*Graphic/Disturbing content warning*
Part 23-"Stonewall"
Years earlier...
The window slid open without a single creak. Young Eva Hutch had gone to considerable effort in making sure it wouldn't. A little machine grease here, some WD-40 there. If she hoped to continue her nightly clandestine escapades, then silence was imperative. The girl was always careful to wait until certain her father had fallen asleep before even attempting to sneak out and meet up with her friends. She also had to make sure she was back in bed promptly before he got up for work. Eva was a teenager after all, prone to get into a very teenage brand of trouble, but the man of the house was more than just an overprotective parent. He was a tyrant.
The young woman removed her shoes as she climbed in through her bedroom window so her sparkling hooker heels would not clack against the hardwood floor. They made her look sufficiently taller and, combined with her favorite short skirt, helped get her into a lot of the clubs around Austin she was far too young to frequent. Christ, the beating she'd get if her father knew she owned anything so slutty!
Eva wrapped the strap of her purse around the post of her bed, knowing it's exact location based on sheer muscle memory. The third story room of the apartment was as dark as a tomb after all. The fire escape, placed conveniently outside her own window, had allowed her to get away with her nightly excursions for years. She'd learned to traverse it with the sort of stealth that would make a Navy Seal blush. Just another night of teenage shenanigans, no different than any other... not until the nightstand lamp clicked on by itself.
No.
Not by itself.
By the groggy man sunk into the armchair in the corner of the room. And not just any man. By that measure, Eva would have preferred a home invasion. This man, with the dark circles under his eyes and an empty bottle of cheap whisky at his feet, was none other than Eva's father. A man so glued to his convictions that even his friends referred to him as "Stonewall."
"Stonewall" Hutch.
Devout. Southern. Stern.
Eva gasped. Not just from the surprise of a pitch black room suddenly illuminated, but because of what she was certain would follow. It was the only sound she could muster... the terror had choked out any others.
Run.
"And just what the fuck do ya think yer doing?" Her father grumbled. Eva could tell he was still drunk, god only knows when his bottle finally ran dry that night.
Again, a response escaped her.
Run, Eva. Run.
"When your daddy aks you a question, you best answer, pet."
While his nickname for her had once been used with affection, in the last few years Eva's father had only used it when he was about to come down on her... or worse. He kicked the empty whisky bottle in Eva's direction where it caught the post and shattered against the base of her bed. The terrified teenager jumped back with a yelp. The tears were already starting to pool at the corners of her eyes.
"I'll ask again, daughrter o' mine... what... the fuck... do ya... think... yer doing?"
Eva tried to find an answer that would sate him, but the way she was dressed... the way she smelled, like cheap perfume, cigarettes and alcohol... there was only one way this was gonna go. Instead, she chose to look at the floor and beg for mercy, "I-I I'm sorry, daddy."
"Ya been out whorin' around, ain't ya?" Eva'd heard this accusation before, but she'd never looked the part in front of him. Her father's Mississippian accent always stood out among the distinctive sound of your average Texan's vocal gate, but it sounded more distinct when he'd been drinking. And especially when he was angry. "Ya momma didnah raise huh daurghter to be nah fuckin' whore."
Momma. He loved to use her as an excuse to justify the terrible things he would do to his lineage. Eva's parents hadn't exactly been a match made in heaven. Stonewall was usually away, long-hauling his route between Tallahassee and Austin. When he was home, the the atmosphere always tensed in fear his drunken outbursts. During those times, Eva and her mother longed for his his return to the road.
That was ancient history in the limited life experience of a young girl. Eva's mother had passed on and left the her to fend for herself against her father's temperamental nature. Stonewall used his wife's name, god rest her soul, to guilt his daughter into doing things his way... or else. A man beset on guiding his wayward child back on the path of righteousness. An old fashioned fellow with old fashioned ideas, Stonewall Hutch believed himself chosen by God himself to set the world straight... starting with his misbehaving 'daurghter.'
"No daddy, I was just out with friends... I swear!" Eva knew it was fruitless to convince him, but she had to try.
Stonewall leaned forward in her faded flowery armchair, looking her over from head to toe in a way that made Eva even more nervous. She'd seen that look a lot since she'd developed into a woman, and it made her sick knowing what her "daddy" was thinking about.
"Yer friends whores too?" He grunted and sniffed, easing back into the chair once again. He slipped a hand into the waistband of his trousers. "Wager y'all've sucked off e'ry boy from here to San Antone, ain'tcha?"
"Daddy, no! We were just out dancing, that's all! I swear it!" Again, Eva knew she didn't stand a chance.
The man didn't think much of dancing either. The Pastime of Idiots and Harlots, he called it. The calmness in his voice made the situation so much more worrisome. Eva feared she would not be walking away from this with solely a beating.
The chair creaked and popped as Stonewall stood up. His fly was already open and his belt unbuckled, as was his usual unwinding ritual in his easy chair. In a single motion, the man was capable of whipping his belt from around his waist, a feat that might seem impressive to someone not about to taste its fury. Not this time though, he removed it from the loops of his pants slowly. He wanted to scare the devil out of her more than ever.
The teetering Mr. Hutch folded the accessory over in his hands even slower... taking his sweet time, savoring the tension in the air. He enjoyed the feel and sound of the leather as the material stretched and molded in his hands, to a fetishistic degree. Fetishes were, of course, tools of the devil used to control and corrupt the righteous man's mind, so he'd never admit to it. A few cracks against his palm let little Eva know what was coming.
"Well then, my lil' pet... if it's a whore you wants tah be... then I reckon it's time you learnt what happens to a bitch what comes home to her daddy without his cut."
Eva took another step backwards towards the window. Maybe she could dive for it? Could she do so without falling three stories to her death? In the moment, even that felt more enticing than the look of disgust and drunken lust burning in her father's eyes.
"No, daddy! Please! It won't happen again! I promise! Please!"
"Shut your whorin' mouth, harlot!" The blunt side of the belt came down across her face faster than Eva could hope to make a move. The force of her father's blow was more than enough to completely knock her off her feet and onto the bed.
"Oh!" The man exclaimed, taking his daughter hard by the forearm and adjusting her on the mattress to where he wanted her. "Looks like daddy's pet whore is ready fuh her next trick!"
"Please, daddy! Please don't!"
Eva's protests were met with another belt across the face, this time spraying blood across the comforter. That was enough. Eva didn't say another word. She leaned into the pain. The throbbing sting on her fair, delicate skin was easier to focus on than the far more distressing horror of her own father pulling down her undergarments.
Stonewall flipped the girl over, wanting access to a part of her anatomy with less risk of causing an unwanted pregnancy. Abortion was a sin after all. He shook his pants from his thighs and then dropped his own piss-stained underwear. A warmup would be in order, as his drinking tended to interfere with his ability to perform. Like any good company man, Stonewall wouldn't let a setback like drunk-dick get in the way of the job he needed to do. He massaged himself with one hand while digging the opposing forearm into the back of Eva's neck. The girl was pinned helplessly beneath her father's muscular arm, a tattoo branded across its leathery surface read "In Christ All Is Forgiven." The violation would only get worse from there.
"Time the lil' whore to show 'er daddy what she learnt from sucking and fucking all them horned-up school boys. We'll call it... The University of Ungrateful... Cocksuckin'... Lyin'... Teasin'... Lil' Bitches! And it's past time daddy's lil' pet grad-it-tatted from pencil-dick school boys to a real man."
Stonewall resented his daughter for getting older. It was so much easier to strike the fear of God into a small child than a hormonal teenager. Eva's eighteenth birthday loomed in the not too distant future, which meant techniques that had controlled a young girl would need to increase in severity as she became an emancipated adult. A bitch was a bitch, as far as Stonewall was concerned. Unruly and in need of discipline. Training. A black eye here and a bloody nose there always did his wife well to remember her place. God rest her soul.
Eva clenched the bedspread in tightened fists, bracing herself for what was coming. Blood from her mouth and face soaked into the bedding. Tears fogged her view of the window, her only chance for escape... so agonizingly close, but still out of reach. All she could do is hope that he would be quick, that he'd pass out and forget all about her indiscretion when he was done. The sober, hungover beatings that followed the drunken ones were often much worse. Thoughts of prayer... of actually asking her father's god to save her.... had long ago left young Eva Hutch's mind. If there was a god, and he allowed this sort of thing to happen to helpless girls like her... what exactly did that say about him?
God may have been indifferent to Eva's plight, but chance wouldn't abandon her that muggy Texas summer night.
As she tugged at her blanket, one of her stiletto heels rolled forward into the depression her left hand sunk into the mattress. The feminine footwear landed just barely at her fingertips. Eva hadn't realized she'd dropped them onto the bed after the start she'd received by her father. She released her deathly hold on the covers and snagged one of the thin straps of the fashionable shoe between the very tips of her outstretched fingers. She knew exactly what she had to do.
Meanwhile, Stonewall had finally worked himself up enough to proceed with the terrible act he planned on carrying out. Aiming his weapon like a jet fighter struggling to lock onto his target, the drunken patriarch slowly zeroed in. A few more whacks across Eva's backside with the belt should show her, each a punctuation for another cruel and tasteless insult. "Alright, you lil' bitch." Whack. "You... you fuckin' bitch." Whack. "You fuckin' whore." Whack. "This is uh what lil' whores want, so this uh what lil' whores git." Stonewall lifted his arm from Eva's neck so both hands were available to steady his daughter's vulnerable posterior.
Before the man could set himself in motion, Eva seized the opportunity, spinning around on her back as quickly as she could. Without hesitation, she jammed the spiked heel of her shoe directly into her father's eye. "NO, MOTHERFUCKER! THIS IS WHAT YOU GET!"
Stonewall screamed a scream like nothing Eva had ever heard. He tried to pull the heel from his eye socket, but the sensation of having it move around inside his skull was too excruciating to bear. He tripped over the trousers pooled around his feet and landed face down on the shattered remnants of his whisky bottle. The narrow heel was forced even deeper into the bleeding socket under the weight of his own head and the force of the fall. The tip easily reached the frontal lobe of his brain, a lobotomy courtesy of imitation Gucci.
The lights went out for Stonewall Hutch as quickly as the pull of a lamp chain.
Eva rolled off the bed and fumbled over the nightstand until her hands found the base of the lamp. Without even thinking to unplug it from the wall, she lifted the ceramic light fixture over her head and brought it down as hard as she could on the back of of her father's head. In an instant, the room blinked back to darkness. The light coming from the street through the window and the occasional spark from the lamp's wiring arcing over Stonewall's motionless body provided the only illumination to what came next. She didn't know it yet, but Eva's father was already dead.
She too tripped, falling over his body and onto the glass covered floor. This only served to enrage the already livid teenager more. She beat against his back with balled up fists, punching his spine repeatedly until she hadn't the energy left to continue. Exhausted, she slid across the hardwood floor until her back rested against the seat of the arm chair. Panting intensely, Eva still wasn't done. With the heel of her bloodied bare foot, she kicked Stonewall in the side until she heard one of his ribs give and crack.
"Fuck you, daddy," she snarled.
Eva finally gave herself a chance to catch her wind, and with that release of tension and the abrupt drop in adrenaline, there was nothing left to hold back the tears. The girl wept with a relief she'd never yet known. Finally, she'd stood up to him. Finally, he would understand that she wasn't going to take any more of his abuse. It was the warmth of her father's blood that slowly crept towards her toes that sobbered her to the seriousness of what she'd done.
"Daddy?"
In an instant, the young woman bolted to her feet. Jagged, razor sharp shards of glass crunched under her soles, cutting them further with each step. She felt her way past her dresser until she found the main light switch on the wall. The horror of what she'd done was revealed to her... literally at the speed of light. Eva didn't need to check for her father's pulse. She knew... she just knew.
Where relief had been so recently, panic quickly rushed in to replace it. Eva had just committed murder. She was actually capable of taking another person's life. Self defense didn't even spring to mind, and with the bloody, mangled mess she'd just made of her father, who would ever believe her anyway?
Run.
One word. The only one that managed to penetrate the fear and confusion taking over Eva's mind. The only answer that made sense.
Run, Eva. Run.
As quickly as she could, the newly orphaned teenager filled a suitcase with clothing and slipped her bloodied feet into a pair of old Converse. She raided her father's wallet for his credit cards and the forty bucks he had stashed in the fold. She ran into the kitchen to retrieve every bottle of the hardest alcohol her father had stored in the liquor cabinet. Eva emptied every one of them onto her father's corpse.
Run.
The girl left her bedroom for the last time the same way she'd entered just minutes prior. She took one last look in her father's direction, his extended arm and an ever expanding pool of blood were all that were visible from the window side of the bed. The sound of sirens could be heard in the distance. Still far off, but definitely growing louder. They couldn't be for her... or could they? One of the downstairs neighbors could have heard the commotion, as well as Stonewall's agonizing scream. A scream so intense, so filled with terror... yet so earned... that it would haunt the young Ms. Hutch's dreams for the rest of her life.
Run.
A flick of her father's zippo set the room ablaze. Beginning her new life on the run, Eva Hutch pulled her legs over the sill and disappeared into the sweltering summer night.
"Bye, daddy."
End Part 23
Leveraged: A Sequel to Tumbled
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Bloodthirstybutcher
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Re: Leveraged: A Sequel to Tumbled
"People like Coldplay and voted for the Nazis, you can't trust people, Jeremy."
