I had to write a short story of any topic I wished for a grade twelve creative writing class that I took while I was in the hospital with cancer. So, to mark my limited return to the fanfic forum only-- I have decided to post it here in effort to rally up some readers and criticism again, something I miss dearly. Without that criticism or the idea that people are anxiously awaiting new entries I am not as passionate about writing lately-- it's as if I lack the drive necessary to produce.
Oh well, have fun with this one. It's a story about a brother and sister, both russian immigrants with terribly poor lives in a fucked up sprawling metropolis called Babylon City. If you feel towards the middle it's starting to get a little rushed-- that's because it was: they gave me a limit of ten pages and I still couldn't get it any lower than sixteen.
HIT IMPASSE:
HOME IS WHERE THE HURT IS
ZAK HUNTER
ONE
FOR THE MONEY
BROADS AND BULLETS—THE LAW KNOWS BEST
BOOZE, DRUGS, VOMIT, AND CIGARETTES
ALL LOST IN A PLACE WHERE HOPE IS GONE
THE SIGN AT THE GATES READS ‘BABYLON’
SUNDAY, NOVEMBER 1ST, 2009, 4:19AM
What is true happiness? The question that has plagued mankind since the beginning of time; where does it come from and why is it so essential to our being? Why is it that sometimes a man will stop at nothing to get what will make him happy? Sure, there are answers—but all are nothing more than convoluted philosophical bullshit invented by some old fart that likes to think a little too much. So what is the truth, then? The truth was that there were no amount of tits, fast cars or good times in the world to make Mikhail think for a second that maybe this wouldn’t make him the happiest person ever.
His massive hairy-knuckled hands were gripped tightly around the head of the man who stunk of Givenchy cologne as if he were popping an enormous, festering pimple. Mikhail’s immense figure towered over the quivering suit who stammered incessantly, shivering like an Arab in Antarctica. A weak grin slipped over Mikhail’s face as the fulfillment of forcibly jamming his thumbs into his adversary’s eye sockets lingered on the horizon. The thought of picking gunk and god knows what out of his thumbnails afterwards excited him—it downright made him hard.
The large open windows of the penthouse office would’ve provided a breathtaking view of the Babylon city skyline if Mikhail had cared to look. His concentration was focused entirely on the skull between his mitts. The great amount of commotion on the floors below fell on deaf ears; he had that type of tunnel vision where everything goes silent and every single second takes a whole lifetime. Adrenaline pumped through his body with every titanic throbbing of his heart, which miraculously was still beating. If he were to attempt to count the amount of bullet holes and lacerations in his aching carcass, he’d have to take off his socks and then some. The only part of him that seemed to still be working efficiently was his mind, which leapt frantically from thought to thought like a rabbit being pursued by a wolf.
The last few days of his withering life had been especially hectic: arguments, discoveries, hopeless depression, business propositions, assassinations and all to amount to this. In his fervent race around the city he had not a time to clear his mind and it all hit him now. The brunt of his expenditures now stared him in the face, the reason he did everything stood here shaking before him in piss-soaked slacks. Now, what was there to make of his suffering?
THURSDAY, OCTOBER 29TH, 2009, 11:42PM
One might assume that there are certain moral obligations brought up when your life has degraded to watching your seventeen-year-old kid sister stand on stage and take her clothes off for the handfuls of horny, paying businessmen in the audience. Mikhail knew that maybe somewhere else, out of this shit hole city—in a picture-perfect world, he might not have to watch his sister naked every night just to make sure nobody tried to hurt her. He certainly couldn’t deny how much money it produced in such a short amount of time. If it was worth it for her, then it was definitely worth it for him. Anything good enough for Valentina Ulrich was good enough for her big brother.
Mikhail took an excessively large draw on the cigarette resting between two large knuckles of his left hand. The part of the filter where he held it was squished a little, a problem that was a result solely of how huge he was. At nearly seven feet tall and topping the scale at three hundred—he was a sight to behold. He’d had problems his whole life with being ostracized for the way he was, a regular Quasimodo with the ugly mug to go with it. His face was covered with scars and pockmarks of all shapes and sizes, so much so that if a blind person ever found him, he’d find some sort of secret message hidden within the flesh.
Mikhail watched his sister intently, glared at every fat suited bastard that dared take a step too close to her. When you work in the business, you have an odd relationship with the customer. You hate them because you know damn well they’re lousy scum with nothing better to do than drop a dime at the titty-bar, but you love them because they’re the same scum that pays your mortgage. This particular night, Mikhail noticed a pair that stood out significantly from the rest. They weren’t the usual bums that collected here from the streets of Babylon; they were edgy, pricey—even good-looking. They wore black suits and matching sunglasses and had more grease in their hair than an auto-mechanic. Mikhail rubbed his clean-shaven skull just thinking about the work put into those hairdos. The people that cared that much about the way they looked weren’t frequent customers here. Something was up.
The skinnier of the two men leaned over the stage, flapping his lips like a mule. Mikhail didn’t need any more than his sister’s reaction to know roughly what was said. He finished his whiskey in a large gulp and took a final pull from his cigarette before outing it on the counter. All the regulars and those that worked there knew exactly what was happening—Mikhail didn’t get up from drinking so abruptly for many reasons.
