27(S3E1)-The jerk-off in the floral print

Episode 27

(Season 3, Episode 1)

The Jerk-off in the Floral Print

“I’m tellin’ you that shit is amazing.”  Roland said with more feeling, as he and Carlos sat in a car outside the strip club.

“You have got to be kiddin’ me.”  Carlos shook his head as he watched the strip club front doors that their target had entered three hours ago.

“Seriously ‘Los,” Roland continued.  “I didn’t think it was going to be good, but once I tried it I, got fucking hooked!”

Carlos shook his head and decided to change the subject.  “I still don’t understand why the Senator wants this guy.  What’s so special about this jerk-off in a floral print shirt and a fucking fedora?”

Carlos and Roland were part of Senator Jared Roman’s security detail.  Normally, the job of following and capturing men of questionable stature would not be on the list of duties for a couple of bodyguards, but they were part of a private service.

Full service.

When it came right down to it, these were more like mob enforcers than bodyguards. That is why the Senator paid the big bucks.  He wanted a private army.

“He knows something about some hit man who was hired to kill the Senator.”  Roland explained.  “They think he can help.”

“So they hire one lunatic to deal with another?  Seems pretty stupid to me,” Carlos replied, “and anyway, isn’t that our job?”

“Beats me.  They pay me, I do what they say.  You know?”  Roland responded, then continued, unwilling to let the previous conversation go.  “So, why the fuck won’t you try it?”

Carlos turned toward him.  “Why the fuck would I ever try haggis?”

Roland frowned.  “Aww, come on man, you don’t know till you try, right?”

Carlos shook his head.  “Mother fucker you are black!  What the fuck are you doing eating cut up sheep’s heart and oatmeal boiled in a fucking stomach?!”

Roland frowned.  “Really, you’re playing the race card?”

Carlos looked surprised.  “The race card?  Mother fucker how am I playing the race card?”

“Because, you are using the color of our skin to get out of trying something new.” Roland defended.

“You dumb nigger, the race card is when a black person uses their race to accuse a white person of racism.  We are both black.  I can’t use the fucking race card on you.” Carlos yelled at Roland.

Roland looked sullen.  “You’re avoiding the issue.  You should try the shit before you knock it.”

“No self-respecting nigger eats haggis.”  Carlos said, finally.

“I totally agree.  Haggis is not N-word food.”  The voice sounded from the backseat.

Carlos and Roland turned and saw the man they had been sent to follow and capture. Rockwell was wearing a cheap fedora and a floral print button up t-shirt.

There was a moment of absolute silence, and then both Roland and Carlos went for their guns.  They were both trained professionals, despite their conversation selections, and would be more than fast in any normal situation.

At the time, they had their guns in shoulder holsters under the suit jackets.  With the seat belts clicked in it was rather difficult to reach them.

Rockwell, on the other hand, had his .38 caliber revolver on his thigh.  This gave him plenty of time to casually pick up his gun and pull the trigger.  The shot hit the back of Roland’s head then passed through seven inches of brain matter, ripping its way out of the front of his forehead.

Carlos had his hand around the butt of his gun when he felt the barrel of Rockwell’s gun against the back of his head.  He stopped moving.

The corpse in the passenger seat that used to be called Roland lurched forward until his head met the dash.  Blood leaked from the hole in his head and onto the floor.  The bullet had passed through the windshield, making it spider web.  A spatter of blood and brain matter colored-in the disturbing work of art that the glass had become.

“Aww, poor Roland.”  Rockwell crooned, “but it goes to show, true n-words don’t eat haggis.”

Carlos slowly pulled his hand out of his coat and raised them up in surrender.  “N-word?”

“You know,” as Rockwell answered, he waved the gun around carelessly.  “I try not to say the word itself.  I believe it only contributes to a cultural stereotype and racial hatred.”

Carlos raised an eyebrow.  “What the fuck are you talking about?  You just shot Roland!”

Rockwell’s eyes narrowed.  “Don’t play the race card.”

Carlos shook his head.  “Does anyone know what the race card is?”

Stone was sitting next to Rockwell.  “It’s calling someone a racist even when they are not, in order to get away with something.”

Carlos didn’t hear Stone because Stone wasn’t really there.  He was in Rockwell’s head.

“Of course, you would agree with him.”  Rockwell said angrily, to the empty seat.  “You always were the sympathetic one.

Stone rolled his fictional eyes.  “This is about the school house again, isn’t it?  I’d like to remind that you didn’t exactly want to kill all those kids either.”

“Fuck you Casper!” Rockwell yelled at the phantom.  “Just because I didn’t want to, doesn’t mean that I wouldn’t have!”

 “Yeah right, tough guy,” Stone muttered.

