30(S3E4)- Shaky

30

(Season 3 Episode 4)

Shaky

The truck was called a ‘people mover’ by the Army soldiers who it would carry from destination to destination.  The generals and other officers in charge of the war in Afghanistan called them ‘personnel transports’.  No matter what you called them, they were not comfortable to be in.

The Army however, did not build things with comfort in mind.

They were big trucks.  The back end had a camouflage canopy over it and two benches on either side of the back.  It could hold twenty soldiers on the benches, ten per side, and another eleven on the floor in a pinch.

Charles Napier sat at the back end of the right side bench.  He bounced up and down as the truck rolled over the rocky terrain and watched the dust from behind them fade away into the darkness.

He looked across from him and saw a slightly shorter man, his helmet off as he rubbed his bald scalp. The man was pure muscle and broad shouldered, giving him the look of a bouncer at a local bar.

“I fucking hate these things,” Napier said to the man across from him.

The man looked up at him with a stoic face.

“I said, I fucking hate these things.” Napier yelled louder to the man across from him.

“I heard you the first time.” The man said in a gruff and quiet tone.

Napier scowled.  “Well then, why the fuck didn’t you answer me when I spoke?  What kind of mother fucker doesn’t speak when spoken to?”

The man’s eyes narrowed.  “This kind of mother fucker.”

Napier’s scowl turned to a grin.  “I think I am beginning to like you.”

The man shook his head.  “Should I care?”

“I’m Charlie Napier.”  Charlie said, ignoring his comment.

The man considered him, then answered.  “Scott.  Scott Jefferies.”

“So do you know what all this bullshit, secrecy is about?”  Napier asked.

Scott shook his head.  “Can’t say that I do.  Just said I had been reassigned and gave me the rendezvous point.”

Napier nodded.  “I got the same bullshit too.  Can’t say that I’m not happy for the new assignment, I hated my platoon.”

Scott cocked his head.  “Why?”

“They were fucking pussies.” Napier answered.

“Pussies?” Scott asked, about to regret it.

“We were on assignment and raiding this supposed terrorist hideout.  One of my supposed platoon members goes upstairs and somehow manages to get disarmed and taken as a human shield.”  Napier explained.

Scott waited as if expecting more.

Napier shrugged.  “I guess the terrorist hiding behind him over estimated my sense of team.  Fucking shot through the guy into the terrorists.  Next thing I know, those officer humping M.P.’S show up and I am on a bus to nowhere.”

Scott nodded.  “Sounds about the same.”

Charles looked inquisitive.  “So you did something wrong too?”

“I broke seven of my commanding officer’s teeth.” Scott replied.  “Honestly, I think everyone on this bus was arrested by the military police.”

The truck came to a halt.  Two soldiers came over and opened the back.  “Everybody out!”

The soldiers in the back poured out and the two in men directed the soldiers into what seemed to be an old building of some sort in the middle of absolutely nowhere.  The soldiers piled in and found a large room with a dirt floor and four rows of five uncomfortable looking metal chairs.

“Just once, I want to be ushered into a room of lazy boys.”  Napier said with a frown.

Scott grunted back at him in agreement.

“You are a quite mother fucker aren’t you?”  Napier said, turning toward him.

Scott frowned back.  “I don’t waste words on bullshit.”  He replied and walked over to take a seat.

Napier scoffed at him.  “You just did, asshole.”

They two took two seats in the front row next to each other as the rest of the twenty men sat down to wait.  Charles became visibly bored and upset.

“Are they trying to starve us to death?” He said, receiving a couple of snickers from the other men.

Finally someone entered.  He was six feet tall and skinny.  His body had almost no fat, but he was not overly muscular.  He had the build of a swimmer.  He entered with bright blue eyes and blonde hair.  He was smoking a cigarette and his hands were shaking violently.

“Do you know why you are here?” He asked the group.

Most shook their heads, Napier chuckled.

The shaky man’s eyes narrowed on Napier but he ignored the laugh.  “You are here because of two important factors.  The first is, you are all terrible soldiers.  You are selfish, reckless, and disobedient.  All of you have had a major policy or law violation during your service of the American government.  The second factor, and most important, is despite your personal and procedural faults, you are all exception murderers.  You are all part of the one percent of the human race that are natural born killers.”

The man continued to explain.  “Most who commit the offenses you people have committed get shipped to a tank for the rest of your natural born lives, but because you do what you do so well, you are going to get a second chance to serve your country.  There are a lot of things out here that need to be done that under the normal codes of conduct, the Army can’t do.  We, on the other hand, can.  From this point on, you are all K.I.A on file.  Your names will be changed to one word call signs and as far as the world exists, you won’t.  You will do and kill who we need killed without question, and in return, I will give you the freedom to do so in any way you see fit.”

The man sitting to Napier’s left, opposite Jefferies, raised his hand and asked.  “What if we refuse?”