-Super Hans, Peep Show
-Super Hans, Peep Show
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Bloodthirstybutcher
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Re: Leveraged: A Sequel to Tumbled
Part 24-"Mt. Stairwell"
No amount of mountain climbing experience could have prepared Alexandra for what she and Eva were undertaking. One massive stair at a time. That's how she tried to picture it anyway, but the shrunken woman found it hard not to look past the current challenge to what still remained. Three more steps, a daunting enough task for sure, but the shrunken duo still hadn't made the first turn. With every muscle needed to pull herself up the thin length of thread aching and sore, Alex knew that if she stopped too long to rest that the pain would only worsen with stiffness. The spirit-crushing reality of how much they still had to scale only weakened the knees more. One step at a time... at least until the next one.
"Eva?" Alex asked as she pulled herself over the edge of the next stair.
It had been fairly quiet for the first leg of their climb. That heavy, awkward silence still lingered in the air after their latest interaction with the boss. Eva chose, and wisely so, to let her partner cool down on her own.
"What is it, pipsqueak?" A meager attempt to lighten the mood, for sure... but at least it was an attempt. She pulled herself over the next step to join her accomplice.
Alex continued, "has anyone ever spotted you?"
"You mean like a mark?" Eva asked.
"Anyone," Alex clarified. "Like, if someone were to come down these stairs right now, what the hell do we do?!"
"Oh," the taller woman replied, "I mean... yeah. Once or twice."
Alex was mid toss of the grapple onto the next step when Eva answered, and that answer was so shockingly nonchalant that the hook slipped out of her hand and clanged against the side of the stair. "Once or twice?!" What the hell did they do?!What the hell did you do?!"
Eva picked up the grapple herself and tossed it successfully over the edge of step. "I dolled up."
"Dolled up," Alex parroted, "the hell does that mean?!"
Eva laughed a little before answering, "exactly what it sounds like."
Alex stood with her arms crossed over her chest and a less than enthused look on her face. She didn't need to say anything to let Eva know she thought she was full of shit.
"Look," Eva began to elaborate, "most people are too nose-deep in their phones to notice anything but the latest clickbait or the ding of a notification. In a situation like this where we're totally out in the open, you can usually just press yerself against the wall and people will walk right on by without even noticing. Especially in your case, pipsqueak."
"Ok, first of all... fuck you, Eva," Alex said in jest. "And second, what if these techno-zombies do notice you?"
"If they take a second look, then you stiffen up as tight and unnaturally as you can. And don't blink." Eva displayed what she was describing by jutting her arms out in front of her and falling back onto her ass with her legs outstretched and her feet turned as flat as she could make them. She titled her head slightly and held her eyes as open and wide as she could while maintaining focus on a single point she'd chosen on the far wall.
"You're so full of shit," Alex laughed.
Eva answered back without moving a muscle, "like I said... most folks ain't gonna notice unless you move. If you do move, then you gotta worry if'n they're gonna act like they saw a snake and try to stompin' ya guts out."
The smile disappeared from Alex's face, "has that happened to you?"
The mannequin-like redhead relaxed, letting her arms drop and stretched her toes until they cracked. "When I said once or twice... that was the twice."
"Jesus," Alex gasped.
Eva stood back up and futility tried to dust off her already filthy catsuit, "look, we're gonna be fine. Ain't no one is looking for a couple of lil' people runnin' 'round their house. Folks'll try to rationalize just about anything else in their heads before jumping to that conclusion. And besides..."
"Sssssshhhh!" Alex interrupted. "You hear that?"
She was right.
Footsteps were echoing up from somewhere below. The unmistakable clacking was accompanied by a lazy, tuneless whistling. Someone was ascending the stairwell and would be on them in a matter of seconds! Alex pressed herself against the inner wall of the rectangular whirl, locking her joints into as motionless and plastic looking positions as she could... just as Eva had instructed her to do.
Eva, on the other hand, looked at her partner with dumbfounded fear, "what the fuck are you doing?! Climb you idiot!"
Alexandra was understandably confused, "but you said-"
The taller woman yanked the smaller by the arm as one would a misbehaving child, pulling her towards the wall of the next impending step. Eva's adrenaline was coursing, which allowed her the strength to lift Alex over the edge instead of waiting for her to scale the height herself. Precious seconds ticked by as the whistling grew louder... closer.
"Eva! What the fuck?!" Alex yelled, "what happened to dolling up?!" She offered both her hands to help Eva over the edge herself. Once back to her feet, the nervous redhead wasted no time tossing the grapple, not just over the next stair, but to the final one before the flight turned 90 degrees in the well.
"Shut the fuck up and climb, goddamnit!" Eva demanded. Once again, she lifted Alex over her head and shoved her carelessly onto the next elevated plain. The footfalls below them were still constant, still climbing, no matter how much Eva hoped they'd disappear into a unit on one of the lower floors. The giant could round the corner at any moment and they still had, not just one step, but the first one after the turn to conquer before they had a chance.
When Eva reached the dustbunny-lined surface where Alex was waiting, she didn't even let her diminutive companion speak. She tossed her so hard onto the square landing area that Alexandra damn near flew. As she took the line of the climbing thread in her hands once more, Eva looked back down the steps. A massive figure materialized from around the corner, rotund and wobbly, draped in a brown suit that was showing its age in the all the usual places. A wide-brimmed hat obscured its wearer's vision from the remarkable creatures scurrying up the stairs, but only momentarily.
Although damn near petrified with fear, Eva also knew to seize an opportunity when she saw one. As though Jackie Chan himself had suddenly possessed her, the extent of her athleticism went on full display. Leaping against the step with one foot and then against the wall with the other, Eva essentially ran up the corner without so much as touching the rope. The looming shadow cast by the giant creeped ever closer like an impending storm.
When she'd finally got Alex and herself safely onto the next step, hidden from view behind the wall, the thunderous footsteps of the enormous man had managed to clear in a matter of seconds what had taken the two of them over an hour. The gentleman's whistling wasn't a whistling at all, but a high pitched wheezing with each breath. Sweat dripped down his face and onto the floor like hot, briney rain. He paused for a moment, as he had on each flight up to that point, to wipe his brow with a faded crimson handkerchief. The banister creaked and groaned under his immense weight as he relied on it for his own accent of Mt. Stairwell. The bulbous man coughed violently before hocking a wad of lung butter into his hanky, then stuffed it back in his pocket. With a huff, he resumed his climb... failing to notice the two impossibly tiny figures pressing themselves against the wall. Both Eva and Alex held their eyes clenched shut, as though shielding their vision of him would somehow provide further camouflage. The man rounded the corner of the next set of stairs and disappeared out of sight, like a tornado in the night.
As soon as he was gone, Alex punched Eva in the gut out of frustration, "Jesus fucking christ, Eva! Quit tossing me around like a fucking rag doll! What the hell happened to all that bullshit you just spewed?" Being so much smaller than the panting redhead, her shot to the gut had little effect.
"Yeah!" Eva snarked back, "that shit works when yer on the ground! We were nearly eye level with that human bowling ball!" She shoved Alex in retaliation, who's back hit hard against the rise of the stair. "As usual, ya should be fuckin' thanking me for saving yer useless ass!"
As much as she could have used a knock-down-drag-out fight right then, Alex swallowed her pride and let it go. Any argument would only be a setback. Especially since the stubborn redhead was right. "Look... I'm sorry, ok? You just caught me off guard... that's all."
Eva allowed herself to slide down the wall onto her butt and take a breather. "Just... just fah'get it." She could hardly hide the anger in her voice.
An uncomfortable silence fell on the shrunken pair. Each more frustrated with the situation than they really were with each other, but both having taken those frustrations out on whoever happened to be in their face. This only resulted in a stomach-twisting combination of anger and embarrassment. Eva tried to rest her muscles, but her heightened emotions made it difficult to unwind in any way. Alex quietly retrieved the grapple and spooled the thread under her forearm.
"What was with that guy anyway?" Eva grumbled, directing her grievances towards someone else. "Ya'd think a fifth floor walk-up would be enough to keep them thunder-thighs in check."
This was when Alex realized that, for once, she had knowledge that Eva didn't. She peeked at the younger woman from over her shoulder and replied, "a steady diet of scotch and takeout will do that to ya."
"Huh?" Eva asked, perplexed by the specificity of Alex's response.
Alex turned to face her seated accomplice head on, nodding towards the intriguing Goliath. "If not for the little exercise he gets from climbing these stairs every day, he'd probably have died of a heart attack years ago. You didn't recognize your... human bowling ball... did you?"
Eva hadn't seen the man's face, only an unshaven double chin peeking out from below the brim of his hat. She didn't answer, knowing exactly what Alexandra was going to say next.
"That's him. That's Fulci."
End Part 24
No amount of mountain climbing experience could have prepared Alexandra for what she and Eva were undertaking. One massive stair at a time. That's how she tried to picture it anyway, but the shrunken woman found it hard not to look past the current challenge to what still remained. Three more steps, a daunting enough task for sure, but the shrunken duo still hadn't made the first turn. With every muscle needed to pull herself up the thin length of thread aching and sore, Alex knew that if she stopped too long to rest that the pain would only worsen with stiffness. The spirit-crushing reality of how much they still had to scale only weakened the knees more. One step at a time... at least until the next one.
"Eva?" Alex asked as she pulled herself over the edge of the next stair.
It had been fairly quiet for the first leg of their climb. That heavy, awkward silence still lingered in the air after their latest interaction with the boss. Eva chose, and wisely so, to let her partner cool down on her own.
"What is it, pipsqueak?" A meager attempt to lighten the mood, for sure... but at least it was an attempt. She pulled herself over the next step to join her accomplice.
Alex continued, "has anyone ever spotted you?"
"You mean like a mark?" Eva asked.
"Anyone," Alex clarified. "Like, if someone were to come down these stairs right now, what the hell do we do?!"
"Oh," the taller woman replied, "I mean... yeah. Once or twice."
Alex was mid toss of the grapple onto the next step when Eva answered, and that answer was so shockingly nonchalant that the hook slipped out of her hand and clanged against the side of the stair. "Once or twice?!" What the hell did they do?!What the hell did you do?!"
Eva picked up the grapple herself and tossed it successfully over the edge of step. "I dolled up."
"Dolled up," Alex parroted, "the hell does that mean?!"
Eva laughed a little before answering, "exactly what it sounds like."
Alex stood with her arms crossed over her chest and a less than enthused look on her face. She didn't need to say anything to let Eva know she thought she was full of shit.
"Look," Eva began to elaborate, "most people are too nose-deep in their phones to notice anything but the latest clickbait or the ding of a notification. In a situation like this where we're totally out in the open, you can usually just press yerself against the wall and people will walk right on by without even noticing. Especially in your case, pipsqueak."
"Ok, first of all... fuck you, Eva," Alex said in jest. "And second, what if these techno-zombies do notice you?"
"If they take a second look, then you stiffen up as tight and unnaturally as you can. And don't blink." Eva displayed what she was describing by jutting her arms out in front of her and falling back onto her ass with her legs outstretched and her feet turned as flat as she could make them. She titled her head slightly and held her eyes as open and wide as she could while maintaining focus on a single point she'd chosen on the far wall.
"You're so full of shit," Alex laughed.
Eva answered back without moving a muscle, "like I said... most folks ain't gonna notice unless you move. If you do move, then you gotta worry if'n they're gonna act like they saw a snake and try to stompin' ya guts out."
The smile disappeared from Alex's face, "has that happened to you?"
The mannequin-like redhead relaxed, letting her arms drop and stretched her toes until they cracked. "When I said once or twice... that was the twice."
"Jesus," Alex gasped.
Eva stood back up and futility tried to dust off her already filthy catsuit, "look, we're gonna be fine. Ain't no one is looking for a couple of lil' people runnin' 'round their house. Folks'll try to rationalize just about anything else in their heads before jumping to that conclusion. And besides..."
"Sssssshhhh!" Alex interrupted. "You hear that?"
She was right.
Footsteps were echoing up from somewhere below. The unmistakable clacking was accompanied by a lazy, tuneless whistling. Someone was ascending the stairwell and would be on them in a matter of seconds! Alex pressed herself against the inner wall of the rectangular whirl, locking her joints into as motionless and plastic looking positions as she could... just as Eva had instructed her to do.
Eva, on the other hand, looked at her partner with dumbfounded fear, "what the fuck are you doing?! Climb you idiot!"
Alexandra was understandably confused, "but you said-"
The taller woman yanked the smaller by the arm as one would a misbehaving child, pulling her towards the wall of the next impending step. Eva's adrenaline was coursing, which allowed her the strength to lift Alex over the edge instead of waiting for her to scale the height herself. Precious seconds ticked by as the whistling grew louder... closer.
"Eva! What the fuck?!" Alex yelled, "what happened to dolling up?!" She offered both her hands to help Eva over the edge herself. Once back to her feet, the nervous redhead wasted no time tossing the grapple, not just over the next stair, but to the final one before the flight turned 90 degrees in the well.
"Shut the fuck up and climb, goddamnit!" Eva demanded. Once again, she lifted Alex over her head and shoved her carelessly onto the next elevated plain. The footfalls below them were still constant, still climbing, no matter how much Eva hoped they'd disappear into a unit on one of the lower floors. The giant could round the corner at any moment and they still had, not just one step, but the first one after the turn to conquer before they had a chance.