Mikhail’s heavy black boots plodded thunderously across the dirty hardwood floors, carrying his epic embodiment closer and closer to its targets. His thoughts proposed the subject of what was to come of these two. Mikhail had the habit of thinking unnecessarily, and it was a habit that had nearly driven him to insanity at times. His mind would race to find all of the possible outcomes, weigh the probability of each, until finally coming to a conclusion of the course of action. For once, though, Mikhail decided to just let things happen. He didn’t care to think about what the skinnier, rat-looking one would retort or what object of punishment his ape-like counterpart would pull out from underneath his jacket. Mikhail just wanted to go with the flow.
His heavy steps made no more audible noise once he stood directly behind the two men. Mikhail looked up at Valentina on stage, who returned his gaze with two quick nods. He smiled back at her, then reached out and clasped both of his huge, hairy hands on opposite shoulders of each man. Mikhail leaned in between the two of them, wrinkling his nose at the stink of their fancy pants cologne.
“Enjoying the show, gentlemen?”
The rat-faced one retorted immediately, “Not with you in my personal space, get outta’ here.”
Mikhail paused lengthily, ignoring anything he might’ve said, “You boys new around town?”
Rat-face’s eyes were still fixated on Valentina. “Jesus Christ, can’t you see I’m tryin’ to watch the show here?”
Mikhail waited again before responding. “Like the view from down here?”
“Now just what the hell is your—” the rat-faced one stopped mid-sentence upon turning around to see the massive man before him. Mikhail grabbed him and his simian friend by the backs of their necks and dragged them out of the back door, throwing them to the cold concrete below.
The man who strikingly resembled an inferiorly evolved species sprung up almost immediately, charging at Mikhail with a knife. Mikhail caught his wrist in one hand and palmed the back of his head with his other, directing his entire force (and face) into a more suitable target: a brick wall. He crumpled to the ground in a heap of blood and his own teeth, not moving more than the occasional twitch.
“What the hell is wrong with you, buddy?” the rat-faced one spoke up. Mikhail could almost smell the fear emanating from his shaking persona.
“My father beat me a lot as a child,” Mikhail smiled.
“Oh yeah? Well maybe he didn’t beat you enough.”
Mikhail chuckled to himself, “He would force himself onto my sister, the seventeen year old girl you saw on stage. When I was nineteen I killed my father and the two of us escaped his neglect and abuse.”
“Only seventeen? Jesus—”
“I knew my mother for thirteen years until she died giving birth to Valentina. She was happy and wonderful, and so was my father until she died.”
“And just what the hell does this have to do with anything?” The rat-faced one sneered.
“You asked what was wrong with me.” Mikhail reached into the inside of his jacket, finding a comforting piece of metal. He drew this from its resting place and pointed it towards his adversary. A dull gray semi-automatic Beretta pistol stared the rat-looking one in the face. “I answered.”
“No, please—don’t shoot, man. I got kids; I got a wife that hates my guts,” he pleaded.
Mikhail grinned pleasantly, “What about cigarettes?”
“Huh?”
“Do you got any smokes, it’s not that hard!” Mikhail roared.
The rat-faced man quivered noticeably, stuttering. “A w-w-whole pack.”
Mikhail outstretched his free hand and bent his fingers quickly towards his palm twice, as if to say gimme ‘em. The rat-faced one handed them over quickly, the slightly crumpled package of expensive cigarettes looked tiny in Mikhail’s massive hand. He took two smokes from the package and put the rest in his breast pocket. Mikhail placed the first smoke in the mouth of its former owner, reaching into yet another pocket to produce a black Zippo. He lit the cigarette with a flick of his fingers, keeping the flame lit and lighting the second one in his own mouth.
“What are you gonna’ do with me, sir?” Rat-face asked, making a desperate attempt to score points with politeness. It was funny how the human mind worked sometimes when it was under duress.
Mikhail sighed, “Well, your fat friend here hasn’t moved since he became acquainted with that wall, there. So, I’d be quick to assume that he’s probably dead by now.” He paused, “Now, you look like the reasonable type.”
“Oh yeah, sir, plenty reasonable.”
“Reasonable enough to report all these happenings to a loyal employer?”
The rat-faced man shifted in his shoes, “I don’t know what you’re talking about, sir.”
“Don’t lie to me. I hate liars.” Mikhail took a lengthy pull from his cigarette.
“I’m not lying, sir.”
Mikhail didn’t respond, he simply took another pull and thumbed the hammer back on his pistol.
“Sir, I’ve never told a lie in my entire life for Christ’s sakes.”
Mikhail shook his head in disgust, “Goodbye, then.” The resounding thunder produced from his gun was an explosion in the dead night air. The charge ignited, sending the bullet spiraling forth until it found a new home burrowed deep above the left eye of the rat-faced individual. He staggered the instant it hit him, back on his left foot, his shoulder rolled instinctively. He appeared frozen in that one position for an eternity, the smoke that he once enjoyed now hanging limp on his bottom lip. The cigarette fell first to the concrete below, and then his body followed.