The shaky man turned toward him and pulled his sidearm, placed to the man’s forward and put a single shot through his brain.  Blood and grey matter splashed onto the man sitting behind the victim as the man slumped and fell to the floor.

“I will explain this again, for those who weren’t listening, you no longer exist.  That means you are mine.  No one will miss you, no M.P.’s are going to storm in and take me away.  The only rule from now on is kill or be killed.  Any other questions?” He finished his tirade and everybody shook their head no.

Everybody except Napier.

“Yeah I got one,” Napier spoke up and everyone turned toward him, shocked.  “Do you shoot everyone who asks a question?”

Shaky walked over and put his side arm to Napier’s forehead.  Everyone in his vicinity scooted away from him.

“Why shouldn’t I?” Shaky asked, thumbing the hammer back on the gun.

Napier smiled.  “Because I belong here.”

Shaky smiled.  “I would have to say you do.”

The shaky man un-cocked the pistol and stepped back.  “You will all give your new names to Napalm and he will give you a room number.  This place used to be a hotel.  You will each have one bunk mate. Welcome to Rattlesnake.  My name is Shaky.  If you have questions, feel free to keep it to yourself.”

Each person got up and got in line and approached Napalm.  They would give him a one word name and he would give them a room number.  Scott was ahead of Charles and when he got there Napalm asked, “Name?”

Scott answered without hesitation.  “Stone.”

“Room 24.”  Napalm said.

Charles Napier stepped up, beaming at the idea of picking a new name before Napalm could even ask Napier said.  “Rockwell. My fucking name is Rockwell.”

“Room 24.”  Napalm said, frowning at him.

Rockwell walked past him and Stone turned, frowning having heard the assignment.  “Stay out of my way.”

Rockwell chuckled at Stone’s threat.  “Try again asshole, we are going to be best friends!”

Rockwell passed him and Stone shook his head.  “Not a chance.”

30(S3E3)- Macklin

 

29

(Season 3 Episode 3)

Macklin

“So what’s the story with this guy?” Joe Carlo said to Mikey Bocho as the two stood waiting by their Mercedes.

They were waiting at the airport to pick up a British man by the name of Macklin.  They had been waiting there for at least 30 minutes.  It usually paid to be early in the organized crime business and that was something they both knew and understood.

“He’s in deep with London,” Mikey, a short, fat, balding man, began to explain.  “He’s been in prison for the last decade or so.”

Joe was confused.  “So what the hell is he doing here?  Some kind of vacation?”

Mikey shook his head.  “Not even close, it’s some kind of revenge thing.  We are out here to help him kill a bunch of people.  Why do you think I told you to bring your gun?”

Joe chuckled.  “When ain’t it a good idea to bring our guns?”  His New York accent was heavy.

“Yeah, I suppose you got me on that one.”  Mikey grinned back, his New York accent bleeding through.

“So, what’s this guy avenging?”  Mikey continued to inquire.

Mikey shook his head again.  “No idea.  All I know is, we have to escort him for the next two weeks and keep him happy.  If he goes home happy, it will finalize a big deal with the London boys.”

Joe was a larger, broad-shouldered man.  He shrugged acceptingly and they continued to wait in silence.

Ten minutes later, Macklin separated himself and walked over to them.  Joe couldn’t help but look surprised at the supposed London bad ass.  Macklin only stood four-foot-nine.  He was thin as a rail and wore loose fitting clothes with a duster style jacket and pants that stopped three or four inches before his shoes.  The affect showed off his socks and made him look like he was preparing for a flood.

The British man had a buzz cut of brown hair and a rat face.  He walked with a slight forward hunch. He did not look like much with the exception of a word tattooed across his forehead, which Joe believed had to hurt like hell.

The word was “Wrath” in a normal straight-forward font.

“Oy,” Macklin said as he stopped in front of the two seasoned mobsters.  His teeth were broken and jagged, distorting his English accent.  “You the boys form New York?”

Joe and Mikey looked at each other, then Joe turned back to the little man with a grin.  “You have got to be kidding me.  You’re Macklin?”

Macklin cocked his head to the side and scowled.  “Why is this so hard to believe, sonny?”

Joe Looked down and fought down the laughter.  “Well, you… uh… I guess we thought you would be taller.”

Macklin considered his words then slowly pulled out a pack of cigarettes.  He pulled one out and lit it.  He took a deep drag, still thinking to himself.  He then gave Joe a hard look.  “Right, I Believe that respect has to be earned and I ain’t done nothin’ to gain that respect from you.”

Joe listened intently as Macklin took another long drag.  “Now normally, to earn that respect I would crush your bullocks then curb stomp your dumb Yank face.  Albeit stereotypical, I have found it is the quickest and most efficient way to earn respect.  I can’t do that however, cuase I need you two dumb wankers to help me.”

Joe’s hard brow twisted with anger.  “You got a lot of nerve, you fucking limey-”

Mikey grabbed his arm to stop him.  Macklin just smiled and drew another long breath of cancerous smoke into his lung and stared up at the big Italian.  “So, here’s what I’m going to do.  You found Thomas Marren?”