Carlos, feeling that the random screaming match with the backseat had moved the conversation off topic decided to take it upon himself to center it.  “Look, I was sent to bring you back to my boss, that’s it.  I don’t get paid enough to deal with this lunacy.”

Rockwell’s attention returned to Carlos.  “Well, in that case, I’ll make this simple.  You tell me who your employer is and what he wanted me for and I’ll let you go on your way.”

Carlos wanted this over and had no real loyalty to the old white bastard.  “Senator Jared Roman.  He wants you because he has made some international hit list because of his purposed gun laws.  He thinks you can protect him from the guy they hired.”

Rockwell listened then when Carlos finished he pulled the trigger and put a bullet through Carlos’s head.  “Be on your way then.”

“That was unnecessary.”  The apparition of Stone had returned as Rockwell stepped out of the car and slid the revolver into the back of his pants.

“You are such a softy,” Rockwell said as he walked away.

****

Jared Roman was little over 50, but he looked like he was 90.  He was old and short and thin.  His hair was full white and coming out in husks.  He walked hunched over because of a back issue he had since he was 20.

Bolo, the walking mountain of midnight that was his head of security, secretly hated the old bastard.  Bolo was positive that his team had been hired because Roman still believed in slavery.  Not to mention, the stuff he was positive Roman had done to his daughter.

The sad fact was that Roman paid well.  Better than the rappers that Bolo had worked for in the beginning of his career.

“This is a bad idea,” Bolo said again, still trying to talk Roman out of bringing Rockwell into this.

“Do I pay you to think?” Roman snapped with a raised eyebrow.

Bolo frowned, his heavy brow furrowing.  “Yes, you do. About your protection. This is unsafe.”

“Well, you think all you want, but it is my call to bring him in and I pay your bills, so you will deal with it.” Roman said sternly.

Bolo momentarily entertained the idea of crushing the little man’s head.  “Your call, sir.”

The door to Roman’s office where the two had been talking was punted open.  The door slammed into the wall and Bolo instinctively went for his gun but stopped as he saw Rockwell standing there with his revolver trained on the big man.  “I think it’s actually my call, fuckers!”

Bolo frowned and took his hands out of his suit.  Roman stared, wide-eyed.  “Who the fuck are you?”

Rockwell was taken aback.  “Who the fuck am I?!  I’m the fucking man of the hour!”

“Rockwell?” Roman asked.

“The one and fucking only!” Rockwell answered, walking in and sitting down in the comfy guest chair.

“Where the fuck is Roland and Carlos?”  Bolo asked angrily.

“They retired.” Rockwell said then smiled. “From life.”

“That was awful.”  Stone appeared in the corner of the room.

“You murdering son of a bitch!” Bolo yelled but Rockwell ignored him.

Instead, Rockwell focused on his personal ghost.  “Oh, up yours.  You wouldn’t know good taste if it bit you on the ass.”

Bolo stopped, confused.  “Who the hell is he talking to?”

Roman’s narrow bird like eyes watched the lunatic, interested.  “He’s talking to his old partner, the man died two years ago and Rockwell now talks and sees him wherever he goes.”

Rockwell’s attention turned to the old man.  “You really have done your homework.  You got you hands on my mental health records.”

Roman nodded slowly.  “I trade in favors boy, something you might be interested in.”

“Well I’m not, sorry to burst your bubble.”  Rockwell said with a grin.  “I am however, interested as to why a U.S. senator would want a committed, psycho, hit man to protect him?  What could possibly scare you so much that you resort to coming to me?”

Roman watched him for another second then walked to his desk and pulled out a file slapping it down in Rockwell’s lap.

“Shaky.”  He said the one word with endless weight.

Rockwell became serious and looked down at the file.  “How do you know that name?”

“Because he is hunting me as of two days ago.  I have a source in the C.I.A that told me he entered the country today.” Jared said, matter-of-factly.

“No.”  Stone was now right in Rockwell’s face.  “You can’t do this.”

“Why not?” Rockwell asked his specter.

Jared looked confused.  “Are you talking to me or Stone?”

“Because you can’t win.  Not without me.”  Stone said with concern.

“I’ll do it.  Where can I go to sleep?”  Rockwell asked Roman.

Roman hesitated, trying to figure out who Rockwell was speaking to.  “Bolo, show him to the guest room.”

Bolo was shocked.  “Are you kidding?  He killed two of my men!”

“They signed on knowing the dangers.  Now don’t talk back to me, boy!” Jared snapped back.

Bolo again curbed his pride.  It was a lot of money.

Rockwell stood to find Stone in front of him.  “Seriously, you remember him Rockwell.  He’s on another level.”

Rockwell cocked his head to one side.  “You always did love to tell me ‘no’.  You don’t get to tell me ‘no’ anymore.”

Rockwell walked forward and Stone’s ghost relented… at least for now.