Weavelg0d wrote: ↑Sat Dec 09, 2023 6:27 am
Like where this is going
Thanks! Hope it keeps on going where you like it!
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Downtime
“That’ll be $57.92, sir.”
Damian simply hummed in acknowledgement before swiping his credit card through the slot, his payment processed after a few seconds of waiting.
The cashier flashed him an artificial smile while handing him his receipt. “Thank you, have a good day.”
“You too,” he replied robotically, already huffing his bags into his arms and making his way through the exit of the liquor store.
The burst of chilled wind that hit him in the face was a harsh reminder that he should’ve zipped up his jacket before he left the store. The drop in temperature this week had caught him off guard and now he was bustling as quickly as he could to his car to escape the frigid cold. He adjusted the bags onto one arm as he fished for his key in his pocket and unlocked the doors, although he highly doubted anyone would want to steal his scratched up, junky 2003 Sedan. There were far better cars in this parking lot alone, and unlike most men, he wasn’t all that attached to his car anyway. So long as it got him from Point A to Point B in one piece, it did its job.
Besides, it wasn’t like he didn’t have enough money to get a new car, far from it. If anything, his clandestine business was rather lucrative, to say the least. And if he decided on a whim to get a new car, he could just go to the nearest dealership and get himself one in an instant.
But what would be the point? He wasn’t afraid to admit he was a creature of habit and not a big fan of change if he could help it.
He put his bags of liquor and beer in the passenger seat before getting in himself, cranking up the engine in one smooth motion. He put the heat on blast; and wouldn’t you know it, it actually blew out warm air without him having to work its way up. There were benefits to parking close and making his shopping trips quick.
He turned on the radio, a news station talking about the recent uptick in TikTok related deaths, and drove out of the parking lot.
The sky was a melding of evening colors, pewter blue giving way to a swirl of fuchsia and orange behind the clouds, the sun already more than halfway below the horizon and the crescent moon already in full view. Initially it looked like it would rain, but if there was a higher power out there, he guessed that they changed their mind on a whim, not that he was complaining.
Thankfully, there was hardly any traffic on the way home. Usually, the road would be jammed packed with cars from as far as the eye could see, but upon looking at the clock once he was at a light, he realized it was a bit earlier than he thought, the rush hour in its infancy at this time of day. Getting used to the clocks getting set back, thus, longer nights and shorter days always took a bit of getting used to within the first week.
The drive home was short and smooth, not that many hiccups in the road aside from a driver flashing their blinkers on the wrong side they were turning, and breaking so suddenly that he nearly tailgated the SUV several times. The driver had to be either lost as fuck or drunk as hell, probably a teen. Fucking teenagers. Or was it some old crotchety geezer who should’ve been off the road decades ago? Who knows. Either way, cutting him off stirred something unrighteous inside him.
The car began teetering the yellow line, confirming that, yup, the guy was drunk as a skunk; as his auntie used to say.
He was tempted to speed up, get beside the driver and stare them in the eye.
How would the bastard like being a foot tall in a moving car?
“Try reaching for the brake pedal now, bitch,” were the acidic thoughts that passed his mind. It wouldn’t be the first time he had to dispose of a drunkard in the past. Certainly not the last.
The thought vanished amidst the others when the car finally made a left turn into the highway and out of his life.
Parking his car in front of his apartment, he made his way up the stairs, making his way past a couple who were giggling and laughing about something in a hush-hush tone, and put the code in for his door.
Stepping into the foyer of his apartment was all he needed for the tension to release from his shoulders. With a deep sigh, he could finally feel relaxed.
Today’s job wasn’t so bad. Probably because, in his opinion, the guy deserved it.
Another methhead, he garnered from the track marks on the man’s arms before diminishing him to the size of a Polly Pocket doll. A lot of his targets tended be on some sort of hard drugs or another.
Man was in his late forties, but the drugs had aged him up by at least three decades. Accosted and assaulted multiple people for money; only landing behind bars once he nearly murdered a lesbian couple in the Bronx back in ‘03.
What should’ve been around a fifty-year sentence wound up being reduced to ten years and some change for whatever reason Damian didn’t really give a shit about, but upon being back on the streets, one his former victims dropped 10K to “take care of him.”
As someone who also lived a hard life, even in Damian’s hardened heart, he was a bit empathetic to the man’s plight. Damian himself dabbled in coke and was an alcoholic before even being old enough to smoke. After all he went through, he knew the powerful yearning for something to take his mind off of the trials and tribulations that came at him without respite when he was put through the ringer. That need for an escapism when all around him, the walls just kept closing in.
He truly empathized with the man.
But not enough for him to not take up the job.
Especially after the man came at him with a knife, going straight for the jugular the moment he turned the corner.
The man dwindled in height so fast that he was nearly killed by the weight of the knife that had been millimeters from crushing him under the blade’s handle when it fell to the ground.
Watching the now minuscule man wander down by his feet, looking around as though he just got teleported to an alien location, it took several seconds before he looked up and screamed bloody murder at the sight of Damian towering from above.
Having been doing this gig for over a decade now, Damian was far used to his targets being confused and panicked, and likewise seeing him as a giant monster for it to affect him anymore. He had did this hundreds of times now, the novelty of seeing someone go from normal-size to rodent-size having worn out ages ago. So he wasted no time bending down and scooping the addict up.
Not wanting to deal with the incoming screaming and shouting that were about to erupt from his victim’s mouth, he stuffed him into the cloth bag he kept to hold the tiny targets and put him in the pouch pocket of his hoodie before heading back to his car. And thankfully, with his radio on, it easily drowned out the druggie’s litany of swears and curses on the way to his base of operations.
