Saturday, October 3, 2009

killing harry...part cinqo

[continued from...the last post...duh!]

Drasco was the bastard in my back seat.
i wanted to blow his ass away there and then!

     i'd seen the bastard who was now sitting in the back seat of my little rental car, before.
     as a member of the kill trades, one might expect me to be honored having his smug ass in my back seat. however, there are members of my trade. and there are members.

     Drasco was the hollywood version of a hit man. except this mf was for real. nasty. arrogant. and a texas accent as phony as his moss lipow sunglasses. he had a pinky ring. how disgusting and gauche can you get!
     Drasco was not his name. but it's as close as i can get without giving away tooo much that would come back to haunt my sweet and lovely ass.
     "so darlin', you didn't hear? this is my job. a mistake's a mistake. i can forgive. just leave it to papa. i won't tell. you can collect. no one really checks these things."
     Dracso killed for pleasure, and got paid on top of it, like moi. but he enjoyed the sadism. the suffering. demolishing his vics in as ugly a fashion as this stupid pig could.
     that was totally not me.
mickey-cohen, gangster
Drasco was a throwback to the neanderthal days
of gangster creeps, mickey cohen and all that

     i savored my jobs as a fine meal. vics had their dignity. of course, they would have to relinquish it to my power. but when i took a man's life, i made him part of me. he was a meal to be enjoyed. suffering was minimal, if at all.
     each kill was a love affair.
     for Drasco, each kill was a chance to be hateful. i don't like that.

     "one problemo Drasco. aside from the fact i don't let others do my kills."
     "what's that sweetheart?"
     what a smug fucker! "well, asshole, this mark's gotta die natural, or by his own hand, according to my contract. if a gun's involved, he's gotta look like he did it. guns are not my choice for this. it's gotta go easy."
     that creep smiled like he just killed a puppy. which i'm sure was a prime activity of his disgusting childhood.
     "sweetheart, you are up the creeks with a coffee stir for a paddle. my directive is make this ugly. send a message."
     "surprise surprise you sick bitch. what job did you ever do where hateful motherfucking nastiness wasn't the directive?"
     he smiled, flashing his tobacco and coffee stained yellow teeth. man, for the money he charged, you woulda thunk he could visit the dentist for a whitening every six months. i've a running appointment every 180 days. style doesn't just happen.
     "hey. we all got our specialties. i bet yours is giving a nice blow job before takeoff. gives new meaning to the word whore. and i say that respectfully, darlin'"
vlad-the-impaler, count-dracula
ychhhh! Drasco was rumored to be related to
the real count dracula, vlad the impaler! he
certainly looked like him. ickkk!

     it was all i could do not to pull the trigger on my .44. i really would have hated to explain to the rental company why their subcompact came back with with motherfucker red blood all over their pretty mauve back seats.
     "look, Drasco, my piece of crap brother assassin. the only reason i don't blow your sorry hateful ass away is because, one, harry might be around and hear it. two, i'd lose my deposit on this rental. insurance doesn't cover asshole blood on the seats.
     "if you need to kill something ugly style, get your ugly face to vegas. lotsa folks owe lotsa money who can't
pay. the numbers boys adorrre your type. stay away from the serious stuff. harry dies nice. sweet. soft."
     Drasco seemed to be holding in some bad gas. i'll give him credit. he didn't pass it in my presence. finally, he talked.
     "doll, you are a pill. and y'all look great in plaid. howevuh, we're gonna have to work this out. you aint' gonna blow me away right here, right now. so you're gonna have to deal with this."
     aside from literally seeing this lizard's face on a most wanted flyer at a post office somewhere, i'd heard about Drasco over the years. he was some mixture of slavic and italian, rumored to have bloodlines back to the original count dracula.
     what was most untenable about this creep was, he actually dressed like a hitman. uggggggh!
     "look Drasco, get the holy 'F' out of my vehicle, or the world will be less one stinking hitman. and don't think i won't do it. i'm just a poor damsel, lost, finding a big ugly man with counterfeit moss lipow sunglasses in my car. on that point alone i'll get a medal!"
     "heh, heh. good eye toots. supposed to be $1000 shades. got 'em off some punk who got in the way of my last action. had to take him out too. pissed when i found out the specs were copies. y'all are impressing me doll."
motel-8, motel-eight, motel-six, motel-6, cheap-motel
he was staying at the local motel 8.  sooo de classe!

     what a piece of trash! "GET OUT!" i'm counting asshole! ten...nine..."
     "don't pee in your panties. i'm outta here. but we'll talk. you feel like being civil bout this, i'm at the motel 8, west side of town."
     "motel 8...class act slicko. get out now!"
     he did.
     "you weren't kiddin', were ya sweets. that's a nice piece. rounds must be a good eighty cents each. shame to waste one on me."
     "look slimo, don't take my guy out or else. why don't you go stomp a baby to death. or shoot a gramma. that's more your style."
     "don't knock it hon. beside, you ain't my idea of St. Theresa."
     "byeee Drasco."
     he started to walk away, then turned to say something as guys always do when you just want them to keep going.
     "your boy's blown to bits unless i hear from you by tonight. room sixteen. and i know you won't abuse that information."
woman-and-gun, killer-woman, murderess, hot-chick-with-gun, noir, noire, femme-fatale, smith-and-wesson
i would go back to my hotel, fondle my smith and wesson,
and dream of planting a hollow point in Drasco's sick brain

     i shoulda blown a hole in his back then and there. but he was right. even the barney fife's in this mayberry
might find something on me if they pried too much. and small town cops like to pry. i let him walk.
     "you win for now creepo," i shouted. he waved as he walked away. used car salesman bodyspeak for, i know you'll be back. the jerk really had no style whatsoever.
     i, on the other hand, had lots of it.
     my little miss pms act with Drasco wasn't totally from the heart. tho most of it was. there was a method to my bitchiness. as Drasco would find out.
     i wasn't about to let harry get iced by that piece of flotsam. no way.
     harry deserved better.
     harry deserved me.

[to be oh so continued, my luvs...]

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