Mikhail put his pistol back where it belonged and for a brief moment enjoyed the satisfaction of putting these two clowns to rest. Satisfaction was succinct, as soon this feeling passed and he was left with one of shallowness and desolation. There was a certain emptiness accompanied with deriving pleasure from the misfortune of others, schaudenfreuden came to Mikhail’s mind.
He took a large draw from his cigarette and pushed open the back door of the bar. Just another night in Babylon City, he thought, with many more to come.
TWO
FOR THE SHOW
ARGUMENTS AND CONFIDENCE ARE PRODUCTS OF THE MIND
WHEN IT ALL COMES DOWN TO IT, YOU’RE MERELY WASTING TIME
ONE DAY I AM CERTAIN THAT YOU WILL BE ALL MINE
MAYBE IN ANOTHER WORLD, MY BLOODY VALENTINE
FRIDAY, OCTOBER 30TH, 2009, 11:11PM
Mikhail pushed through the swinging saloon doors of The Shady Lady, his mind completely at ease. He was in that kind of mindset that normally accompanies heavy drug use, where everything seems to move just that much slower and all sound warbles into one incoherent mumble. His cognitive ecstasy was without explanation, it just seemed to be ever-present and drive deeper and deeper into his brain with each drawn-out step.
He made his way to his usual barstool and sat down comfortably; reminiscing of all the nights he had spent here in the past with the same affectionate quality of a soldier getting over the war. Pulling an unmanned ashtray towards him, he ordered a whiskey and pulled a crumpled pack of cigarettes from his jacket. Memories, he thought, sighing as he pulled one of the gold-filtered smokes from the package and lit it with his trusty Zippo. After a draw that even Humphrey Bogart would be proud of, his mental elation was wavered by the voice of his seventeen year old sister, Valentina.
“Mick, it’s about damn time you get here. I need you for something.”
Mikhail cursed under his breath, “What is it, Valya?”
“There’re some people over there that need throwing out. They’ve been bothering the girls all night.”
Mikhail took a sip of his drink, “Which ones?”
“Just two men, ‘bout thirties to forties, armed but not looking particularly dangerous,” her voice was unusually jumpy.
Mikhail noticed this easily, “What are they, Valya?”
She paused momentarily, looking at the ground when she responded, “They’re cops.”
“Forget it.”
Valya threw her hands down to her sides, “What do you mean forget it?”
Mikhail took another sip of his whiskey, “Forget it, Valya. You know I don’t mess with cops. If you mess with cops in Babylon, you’re just asking to get messed with back. The police force here is the most corrupt precinct that I’ve ever heard of; they’re like a gang of thugs more so than actual officers.”
“All the more reason to throw them out,” she snapped back at him.
“Use your head, kiddo. You want to end up dead or what? Just forget it.” His tone was uncompassionate and completely dead of any emotion whatsoever.
Tears of frustration were beginning to well up in the corners of her eyes. “Forget it? Forget you, Mick.” She stormed off, throwing open the front doors and stomping into the streets.
Mikhail shook his head, mumbling under his breath, “Goddamn kid.” He would’ve run after her, would’ve taken up chase, and seized her wrists to prevent her from going any further. He would’ve told her that everything was going to be alright and that there was no need to worry. Mikhail would’ve and could’ve done a lot of things, but this time he didn’t. Valentina needed to learn when she was acting immaturely and what repercussions she faced for her actions; she really needed to grow up.
The bar was relatively quiet for once, which came as a bit of a surprise to Mikhail who usually had the greatest tussles on Friday nights. The only thing this meant was that Mikhail drank a substantial amount more than he usually did; pounding back drink after drink like there was no end. The end result of this was him stumbling home in the early hours of the night, with vision blurred and mouth salivating. He wandered through the streets and back alleys of Babylon, nearly forgetting his way home on many occasions. Sometimes he would stop to have a cigarette and stare at something peculiar that attracted his interest—a sleeping homeless person sans left shoe, a decomposing dog complete with swarming flies and maggoty goodness, or a corpulent pigeon that strutted with an irregular gait. He found each of the interesting encounters slightly humorous, even fascinating in his current state.
The situations he had alighted upon brought great entertainment value, but this feeling of discovering simplistic satisfaction oscillated when he beheld her body. The crumpled corpse of his beloved sister lay naked on the cold concrete. His staggered steps faltered and he collapsed to his knees, where his ears were given temporary relief as her corpse uttered a weak moan. She wasn’t quite dead—yet. The remains of her breasts were no more than bloody stumps, oozing pus and blood from the infected leftovers. A thin line of crimson trickled absently from the lifeless corner of her mouth, agape as if it wanted to speak but could not. Could this merely be a sick hallucination, had he forgotten to take his medication?
Mikhail could barely focus on her image, one that would remain frozen into his mind like a taunting visage of his own mistakes. He should’ve gone after her like he had the many times before when they had fought. This grave affliction would’ve never befallen him if he had simply stopped her—why would he let her run off into the alleyways of Babylon at such an hour. He had always looked up to her courage and strength, but at the same time she was no more than an easy target late at night to the rapists and murderers of the city. Who in God’s name would do such a thing to an angel of the purest beauty and innocence?