Mikey fielded the question, still trying to keep Joe calm.  “Yeah we got the address.”

Macklin smiled at him showing his shark teeth.  “Good, let’s go there and earn me some respect, eh?”

Mikey raised an eyebrow.  “Right now?  You just got off the plane.”

Macklin’s scowl returned.  “Why the fuck do you think I’m here?  To get a God damned hot dog?  To see a fucking Yankee game?  I have four people to kill in fourteen days.  So let’s get on with it, eh?”

Macklin then picked his duffle back up opened the backseat door to the Mercedes and tossed it in before getting in a shutting the door.

“I don’t like him.”  Joe growled.

“And I do?” Mikey shot back.  “Let’s just get through this.”

They both got into the car, Mikey behind the wheel and Joe in the passenger side.  They headed up town.  The drive was long and Joe couldn’t help but prod the smaller Englishman.  Macklin just smiled to himself and kept quiet.  At a quarter to five they pulled up to the suburban two story colonial belonging to the family of Thomas Marren.

“There it is,” said Mikey.  “Thomas’s house.”

Macklin nodded.  “Alright, be back in a tick.”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” Mikey cut in.  “We have to wait and plan, we can’t just go in there and start killing people!”

Macklin pulled a half empty bottle of whiskey then placed a rag into the top of the bottle.  “Couldn’t agree more, that’s why you blokes are staying here.”

Mikey frowned.  “Are you nuts?  You ain’t even got a gun!”

Mackin smiled and opened his door.  “Don’t need one, mate.”

Macklin got out and ambled across the street, pulling his lighter out and flicking it open.  As he closed in on the house he could see the family eating dinner through the front window.  They were all happy and smiling.  Macklin had no guilt for what he was about to do.

Thomas Marren did not get a happy dinner.  Marren had taken all that from Macklin.

Macklin couldn’t help but think of Carrie.

He struck the igniter on the zippo and the flame washed out and over the rag.  Macklin then took one step and hurled the bottle through the window.  The wife screamed as the glass broke and the bottle hit the dinner table, dead center.  The bottle shattered and the rag acted as the fuse catching to the alcohol and exploding over the table.

The wife got the worst as the fire washed over her.  She screamed.  Marren’s teenage son, who looked way too much like Justin Beiber, stumbled backward and then stared in shock.  Marren at least had his wits about him, tearing down a curtain and tackling his screaming burning wife.

While this was going on, Macklin very calmly walked to the house, stepped through the house’s broken window and strode to the table.  The Marren’s had been eating steak with potatoes and broccoli.  Steak knives were everywhere on the table.

Macklin grasped a fork.

Marren had just finished putting out his wife.  She was whimpering.  The room itself was starting to fill with smoke as the Molotov cocktail had caught a chair and part of the table on fire.  Marren turned, completely confused as he felt a dark presence behind him.

When he turned, Macklin drove the fork into Marren’s throat.  The blunt weapon had struck Marren’s carotid artery and collapsed his wind pipe.  Blood oozed out around the serving utensils.  Marren gagged and started to fall when Macklin grabbed his collar.

“Do you see my head?!” Macklin screamed at Marren.  “Her name was Carrie, you fuckin’ bastard!  I am the black fucking death for all you bastards!”

Marren faded out and Macklin seemed to curb his emotions.  He dropped Marren to the floor and straightened himself as the fire started to engulf the room.  He pulled out his smokes and lit up then turned to see the boy standing there, mouth open, in complete shock.

Macklin took a long drag on his smoke as if considering the boy then he spoke, “We all get what we deserve, sonny, even me.”

Macklin then stepped back out the window and calmly walked across the lawn.  Neighbors had come out and were staring.  Someone must have called 911 because sirens could be heard in the distance.

Macklin opened the door and slid into the backseat.  Mikey didn’t wait for a signal, he peeled out and sped away from the house.

“Are you fucking nuts?!” Mikey screamed.  “Everyone in the fucking neighborhood saw you!”

“The other three are still in Cleveland, right?”  Macklin ignored his panic.

Mikey shook his head trying to calm himself.  Macklin didn’t wait for a response.  “Alright, take me to Cleveland then, sonny.”

The car was uncomfortably silent for a couple of minutes then he turned to Joe, who was silent in the front seat.  “I got your respect now, Yank?”

Joe shook his head.  “Mister, you officially scare the shit out of me.”

Macklin took a long drag on his smoke, then shrugged.  “Same thing, sonny, same thing.”

28(E3S2)- Messy & Ugly

28

(Season 3, Episode 2)

Messy & Ugly

3:00 pm Tuesday

Creegan’s alarm went off and he heard it deep inside his hurting head.

He slapped the top of it and there was silence.  He then slowly pulled himself out of his bed, and the now warm ice pack that he had placed on his head the night before slipped off and hit the floor with a ‘splat’ noise.

