, all of a sudden, they figure this out just this month and bam, I’m a Sagittarius!  Ain’t that some shit?”

Mike was grinding his teeth and forcing his eyes closed but he could no longer suffer the stupidity at the table.  “Sweet Merciful God!”  Mike said, louder then he should have, cutting into the conversation.  “First of all, one hundred years ago there were no Babylonians, for God’s sake, there were cars!  Where did you learn history?  Second, and this is the important one, would you please swallow your fucking food before speaking, as is, I need a shower!”

Cyrus stared at him then turned to Kyle in the silence then back to Mike.  “Are you kidding me?” More food went everywhere.  “We are here to keep you alive, Dellen.  And did you forget that you pissed off the wrong bookie?  Huh?”

Mike sighed.  Now, he had been defeated.  Cyrus continued his diner assisted rant.  “So if you don’t mind, shut the fuck up, sit there and let us keep you alive!”

At this precise moment, the door exploded off its hinges and all three of them were killed in a hail of gunfire.

****

The Mercury Grand Marquis four-door boat pulled its tank-like weight to a stop outside the very small house on the plain suburban street of Cleveland Heights, Ohio.  Inside the car sat two men.

The first was firm and stout.  His head was shaved and he wore heavy-set glasses, a pair of faded old blue jeans and a plaid shirt, which he called his work clothes, covered the rest of him.  The sleeves were rolled up on the shirt, as it was a warm spring day.

The second man sitting in the passenger side was taller but less muscular and toned.  He wore blue jeans and a bright orange Hawaiian shirt.  Atop his head sat a black fedora.

Stone is the driver.

Rockwell is the idiot.

“Is that the place?”  Rockwell turned and pushed up the brim on his hat to lean over and look past Stone at the house.

Stone frowned at Rockwell who was basically in his lap, putting his hand on Rockwell’s face and shoving him back to his side, “Yes.”

Rockwell frowned at the shove.  Stone turned to look at him and shook his head, “You know we are here to kill someone right?”

Rockwell gave Stone a hurt face, “How many years have we been working together Stone?  You think I was planning on us baking cookies?”

“You realize we don’t want to get caught, right?  Or recognized?  Your shirt is made out of Neon.” Stone’s sarcastic tone was hard to tell from his normal one but Rockwell had lots of practice.

Rockwell smiled, “That is why I get all the recognition and you are just the side kick, baby.”

Stone shook his head and made a scoffing noise with his mouth.

“And anyway, no one wears flannel plaid shirts anymore.”  Rockwell continued, then switched his voice into a mock witness voice.  “Yes officers, the men who did it, I believe it was Rockwell and the last man who wears flannel.”

Rockwell laughed at his own joke and Stone frowned.  “You ready to do this moron?”

Rockwell made a face of shock.  “Hell yes!”

Rockwell then pulled out the biggest revolver ever seen by human eyes.  Stone did a double take. “What the fuck is that?”

Rockwell Suddenly became knowledgeable, “This, my friend, is a three-fifty-seven Colt Python.’’

“I know what it is.  Could you have found a bigger gun?”

Rockwell thought about that for a second.  “If I could have, I’d be holding it right now.”

Stone shrugged off his egocentric partner and checked his own weapons, two Glock 9mm he had chosen especially for the job today, accurate and easy to fire as well as to store.  They had ten rounds each, he would only need one if everything went to plan, the second would be drawn only if necessary.

“Ok, let’s go,” Stone said as he opened the car door.  Rockwell went with him, coming around the car to Stone’s side.  The giant hand cannon bouncing against his leg.  They then, side by side ,walked to the door and in one fluid motion, kicked it with such force the hinges ripped from the walls and sent the wooden barrier skidding away.

Rockwell and stone’s guns were already drawn with clear lines of sight to the targets.  Two cops and the Mark.  They had no chance.

Rockwell was screaming the entire time like some kind of rock star, his giant gun booming all six times.  Stone took aim, brought the gun up and fired ten well placed shots in the span of a second.  Blood spray peppered the walls behind the trio.  Mike’s body fell forward onto the card table.  The fat one toppled out of the chair to the floor in a bloody heap.  The other cop just leaned back in his chair and hung there, as if waiting for the punch line.

Then there was absolute silence.

Rockwell dumped his rounds and then reached for a speed loader of six.  As he rammed it home, he spoke, “You know, I cut a guy in half once with an MP-5.”

Stone shook his head, “No you didn’t.”

Rockwell’s face twisted in anger, “You know what? Fuck you!”

Stone frowned and looked over.  Rockwell continued, “Yeah mother fucker!  I said fuck you!  You’re always fucking nay saying.  You don’t like me so much, go get yourself another God damn partner…  And another thing, how the fuck do you know I didn’t cut a guy in half with a machine gun? What do you have, some kind of network of kill watch fairies that are just flying around, feeding you information on every fucking killing that’s ever happened?  Huh?  YOU SELF RIGHTEOUS MOTHER FUCKER!”

Rockwell stopped yelling and there was another moment of silence.  Sirens could be heard in the distance.

Stone responded, “I know because the MP-5 submachine gun does not have the ammo capacity or the fire power to cut someone in half.  No fairies.”

Rockwell shrugged not being able to argue with that.

“I’m hungry.” Stone said.

“You know, I think it was a shotgun, now that I think about it.” Rockwell corrected himself.

 Stone turned ro walk out shaking his head, “God, you’re full of shit.”