His outward appearance was grim and emotionless, a complete contrast to the raging emotions that waged war within his mind. Mikhail grit his teeth and scooped her unresponsive body from the asphalt. He laid a single finger upon her brow and traced it to her quivering bottom lip.
“I am so sorry, Valya.” His words echoed sorrow in the darkness encompassing them, “My bloody valentine.”
THREE
TO GET READY
THE WHISPER OF A GUNSHOT BREAKS THE SILENCE OF THE NIGHT
A PROMISE TO ALLEVIATE, TO MAKE THE WRONG TURN RIGHT
SIRENS SPEAK TO THE DAMNED, TELL THE TIME HAS COME
TO PUT BOTH FEET IN MOTION, FOR NOW BEGINS THE RUN
SATURDAY, OCTOBER 31ST, 2009, 3:13AM
The old weathered door to his shack of an abode splintered into pieces when Mikhail Ulrich forcibly kicked it down. The second floor living establishment resided above an Italian bakery that fronted an illegal gambling racket in the back of the store. One of the rusted metal steps had snapped under their weight on the way up, causing Mikhail to drop his sister—scraping her arm against a second of the cheese-grater style stairs. He had cursed audibly, picking up her body and ascending up the remainder of the steps.
Upon entry into their second floor apartment, Mikhail quickly laid his sister down on the mattress in the living room. He rummaged through cabinets in a frenzy until he found some gauze and rubbing alcohol. His mind was in shambles, he couldn’t think clearly for the life of him. Mikhail splashed some of the alcohol onto the bloody stumps that were once Valentina’s breasts. Her body made no movement whatsoever, only a hoarse gasping sound as she inhaled slow and deep. He tended to her wounds with great care, summoning all of the will inside of him to assuage the raging drunk that incapacitated his brain. When Mikhail was finished, she didn’t look all that much better. The only visible improvement was her festering chest was now wrapped with gauze.
“Valya, please speak to me,” his voice boomed in the emptiness of their house. “Please, I must hear your voice.”
Valentina’s voice was everything but there, an absent reminder of his faults. She appeared to be stricken catatonic; for no matter what efforts he made to get something out of her she was utterly immovable. Her gaze was transfixed on a questionable stain on the ceiling, her body completely still and lifeless. Her breathing was extremely slow, but remarkably steady—the only slightly comforting exception to her current state of being. It was that unhurried, deliberate breath that showed Mikhail that she was very much still alive.
It was the last thing that he wanted to do, but if Mikhail wanted to keep her alive he would have to leave her to get more supplies. He needed more disinfectant and more gauze, along with something for her to drink as the only beverage in the fridge was booze and he would never dare let her drink the rusty brown tap water. He very gently kissed the index and middle finger of his right hand and pushed them against Valentina’s frosty lips.
“Goodbye, Valya.” Mikhail stood up and turned away from his sister with a great amount of regret in his decision, “I won’t be gone for long.” He didn’t know quite why he was trying to reassure her—he wasn’t even sure if she could hear a damn word he was saying. In fact, he was almost positive she couldn’t hear him. Mikhail continued out of the missing door and down the rusted steps, avoiding the one that had broken prior. He figured it probably wasn’t the best idea in the world to leave the door in its current state, with splinters of what it once was littering the ground. But then again, he didn’t really have the time to fix it—he didn’t have a lot of time for anything.
Once Mikhail reached the street he knew something was out of the ordinary. There was a white limousine with not a speck of dust or dirt on it and encircling it were several suavely decorated leather-clad Mafioso’s. Their attire closely resembled that of the two Sicilians Mikhail had thrown out of the Shady Lady two nights prior. Before he even had the time to speak a single word, to properly prepare himself, guns were drawn by all men and all barrels pointed to Mikhail.
Mikhail instinctively raised both of his hands sympathetically, “Easy boys, easy.”
A heavily accented voice barked orders at him, “Into the limo!” Another man opened the door for him, gesturing for him with his pistol to enter. Mikhail slowly eased himself into the backseat.
“You boys really know how to cut to the chase, huh? Now just where the hell are you taking me?”
The rest of the men entered the limo, guns still at the ready incase Mikhail tried to pull anything funny. A shorter man with an accent more easily comprehended did most of the talking. “Enrico Scarpelli has requested your visitation.”
“And if I don’t want to?” Mikhail shrugged his shoulders.
“You are not to refuse a visitation from such an esteemed person. Only a fool would repudiate the Don.”
“What the hell does the Don want me for?” Mikhail looked thoroughly confused.
“All will be revealed upon your arrival, Mikhail Ulrich.”
Mikhail was so perplexed by the entire situation that it didn’t even strike him as odd that this man somehow knew his full name. He stayed quiet for the entire ride, looking out the window as the slums that they started in slowly grew to massive skyscrapers. The drive took quite some time, and gave Mikhail a lot of time to think almost worriedly about everything that had seemed to befallen him. His sister was in critical condition and in much need of care, he had promised her he’d be back for her—but at this point he wasn’t sure how he was going to do it. Here he was being carted halfway across the city to see the Don of the goddamn Mafia for God knows what reason, while Valentina bled alone isolated within four walls.