The clock read 3:00 PM.  He had thirty minutes until his shift at the Bent Elbow bar.  He lived in the building above the bar so time was not a concern.  He sighed as he sat on the edge of the bed, giving his throbbing head time to subside.

Slowly, he bent over and picked up the pack before rising uneasily to his feet.  He walked to the small apartment’s one window and slid open the curtains revealing the bright sun, slowly on its descending pattern in the west.

Jim Creegan winced and turned from the window, touching his hand to his eye slowly to check the damage.  A searing shot of pain rushed through his face at the gentlest of touches.

“Shit,” Creegan mumbled to himself as he stumbled to the bathroom.  He clicked on the light and examined the damage.  His right eye was nearly swollen shut and bright purple.

He immediately thought of his co-workers who would, yet again, grill him on the reoccurring damage to his face.  These were conversations that he would like nothing more than to avoid.

****

1:00 AM Tuesday

“You have to make it last more than five minutes.”  Harry yelled at Creegan over the sound of the crowd.

“Five minutes is an eternity, Harry.  You know how long these fights last.”  Creegan responded as he continued to tape his hands and wrists.

Harry was a small weasely man in a cheap suit.  He didn’t look like much, but he was one of the better underground fighter agents in the greater Ohio area.  He owed Creegan a favor and when Jim had come to collect it, Harry couldn’t have been happier that the favor was to promote him in the fights.

“Look, the betting continues after you step into the fight.  The longer it lasts, the more people bet, and the more we win.”  Harry countered.  “And the last four fights you have been in, you won in less than a minute.  Jimmy boy, you have been cutting down on our ends!”

Creegan gave the smarmy man a dirty look.  “Don’t call me that.”

They heard a wet thud and then the noise of a man falling to the concrete floor.  They were in a warehouse on the river downtown and the acoustics were amazing.  The crowd roared and Creegan new the fight before him was over.

He stood and took his shirt off.  He had gained a little in the stomach area but he still had the skills and knowledge to do what had to be done.  He and Harry started to walk toward the center of the ravenous crowd.

“Remember, Jimmy, five minutes.” Harry said again as the crowd cleared a path to the right center.

Standing in the middle of the people was a mountain of a man, muscles on top of muscles.  He stood two inches taller than Jim, which was difficult given that Creegen was 6’5’’ already.  The man had a hard chin and a big nose that looked like it had been broken thousands of time.  The giant scowled at Creegan and roared like a beast.

Harry and Creegan stared aghast for a second.

“Harry,” Creegan began, “I don’t think we have to worry about me winning too fast.”

***

3:15 Tuesday

 Creegan picked up his Bent Elbow ‘Staff’ t-shirt off the floor and slipped it over his head.  He then pulled on a pair of jeans and headed downstairs to face the news.

In all fairness, even he could not understand what he was doing.  It had been two years since he knocked out Maggie and left his past behind him, but yet there was something still in his gut that kept him fighting.

An unexplainable need.

He walked through the front door and Saturday Jones, a heavy-set, black woman gave him a hard look.  “Damn it.  White boy got his ass kicked again.”

Lisa was whipping a table and looked up, her face curling into shock and sympathy.  “Oh my God, Jim.  What happened?!”

Jim sighed and thought to himself. ‘Here we go.’

“It’s nothing, I fell down the stairs.”  Creegan answered, trying to end this quickly.

Saturday did a mock laugh.  “Shit, I had a sister that used that excuse when her husband beat the shit out of her.  How about it white boy?  You got a husband at home beating the shit out of you?”

Creegan scowled at her.  “Jesus, Saturday, does it always have to be about race?”

Saturday returned the scowl tenfold.  “I can’t be racist, I’m black.”

“Alright everyone, leave Jim alone.”  Paul had come from the back and decided to end things.  “But damn, Creegan, what happened to you?”

***

1:03 AM Tuesday

The blow nearly took Creegan’s head off.

It had been the brawler’s first big blow of the night, catching Creegan in the right eye and it was all he needed.  Jim was rocked, staggering backward and hitting the concrete.

The rules stated that if Creegan didn’t get back to his feet in a five count he was eliminated.  The first three seconds he was on another continent, then, he came out of the daze and pulled himself up.  This was rewarded by another ear shattering roar as the mountain charged him again.

Screw making the fight last five minutes, if Creegan didn’t do something now it was going to be over in five seconds.  Creegan brought himself back to reality and forced himself to focus on the task at hand as he ducked under another big right hook.

He was facing a tank.  You could not fight a tank head on.  The best you could do was to pull it apart.  Disassemble it.

The bruiser wound up and charged with another big right hand.  Creegan flew into motion, bringing his own hand around into a rare right hook.  He didn’t aim for the face, not yet.  That would be for later.  Instead, his blow struck the inside of the big man’s elbow as he hooked.  The man yelped at the sensation and the blow put him off balance.