When Eva reached the dustbunny-lined surface where Alex was waiting, she didn't even let her diminutive companion speak. She tossed her so hard onto the square landing area that Alexandra damn near flew. As she took the line of the climbing thread in her hands once more, Eva looked back down the steps. A massive figure materialized from around the corner, rotund and wobbly, draped in a brown suit that was showing its age in the all the usual places. A wide-brimmed hat obscured its wearer's vision from the remarkable creatures scurrying up the stairs, but only momentarily.
Although damn near petrified with fear, Eva also knew to seize an opportunity when she saw one. As though Jackie Chan himself had suddenly possessed her, the extent of her athleticism went on full display. Leaping against the step with one foot and then against the wall with the other, Eva essentially ran up the corner without so much as touching the rope. The looming shadow cast by the giant creeped ever closer like an impending storm.
When she'd finally got Alex and herself safely onto the next step, hidden from view behind the wall, the thunderous footsteps of the enormous man had managed to clear in a matter of seconds what had taken the two of them over an hour. The gentleman's whistling wasn't a whistling at all, but a high pitched wheezing with each breath. Sweat dripped down his face and onto the floor like hot, briney rain. He paused for a moment, as he had on each flight up to that point, to wipe his brow with a faded crimson handkerchief. The banister creaked and groaned under his immense weight as he relied on it for his own accent of Mt. Stairwell. The bulbous man coughed violently before hocking a wad of lung butter into his hanky, then stuffed it back in his pocket. With a huff, he resumed his climb... failing to notice the two impossibly tiny figures pressing themselves against the wall. Both Eva and Alex held their eyes clenched shut, as though shielding their vision of him would somehow provide further camouflage. The man rounded the corner of the next set of stairs and disappeared out of sight, like a tornado in the night.
As soon as he was gone, Alex punched Eva in the gut out of frustration, "Jesus fucking christ, Eva! Quit tossing me around like a fucking rag doll! What the hell happened to all that bullshit you just spewed?" Being so much smaller than the panting redhead, her shot to the gut had little effect.
"Yeah!" Eva snarked back, "that shit works when yer on the ground! We were nearly eye level with that human bowling ball!" She shoved Alex in retaliation, who's back hit hard against the rise of the stair. "As usual, ya should be fuckin' thanking me for saving yer useless ass!"
As much as she could have used a knock-down-drag-out fight right then, Alex swallowed her pride and let it go. Any argument would only be a setback. Especially since the stubborn redhead was right. "Look... I'm sorry, ok? You just caught me off guard... that's all."
Eva allowed herself to slide down the wall onto her butt and take a breather. "Just... just fah'get it." She could hardly hide the anger in her voice.
An uncomfortable silence fell on the shrunken pair. Each more frustrated with the situation than they really were with each other, but both having taken those frustrations out on whoever happened to be in their face. This only resulted in a stomach-twisting combination of anger and embarrassment. Eva tried to rest her muscles, but her heightened emotions made it difficult to unwind in any way. Alex quietly retrieved the grapple and spooled the thread under her forearm.
"What was with that guy anyway?" Eva grumbled, directing her grievances towards someone else. "Ya'd think a fifth floor walk-up would be enough to keep them thunder-thighs in check."
This was when Alex realized that, for once, she had knowledge that Eva didn't. She peeked at the younger woman from over her shoulder and replied, "a steady diet of scotch and takeout will do that to ya."
"Huh?" Eva asked, perplexed by the specificity of Alex's response.
Alex turned to face her seated accomplice head on, nodding towards the intriguing Goliath. "If not for the little exercise he gets from climbing these stairs every day, he'd probably have died of a heart attack years ago. You didn't recognize your... human bowling ball... did you?"
Eva hadn't seen the man's face, only an unshaven double chin peeking out from below the brim of his hat. She didn't answer, knowing exactly what Alexandra was going to say next.
"That's him. That's Fulci."
End Part 24
"People like Coldplay and voted for the Nazis, you can't trust people, Jeremy."
-Super Hans, Peep Show
-Super Hans, Peep Show
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Bloodthirstybutcher
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Re: Leveraged: A Sequel to Tumbled
Part 25-"Lucio Fulci's Very Bad, No Good Day"
The late morning traffic was as bad as ever, like any morning in New York really. Fulci sat in the back of a yellow cab, trying to nurse his daily hangover with a few swigs from the flask he kept secreted away in his jacket pocket. Godawful Belarusian trap music blared throughout the taxi, a personal favorite of the gentleman in the blue tracksuit behind the wheel. The relentless noise wasn't helping calm Fulci's pounding headache one iota. He just wanted to get to the office, inhale the Chinese food he'd picked up before hailing the cab, then pass out on the sofa for a couple of hours.
After an hour long commute, taking twice as long as it should have, the cabby dropped the portly mafioso off in front of the building where Fulci had kept his office for over thirty years. Swinging a leg out of the vehicle, Lucio's foot landed ankle deep in a puddle of disgusting fluid. It hadn't rained in weeks, and with the sanitation department strike still in full effect, god knows what kind of sludge he'd just soaked his sock in.
"Fuuuuuuck! Fuck dis fucking fuckhole of a city!" He screamed.
"Nah, my friend!," the cabby responded in a thick Slavic accent, "New Yawk greatest city in Vorld!"
Fulci tossed his fare at the driver, "yeeeeah, well yous can fuckin' have it!"
Already in a pissy mood, Lucio waddled through the doors of the building, leaving a single track of squishing footprints in his wake. The first thing he noticed was the cellar door left open, with the distinct smell of old, wet mop wafting up from below. He peeked his head down the stairs to find the building superintendent, Dean Roper, soaking up water, surrounded by box fans set at full blast to try and dry out the concrete.
"Havin' problems, Dean?" Fulci asked.
Roper looked up to where Fulci stood, halting his work to run a hand through his long greasy hair. "Mrs. Rodriguez's grandkids again. Lil' fuckers flooded the basement. Sometimes I wonder if the almighty has it out for me, Lucio ol' buddy."
Fulci chuckled a little, "yous and me both. Don't work too hawd, ya hear?" With that, he bid Dean Roper a good day. As good as it could be, he supposed.
His first stop, the column of mail slots built into the entryway wall. Bills. Bills. Junk mail. More bills. He stuffed the letters into his pockets and closed the little metal door. Lucio turned towards the stairwell, the next challenge he'd been dreading. He didn't make it far.
His leg caught on something, and before he knew it, the rotund man was toppling forward onto his stomach. "The fuuuuuck?!" One of Mrs. Rodriguez's mischievous grandchildren had ducked down next to Lucio while he was preoccupied with inspecting the mail. The little shit had done this to him on purpose! One of the kid's siblings came out of hiding and the two of them laughed themselves silly watching the chubby Italian man roll around on the floor like an upturned turtle.
"Yous! Yous little shits! I'll fuckin' kill yas both when I gets muh hands on yous! I'll slit yous little throats!" He cursed profusely as he tried to rock himself into a position where he could get back to his feet. The kids ran out the front door, laughing and high diving each other as they took off down the street.
"Miserable little bastahds! I swear to St. Lucifer of Cagliari, theys little Puerto Rican asses is gonna get it some day!" Fulci hollered to an empty entryway.
Eventually the pudgy criminal was finally able to rock himself onto his knees, then struggle wobbly to stand. The container for his General Tso's chicken and fried rice had been crushed in the fall, spilling its grainy insides out into the plastic bag it was stored in. "Fuh fuck sakes! What next?!"
Fulci took a couple more generous gulps from his flask, just enough to calm his agitation. He gathered up his briefcase and sack full of loose rice and chicken. He wondered how his already shitty morning could possibly get any worse... then looked at the mountain of stairs he was gonna have to tackle. Lucio couldn't help but sigh.
It was 12:15 pm and he'd already had enough.
One flight. Then another. Then another... and so on. Every day, he cursed that goddamn building for not having an elevator. The nondescript nature of the edifice was the perfect cover for his various illegal activities. Plain, rundown, forgettable. He'd often thought about moving into a newer building, one with an extravagance as simple as a goddamn elevator. Especially with his knees worsening year after year under his weight and age. A serious gambling problem that had plagued him for years prevented that from ever happening. While well compensated by the D'Amato crime syndicate, he was far from a made man. Fulci rarely had enough money to pay his creditors. So until he could get that under control, it was one miserable flight of stairs at a time.
The fifth floor office was quite small. One small room with a closet and basic lavatory. The sheer amount of shit Fulci had packed in that tiny space didn't help with the claustrophobic feel. Filing cabinets lined the walls, most pouring over with overstuffed files Lucio hadn't so much as peeked at in ages. His big wooden desk took up most of the available room, with his rolling high-back chair on the window side and a pair of smaller seats opposite. A dingy dark green love seat, which sat so close to the door that it prevented it from fully opening, rounded out the scene.
Lucio took his usual seat behind the desk, panting and wheezing like he was about to die. An Art Deco style desk fan sat on top of one of the filing cabinets, which he promptly switched on and leaned into to dry his sweaty face. His breathing calmed. His heart slowed from its race.
With no plates available, the rotund Italian began to shovel his breakfast/lunch into his mouth straight from the bag. What he did have was a drawer full of hard liquor and several dirty glasses. He poured himself a couple of fingers of scotch, a vice with an even greater hold on him than his gambling addiction, and then another before his meal was finished. With a healthy belch, he tossed the sack into the small bin resting against the wall.
As was routine, a trip to the bathroom followed next. Not just in hopes of emptying his frequently constipated bowels, but to down the handful of pills Lucio was prescribed to take daily. Drugs whose side effects were responsible for the very constipation he suffered through each and every day.
More than a half an hour passed before Fulci emerged. Red faced. Sweating. Unsuccessful. Not all that dissimilar to how he looked upon arrival. He plopped back down in his rolling chair and dragged the fan even closer. He scooted his chair towards the window to let some more fresh air in into the room. As fresh as it was gonna get with all the neglected waste piling up in the streets anyway. Frustrated and blocked up, it took some time before Lucio was ready to do any actual work.
While he waited for his desktop computer to boot up, the man downed the generous helping of booze he'd left behind before his fruitless trip to the restroom. His hangover was starting to fade thanks to a belly full of food and the fresh buzz beginning to occupy his brain, so naturally, he helped himself to another glass.
An antique silver frame sat propped up at the edge of the desk. A faded portrait of the late Mrs. Fulci, who had passed on only a few short years ago. A much younger version of the woman, from way back in the early days of their courtship. Lucio spoke to it, as he often did since her passing, "yous wouldna believe the mornin' I've had, Puddin'."
A nap would soon be forthcoming. It had already been a hell of a day, and Lucio was ready for some rest. Not before checking the one thing he was most concerned about though. It had been over a week since he'd heard from the pair of professional thieves he'd tipped off to a man named Emil DeTorres: The Broker. A man who had thwarted every attempt the aging career criminal had made to relieve of his vast physical fortune. And just like everyone he'd contracted to do the job before, Imogene and Cooper had dropped off the face of the earth.
Fulci needed this golden ticket out of his considerable debt. There were people he owed money to, powerful people, who were growing ever more impatient with his inability to make good on his bets. He had hoped that by sending two of his best in at once it would change things... it hadn't.
Through his overwhelming greed, he even offered each of them an increased take if one put the other down after the heist was successful. Was this double cross a poor decision on his part? Had the two of them made off with the money together, leaving him with nothing but dreams of a tropical retirement in their wake?
Or... did The Broker have them done away with? A fate Fulci feared had met so many others he'd put on DeTorres's path. With each new day passing without news, things were not looking good.
The screen didn't lie.
No new emails.
No new texts.
Lucio may have been expecting this, but it still made his heart sink. He slammed his fist down on the desk, nearly spilling his drink. A combination of anger and panic washed over him. Beads of sweat once again formed on his forehead. His skin flushed to a beet red. Then, the tightening in his chest began to grow...
Fulci was upset, but not enough to warrant this physiological reaction. This wasn't some run of the mill panic attack he was experiencing.
Something was seriously wrong.
End Part 25
The late morning traffic was as bad as ever, like any morning in New York really. Fulci sat in the back of a yellow cab, trying to nurse his daily hangover with a few swigs from the flask he kept secreted away in his jacket pocket. Godawful Belarusian trap music blared throughout the taxi, a personal favorite of the gentleman in the blue tracksuit behind the wheel. The relentless noise wasn't helping calm Fulci's pounding headache one iota. He just wanted to get to the office, inhale the Chinese food he'd picked up before hailing the cab, then pass out on the sofa for a couple of hours.
After an hour long commute, taking twice as long as it should have, the cabby dropped the portly mafioso off in front of the building where Fulci had kept his office for over thirty years. Swinging a leg out of the vehicle, Lucio's foot landed ankle deep in a puddle of disgusting fluid. It hadn't rained in weeks, and with the sanitation department strike still in full effect, god knows what kind of sludge he'd just soaked his sock in.
"Fuuuuuuck! Fuck dis fucking fuckhole of a city!" He screamed.
"Nah, my friend!," the cabby responded in a thick Slavic accent, "New Yawk greatest city in Vorld!"
Fulci tossed his fare at the driver, "yeeeeah, well yous can fuckin' have it!"
Already in a pissy mood, Lucio waddled through the doors of the building, leaving a single track of squishing footprints in his wake. The first thing he noticed was the cellar door left open, with the distinct smell of old, wet mop wafting up from below. He peeked his head down the stairs to find the building superintendent, Dean Roper, soaking up water, surrounded by box fans set at full blast to try and dry out the concrete.
"Havin' problems, Dean?" Fulci asked.