Mikhail’s mind raced to find the answers to all of the questions that maliciously attacked his brain. He lost himself completely in his train of thought, realizing this only when they had reached their final destination and it dawned on him that the sun had graced the horizon.
SATURDAY, OCTOBER 31ST, 2009, 7:07AM
When Mikhail exited the limousine, he stood before a massive triangular glass mountain, the kind of building that makes you feel completely insignificant and inadequate. He shielded his eyes from the sun and tried to catch a glimpse of the top, but couldn’t quite see it through the smog and sunshine.
His steps were guided carefully through the entrance of the building, the interior of which was decorated entirely with black marble. They led him to a series of elevators and one of the men pushed the call button quite forcibly. Mikhail scratched absently at his bald head while he waited for the elevator, which was surprisingly short for the size of the building. Only two men entered the elevator with him, both still armed. The larger of the two used his pinky to push the button labeled PH.
“Going up,” Mikhail murmured to himself as the elevator picked up speed, humming as it carried them to the highest floor. The doors opened casually upon their arrival, revealing an enormous office with a huge black wooden desk. The figure behind the desk sat in one of those intimidating swiveling chairs with the unnecessarily large back and giant carved armrests. Everything about this place was huge. That was, until the Don of the mafia spun around leisurely to reveal himself.
He was a man of small stature with salt-and-pepper hair greased into a fashionable style. A minute amount of stubble added a delicate touch of roughness to his extremely weathered face. He had sagging jowls and a knobby nose, with ears that stuck out just enough to be annoying. Mikhail had to refuse the urge to laugh. It just seemed like there was so much buildup to meeting this legendary figure and all he turned out to be was some old schmuck with a fancy haircut and expensive clothes.
“Mikhail Ulrich,” he uttered from the corner of his mouth.
Mikhail cleared his throat, “That’d be me.”
“I have heard of your recent misfortune, Mick. As a man of business, I am about to make you an offer that you cannot refuse.”
How typical, Mikhail thought. He pondered just how this man knew his nickname, one that only his sister called him by. And what misfortune was he talking about? Valentina? Surely he couldn’t have known about that so quickly—it had only just happened.
Don Scarpelli didn’t wait for Mikhail to make a response, “What I offer is cash, half a million of it straight up. What I want from you for this money is a deed that you are very familiar in doing.” The Don leaned back in his chair. “I want you to kill a man for me, Mikhail; a man that I’m going to admit is hard to get a hold of.”
“And why the hell would you pick me out of anybody to do this for you?” Mikhail crossed his massive arms across his chest, picking at his teeth with his tongue.
“Just look at you, Mick. You’re the pinnacle of physical human evolution. You look absolutely unstoppable and you killed two of my finest men just two nights ago without so much as a scratch to show for it. Why would I want anybody else, Mick? Shit, I’m convinced you’re the only one for the job.”
Mikhail inhaled deeply, “Half a million, huh?”
“That would be correct.”
Mikhail thought about how much help that could give his sister. She would definitely never be able to work again. Without breasts it would be extremely hard to gather any sort of customer clientele—and that was only if she ever decided to walk and talk again. Mikhail knew he needed this money more than anything else.
“What do I got to do?”
Enrico Scarpelli smiled broadly, “As you very well know, Mikhail, tonight is Halloween so the streets will be littered with thousands of grubby little trick-or-treaters. What with the parades, chaos and typical mischief in place, I’d say it’s the perfect time to commit an assassination. The man you target will speak a public address to introduce the festivities for the night to follow. He will be dressed in white robes and you will find him near City Hall. I don’t imagine you will have any trouble, Mikhail, all you need to do is get a shot off and then escape into the crowds and you’re home free. Sound good, my friend?” The Don extended his right hand over the large table.
Mikhail shook his head. This wasn’t like him at all; he never worked for anybody before, especially some Mafioso fat-cat with absolutely no care for the likes of him. Regretfully, Mikhail stepped forward and leaned over the table before him, grasping the Don’s fragile hand in his own massive mitt.
“I’ll be back for the money tonight. Be expecting me.”
Enrico’s lips peeled back to reveal an eerily toothy grin. “I’ll be waiting.”
SATURDAY, OCTOBER 31ST, 2009, 8:33PM
Mikhail pulled the comically sadistic clown mask over his face and patted at the pistol in his jacket. The day’s preparation had consisted of a trip to both the Halloween surplus store and shortly thereafter Ted’s Ammunition. He was locked, loaded, costumed and ready to do the deed. As ready as he was, his fingers had never felt more uncomfortable wrapped around the metal of his gun. Something felt very wrong, like something was completely out of place.
The entire day had been exhausted waiting, and now Mikhail couldn’t wait to get it over with. He could’ve spent the whole day with Valentina, but instead here he was with a clown mask and a gun ready to shoot some unlucky prick that some rich prick wanted dead. The world spins ‘round and ‘round, he thought to himself, hacking a sizeable mouthful of phlegm onto the ground below. When is this speaker going to take the stand? Time’s getting awfully close, and he’s gotta’ meet his maker sometime.