Creegan stepped inside, at the same time spinning and bringing his left elbow into the giant’s collar bone.  The giant gasped for breath and staggered.  Creegan used the time to get back into defense and focus.

Most would press the advantage after laying a blow like that, but Creegan knew better.  He waited for another opening to counter.  Although the blow had surprised the big man, it was superfluous.  More insult than injury.  Creegan hoped it would enrage the man into another mistake.

Creegan got his wish.

The mass of muscle lurched forward, coming with a huge left, meant to put Jim down for good.  Jim was ready for the sloppy attack and ducked under it at the same time cocking his arm and rising with a perfectly placed uppercut to the arm pit of the extended hand.  The blow connected and a loud pop could be heard throughout the warehouse.

Jim had dislocated the man’s shoulder.

The man yowled in pain and staggered.  Now, Creegan pressed the advantage, stepping in and side kicking the man’s outer knee.  He was taken off guard and the knee buckled.  Creegan brought his right arm above his head.  With the opponent now below him, he brought the point of his elbow downward onto the bridge of the man’s nose.

The blow broke the man’s nose, again, and pulled the skin away from the bone.  Blood gushed out of the now open wound.

Creegan stepped in and drove his knee into the man’s face.

The Stallone wannabe rocked back on his knees and Creegan grabbed his head and pulled it forward while bringing up his other knee full force into the man’s face a second time.

This blow was the straw that broke the camel’s back.  The giant fell and did not get back up.

The crowd watched in silence as the ref counted to five and then they went ballistic. Creegan raised his fist weakly then turned to leave, the crowd parting for him.

Harry was grinning as he came out.  “Hell of a fight.  Never doubted you for a second!”

Creegan raised his good eyebrow.  “Really?  ‘Cuase I did.  I doubted the hell out of me.”

Harry chuckled and began to count out Creegan’s share.  “You know though, it still didn’t last five minutes.”

Creegan snatched his money and leered at Harry.

***

3:20 PM Tuesday

“It’s a long story, Paul. Do you think I could get an ice pack from the back?” Creegan replied as he stepped over to the bar.

Paul smiled softly, thinking better of the lecture he wanted to give his constantly troubled bouncer.  “Sure, Jim.”

The door behind Creegan opened and closed and he ignored it.  He heard Saturday say.  “We aren’t open for another 40 minutes, lady.”

Creegan then heard another voice speak but not loud enough to hear.  Saturday responded to the newcomer in a confused voice.  “You are queer for a vegan?  What the hell does that mean?!”

Jim eyes widened and he turned around.

Standing there in all her glory was the pierced, tattooed, red-headed, scarred, Patti O’Shaughnessy.

“I said, I’m here for Creegan you daft woman!”  Patti yelled back, furiously, in her inaudible Irish accent that no one could understand except for people who had spent a lot of time around her.

Very few who had, were still alive.

“Patti.”  He said and her eyes turned to him as she grinned.

He knew this was bad.  Anytime one of those mother fuckers walked into his life, things got ugly and messy.  He should have been pissed that she was here.

But for some reason, he found himself grinning.

 

 

 

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.

 

 

26(S2E13)-Play that song... One more time...

26

(Season 2 Episode 13)

Play That song… One More time…

In movies like Lethal Weapon and Die Hard there is no paperwork.

Sure, they make jokes about how they will eventually have to do it and threats would be made to ‘want to be’ police officers by telling them police work isn’t all it’s cracked up to be, that there’s a lot of paper work.

You never actually see any of it though.

You only ever see them foil international drug dealers or bring down German bank robbers with a stunning array of gun fights and explosions.  You never see any of the paperwork.

This irritated Detective Tim Grates.

Any time an officer discharged his weapon, got into a physical altercation, used a taser, wrote a ticket or any other cop-like duty, they had to fill out a report.

As a child Tim Grates loved those movies.  As an adult police officer, he found them exhausting.

Just one of those movies would require, literally, years of paperwork.

Tim groaned and rubbed his eyes, turning away from his computer for a second in order to remain sane.

He took a drink of his coffee.  It was paperwork day and Tim was only about halfway through.

Batman didn’t have to do paperwork.

Tim smiled.  He then opened a new window and went to his Facebook account.  He clicked on the Status Update area and typed in the words.

Batman didn’t have to do paperwork.

He smiled at his witty comment and pressed enter.

His phone rang, interrupting his procrastination.

He pulled it out of his pocket.  The display showed the number as unavailable and Tim frowned.  It was probably a bill collector.

Tim was about to put it back in his pocket when he got a feeling.  It was a feeling like this was an important call.  He wasn’t sure why, but he decided to answer it.

“Hello?” He asked not using his name because if it was a bill collector he could say they had a wrong number.

“Hello?” the male voice chimed back.

“Who is this?” Tim asked becoming confused.

“Who is this?” The voice asked back, becoming angry.

“Is this some kind of joke?” Tim asked becoming frustrated.

“I’m starting to think so!” The voice on the other end said angrily.