Roper looked up to where Fulci stood, halting his work to run a hand through his long greasy hair. "Mrs. Rodriguez's grandkids again. Lil' fuckers flooded the basement. Sometimes I wonder if the almighty has it out for me, Lucio ol' buddy."
Fulci chuckled a little, "yous and me both. Don't work too hawd, ya hear?" With that, he bid Dean Roper a good day. As good as it could be, he supposed.
His first stop, the column of mail slots built into the entryway wall. Bills. Bills. Junk mail. More bills. He stuffed the letters into his pockets and closed the little metal door. Lucio turned towards the stairwell, the next challenge he'd been dreading. He didn't make it far.
His leg caught on something, and before he knew it, the rotund man was toppling forward onto his stomach. "The fuuuuuck?!" One of Mrs. Rodriguez's mischievous grandchildren had ducked down next to Lucio while he was preoccupied with inspecting the mail. The little shit had done this to him on purpose! One of the kid's siblings came out of hiding and the two of them laughed themselves silly watching the chubby Italian man roll around on the floor like an upturned turtle.
"Yous! Yous little shits! I'll fuckin' kill yas both when I gets muh hands on yous! I'll slit yous little throats!" He cursed profusely as he tried to rock himself into a position where he could get back to his feet. The kids ran out the front door, laughing and high diving each other as they took off down the street.
"Miserable little bastahds! I swear to St. Lucifer of Cagliari, theys little Puerto Rican asses is gonna get it some day!" Fulci hollered to an empty entryway.
Eventually the pudgy criminal was finally able to rock himself onto his knees, then struggle wobbly to stand. The container for his General Tso's chicken and fried rice had been crushed in the fall, spilling its grainy insides out into the plastic bag it was stored in. "Fuh fuck sakes! What next?!"
Fulci took a couple more generous gulps from his flask, just enough to calm his agitation. He gathered up his briefcase and sack full of loose rice and chicken. He wondered how his already shitty morning could possibly get any worse... then looked at the mountain of stairs he was gonna have to tackle. Lucio couldn't help but sigh.
It was 12:15 pm and he'd already had enough.
One flight. Then another. Then another... and so on. Every day, he cursed that goddamn building for not having an elevator. The nondescript nature of the edifice was the perfect cover for his various illegal activities. Plain, rundown, forgettable. He'd often thought about moving into a newer building, one with an extravagance as simple as a goddamn elevator. Especially with his knees worsening year after year under his weight and age. A serious gambling problem that had plagued him for years prevented that from ever happening. While well compensated by the D'Amato crime syndicate, he was far from a made man. Fulci rarely had enough money to pay his creditors. So until he could get that under control, it was one miserable flight of stairs at a time.
The fifth floor office was quite small. One small room with a closet and basic lavatory. The sheer amount of shit Fulci had packed in that tiny space didn't help with the claustrophobic feel. Filing cabinets lined the walls, most pouring over with overstuffed files Lucio hadn't so much as peeked at in ages. His big wooden desk took up most of the available room, with his rolling high-back chair on the window side and a pair of smaller seats opposite. A dingy dark green love seat, which sat so close to the door that it prevented it from fully opening, rounded out the scene.
Lucio took his usual seat behind the desk, panting and wheezing like he was about to die. An Art Deco style desk fan sat on top of one of the filing cabinets, which he promptly switched on and leaned into to dry his sweaty face. His breathing calmed. His heart slowed from its race.
With no plates available, the rotund Italian began to shovel his breakfast/lunch into his mouth straight from the bag. What he did have was a drawer full of hard liquor and several dirty glasses. He poured himself a couple of fingers of scotch, a vice with an even greater hold on him than his gambling addiction, and then another before his meal was finished. With a healthy belch, he tossed the sack into the small bin resting against the wall.
As was routine, a trip to the bathroom followed next. Not just in hopes of emptying his frequently constipated bowels, but to down the handful of pills Lucio was prescribed to take daily. Drugs whose side effects were responsible for the very constipation he suffered through each and every day.
More than a half an hour passed before Fulci emerged. Red faced. Sweating. Unsuccessful. Not all that dissimilar to how he looked upon arrival. He plopped back down in his rolling chair and dragged the fan even closer. He scooted his chair towards the window to let some more fresh air in into the room. As fresh as it was gonna get with all the neglected waste piling up in the streets anyway. Frustrated and blocked up, it took some time before Lucio was ready to do any actual work.
While he waited for his desktop computer to boot up, the man downed the generous helping of booze he'd left behind before his fruitless trip to the restroom. His hangover was starting to fade thanks to a belly full of food and the fresh buzz beginning to occupy his brain, so naturally, he helped himself to another glass.
An antique silver frame sat propped up at the edge of the desk. A faded portrait of the late Mrs. Fulci, who had passed on only a few short years ago. A much younger version of the woman, from way back in the early days of their courtship. Lucio spoke to it, as he often did since her passing, "yous wouldna believe the mornin' I've had, Puddin'."
A nap would soon be forthcoming. It had already been a hell of a day, and Lucio was ready for some rest. Not before checking the one thing he was most concerned about though. It had been over a week since he'd heard from the pair of professional thieves he'd tipped off to a man named Emil DeTorres: The Broker. A man who had thwarted every attempt the aging career criminal had made to relieve of his vast physical fortune. And just like everyone he'd contracted to do the job before, Imogene and Cooper had dropped off the face of the earth.
Fulci needed this golden ticket out of his considerable debt. There were people he owed money to, powerful people, who were growing ever more impatient with his inability to make good on his bets. He had hoped that by sending two of his best in at once it would change things... it hadn't.
Through his overwhelming greed, he even offered each of them an increased take if one put the other down after the heist was successful. Was this double cross a poor decision on his part? Had the two of them made off with the money together, leaving him with nothing but dreams of a tropical retirement in their wake?
Or... did The Broker have them done away with? A fate Fulci feared had met so many others he'd put on DeTorres's path. With each new day passing without news, things were not looking good.
The screen didn't lie.
No new emails.
No new texts.
Lucio may have been expecting this, but it still made his heart sink. He slammed his fist down on the desk, nearly spilling his drink. A combination of anger and panic washed over him. Beads of sweat once again formed on his forehead. His skin flushed to a beet red. Then, the tightening in his chest began to grow...
Fulci was upset, but not enough to warrant this physiological reaction. This wasn't some run of the mill panic attack he was experiencing.
Something was seriously wrong.
End Part 25
"People like Coldplay and voted for the Nazis, you can't trust people, Jeremy."
-Super Hans, Peep Show
-Super Hans, Peep Show
-
Bloodthirstybutcher
- Shrink Master
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Re: Leveraged: A Sequel to Tumbled
Part 26-"The Russians"
Noon.
Glitter litters the floor and the smell of floral body lotion fills the air. A blonde, scantily-clad girl works her pole routine to near perfection across the room. If nothing else, Emil could at least appreciate her considerable skills as a dancer. He sits patiently, waiting in a dark corner booth hidden in the back of a shady, Eastern European run strip club. Other than the people working there, he's the only person patronizing the sleazy establishment, not uncommon for a place such as this at midday. This meeting location was at the suggestion of his would be clients, naturally. Clients that were now a half an hour late. Emil had little patience for tardiness.
DeTorres was more worried about the meeting he'd arranged with the Russians than he would ever let on to one of his subordinates. It took a lot to shake the man, but New York City itself had that effect on him. Back home in Los Angeles, there was nothing he loved more than the thrill of a deal struck between himself and potentially dangerous clientele. But there, he had Mr. Rudolph to watch his back. Emil had considered bringing his manservant along on this short cross country trip, but Mr. Rudolph had the more important task of guarding DeTorres's secret vault. After all, he only planned to be in the city for a day or so.
That said, a single day in a hostile city could prove dangerous enough. As stated multiple times before, the D'Amato crime family had it out for him. A deal gone terribly wrong, resulting in two high-ranking members of the syndicate losing their lives, left New York City virtually off limits to The Broker's doings. Not to mention a hefty price on his head. He'd been able to avoid assassination on the opposite coast by buying off every state official and law enforcement agency in the great state of California. Something that had proven impossible to do in New York where those individuals were already bought and paid for by various criminal organizations.
What, to Alexandra, had appeared to be an obsessive compulsive impulse to clean his apartment when they'd first arrived at the penthouse, was in truth a bit more layered in purpose. DeTorres had motion activated cameras hidden all over the sprawling living space. He actually kept close tabs on the New York apartment from his home back in California. Emil wasn't just cleaning the furniture like a manic germaphobe, he was checking for explosives. You aren't being paranoid when everyone is, in fact, after you.
Added to the threat the D'Amatos already posed, the Russians had always been a tough nut for DeTorres to crack. There's a reason the Cold War lasted as long as it did. Organized crime, government officials... it was all the same thing when dealing with members of the former Soviet Union. Always fickle negotiators, the Russians knew exactly how to force a deal in their favor. Emil had been around a very, very long time and had a few tricks up his own sleeve.
Two men enter through the front doors of the dimly neon-lit room, one with a short flat top and the other with a freshly shaved head. Both are dressed in expensive suits that make them look wider and more muscular than they actually are, but still more than formidable. The men approach the bar first, where the bartender has already begun preparing their usual libations. The bald one whispers something to the barkeep, who then points them in Emil's direction. Baldy shows little to no emotion as they approach the booth, but the one with the crewcut opens his arms and greets DeTorres with a smile full of bright, bleached teeth. All except for a single golden canine anyway.
"Soooooo!" Crewcut sings with a heavy Slavic accent, "this is famous Broker Man!"
Emil stands up and politely shakes the men's hands, "Ah! You seem to have me at a disadvantage, my good sir. What shall I call you and your associate here?"
Crewcut raises a hand to introduce his colleague. Upon closer viewing, DeTorres can see that the silent man is completely clean of facial hair, eyebrows included. He may also be an albino. "This is Yuri... and as for me, 'Sir' will do just fine."
A-ha!, DeTorres thinks to himself, the power struggle has already begun. He'll only think of the alpha as Crewcut from this point on.
From behind a pair of swinging doors, another stripper appears, only this one is carrying a large plate of piping hot Buffalo wings. Her dangling exposed tits come dangerously close to touching the food as she walks. She promptly lays the sauce-coated chicken down in the center of their table.
"Spasiba, lisichka," Crewcut says to the girl. He wraps his arm around her backside and slides his hairy fingers between her legs. The neon green g-string the shapely brunette is wearing is more of a suggestion than an actual article of clothing. The Russian pushes it aside and slips a couple of fingers inside her, just a quick little reminder of who she belongs to. She gasps, feeling deeply embarrassed about being handled in such a way in front of onlookers, but also hating herself for liking it. Crewcut let's her know she's excused with a playful slap across one of her exposed ass cheeks. He picks up one of the wings with the same fingers he'd just forced inside the girl, sauce dripping from its breaded skin, and sucks all the meat off the bone in a single fluid motion. "Help yourself, skinny man," he offers with a mouthful of meat.
"You are too kind," DeTorres replies, "but I've never developed much of a taste for the deep-fried confectionary meats." In reality, Emil is repulsed by the very idea of eating anything that's been cooked inside a strip club, and by the strippers no less!
Crewcut shrugs, slurping the sticky orange sauce from his fingertips, "is your loss. I, on other hand, love decadence of small tasty American bird limb. People tell me, 'don't serve food in strip club! Is terrible idea!' I say fuck them, ey! I not only serve wings, but best wings in New York City in my club!"
"I'll take your word for it."
Yuri the Albino has still not uttered a word. Emil assess that he is only there to serve as Crewcut's heavy.
Crewcut sucks some more meat into his sizable maw, then wipes his hands off on a napkin. Cherry Pie by Warrant plays in the background as another girl takes the stage to begin her routine. With cheeks stuffed full of chicken, Crewcut thumbs back at the skinny blonde spinning around the base of the pole. He asks DeTorres, "you like? She suck cock like vacuum cleaner. She suck you off very good, my friend! My treat!"
"Again, I appreciate the offer," Emil says, maintaining an exceptional level of cool, "but if you've done your homework on me, as I'm sure you have, you already know my tastes lie elsewhere."
With this, Crewcut laughs hard enough to send a speck of meat flying across the table, landing ever so close to DeTorres's hand. Emil shudders in disgust.
"They not so nice to fruits like you in my country," Crewcut laughs.
Emil responds, "so I've heard."
The big bad Russian with the even bigger personality removes a cigarette from his jacket pocket. Yuri is kind enough to light it for him. As The Broker has rejected both offers so far, Crewcut does not bother to offer Emil a smoke. DeTorres notices. After a few puffs of his filterless cancer stick, Sir decides it's finally time to get down to business.
"Men who send me to graciously meet with famous Broker Man tell me you have something. Something of great cultural significance, their words not mine. Something that belong to us."
"If by us," Emil teases, "you mean the entire nation of Russia... then yes, your information is indeed correct."
"And in exchange for mysterious object, you are asking...?"
Emil leans in, allowing his face to be illuminated by the dangling pendant light above the table for the first time. "I am asking for the complete withdrawal of Russian forces from the Ukraine. Effective immediately."
Crewcut looks to Yuri the Albino... and both men laugh mockingly at DeTorres's request. After realizing that The Broker is not joining them in what certainly has to be a put on, Crewcut asks, "you serious?"
"As a heart attack, so the saying goes."
The boisterous Russian laughs again. At this point he's sure this entire meeting is a joke being played on him by his superiors. That said, he's just too curious to see where the conversation goes next to get up and leave. "Well then, Mr. Broker Man... this... item you possess, it must have great value, yes?! Greater than reunification of Ukraine with Russian brothers?"