The Speaker finally took the stage, about fifteen minutes late. As soon as he did, Mikhail began moving his way through the crowd that had gathered to hear his address. The massive parade planned had yet to begin, and chaos and mischief ran amuck as kids and adults darted throughout the streets. Enrico was right about one thing—it was the perfect time to commit a murder.
His left hand was wrapped tightly around the grip of his pistol, still placed firmly in his jacket pocket. Mikhail moved closer to the stage until he was sure he could hit the Speaker from where he stood. Now it was simply a matter of waiting for the perfect opportunity to strike.
The lights surrounding the stage dimmed as the Speaker began his speech. His outstretched white-robed arms commandeered a certain level of arrogance that the audience appeared to eat up appreciatively. Time passed as the Speaker talked and Mikhail waited patiently for the time to be right. He noticed fireworks being prepped for the end of the speech and knew instantly that would be his opening. The Speaker threw his hands into the air and shouted to the crowd, who roared back in a mighty applause as the fireworks were lit and spewed forth into the air. Mikhail raised his arm, gun in hand, with deadly aim and pulled the trigger.
The bullet pierced through his larynx, cutting his voice short, and tore through the back of his neck leaving an exit wound the size of a small tangerine. He gurgled and grasped at his throat to attempt to stop the bleeding, but it was no use—the Speaker was done for. With blood spurting from both the front and back of his neck, he could do nothing but collapse to the stage in shock as the citizens in the crowd barely took notice what with the fireworks soaring over their heads.
By the time the fireworks had subsided, Mikhail was already making his exit and the crowd was stirred into a complete panic. As much as Mikhail wanted to flee as quick as he could, something shouted from the stage made him stop right in his tracks—downright made his blood go cold.
“Citizens of Babylon, there is an assassin in your presence! Do not panic! The Chief of Police has been shot!”
The Chief of Police, Mikhail thought, Well no wonder Enrico didn’t tell me anything about this card.
His mind drifted instantly to the argument he had with Valentina, the one that was the entire cause of his current position. Forget it, he had told her, If you mess with the cops in Babylon, you’re just asking to get messed with back. Mikhail had broken his own code, and done so in just about the worst way possible: by killing the chief justice of the entire police force of Babylon. What was he, insane?
As he sprinted through the streets and back alleys of Babylon, he realized the sirens were coming dangerously close to his position. This got him thinking about what else Enrico didn’t tell him. That bastard, he thought, he tipped off the police on his own goddamn hit so he wouldn’t have to pay a dime. He gets everything of what he wants, gets to keep his money, gets the chief of police killed, and doesn’t have to deal with me. What an intelligent little schmuck.
With police hot on his trail, Mikhail had only one thought in his mind.
I’ve got to see my Valya, and then I’m going to kill that prick.
FOUR
TIME TO GO HOME
BLOOD HAS SPILLED, TEARS HAVE WEPT, THE WEAKER HAVE BEEN LOST
THE STRONG HAVE LIVED TO SEE THEM PASS, THEY SOON WILL BE FORGOT
WITH NOWHERE ELSE TO RUN AND NO PLACE LEFT TO GO
A DEMON FINDS SOLACE IN THE GRAVE THAT HE CALLS HOME
SUNDAY, NOVEMBER 1ST, 2009, 12:37AM
There were four armed policemen stationed outside of Mikhail’s house as he approached, peering around a corner to survey the scene. Two of them wore helmets with Kevlar vests and wielded semi-automatic weaponry, while the other two were just your run-of-the-mill Joe-Cop’s. He crouched low in the dark light of the alleyway, spotting a rusted hatchet discarded on the ground. Mikhail picked this up in his right hand, with his pistol readied in his left and crept forward slowly as not to arouse any suspicion.
When he was close enough in range, Mikhail sprung upward with the ferocity of a panther, burrowing the hatchet into the skull of one of the armored cops, splitting his helmet in the process. His lips made not one sound as the dull blade busted through his scalp and spattered blood to either side of him. Mikhail held him by the hatchet, suspending his body in the air like a human shield while the other policemen turned to fire at him. The corpse he held gyrated violently back and forth as it was pelted with bullets from three different angles. Mikhail readied his gun and fired, dispatching both regular cops with precise aim. They collapsed to the street in agony, coughing and spitting up blood, cursing loudly in the midnight air.
The corpse he held for protection became so riddled with bullets that it began to fall apart. Mikhail felt himself being punctured in several places—mostly the arms and torso, as ammunition from the semi-automatic pumped through his body. He held the dead cop up for as long as he could, waiting for that sound of security.
Click!
Mikhail grinned slyly, “Empty.”
He threw the human shield to the ground and charged forward throwing a right hook that smashed through the visor of the policeman, embedding bits and pieces of Plexiglas in his face. He staggered backwards and Mikhail smashed him over the side of the head with a well-targeted pistol-whip. The cop’s helmet was sent spiraling off of his cranium, landing close to the dead body of one of his former comrades. Mikhail lunged at him with a devastating front snapping kick, throwing his body violently to the pavement. At this point, the officer began to beg for his life.