“Look, I’m busy, so if there is something I can do for you?” Tim asked, preparing to end the conversation.

“God Damn, I hate fucking cops!”  The voice screamed.  “This is Rockwell, the Rockwell, as in patient 1314, as in killed more people than disease.”

Tim’s eyes narrowed, it couldn’t be.  Why would he be calling Tim personally?  How had he gotten Tim’s number?

“I just shot a whole bunch of people down here at the Gund.” Rockwell stated, plainly.

“You mean the Quicken Loans Arena?”  Tim asked.

Rockwell became agitated.  “Are you fucking kidding me?!  I just killed a bunch of people and you want to split hairs on the arena’s name?!  Fucking cops!”

Rockwell hung up.

Tim had to take a second.  If it was a joke or a prank and he sent everyone out, he would lose his job.

Tim looked at the computer screen and endless paperwork that was waiting for him.

Worse things could happen.

**** 

Maggie ran through the halls of the arena at full speed.

That had gone wrong fast, this wasn’t supposed to be part of the plan.

Damn, that Creegan.

She just couldn’t get rid of him.  He was always showing up like a stray dog you couldn’t get rid of.  She should have known she couldn’t kill him.

Stubbornness like that was un-killable.

She got to the walkway between the garage and the arena and stopped for a second, seeing the bodies of Elmo’s guards.  One of them had managed to pull his .38 snub-nose and tried to shoot his attackers.

Obviously this action had been in vain.

She picked up the gun and slid it into the front of her pants.  Before stepping over the bodies and continuing to the garage, she reached into her pocket and grabbed her keys.  Fumbling with them, she walked fast breathing hard across the concrete floor, her shoes making an echo throughout the structure.

Coming to the door of her rental she found her keys.

“Hey, Maggie.”  Creegan’s voice was calm but laden with intent from behind her.

She bit her lip and swore in her own head.  She had to think or this was going to be the end of the road.  She quickly pulled the front of her shirt over the gun so he wouldn’t see it, then she turned.

“Jim…I…”  Maggie fumbled with the words.  She was usually good with words but had nothing to say to the man she had used up, shot and left for dead.

Jim Creegan stood three feet away with Clay’s blood splatter dripping off of him.  His eyes were dark and intense.  She couldn’t quite meet them with her own.

There was a finality in them that scared her.

“You what?” Creegan asked.  “You shot me.”

Maggie looked away then back at Creegan.  “Yeah I did.  Sorry.”

Creegan raised an eyebrow.  “Sorry?”

Maggie looked back toward him, softening her features, doing everything she could to look vulnerable.  She needed to get Creegan’s savior complex to kick in.  “I made a mistake.”

“You made a mistake?” Creegan looked confused.  “You shot me.”

Maggie smiled internally.  The second time he said the words she could hear the depression in his voice.  He was like a child needing to know why.  He was still in love with her.  She had him exactly where she wanted him.

She stepped forward.  “I had a plan, Jim.  I knew you wouldn’t approve so I made a decision, and it was the wrong one.”

She could see his eyes soften.  She could see their history rolling through his very male, very easily controlled brain.  She knew how this was going to play out already.  She would continue to play on their history.  She would play on Jim’s chivalry.  She would play on his savior complex.  She would get close.

This time she would shoot him in the fucking head.

“So what do you expect me to do, just let that all go?”  Creegan asked angrily.  “Just forget? How many times have you sold me out or left me to die or vanished when I needed you?”

Maggie nodded, mocking a scolded look.  “I know, Jim.  You have no reason to trust me, but it’s all over now.  Elmo is dead.  We have all the power and all the money…”

She stepped in with one hand wrapping around the back of his head to pull him in for a kiss, her other hand subtly going for her gun.  “We can be together.”

Maggie’s hand wrapped around the butt of the gun.  It was all over now…

****

Jim cocked his right hand and punched Maggie in the face with every bit of strength he had.  The blow hit her in the right eye and sent her to the concrete floor.  She was out cold.

Creegan stared down at her then squatted next to her and pulled the car keys out of her pocket.

“You don’t know me.”  Creegan said then he unlocked the car and got in.  Starting it up, he smiled and backed out, leaving Maggie sprawled out on the concrete, gun sticking out of her pants, and a little blood coming out of his lip.  Her eye had already begun to swell.

He laughed then pulled out of the parking garage and merged with traffic.

In the rearview mirror, he could see the cop cars and swat vans swarming the arena.

He wondered if he could get his job back.

The insanity behind him became smaller and smaller until it was gone.

****

The next morning…

She had woken up in the ambulance.

Handcuffed.

The cops had been all over the Arena and Maggie was picked up on suspicion, taken to the hospital to get checked out, then thrown into a holding cell.

Damn that fucking Creegan.

Now she sat in a holding cell.  Waiting.  Nursing her eye and fat lip from the one ton punch Jim and laid her out with.

Damn that fucking Creegan.

She heard the door at the end of the hall open and she sat up.