"I do not believe the Ukrainians see things your way," Emil counters. "But yes, I believe it does."
"Out with it, man! What you have to offer?"
"The Amber Room," Emil finally reveals, "I have the Amber Room in my possession."
"Bullshit!" For the first time, Yuri the Albino speaks! "This man full of shit, boss!"
DeTorres elaborates, "in the final days of World War II, British soldiers took control of a German bunker in the northeast of France. A bunker, gentlemen, meant to store priceless artifacts and artwork, pilfered from their rightful countries by greedy Nazi thugs. A treasure trove in the most literal of senses, awaiting available cargo ships to move this stolen loot on to South America. There, Hitler's loyalists hoped to establish a new Nazi stronghold with this horde to fund it. The Amber Room was among many other incredible treasures rescued that day."
Crewcut laughs, lifting his vodka to salute the man across the table, "very good story, Mr. Brokerman. Amber Room gone, destroyed during war."
"It is," DeTorres agrees. "Truth rarely makes for an engaging story. Except when dealing with me. I have it. The Amber Room is very much intact, for the most part, and it's awaiting its chance to finally return home."
The chucking Russian asks, "your reputation precedes you, Mr. Broker... but I cannot just take word for it. You have proof, yes?"
"Of course." Emil lifts his phone up from off the table and activates the thumb scanner. He slides it across the table for Crewcut to view for himself. "What you're seeing there, gentlemen, is a live drone feed from the interior of my vault. Feel free to zoom in. It's all there, with the exception of what was irreparably damaged when the Germans stripped it from the palace walls."
Sir and Yuri analyze the security feed, looking for certain telltale signs that could prove what The Broker was selling was the truth. So far, things looked good. Really good. The gorgeous walls of The Amber Room, stacked up alongside the priceless furniture that once complimented it. Surrounding the treasure in question, is a vast corridor of more loot than either man can possibly comprehend. When satisfied with what he was seeing, Crewcut slides the phone back across the table to its rightful owner. DeTorres promptly returns it to his jacket pocket.
"What do you say, gentlemen? The Ukraine's sovereignty in exchange for an artistic wonder thought lost to the world for decades?"
Crewcut finishes his drink and signals the bartender to bring another. He doesn't take his eyes off from The Broker. He's quiet while he waits, but that big, toothy smile of his remains. Even Yuri is grinning. DeTorres doesn't like this, not one bit. It makes him uneasy, like the two of them are already plotting against him. He hasn't even finished his own cocktail yet.
"I think I make you counter offer, Mr. Broker," Crewcut begins, "Russia take Ukraine, AND Amber Room... and while inside vault, we take anything else we feel like, yes?"
Enough red flags have been raised for Emil. It was time to abandon this meeting. He stands up and buttons the front of his eggshell-white suit coat. "Unfortunately I'm going to have to bring this meeting to a close, gentlemen. I was under the impression this was going to be an open and honest negotiation, not a railroad job."
Before DeTorres can make his way around the table, Yuri the Albino has pulled a handgun on him. Crewcut laughs heartily, doing exactly the same. The bartender has an AK-47 pointed in Emil's corner. Even the goddamn stripper has paused her routine. She has an oozy held in his direction, seemingly pulled from her fucking ass since she isn't wearing anything but a pair of heels and a smile. Always in favor of preserving his self over his pride, DeTorres lifts his hands to show he is unarmed.
"Perhaps my exit was made in haste," Emil relents.
"Sit back down, Mr. Brokerman," Crewcut orders, that arrogant smile still painted across his extremely punchable face. Emil does as instructed. "Now, let me tell you how this go. Yuri here will accompany you back to Los Angeles where you turn over possession of Amber Room to him. Try anything smart, he shoot you in head. Involve police, he shoot you in head. Inform bodyguards..."
"...'he shoot me in head.' You've made that very clear," Emil snarks back. His eyes shift from one goon to the next, effectively sizing up the situation.
"Ah, do not feel upset, Mr. Brokerman," Crewcut says with a chuckling recharge of a sigh. "Just think of this as... generous gift to new friends in Moscow."
Emil pinkied at the corner of his thin mustache. "That would certainly be A way to look at it."
"Relax. As long as you cooperate, you have nothing to worry about."
This was not DeTorres's first pickle. Far from it actually. As already mentioned, he still had a few tricks up his sleeve, or in this case, hidden inside his jacket pocket.
"Would you permit me an indulgence, kind hosts?" Emil reaches inside his coat. This causes the men across the table to tense up, with Yuri actually cocking his firearm. The Broker slows his movement while also raising his left hand in submission. "Easy gentlemen, it's only a little Colombian powder. Pure. Uncut. Fine stuff. May I offer you both a line?"
From deep within Emil's coat, a small clear vial with a black cap emerges, pinched delicately between his spindly fingers. He twists off the cover and taps a gram or so directly onto the table. He also removes his wallet from the same pocket and extracts a crisp hundred dollar bill and a gold card. Emil offers Crewcut a bump without words.
"After you, Mr. Brokerman," Crewcut replies suspiciously.
Emil shrugs, "suit yourself." He cuts himself a nice, manageable line and then inhales the fine powder right up into his sinuses. A couple of sniffles later, he once again offers some of his very high quality, very expensive cocaine to his less-than hospitable hosts.
"Four lines," Crewcut accepts. "One for my each of my comrades. We are Russian after all."
DeTorres nods cordially, "but of course. How very socialist of you." He empties the remaining narcotic onto the table and begins to divide it up evenly for the others. Each row of equal length and height.
"Svetlana! Come! Hit this shit!" The alpha Russian orders.
The stripper steps down from the stage, nearly tripping over her platform shoes in the process. She's already high as a kite. She still has her weapon fixed on DeTorres, who sits back and watches, completely maintaining his impeccable poker face. The frizzy-haired dancer inhales her cut in a single, experienced breath. Her eyes bulge and she shakes her head from the painful, but exhilarating rush.
Crewcut rests his chin on the back of his hands and asks , "well?"
"Is good shit, boss," Svetlana coughs. "Real fucking good."
"Haha! Wonderful!" Crewcut laughs with an enthusiastic clap. "I know you not sore loser, Mr. Brokerman! Vlad! You next!"
Before the bartender can even make his way around the counter, Yuri is already snorting his share. A little white powder for the white-powder-colored man. He sits back down, rubbing his nose and any remaining residue against his gums. "Fuck! She right, boss... this shit hit hard."
"I would feel insulted if you thought I'd procure anything but the very best," states Emil.
"I like you, Mr. Brokerman," the man with the shit-eating grin and the barely-there flattop says, wagging his finger playfully at DeTorres. He takes the rolled up bill and vacuums up his share. The bartender follows until the table is clean. "Perhaps in future, we do real business, yes?"
"I look forward to it," Emil replies, still not breaking from his stoic demeanor. With good reason. Little do his hosts know that Emil DeTorres is a master of slight-at-hand. He's had plenty of time on this earth to study the art after all, and his considerable skills have gotten him out of stickier situations than this, and on multiple occasions.
You see, The Broker hadn't just pulled one vial of powder from his pocket, but a second. Identical to the first, but kept palmed and out of view of the others. DeTorres had never been interested in hard drugs, but was not ignorant to their power over arrogant thugs like Crewcut and his pale friend. The line of 'cocaine' he himself had snorted was only harmless vitamin B-12, crushed into a fine powder. The same exact method used in feature films when actors need to be seen snorting something on screen, famously used to great extent in The Wolf of Wall Street. It even provides its user with a small burst of energy, like a strong cup of coffee.
Once the setup had been sold, Emil casually swapped the vitamin vial with one filled with actual cocaine, unbeknownst to the others. It wasn't as pure as he'd told the Russians it was, high quality yes, but cut with trace amounts of another chemical. A compound he'd acquired years ago from the Israeli government. One Alexandra and Eva were all to familiar with.
Svetlana the stripper begins to cough first, but the others are too caught up in their drug induced laughter to notice. Then Yuri. Then Crewcut. Then the bartender feels the tickle in the back of his throat. Unlike the almost instant reaction that normally comes from inhaling the compound, which has to cause the adrenaline rush to take effect, DeTorres has experimented and learned that tiny doses of it, mixed with the immediate adrenaline rush of a narcotic such as cocaine, strangely resulted in a delayed reaction... but with just as potent results.
"Boss," Svetlana wheezes. By now she is holding her throat and beginning to panic. "Something wrong."
Emil interrupts her, "I have a new proposition for you, Sir."
Crewcut laughs through his increasingly scratchy throat, "oh?! And what is that, Mr. Brokerman?"
"You will come work for me. No questions asked."
This time, Crewcut almost chokes on his own laughter.
"Boss," Yuri chimes in, coughing heavily while trying to convey his worries, "I don't... feel... good... boss."
Svetlana collapses, clawing at her throat as she gasps for air.
Now Crewcut notices something is amiss.
His smile disappears. He coughs even harder.
Yuri the Albino collapses next.
Where cheerful cockiness once oozed from the boisterous Russian's entire persona, now only fear and anger remained. He lifts his gun to fire it at the calm, skinny man watching from across the table. "You fucking bastard!"
Emil is too quick for him, lifting the tray of lukewarm Buffalo wings off the table and using it to swat Crewcut's weapon out of his hand. Sloppy chicken parts fly across the room and coat the floor in meat and sauce. DeTorres raises the tray again, this time using it to knock Crewcut clean out of his seat. He falls to the floor, joining his comrades as they writhe and suffocate. Emil takes the time to kick each of their weapons out of reach, then stands back and watches what he knows is coming next.
As she was the first to partake in the poison-laced coke, Svetlana is the first to feel her lungs open back up. She breathes deeply, not yet noticing the effect each new breath is having on her. The new wave of endorphins from the stripper's brain mixes with the chemicals already present, as well as with oxygen, generating the desired effect. She's too happy not to be choking to death to notice she's actually shrinking.
One by one, the others regain control of their pulmonary systems... and one by one, DeTorres watches them disappear into their own clothing. Well, the men anyway, Svetlana only had a pair of clunky shoes on to begin with. This is a rare treat for Emil. It's not often that he gets to witness the effects of the Israeli Shrinking Compound first hand. Usually, his victims have already completed the process by the time he discovers them.
"Fascinating," he mutters to himself as he watches the little lumps moving around inside the discarded clothing get smaller and smaller.
When the shrinking begins to slow, Emil gets up from his seat and casually walks towards the bar. Behind it, he finds a small, black office-style trash can. He promptly empties its contents onto the floor before returning to his still diminishing hosts.
The stripper points up at him upon his return, a look of horror painted across her face as heavily as the makeup she'd caked on before her shift. Makeup that now sat in a crumbly pile near her head. Emil estimated the girl had shrunk to about three inches tall, which meant she'd probably had a panic attack whilst going through the experience. The harder one breathes, the smaller they get.
"Bies!" She screams, meaning some kind of Russian devil of lore. She tries to scurry away as Emil reaches down to retrieve her, but her tiny strides are no match for his. The relative giant dumps her unceremoniously into the bin as she continues to scream 'bies' at him from the loosening grip of his hand. Now on to the others.
Yuri the Albino and the bartender had not shrunk quite as small as Svetlana, each having reduced to about seven or eight inches tall. They are quickly fished out of their suits and dropped into the trash along with the girl. Yuri is, in fact, pale from head to toe. With those three taken care of, Emil turns his attention towards Crewcut.
DeTorres shakes out the suit's pants, from which a single gold tooth falls to the floor before Crewcut topples out to join it. Emil picks it up first, finding amusement in the golden canine whose owner's head was now only slightly larger. Playfully, DeTorres tosses the tooth into the air and catches it before placing it in his coat pocket. Another trophy for the drawer.
Upon further inspection, rotating the miniaturized Russian in his grasp, the gold tooth has busted the other teeth surrounding it clean out of his mouth as Crewcut shrank, completely ruining his obnoxious smile. Blood pours from his tiny mouth onto DeTorres's fingers as he spits curses at his captor in his native tongue.
While not usually into the boisterous type, Emil couldn't help but indulge in his homosexual nature, if only for a moment. He looked the tiny Russian over, from top to bottom... liking very much what he was seeing. Crewcut was muscular, handsome, and well groomed. He'd shrunk more than his male counterparts had, but nowhere near as much as the stripper still shouting "devil" from inside the trash bin. Emil played with the man's puny arms and legs, enjoying the way he fit so nicely in his hand. Perhaps he'd make the tiny gangster his own personal pet once they returned home. For now, more important matters pressed.
"Such a big mouth on such a little man," The Broker teased. "Perhaps we need to fill it with something." Faster than the tiny man can react, DeTorres stuffs a chicken wing, still lying on the table, into his face and presses it firmly until Crewcut finally shuts up. Both he and the wing are dumped into the bin with the others. Emil proceeds to lick the spicy sauce clean from his finger tips. "Mmmmm... I say! I should have taken you up on these delicious morsels before they wound up scattered across the floor. You were correct, my tiny Slavic friend, this sauce is quite divine."
Packing the shirts the men no longer fit into inside the trash bin to help muffle the tiny Russians' screams, Emil realizes he has one more thing to tend to before he can leave this shithole in the rear view. He pushes through the swinging doors of the kitchen area, trash bin held football style in one hand and Yuri's pistol outstretched in the other. The Broker points it at the first person he sees, the stripper/waitress who had delivered the wings to their table earlier. She puts her hands up and shrieks.