“Please,” he was winded considerably and struggled to speak coherently. “I got family.”
“Isn’t that what they all say?” Mikhail smiled and pulled a cigarette from the crumpled package in his jacket, realizing there was only one left after this one.
“Please don’t do this, I love my family.”
Mikhail pressed the cigarette to his lips and inhaled deeply, “Yeah? Me too.” He fired thrice, the first bullet exploding through his mouth sending fragments of teeth and gums everywhere. The second was just a little higher, breaking the top of his nose and burrowing deep within his skull. The third was higher still, throwing fragments of his newly segmented skull splattering into the air. When the pieces had settled and everything was at rest, Mikhail put his pistol back into his jacket and took another draw on his cigarette, minding the broken step on his way up.
The door was still very much absent, with splinters littering the floor where it used to stand. An intense aroma filled Mikhail’s nostrils the instant he stepped foot within his residence, one that reeked of decay and decomposition. He couldn’t bear to face what lay on the soiled mattress before him, because he knew damn well what had become true. His lips quivered as he found a blanket and draped it over Valentina’s lifeless body. Flies swarmed over her festering remains like vultures, feeding and laying their eggs in her oozing carcass.
“Valya,” the sorrow in his heart broke the eerie silence filled prior with only the buzzing of insects. His voice struggled to form words; he dug the fingernails of his right hand into the back of his scalp in frustration. “I will come for you.” A single tear had edged itself from his socket and made the lonely journey down his cheek, filling all the contours and ridges of the scars and pockmarks that littered his flesh. “You will see me soon.” He pulled the blanket over her face, appearing as if something was holding him back from doing so. Although it should’ve been expected, Mikhail was not prepared to deal with the consequence of his sister’s death. He loved her, and she was all that he had.
The emptiness that lurked inside of him brewed with each passing step as he made his way through the door and back out into the streets. On the exterior he seemed grim and emotionless, but this was a great contrast to what feelings raged inside of his mind. There were so many of them, and they raced so quickly about in his head that he could not show them—could not deal with them. They were just there, stuck in his mind, while his body played the role of an empty shell. It was a hard feeling to explain, feeling so empty and so full of emotion at the same time. It was as if his body had become a harbinger of dread and misfortune, the embodiment of sorrow and mourning.
He stopped at an empty police car on the street, noticing it must’ve belonged to the ones that he had just recently sent on their way. The keys were absent, but this wasn’t a problem for Mikhail. As he eased himself into the vehicle, he cursed audibly. He could feel little bits of metal inside of his body in many different places—this extreme discomfort poked at him from all angles with every single movement of his body. As he began working on hotwiring the vehicle, something he had learned to do at the age of ten, he noticed police cars fast approaching from the rear. It wouldn’t take them long to clue in to what had happened, especially if Mikhail went speeding off. But he was left without much choice—fight or flee, it was that natural instinctive decision ticking in his brain. He had fought; for once it was time to run—to run away to greater things.
The engine kick started and Mikhail put the pedal to the floor. The cars were no more than a hundred yards behind him, and upon seeing the squad car ahead of them take off—they all sped up. Mikhail was so messed up in the head he could barely remember where he was going, and it was quite the drive to Scarpelli’s skyscraper. The ride was clearly the most dangerous one of Mikhail’s life, filled with close calls, running reds, and many situations where he just about lost control. The police made many attempts to pull him over, to throw out spike strips or to PIT maneuver him but it seemed that for once luck was on Mikhail’s side. Mikhail had this strong belief that everybody gets what’s coming to them, in the end somehow everything works itself out. Maybe for once he was right about something, because it was almost as if there was something more helping him along his drive.
By the time he was nearing Scarpelli’s tower, there were ten cars trailing him. Mikhail didn’t exactly have a game plan; his mind was in too many shambles to even attempt to formulate one. With the tower in his sights and the cars now close behind him, he gripped the steering wheel with both hands and grit his teeth in a desperate attempt to hold on. Mikhail swerved up onto the curb in front of the tower, getting a small amount of air before careening through the glass of the entrance with the police following closely behind. Shards of glass flew everywhere as Mikhail was forcibly ejected through the windshield, smashing it with his skull. His body crumpled against the wall closest to the elevators, but no one paid much notice to his stunt. The guards working the bottom floor at Scarpelli’s were startled at the prospect of a surprise bust and commenced firing at the police cars that broke through the glass of their building. The police began to return fire, giving Mikhail much needed time to collect his equilibrium.
As soon as he could tell where he was, he eased his hand up to the call button for the elevator and pushed it. The eternity that seemed to pass before the elevator reached its destination was in no way a reflection of his first visit. The doors slid open and Mikhail smiled briefly, dragging his prone body into the safety of the elevator and kicking at the panel of buttons until he by chance alone struck PH. Before anybody could realize what had happened amidst the chaos, Mikhail was ascending upwards to that lovely office with the breathtaking view. Mikhail chuckled at the luck that had befallen him. The police had long since forgotten what they were looking for and were more concerned with defending themselves after they were faced with a barrage of bullets from the guards of Scarpelli’s first floor—who in turn thought they were being raided. It was the perfect situation for Mikhail to take advantage of, the ideal cover that he needed.