It was about time.

The guard walked down the hall and opened the cell door.  “You are free to go.”

Maggie stood up.  “’Bout damned time!”

The guard looked at her with sarcastic amusement.  “Well if your stay in the county lock up was unsatisfactory, feel free to not tell us about it and make sure to go fuck yourself.”

Maggie frowned at him then walked past him.  She was taken through the rigmarole of the release and then let into the main lobby.

She smiled when she saw him.  “What took you so long?”

Standing in front of her was Antonio Rodriguez.  He was smiling.  “I had to identify a body.”

“So, is it done?” She asked, walking over to him slowly smiling.

“Indeed my dear.” Antonio said and smiled back.  “You and I run the business.  Roberto is dead.”

The two kissed long and hard.

(Season Two ends here.)

Episode 25(S2E12)-Face to Face

25

(Season 2 Episode 12)

Face to Face

Then…

Her father was a big man, both metaphorically and physically.

In the physical sense he wasn’t actually that tall, but given the fact that Patty was only four at the time, he was tall to her.  He was built like a truck.  He was a professional boxer at the height of his success.  His arms and chest bulged and threatened to bust out of his shirt.

In the metaphorical sense he was big, as in great.  He was a single father.  Patty’s mother had died giving birth, but her father had never given up, having climbed the ranks in Europe while never losing track of Patty and what was best for her.

Now they stepped off the plane and on to American soil for the first time, her dad had gotten a break and an offer to fight in the big leagues, possibly for the word title one day.

“Are you scared, wee lass?” Her father said with the same broken English that Patty would come to speak for the rest of her life.

Patty nodded.

“Did you forget who you are standing next to?” He asked with a grin.

She smiled.  “I’m standing with my da.”

He nodded.  “And your da is the strongest man in the world, right?”

She nodded happily.

Like all parents, Patty’s father lied.

****

Now…

The first shots where Patty’s signal.

She didn’t take time to look around and see what chaos was happening around her. Patty’s eyes were on the prize as she burst into forward motion, her eyes locked on the man who stood in front of her.

Elmo Kincaid.

She hit him full force and wrapped her arms around him pushing him backward, shoving him back through the entrance hallway that he had been standing in front of.  The two crashed into a folding table that was next to the wall.

The two broke the flimsy wood and hit the floor in a heap.  Patty reached into her pocket and found her brass knuckles.  Before she could bring them out to drop the hammer on Elmo she felt his boot against her chest.  He thrust his foot forward and set Patty backward across the hallway and smashing through the door to the locker room.

Patty lost her footing as she went through the door.  Falling backward she tucked and rolled to her feet, her hands came out of her pockets with her signature brass knuckles.

Elmo stepped in after her.  His teeth were gritted and his fists were clenched.  “Alright girl, let’s do this.”

****

Then…

Patty watched as her dad’s trainer taped his hands.

He was minutes from stepping foot into the ring with a former champion.  This would be the biggest chance of Patty’s father’s career.

“Who’s the strongest?” The trainer would ask over and over, his words meant to psych up her boxer father.

Patty repeated the words in her own head with the trainer as she watched.  Her father, her hero, was preparing for battle.

It was at that point that her father’s sponsor, fight promoter and benefactor walked in.

Elmo Kincaid.

Patty smiled.  “Uncle Elmo!”

Patty ran to Elmo and hugged him.  He chuckled.  “Jesus girl, you have got to start speaking English.”

“Sorry sir, she takes after me.”  Patty’s father beamed with pride.

“No problem with that, it only means she’s going to be one tough woman.” Elmo replied, smiling.

“I haven’t won yet, sir.” Patty’s father said seriously.

“How many times do I have to tell you?” Elmo said with a grin.  “Stop calling me sir.  Now go win me that fight.

Patty’s father did not win the fight.

During round four, a punch to the temple gave him an aneurysm.

Patty’s father died that night.

****

Now…

Patty didn’t need to think about it.

She charged forward and threw a big right hand but Elmo was ready, blocking with his forearm before jabbing with his left to Patty’s chin.  The blow hit flush and stunned her. Kincaid snapped off another two quick right hands to her chin.

Patty staggered and Elmo stepped in with a big left cross.  Patty regained herself in time and she ducked the heavy haymaker and brutally uppercut him to the abs.  The blow made Elmo wheeze.

Elmo would have staggered if he had time.  Instead, Patty brought her other hand into Elmo’s other side driving her hand deep into the left side of his rib cage.

Elmo knew he was in trouble and he stepped in with a hard forearm to the side of Patty’s head.  The blow was hard and she flew over one of the benches and crashed to the floor.

****

Then…

She was twenty-two now.

She dropped the ring on the table.  It was a man’s ring, covered in diamond studs.  It was easily worth $1,200.00.

Elmo looked at it with confusion, then back to Patty.  “What the fuck is that, girl?”

Since Patty’s father’s death, Kincaid felt responsible and had taken her in.  Patty had always been grateful.