Dumping the man onto the table, he didn't waste a second. After all, it was an easy job actually. The client simply asked for him to scare the target until he pissed his pants. And then when he was done, to just hand him to the guy that was ready to collect him at the location.
It didn’t take much to reduce such an angry, belligerent criminal to a sniveling, bawling manchild pleading for his life. A few run ins with one of his rats he had on standby and threatening to have him put in the garbage disposal already had the man practically begging on his knees for mercy. At most, he got a few scrapes and bruises, but the client never specified that he had to be unharmed. Just alive.
And once his client, an older man, a man who had a sizable scar on his face and a nervous disposition, giddily picked up his former tormentor, who certainly more in store for him than Damian had; he called it a day and went about his business.
A done deal… well, done.
He went to the fridge and grabbed some leftover Chinese food from two days ago. Popping it in the microwave, he found the bottle opener and got the lid of the Guiness and two minutes later, he was crashing on his couch, bottle in hand and munching on Kung Pao chicken; surfing through channels.
Outside of his career, and… ability, Damian considered himself pretty normal in most aspects. Boring, even. He woke up, ate, worked, shit and slept like everyone else. His hobbies were fairly mundane, gaming and jogging early mornings if the weather permitted. He was a loner but wasn’t completely bereft of friends in his circle. He spent his weekends running errands, playing some Halo or Call of Duty, jacking off to porn and sleeping into noon.
A bachelor in all respects, when he wasn’t working, his time was his and his alone to do whatever he wanted with it. And what he wanted most was just to have a nice, quiet space for himself to chill and relax.
He was still flipping through channels, on the verge of falling asleep, when his phone rang, the digitized theme of the Jetsons playing for all of two seconds before he quickly answered it.
“Hello?” The disinterest of his voice was clearly evident; nothing bothered him more than getting a call once he was settled in.
“Hello, is Damian Marcovic?”
He sighed, slouching further in his chair and rubbing his tired eyes with his free hand. “Yeah.”
The voice on the other line was filled with ersatz enthusiasm.
“Hello Mr. Marcovic! How are you this evening?”
“No, I don’t want to donate to the fire department. The last guy told me that he’d have me removed from the list.”
“Ah! Oh, I see. I apologize then. I’ll see to it that you’re taken off as soon as w–”
He shut off the call and tossed his phone onto the coffee table before reaching back for the remote. Fuckers never listen the first time.
Irritated, the sleepiness withered a bit as he flipped through channels, finally settling on watching an older rerun episode of The Simpsons.
The hours crawled by and the day had fully given way to night; small hints of stars behind the light-polluted sky.
On the slightly messy coffee table, his plate only left a few scattered grains of fried rice and his bottle was a little over halfway empty. The only light in his tiny, spartan living room came from the TV screen, with Marge talking to Lisa about the thing she used to do as a little girl, and his digital clock on the wall, which read
9:52 PM in bold red letters. On the couch, Damian was slumped to his side, dozing off into a quiet slumber.
In his rest, dead to the world, he looked like any ordinary person, rather than someone who had claimed the lives of hundreds and ruined the lives of more.
His other phone rung.
The
business phone.
His eyelids slowly peeled up from his almost-nap and stared out into nothing for a few long seconds before he reached for his phone, noting the number in his head before answering.
“Edward Bauhaus,” Damian answered, sliding into his third alias. “What color are the flowers?”
“Oh, so this is the right number? Okay, okay, I was afraid that you were already asleep.”
The edges of his mouth pinched downwards in agitation.
Take two.
“What color are the flowers?”
“Flowers…?” the man on the other line asked incredulously, before understanding hit.
“Oh! Right! Um, they’re, er… white! They’re white!”
Well, at least he didn’t need to kill anyone for this job. Always a relief.
Damian slunk forward, getting right into business.
“All transactions are final and only once the money is wired to me will I do my half.” His tone darkened. “All effects are final, as well, and cannot be reversed once I do my part.”
The voice on the other line was quiet for only a moment before tentatively asking,
“W-Wait… so if I ask her to b– I mean… your, erm… ‘target’ to be given to me, she’ll stay–”
“The effects are permanent,” was Damian’s clipped response. He had learned the hard way early on about that. “So if you don’t want your target handed to you at shorter than they were before, then I suggest finding someone else to do the job for you.”
“No! No! That’s not what I meant!” was the startlingly overeager reply.
“No! That’s perfect! That means… you’re the real deal!? I mean… holy shit, they weren’t joking! You actually got shrinking powers!?”
Damian’s response was calm and measured despite feeling irked by the lack of tact and professionalism of the obviously young, if not immature, client on the phone. Those too young to be dabbling in the black market in the first place. Not that he was one to talk.
“May I finish laying out the terms of the agreement?”
“Oh, um, sure! Go ahead, go ahead.”
To Damian’s great surprise, the caller didn’t interrupt him as he streamlined the nature and conditions of the agreement, including the confidential matters regarding payment and where to wire the money. He made a rundown on the expected date and time he’d be able to conduct the job, as well as outlined where to meet him after all was said and done.
Within all of five minutes, he had summed up the agreement before leaving the potential client with a warning.
“Of course, should any part of the agreement be breached, you’ll find that I’m not one to forgive so easily,” Damian said coldly, “And I have a surefire way to deal with those who renege on deals.”
The most professional way of telling whoever even had any semblance of the idea to blab to the public
“Don’t fuck with me.” Those that tried became ancient history in a heartbeat.
And he didn’t even need to kill them.
But his client, to his credit, seemed to understand quite well. On the line, he could’ve sworn he heard the man gulp.
“Y-Yeah… I got it.”
Damian stretched. Now, of course, came the main details of it all.
“Now then, let’s talk cash.”