"Security footage," he barks, "where is it?"
She stutters, "in-n-n o-office!"
"Show me."
The girl leads him down a dark hallway, lit only with red neon and black light, guided by the gun placed at the back of her head. She opens a door, painted the same dark color as the walls, and pushes through. A cluttered office space with pornography lining every inch of its walls waits on the other side.
"There," she says, directing Emil to the computer.
DeTorres shoots the PC tower immediately. Several times. The girl shrieks again, this time running off out of fear of catching a stray bullet. Emil had no intention of harming her. She's the only person he'd met in this godawful place that hadn't pulled a gun on him. He only wanted the hard drive containing the image of his face and the fantastical nature of his escape. Emil couldn't just let his little secret get out, especially after all the work he'd done to conceal the existence of the shrinking compound, now could he? He knocks the tower to the floor, which cracks open its outer shell on contact. Once the computer's guts reveal themselves to him, Emil rips out the hard drive and walks out the office door.
He briskly makes his way down the hallway to the kitchen once again. Two more strippers are watching him from the doorway, but take off as soon as DeTorres raises his gun to them. Now alone, he looks around the modest room, once painted white, but stained yellow with years of grease. He quickly finds what he's looking for... the microwave. He tosses the hard drive inside and punches ten minutes onto the number pad before starting up the electric oven. The metal in the drive cracks and pops and sparks immediately, then catches fire.
Emil exits the club, a plume of smoke following him out the door like some kind of action hero. Yuri the Albino's gun is tucked safely in the rear of his waistband, the waste bin full of shrunken Russians held tightly under his arm. In any other city, a well-dressed man walking out of a smoldering strip club with a trash bin full of silk shirts might have drawn unwanted attention... but this was New York City. It was hardly the strangest thing anyone walking the streets had seen that week.
It wasn't often that The Broker failed to broker a deal, but this meeting had proved itself an absolute disaster. Unfortunately for the people of the Ukraine, they were gonna have to fight their war the old fashioned way, without Emil's intervention. He'd just added a new enemy to the D'Amatos in New York, making him more anxious than ever to get the hell out of Dodge.
"Boss! Boss, you there, over!" Eva's voice erupts through DeTorres's earpiece. He takes out his phone and brings it to his ear to make it appear as though he is having a normal conversation as he pushes his way through the congested New York sidewalks.
"Go ahead, Number One, over."
Eva's voice sounds different, lacking her usual southern confidence and swagger, "we need extraction, asap! Shit's hit the fan, boss! Over!"
Emil feels the hairs standup on his neck. He tilts his head back and grits his teeth to suppress his urge to scream at her, "ten four. Is the extraction point clear? Over."
"Affirmative, but I don't know for how much longer! Please hurry, over!"
"Ten four, over and out."
Emil takes a moment to keep from throwing his phone at some poor passer by. This day was just getting better and better. Though he loathed using foul language, he felt he'd earned the right to indulge just once after what he'd been through, let alone what he was about to deal with.
"Fuck."
It's now five minutes to one.
End Part 26
Noon.
Glitter litters the floor and the smell of floral body lotion fills the air. A blonde, scantily-clad girl works her pole routine to near perfection across the room. If nothing else, Emil could at least appreciate her considerable skills as a dancer. He sits patiently, waiting in a dark corner booth hidden in the back of a shady, Eastern European run strip club. Other than the people working there, he's the only person patronizing the sleazy establishment, not uncommon for a place such as this at midday. This meeting location was at the suggestion of his would be clients, naturally. Clients that were now a half an hour late. Emil had little patience for tardiness.
DeTorres was more worried about the meeting he'd arranged with the Russians than he would ever let on to one of his subordinates. It took a lot to shake the man, but New York City itself had that effect on him. Back home in Los Angeles, there was nothing he loved more than the thrill of a deal struck between himself and potentially dangerous clientele. But there, he had Mr. Rudolph to watch his back. Emil had considered bringing his manservant along on this short cross country trip, but Mr. Rudolph had the more important task of guarding DeTorres's secret vault. After all, he only planned to be in the city for a day or so.
That said, a single day in a hostile city could prove dangerous enough. As stated multiple times before, the D'Amato crime family had it out for him. A deal gone terribly wrong, resulting in two high-ranking members of the syndicate losing their lives, left New York City virtually off limits to The Broker's doings. Not to mention a hefty price on his head. He'd been able to avoid assassination on the opposite coast by buying off every state official and law enforcement agency in the great state of California. Something that had proven impossible to do in New York where those individuals were already bought and paid for by various criminal organizations.
What, to Alexandra, had appeared to be an obsessive compulsive impulse to clean his apartment when they'd first arrived at the penthouse, was in truth a bit more layered in purpose. DeTorres had motion activated cameras hidden all over the sprawling living space. He actually kept close tabs on the New York apartment from his home back in California. Emil wasn't just cleaning the furniture like a manic germaphobe, he was checking for explosives. You aren't being paranoid when everyone is, in fact, after you.
Added to the threat the D'Amatos already posed, the Russians had always been a tough nut for DeTorres to crack. There's a reason the Cold War lasted as long as it did. Organized crime, government officials... it was all the same thing when dealing with members of the former Soviet Union. Always fickle negotiators, the Russians knew exactly how to force a deal in their favor. Emil had been around a very, very long time and had a few tricks up his own sleeve.
Two men enter through the front doors of the dimly neon-lit room, one with a short flat top and the other with a freshly shaved head. Both are dressed in expensive suits that make them look wider and more muscular than they actually are, but still more than formidable. The men approach the bar first, where the bartender has already begun preparing their usual libations. The bald one whispers something to the barkeep, who then points them in Emil's direction. Baldy shows little to no emotion as they approach the booth, but the one with the crewcut opens his arms and greets DeTorres with a smile full of bright, bleached teeth. All except for a single golden canine anyway.
"Soooooo!" Crewcut sings with a heavy Slavic accent, "this is famous Broker Man!"
Emil stands up and politely shakes the men's hands, "Ah! You seem to have me at a disadvantage, my good sir. What shall I call you and your associate here?"
Crewcut raises a hand to introduce his colleague. Upon closer viewing, DeTorres can see that the silent man is completely clean of facial hair, eyebrows included. He may also be an albino. "This is Yuri... and as for me, 'Sir' will do just fine."
A-ha!, DeTorres thinks to himself, the power struggle has already begun. He'll only think of the alpha as Crewcut from this point on.
From behind a pair of swinging doors, another stripper appears, only this one is carrying a large plate of piping hot Buffalo wings. Her dangling exposed tits come dangerously close to touching the food as she walks. She promptly lays the sauce-coated chicken down in the center of their table.
"Spasiba, lisichka," Crewcut says to the girl. He wraps his arm around her backside and slides his hairy fingers between her legs. The neon green g-string the shapely brunette is wearing is more of a suggestion than an actual article of clothing. The Russian pushes it aside and slips a couple of fingers inside her, just a quick little reminder of who she belongs to. She gasps, feeling deeply embarrassed about being handled in such a way in front of onlookers, but also hating herself for liking it. Crewcut let's her know she's excused with a playful slap across one of her exposed ass cheeks. He picks up one of the wings with the same fingers he'd just forced inside the girl, sauce dripping from its breaded skin, and sucks all the meat off the bone in a single fluid motion. "Help yourself, skinny man," he offers with a mouthful of meat.
"You are too kind," DeTorres replies, "but I've never developed much of a taste for the deep-fried confectionary meats." In reality, Emil is repulsed by the very idea of eating anything that's been cooked inside a strip club, and by the strippers no less!
Crewcut shrugs, slurping the sticky orange sauce from his fingertips, "is your loss. I, on other hand, love decadence of small tasty American bird limb. People tell me, 'don't serve food in strip club! Is terrible idea!' I say fuck them, ey! I not only serve wings, but best wings in New York City in my club!"
"I'll take your word for it."
Yuri the Albino has still not uttered a word. Emil assess that he is only there to serve as Crewcut's heavy.
Crewcut sucks some more meat into his sizable maw, then wipes his hands off on a napkin. Cherry Pie by Warrant plays in the background as another girl takes the stage to begin her routine. With cheeks stuffed full of chicken, Crewcut thumbs back at the skinny blonde spinning around the base of the pole. He asks DeTorres, "you like? She suck cock like vacuum cleaner. She suck you off very good, my friend! My treat!"
"Again, I appreciate the offer," Emil says, maintaining an exceptional level of cool, "but if you've done your homework on me, as I'm sure you have, you already know my tastes lie elsewhere."
With this, Crewcut laughs hard enough to send a speck of meat flying across the table, landing ever so close to DeTorres's hand. Emil shudders in disgust.
"They not so nice to fruits like you in my country," Crewcut laughs.
Emil responds, "so I've heard."
The big bad Russian with the even bigger personality removes a cigarette from his jacket pocket. Yuri is kind enough to light it for him. As The Broker has rejected both offers so far, Crewcut does not bother to offer Emil a smoke. DeTorres notices. After a few puffs of his filterless cancer stick, Sir decides it's finally time to get down to business.
"Men who send me to graciously meet with famous Broker Man tell me you have something. Something of great cultural significance, their words not mine. Something that belong to us."
"If by us," Emil teases, "you mean the entire nation of Russia... then yes, your information is indeed correct."
"And in exchange for mysterious object, you are asking...?"
Emil leans in, allowing his face to be illuminated by the dangling pendant light above the table for the first time. "I am asking for the complete withdrawal of Russian forces from the Ukraine. Effective immediately."
Crewcut looks to Yuri the Albino... and both men laugh mockingly at DeTorres's request. After realizing that The Broker is not joining them in what certainly has to be a put on, Crewcut asks, "you serious?"
"As a heart attack, so the saying goes."
The boisterous Russian laughs again. At this point he's sure this entire meeting is a joke being played on him by his superiors. That said, he's just too curious to see where the conversation goes next to get up and leave. "Well then, Mr. Broker Man... this... item you possess, it must have great value, yes?! Greater than reunification of Ukraine with Russian brothers?"
"I do not believe the Ukrainians see things your way," Emil counters. "But yes, I believe it does."
"Out with it, man! What you have to offer?"
"The Amber Room," Emil finally reveals, "I have the Amber Room in my possession."
"Bullshit!" For the first time, Yuri the Albino speaks! "This man full of shit, boss!"
DeTorres elaborates, "in the final days of World War II, British soldiers took control of a German bunker in the northeast of France. A bunker, gentlemen, meant to store priceless artifacts and artwork, pilfered from their rightful countries by greedy Nazi thugs. A treasure trove in the most literal of senses, awaiting available cargo ships to move this stolen loot on to South America. There, Hitler's loyalists hoped to establish a new Nazi stronghold with this horde to fund it. The Amber Room was among many other incredible treasures rescued that day."
Crewcut laughs, lifting his vodka to salute the man across the table, "very good story, Mr. Brokerman. Amber Room gone, destroyed during war."
"It is," DeTorres agrees. "Truth rarely makes for an engaging story. Except when dealing with me. I have it. The Amber Room is very much intact, for the most part, and it's awaiting its chance to finally return home."
The chucking Russian asks, "your reputation precedes you, Mr. Broker... but I cannot just take word for it. You have proof, yes?"
"Of course." Emil lifts his phone up from off the table and activates the thumb scanner. He slides it across the table for Crewcut to view for himself. "What you're seeing there, gentlemen, is a live drone feed from the interior of my vault. Feel free to zoom in. It's all there, with the exception of what was irreparably damaged when the Germans stripped it from the palace walls."
Sir and Yuri analyze the security feed, looking for certain telltale signs that could prove what The Broker was selling was the truth. So far, things looked good. Really good. The gorgeous walls of The Amber Room, stacked up alongside the priceless furniture that once complimented it. Surrounding the treasure in question, is a vast corridor of more loot than either man can possibly comprehend. When satisfied with what he was seeing, Crewcut slides the phone back across the table to its rightful owner. DeTorres promptly returns it to his jacket pocket.
"What do you say, gentlemen? The Ukraine's sovereignty in exchange for an artistic wonder thought lost to the world for decades?"
Crewcut finishes his drink and signals the bartender to bring another. He doesn't take his eyes off from The Broker. He's quiet while he waits, but that big, toothy smile of his remains. Even Yuri is grinning. DeTorres doesn't like this, not one bit. It makes him uneasy, like the two of them are already plotting against him. He hasn't even finished his own cocktail yet.
"I think I make you counter offer, Mr. Broker," Crewcut begins, "Russia take Ukraine, AND Amber Room... and while inside vault, we take anything else we feel like, yes?"
Enough red flags have been raised for Emil. It was time to abandon this meeting. He stands up and buttons the front of his eggshell-white suit coat. "Unfortunately I'm going to have to bring this meeting to a close, gentlemen. I was under the impression this was going to be an open and honest negotiation, not a railroad job."
Before DeTorres can make his way around the table, Yuri the Albino has pulled a handgun on him. Crewcut laughs heartily, doing exactly the same. The bartender has an AK-47 pointed in Emil's corner. Even the goddamn stripper has paused her routine. She has an oozy held in his direction, seemingly pulled from her fucking ass since she isn't wearing anything but a pair of heels and a smile. Always in favor of preserving his self over his pride, DeTorres lifts his hands to show he is unarmed.
"Perhaps my exit was made in haste," Emil relents.