“It’s Ricky Bartly’s ring.  It’s a down payment on his debt.  He won’t be needing it since the finger it was on is broken now.”  Patty briefed Elmo.

Elmo picked it up then dropped it and leaned back, staring at her.  After years of living with her she had refused to drop the accent and he had gotten used to it.  He had done everything in his power to keep her out of the business.

“You want in.  I get that, but this business is ugly.” Elmo said sternly.

Patty raised her eyebrow.  “Maybe so, but I ain’t pretty.”

Elmo decided she wanted this, which was sad to him because in the end it meant she was going to get hurt.

****

Now…

Elmo stepped on and over the bench to advance on Patty.  She was attempting to scramble to her feet But Elmo was faster, catching her head and driving his knee into her nose.

It broke and blood began to flow as she stumbled and fell back to one knee.

“What did you think was going to happen?” Elmo asked her as she tried to shake it off.  “You wanted into this business and this business is about kill or be killed.”

Patty came to her feet with a rising uppercut.  The speed and suddenness of the attack took the gnarly gangster off guard and connected on the bottom of his chin.  His front teeth slammed together and one of them shattered.

Elmo was thrown off his feet and crashed backward through the bench, the wood snapping in half.

Patty staggered back to her knees, the blow having come from a place of desperation would give her time to recover.

Elmo rolled in pain, the blow more than stunned him.

****

Roberto gasped like a fish.  He was bleeding to death from the high caliber bullet wounds that had struck him in the chest, mere minutes ago.

How had it gone so wrong?  Someone had been waiting, and who was that woman?

He felt the lights dim and thought death was finally coming…

Antonio was standing over him, grinning.

“Brother…” Roberto managed to wheeze out the words, hope filling him.  “Brother.  Help me…”

Antonio bent down over him.  “No, I don’t think so.”

Roberto looked at him confused.  “Brother… what are you doing?”

“You know brother, you never had any fun.”  Antonio explained.  “You were always so determined to follow in our father’s footsteps, you were all business.  Do you know what the problem with being all business is?”

Roberto stared as he began to realize his brother was not there as a savior.

Antonio answered his rhetorical question.  “When you’re all business, no one likes you.”

Antonio shrugged.  “Me however, they love me.”

“You can’t do it alone…” Roberto said desperately.  “You don’t have the commitment…”

Antonio nodded.  “I couldn’t agree more, that’s why, while you were trying to get that mythical flash drive back, I was finding your replacement.  Goodbye brother.”

Antonio put his forty-five caliber handgun to Roberto’s forehead and pulled the trigger.

****

“You were my fucking da!” Patty screamed pulling herself to her feet and charging forward.  She cought Elmo’s pants and neck as he was standing and slammed the man face first into one of the wooden lockers, shattering the wood.

Patty pulled him backward out of the wooden mess, his eyes where unfocused.  Patty fully cocked her left arm then launched her brass knuckle covered hand foreword, breaking Elmo’s face.  The blow cut his cheek and sent Elmo crumpling to the floor.

Patty wiped the blood from her face and stepped in for another shot but Elmo’s hand went up in surrender.

It was over.

“I’m done girl.”  He coughed out through the blood.  “I’m tired and I’m old, and I’m done.”

Patty stood over him breathing hard from the vicious fight.  “Why?”

“I never wanted to.”  Elmo said pulling himself to his knees.  “You made yourself part of the business.  I wish you had never dropped that ring on my table.”

“Fuck you,” Patty said coldly.  “Ain’t that simple.  Fuck you for making it sound like it was.”

Elmo was shocked by her response but nodded.  “Maybe you’re right.”

Patty’s shoulders sagged.  She now saw Elmo for what he was, an old, over-the-hill ex-gangster who was trying to hold on the something he had lost long ago.  The fight left her.  She realized he couldn’t hurt her.

Two gun shots broke the touching moment.  Blood misted from the fresh holes in Elmo’s chest and he went down.

Patty spun around to see Antonio standing there smiling, holding the smoking gun.  “I am glad to see you two reconcile.  I never got the chance with my father.”

He turned the gun on Patty and fired.

Patty was suddenly tackled as the shots went off, the shots meant for her.

Elmo had found a way to use the last of his life to save Patty.  After she hit the floor she felt Elmo Kincaid fall on top of her.

She looked up into his eyes and he smiled through the blood and the broken teeth.  “I’ve never said this to anyone.  Patty… I’m Sorry.  I love you”

Elmo Kincaid went limp.

“God damn old man.” Antonio said as he stepped up to finish Patty.

“Boss!” A Cuban man ran into the room yelling.  “Boss the cops are her.  We have to go!”

Antonio nodded and ran out after him leaving Patty still breathing.

She didn’t move, however.  Instead she just wrapped her arms around the body and did something she hadn’t done since her father died.

She cried.

Elmo Kincaid.

The Muppet.

Uncle Elmo.

Was dead.