The doors of the elevator drifted open and Mikhail stepped into the penthouse office with the air of confidence that only a god can carry. He was a hideous behemoth, dripping of blood, sweat and tears. His jacket was torn almost completely to shreds, along with the rest of his clothing and his face was no more than a glorified hunk of meat. The amount of injuries to his body were uncountable, and any normal human being not operating fully on adrenaline would’ve surely died a long time ago. The pain that he felt physically was only a fraction of what he felt inside, and it was time to make amends for the suffering that exhumed him.
Don Enrico Scarpelli spun around in his unnecessarily large chair to come face to face with a monstrosity. When he came to the realization that it was just the two of them present in the large office, he was instantly struck still with the most violating fear he had ever felt. He felt completely paralyzed, warm urine leaked into the front of his pants as his body lost control of its primary functions. The Don never thought this escapade would’ve amounted to this—he was freaking untouchable, he was the goddamn Don for Christ’s sakes.
Mikhail plodded slowly and carelessly towards the Don, each step lingering for a seeming lifetime. “You want the chief of police dead, Enrico, so you find a man that you think can do it.” Mikhail thumped himself on the chest, “That would be me.”
Enrico Scarpelli still sat in his chair, shaking visibly.
“But then you realize that hey, even a big ugly fuck like me wouldn’t work for a slimy grease ball like you without some sort of motivation, right?” Mikhail paused and placed both of his large hands on the desk in front of Enrico, leaning over it and spitting into his face as he spoke. “So you watch me like I’m some sort of animal, find the only thing I ever loved and then take it away from me so you can offer me money that you never planned to grant me in the first place.”
The Don closed his eyes in fear.
“Open your eyes, Enrico! That sound like a deal to you?” Mikhail ripped the pistol from his jacket and pointed it at the Don, “How about this for a fucking deal?”
Don Scarpelli spoke up, almost surprising Mikhail with his extremely timid voice. “Will this really make you happy?”
Mikhail grimaced. You know what?, he thought, This prick’s right.
Mikhail tossed the pistol aside and reached over the table, seizing the Don’s skull between his massive mitts and pulling him across the desk. He held him suspended above the ground while the last few days of his life raced before his eyes. Without hesitation, Mikhail jammed both of his thumbs into Enrico’s eye sockets, producing the highest possible amount of pressure he could. The Don screamed in agony as his eyeballs burst in his own skull, their remains oozing through the cracks between Mikhail’s thumbs. The giant hulking pinnacle of physical human evolution roared mightily as he tossed the withered body of the Don through the glass of his penthouse office. The sound of his shouting reverberated through Enrico’s mind as he felt his body drifting downward at an accelerating rate. When his carcass finally collided with the ground below, there were no longer any distinguishing characteristics that would’ve made the splatter recognizable to anybody—even his own mother. Enrico’s fate saw him as nothing more than a smear on the sidewalk, a stain on society’s walkway.
Mikhail collapsed with his back against the desk, bleeding profusely and breathing heavily. His vision began to blur together and images began to dance before his eyes; taunting visages of the ones he loved. Valya had been avenged. Mikhail reached to the sky and collected one last lungful of breath, calling out her name to anybody that might’ve cared to hear. His hand patted along the ground hopelessly until it found what it was looking for: cold iron.
Mikhail eased the pistol underneath his chin, his teeth chattering together slightly as his body attempted to seize up on him. The puzzle that was his mind was completely undone, and there was no hope of ever putting it back together again. Completely delirious and hallucinating from the amount of pain that washed over his body—Mikhail swore he could see Valya dancing before him like he had watched her dance all his life. He groped at his jacket until he found the crumpled package of cigarettes, taking the last one from the pack he lit it with one hand and drew a sizeable pull.
He thumbed back the hammer of his pistol and took one final aching breath, “I’m coming home.” The words fell dead, and on deaf ears as the click of the trigger unleashed the thunder of the hammer. A lone bullet traveled through his bottom jam, shattered the roof of his mouth and tore through his brain before erupting from the top of his skull like a bloody volcano. His body fell completely limp, he dropped his gun and his head lolled back, smashing into the wooden desk.
Mikhail’s eyes laid still in their sockets, staring straight ahead as if focused immovably on an enticing image. His mouth lay agape like he were stressing the final words he had spoken, a cigarette hanging limply on his bottom lip.
Mikhail could finally rest, as at last he had found her.
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Tainted Note: Took me a day of thinking and planning to decide what exactly I wanted to do with this assignment from school. Originally I had some idea about using a deck of cards, and gangs of assassins associated with each suit that warred against each other or something like that? I'm not quite sure. Anyway, I ended up settling on this idea and then wrote it the following day (I procrastinated until a couple days before the due date, of course).
Hope you liked it, criticism and comments are very welcome and encouraged.
Thanks,
Zak Hunter
Hit Impasse (Mature Audiences Only)