"Sit back down, Mr. Brokerman," Crewcut orders, that arrogant smile still painted across his extremely punchable face. Emil does as instructed. "Now, let me tell you how this go. Yuri here will accompany you back to Los Angeles where you turn over possession of Amber Room to him. Try anything smart, he shoot you in head. Involve police, he shoot you in head. Inform bodyguards..."
"...'he shoot me in head.' You've made that very clear," Emil snarks back. His eyes shift from one goon to the next, effectively sizing up the situation.
"Ah, do not feel upset, Mr. Brokerman," Crewcut says with a chuckling recharge of a sigh. "Just think of this as... generous gift to new friends in Moscow."
Emil pinkied at the corner of his thin mustache. "That would certainly be A way to look at it."
"Relax. As long as you cooperate, you have nothing to worry about."
This was not DeTorres's first pickle. Far from it actually. As already mentioned, he still had a few tricks up his sleeve, or in this case, hidden inside his jacket pocket.
"Would you permit me an indulgence, kind hosts?" Emil reaches inside his coat. This causes the men across the table to tense up, with Yuri actually cocking his firearm. The Broker slows his movement while also raising his left hand in submission. "Easy gentlemen, it's only a little Colombian powder. Pure. Uncut. Fine stuff. May I offer you both a line?"
From deep within Emil's coat, a small clear vial with a black cap emerges, pinched delicately between his spindly fingers. He twists off the cover and taps a gram or so directly onto the table. He also removes his wallet from the same pocket and extracts a crisp hundred dollar bill and a gold card. Emil offers Crewcut a bump without words.
"After you, Mr. Brokerman," Crewcut replies suspiciously.
Emil shrugs, "suit yourself." He cuts himself a nice, manageable line and then inhales the fine powder right up into his sinuses. A couple of sniffles later, he once again offers some of his very high quality, very expensive cocaine to his less-than hospitable hosts.
"Four lines," Crewcut accepts. "One for my each of my comrades. We are Russian after all."
DeTorres nods cordially, "but of course. How very socialist of you." He empties the remaining narcotic onto the table and begins to divide it up evenly for the others. Each row of equal length and height.
"Svetlana! Come! Hit this shit!" The alpha Russian orders.
The stripper steps down from the stage, nearly tripping over her platform shoes in the process. She's already high as a kite. She still has her weapon fixed on DeTorres, who sits back and watches, completely maintaining his impeccable poker face. The frizzy-haired dancer inhales her cut in a single, experienced breath. Her eyes bulge and she shakes her head from the painful, but exhilarating rush.
Crewcut rests his chin on the back of his hands and asks , "well?"
"Is good shit, boss," Svetlana coughs. "Real fucking good."
"Haha! Wonderful!" Crewcut laughs with an enthusiastic clap. "I know you not sore loser, Mr. Brokerman! Vlad! You next!"
Before the bartender can even make his way around the counter, Yuri is already snorting his share. A little white powder for the white-powder-colored man. He sits back down, rubbing his nose and any remaining residue against his gums. "Fuck! She right, boss... this shit hit hard."
"I would feel insulted if you thought I'd procure anything but the very best," states Emil.
"I like you, Mr. Brokerman," the man with the shit-eating grin and the barely-there flattop says, wagging his finger playfully at DeTorres. He takes the rolled up bill and vacuums up his share. The bartender follows until the table is clean. "Perhaps in future, we do real business, yes?"
"I look forward to it," Emil replies, still not breaking from his stoic demeanor. With good reason. Little do his hosts know that Emil DeTorres is a master of slight-at-hand. He's had plenty of time on this earth to study the art after all, and his considerable skills have gotten him out of stickier situations than this, and on multiple occasions.
You see, The Broker hadn't just pulled one vial of powder from his pocket, but a second. Identical to the first, but kept palmed and out of view of the others. DeTorres had never been interested in hard drugs, but was not ignorant to their power over arrogant thugs like Crewcut and his pale friend. The line of 'cocaine' he himself had snorted was only harmless vitamin B-12, crushed into a fine powder. The same exact method used in feature films when actors need to be seen snorting something on screen, famously used to great extent in The Wolf of Wall Street. It even provides its user with a small burst of energy, like a strong cup of coffee.
Once the setup had been sold, Emil casually swapped the vitamin vial with one filled with actual cocaine, unbeknownst to the others. It wasn't as pure as he'd told the Russians it was, high quality yes, but cut with trace amounts of another chemical. A compound he'd acquired years ago from the Israeli government. One Alexandra and Eva were all to familiar with.
Svetlana the stripper begins to cough first, but the others are too caught up in their drug induced laughter to notice. Then Yuri. Then Crewcut. Then the bartender feels the tickle in the back of his throat. Unlike the almost instant reaction that normally comes from inhaling the compound, which has to cause the adrenaline rush to take effect, DeTorres has experimented and learned that tiny doses of it, mixed with the immediate adrenaline rush of a narcotic such as cocaine, strangely resulted in a delayed reaction... but with just as potent results.
"Boss," Svetlana wheezes. By now she is holding her throat and beginning to panic. "Something wrong."
Emil interrupts her, "I have a new proposition for you, Sir."
Crewcut laughs through his increasingly scratchy throat, "oh?! And what is that, Mr. Brokerman?"
"You will come work for me. No questions asked."
This time, Crewcut almost chokes on his own laughter.
"Boss," Yuri chimes in, coughing heavily while trying to convey his worries, "I don't... feel... good... boss."
Svetlana collapses, clawing at her throat as she gasps for air.
Now Crewcut notices something is amiss.
His smile disappears. He coughs even harder.
Yuri the Albino collapses next.
Where cheerful cockiness once oozed from the boisterous Russian's entire persona, now only fear and anger remained. He lifts his gun to fire it at the calm, skinny man watching from across the table. "You fucking bastard!"
Emil is too quick for him, lifting the tray of lukewarm Buffalo wings off the table and using it to swat Crewcut's weapon out of his hand. Sloppy chicken parts fly across the room and coat the floor in meat and sauce. DeTorres raises the tray again, this time using it to knock Crewcut clean out of his seat. He falls to the floor, joining his comrades as they writhe and suffocate. Emil takes the time to kick each of their weapons out of reach, then stands back and watches what he knows is coming next.
As she was the first to partake in the poison-laced coke, Svetlana is the first to feel her lungs open back up. She breathes deeply, not yet noticing the effect each new breath is having on her. The new wave of endorphins from the stripper's brain mixes with the chemicals already present, as well as with oxygen, generating the desired effect. She's too happy not to be choking to death to notice she's actually shrinking.
One by one, the others regain control of their pulmonary systems... and one by one, DeTorres watches them disappear into their own clothing. Well, the men anyway, Svetlana only had a pair of clunky shoes on to begin with. This is a rare treat for Emil. It's not often that he gets to witness the effects of the Israeli Shrinking Compound first hand. Usually, his victims have already completed the process by the time he discovers them.
"Fascinating," he mutters to himself as he watches the little lumps moving around inside the discarded clothing get smaller and smaller.
When the shrinking begins to slow, Emil gets up from his seat and casually walks towards the bar. Behind it, he finds a small, black office-style trash can. He promptly empties its contents onto the floor before returning to his still diminishing hosts.
The stripper points up at him upon his return, a look of horror painted across her face as heavily as the makeup she'd caked on before her shift. Makeup that now sat in a crumbly pile near her head. Emil estimated the girl had shrunk to about three inches tall, which meant she'd probably had a panic attack whilst going through the experience. The harder one breathes, the smaller they get.
"Bies!" She screams, meaning some kind of Russian devil of lore. She tries to scurry away as Emil reaches down to retrieve her, but her tiny strides are no match for his. The relative giant dumps her unceremoniously into the bin as she continues to scream 'bies' at him from the loosening grip of his hand. Now on to the others.
Yuri the Albino and the bartender had not shrunk quite as small as Svetlana, each having reduced to about seven or eight inches tall. They are quickly fished out of their suits and dropped into the trash along with the girl. Yuri is, in fact, pale from head to toe. With those three taken care of, Emil turns his attention towards Crewcut.
DeTorres shakes out the suit's pants, from which a single gold tooth falls to the floor before Crewcut topples out to join it. Emil picks it up first, finding amusement in the golden canine whose owner's head was now only slightly larger. Playfully, DeTorres tosses the tooth into the air and catches it before placing it in his coat pocket. Another trophy for the drawer.
Upon further inspection, rotating the miniaturized Russian in his grasp, the gold tooth has busted the other teeth surrounding it clean out of his mouth as Crewcut shrank, completely ruining his obnoxious smile. Blood pours from his tiny mouth onto DeTorres's fingers as he spits curses at his captor in his native tongue.
While not usually into the boisterous type, Emil couldn't help but indulge in his homosexual nature, if only for a moment. He looked the tiny Russian over, from top to bottom... liking very much what he was seeing. Crewcut was muscular, handsome, and well groomed. He'd shrunk more than his male counterparts had, but nowhere near as much as the stripper still shouting "devil" from inside the trash bin. Emil played with the man's puny arms and legs, enjoying the way he fit so nicely in his hand. Perhaps he'd make the tiny gangster his own personal pet once they returned home. For now, more important matters pressed.
"Such a big mouth on such a little man," The Broker teased. "Perhaps we need to fill it with something." Faster than the tiny man can react, DeTorres stuffs a chicken wing, still lying on the table, into his face and presses it firmly until Crewcut finally shuts up. Both he and the wing are dumped into the bin with the others. Emil proceeds to lick the spicy sauce clean from his finger tips. "Mmmmm... I say! I should have taken you up on these delicious morsels before they wound up scattered across the floor. You were correct, my tiny Slavic friend, this sauce is quite divine."
Packing the shirts the men no longer fit into inside the trash bin to help muffle the tiny Russians' screams, Emil realizes he has one more thing to tend to before he can leave this shithole in the rear view. He pushes through the swinging doors of the kitchen area, trash bin held football style in one hand and Yuri's pistol outstretched in the other. The Broker points it at the first person he sees, the stripper/waitress who had delivered the wings to their table earlier. She puts her hands up and shrieks.
"Security footage," he barks, "where is it?"
She stutters, "in-n-n o-office!"
"Show me."
The girl leads him down a dark hallway, lit only with red neon and black light, guided by the gun placed at the back of her head. She opens a door, painted the same dark color as the walls, and pushes through. A cluttered office space with pornography lining every inch of its walls waits on the other side.
"There," she says, directing Emil to the computer.
DeTorres shoots the PC tower immediately. Several times. The girl shrieks again, this time running off out of fear of catching a stray bullet. Emil had no intention of harming her. She's the only person he'd met in this godawful place that hadn't pulled a gun on him. He only wanted the hard drive containing the image of his face and the fantastical nature of his escape. Emil couldn't just let his little secret get out, especially after all the work he'd done to conceal the existence of the shrinking compound, now could he? He knocks the tower to the floor, which cracks open its outer shell on contact. Once the computer's guts reveal themselves to him, Emil rips out the hard drive and walks out the office door.
He briskly makes his way down the hallway to the kitchen once again. Two more strippers are watching him from the doorway, but take off as soon as DeTorres raises his gun to them. Now alone, he looks around the modest room, once painted white, but stained yellow with years of grease. He quickly finds what he's looking for... the microwave. He tosses the hard drive inside and punches ten minutes onto the number pad before starting up the electric oven. The metal in the drive cracks and pops and sparks immediately, then catches fire.
Emil exits the club, a plume of smoke following him out the door like some kind of action hero. Yuri the Albino's gun is tucked safely in the rear of his waistband, the waste bin full of shrunken Russians held tightly under his arm. In any other city, a well-dressed man walking out of a smoldering strip club with a trash bin full of silk shirts might have drawn unwanted attention... but this was New York City. It was hardly the strangest thing anyone walking the streets had seen that week.
It wasn't often that The Broker failed to broker a deal, but this meeting had proved itself an absolute disaster. Unfortunately for the people of the Ukraine, they were gonna have to fight their war the old fashioned way, without Emil's intervention. He'd just added a new enemy to the D'Amatos in New York, making him more anxious than ever to get the hell out of Dodge.
"Boss! Boss, you there, over!" Eva's voice erupts through DeTorres's earpiece. He takes out his phone and brings it to his ear to make it appear as though he is having a normal conversation as he pushes his way through the congested New York sidewalks.
"Go ahead, Number One, over."
Eva's voice sounds different, lacking her usual southern confidence and swagger, "we need extraction, asap! Shit's hit the fan, boss! Over!"
Emil feels the hairs standup on his neck. He tilts his head back and grits his teeth to suppress his urge to scream at her, "ten four. Is the extraction point clear? Over."
"Affirmative, but I don't know for how much longer! Please hurry, over!"
"Ten four, over and out."
Emil takes a moment to keep from throwing his phone at some poor passer by. This day was just getting better and better. Though he loathed using foul language, he felt he'd earned the right to indulge just once after what he'd been through, let alone what he was about to deal with.
"Fuck."
It's now five minutes to one.
End Part 26
"People like Coldplay and voted for the Nazis, you can't trust people, Jeremy."
-Super Hans, Peep Show
-Super Hans, Peep Show
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Bloodthirstybutcher
- Shrink Master
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Re: Leveraged: A Sequel to Tumbled
Part 27-"The Assassination of Lucio Francisco Fulci"
12:28pm
A pair of tiny figures, one almost half the size of the other, watch an unassuming man from the shadows. Not for observation' sake, but because he is a target. The man? A portly mafioso by the name of Lucio Fulci. His crime? There's too many to name here, but for our purposes the only one that matters was crossing The Broker.
An office as cluttered as Fulci's could provide a thousand places for such remarkably small people to hide, but they're close enough that he could literally reach out and touch them if aware of their presence. Hidden behind a framed portrait of his late wife, Alexandra Clark and her mentor, Eva Hutch, wait anxiously, yet patiently for a window of opportunity. Just a few seconds is all they need to slip a deadly toxin, The Bubbling Death... provided by DeTorres himself, into his drink and put an end to the man once and for all.
Getting inside the office hadn't been as difficult as nearly every other leg of their journey thus far. While in the modern era the building's mail was delivered to a series of locking slots near the entrance, at some point in the past, the post was brought straight to the tenants' doors. An old mail slot built into the door provided easy access for the minuscule hit-women to infiltrate Fulci's office space. After that, a strenuous climb up the power cord of his computer had brought the tired and winded pair to their ultimate goal.
Watching Fulci eat is like watching an industrial grade trash compactor flex its muscle. Relative tonnage of sweet, sticky chicken disappears into the giant's maw, to be incinerated in the acidic garbage heap that is his stomach. As she peeks cautiously out from behind the protection of an antique silver frame, Alex is surprised she isn't more put off by her former employer's slovenly mastication. The grumbling pain in her own belly is more than likely the culprit. If anything, she hopes a stray grain of rice might role her direction, but Fulci's mouth is like a black hole, devouring everything and anything that comes near.
"Jesus fuck," Eva whispers, "I'd kill a man for a bite of that right now."
The irony in her partner's statement is not lost on Alex, considering what they are there to do. "I was just thinking the same thing," she whispers back.
It isn't just the midday hunger wrenching at Alex's stomach that is making it ache. Her own anxieties are doing plenty of that on their own. Beads of sweat trickle down the sides of her face. Her knuckles turn white as he's holds a death grip on the oversized vial of poison in her hands. As grotesque and monstrous as he appears to her now, Alex knows this man. She's worked with him. Laughed with him. She's even enjoyed dinner at his apartment, prepared by his sweet, loving wife before her unfortunate passing. The conflicting feelings she's been grappling with are coming to their natural head. Fulci had betrayed her, yes... but Alex still doesn't want him dead. Unfortunately, that decision is out of her control. Not if she wants her daughter to have any kind of normal life, DeTorres has made that perfectly clear.
After polishing off what is left inside his plastic feedbag, Fulci let's out a belch that sounds more like a lions roar to Alex and Eva's shrunken ears. A chubby Italian King Kong, boisterously celebrating his victory over the barge's worth of General Tso's chicken he's just annihilated. With a couple more gulps of his whiskey, the enormous man is off to the restroom, leaving his unknown guests free to fulfill their orders. The door latches closed behind him.
This is it.
"Go!" Eva whisper shouts. "Go whack the fucker so we can go home. I'm fucking starving!"
The fact that her partner can be so nonchalant about what is about to happen baffles Alex... but she's right. She just needs to get it over with.
Eva stays behind to keep an eye on the door, sending Alex out into the open plain of the desk alone. At least that's the excuse she makes. She has been given specific orders from DeTorres to make sure Alexandra is the one who carries out the job.
Alex's bare feet slap against the dark hardwood as she pads her way towards Fulci's half-drank libation, the poison football tucked securely under her arm. The ice shifts within the lowball glass as it melts, startling the tiny woman to a halt before resuming her advance once again. Labored moans emanate from the bathroom as Lucio tries to uncork his clogged-up bowls.
An errant step, focusing too hard on getting to the glass and not on her path to get there. Alex catches her foot on the edge of the desk calendar as she cross onto it, falling forward onto her stomach. The vial flies out from her grasp and rolls across the desk. The tiny mother gasps as the cylinder speeds away towards the edge of the walnut mesa. She climbs back to her feet as quickly as she can, trying to chase the escaping bottle down before it topples over the side. She's nearly there, but the vial is even closer to the edge. With a diving leap, Alex reaches for the toxic payload, catching it just as it is about to drop. She sighs through her panting breaths, looking back to Eva who is biting her nails with nerves. Alex gives her a reassuring thumbs up before standing back up. Eva breathes a sigh of relief.
The little brunette makes it to the glass without further incident. Condensation beads on its surface and drips down the sides to form a pooling ring around the base that slowly soaks into the cork coaster the glass rests upon. Alex takes a moment to allow the water to bead into her hand from the rounded surface. She slurps up some much needed moisture before proceeding. The would-be killer wipes her mouth dry, then kneels down to unscrew the cap on the vial. She needs both her legs wrapped around it, as well as both hands to loosen the lid, but it does eventually give.
And there it is, exposed and unfiltered. "The Bubbling Death," as DeTorres had called it. It doesn't look like much, a white powder as fine as flour, but Emil had told her this vial had enough stowed inside to kill an elephant, but to use all of it... just to be sure. A bit of an overkill really. Literally.
"What the fuck are ya waiting for?" Eva chastises from across the desk. "Just dump the shit in and let's go!"
Alex nods, realizing she is once again lost in thought, then stands back up with the vial secured between both of her hands. The rim of the glass just about meets her brow, so the tiny woman has to lift the deadly payload over her head to dump it into the drink. On the tips of her toes, she lets the poison cascade into the boozy beverage. The powder fizzles some as it hits the ice and liquid, then dissipates quickly. Alex shakes the vial a little to empty it more... but not completely. In fact, she pulls it away with about a third of its contents remaining inside. She looks back to Eva once again as she screws the cap back on. The redhead is pulling the hair at the sides of her head in confusion.
"What the fuck are ya doing?! Pour the whole thing in, ya dumbass!"
Alex has a plan, but she's not sure she's ready to let Eva in on it just yet. She finishes screwing the cap back on and makes a b-line back for cover. She manages to stay on her feet the entire way this time. Eva does not look amused upon her arrival.
"Are you fucking crazy?! Gitcha ass back there and pour the rest in!"
"We'll talk about it later, Eva. Let's just get out of here."
"Mistah D won't like this, not a bit!"
"What DeTorres doesn't know won't kill him," Alex replies. Except... in this case, it just might. If there was enough in that vial to take down a pachyderm, then there should be plenty left to kill DeTorres as well. "Can we please just get the fuck outta here."
"We can't," Eva informs her, "we have to wait until the job is done."
"Did you not see me just dump that shit in his drink?! It's done. Let's go."
"We have'ta make sure he drinks it, and since YOU decided not to use it all, now we have to make sure he's dead before we can leave!" Eva answers.
Alex groans, storming back behind the picture frame and taking a seat with her spine pressed against the backing of the picture. "This is fucking hell. I swear to god, I must be dead and this is hell."
The minutes tick by. Fulci still hasn't emerged from the restroom. His straining grunts get more and more intense as he tries to squeeze the stubborn bowl movement from his ass. The girls can only sit by and wait until he finishes. Tension is rising, and not just in anticipation for the job to be done. Eva has an idea of what Alex has planned for the remaining poison, and it scares her. By not following orders, Alex has put her in the position of having to choose between her new, but only friend and the man who has saved her from a life on the streets.
"Startin' tuh think this was all a waste of time," Eva muses, letting her southern accent free to dictate the gate of her thought.
"How's that," Alex inquires.
"Don't think he's makin' it out of that bathroom alive."
Alex chuckles a little, "you said the same thing about the stairs."
"Right," the taller of the two agrees, "but I think the fucker might be tryin' tuh turn himself inside out in there."
Some heavy breathing follows, as well as the unmistakable sounds of the sink running and the toilet flushing. Alex and Eva duck back behind the picture frame as the restroom door swings open. The foul smell wafts through the small room quickly, leaving the tiny women gagging and holding their noses. Fulci takes his seat, sweating profusely and trying to dab it away with his already damp handkerchief. The miniature assassins watch on as his chubby fingers wrap around the poisoned glass. He raises the drink to his lips and downs the remaining scotch in a single gulp, then pours himself another.
That was it then. Fulci had taken the toxin. Though he did not yet know it, the chubby mafioso was already dead.
Alex and Eva hold their position. The seconds tick on by as normal, but it still feels like an eternity before anything happens. Fulci scrolls through through his emails, with Alex noting that the look on his face was very much one of defeat. She wonders what is going through this man's mind just seconds before it happens. He slams his fist on the surface of the desk; Alexandra barely keeps herself from screaming.
Fulci's face turns beet red, then purple. The look on his face tells the woman who poisoned him that he knows something is off. The gigantic man clutches his chest, a sure sign of a heart attack. What follows is so quick that it hardly seems to warrant the struggles it took to get there. The toxin stops Fulci's heart. His face crashes hard onto the desktop, resulting in a 8 on the Richter scale below the feet of the perpetrators responsible. The picture frame falls forward, shattering the glass. The dying man to revealed his murderers in all his glory.
Lucio's eyes are still open, bloodshot and tear-filled. Foam oozes from his mouth and soaks into the paper of the desk calendar below his face. Judging from the stench, he'd finally managed to pass the stool that had plagued him all morning.
"Is that it? Is he... is he dead?"
Alex felt numb. A reputation as a crook she could deal with, but as a murderer? If she had anything in her stomach to purge, she would have thrown it up right there and then. Eva slaps her on the shoulder to congratulate her on a job well done.
"Good work, pipsqueak. Let's hit the road."
Good work. Was it though? No... this was anything but good.
It is when the two of them turn to leave that something completely unexpected happens. Fulci suddenly jolts upright in his seat, screaming at the very tops of his lungs. His eyes roll back into his skull and he claws at his chest like he's trying to dig something out. Alex screams at the sight, as does Eva. Neither has seen anything like what is about to follow before. No one has.
The veins under Lucio's skin begin to raise and pulse. They continue to expand like balloons until the very cellular structure fails and ruptures. Little geysers of blood spray from from his arms and neck like leaky pipes. The miniature women flee for cover from the raining bodily fluids beneath Fulci's rolodex, watching on in horror as Alex's former boss bloats enough to pop the buttons clean off his shirt.
His eyeballs go next, exploding right in the sockets as more blood gushes from every orifice of the poor man's face. His bone-chilling screams gargle in the endless stream of foamy blood from his mouth. Then, like a pin falling onto an overfilled water balloon, Lucio's desperate clawing at his own flesh breaks the stretching skin. His entire chest cavity erupts with enough pressure to send his guts flying across the room and against the ceiling. Fulci's head falls back over the top of his rolling chair and dangles by the flesh of the back of his neck. The force of the explosion was strong enough to sever his cranium from his spine.
Once the room returns to an uneasy stillness, the shrunken assassins slowly emerge from beneath the dripping, rotary card holder. Neither can take their eyes off the gory crater that once was a man, like trying to process the destruction of Mt. St. Helens after it blew out its northern slope. The carbonated blood fizzles all through the room, slowly going flat like soda in a glass.
A piece of Fulci's liver, ejected with the rest of his organs, falls from the ceiling with a splat, just inches away from the tiny girl, spraying them both with a tidal wave of gooey innards. Eva shakes the bubbling gore from her hands and hair. Even though it's the single most shocking thing she's ever seen, she can't help but laugh at the sheer insanity of what she's just witnessed.
"Holy fucking shit! That was fucking epic! What a shitshow! Haha! Alex, can you believe this shit?! Alex?"
Alexandra's response to watching a man she'd known for over a decade pop like a giant grape is understandably different. When Eva turns her head to view her companion after the lack of response, she finds Alex staring down at her bloody hands. She's backing away, not so much from Eva, but out of pure fight or flight instinct. The wildness of her eyes more than suggests she is about to completely lose it.
"Woooah, easy pardner," Eva says as calmly as she can, approaching the retreating Alex with caution, "don't go all padded walls and straight jacket on me."
The terrified rookie looks up from her hands to meet Eva's gaze. The terror painted across her face is enough to break Eva's heart in an instant. As hard as she's trying, Alex is about to come unglued. She lets out a blood curdling scream, one that's only cut off as she falls. While still backing away, she trips over the edge of an open stamp pad and lands with a splat on the soft ink-saturated sponge within. Her screams resume when she sees the chunk of Fulci's jaw, teeth and all, that had landed there before her.
Eva rushes to her side, stepping onto the pad and kneeling down to take hold of her hysterical partner. "Alex! Alex, stay with me here! Don't give up on me, ok?!"
Her words have little effect. Alex continues to scream and sob in a state of absolute maddening horror. Eva hates having to do it, but she gives the smaller woman a firm slap across the face to bring her out of it. The shocking blow seems to work. Alex holds the throbbing side of her face and stares back at Eva with tears streaming down her face, but at least she's stopped screaming.
"Hey! Hey, Alex? Listen... what's black and white and red all over?"
The traumatized brunette tilts her head in confusion to Eva's strange setup. This hardly seems like the time and place for a stupid riddle. "Huh?"
"You, dummy! You are!"
Alexandra is more confused than ever, but takes another look down at her hands. She finds that she's not only covered in Fulci's blood, but thick, black ink as well. She lets out the saddest, sobbing laugh she can muster, but it isn't much and turns into more of a wail. She directs her attention back to her perpetually cheery associate, who was only doing her best to help.
Eva offers a hand. "What'd ya say we high-tail it outta here? Huh?"
Alex's eyes dart back and forth between each of Eva's, then wordlessly nods. Eva helps her tiny partner to her feet and the two of them gather up their packs. They make their way to the cables coiling down behind the computer. Alex is the first to attempt the climb back down to the floor, but Eva takes a quick look back over the carnage before beginning her own descent. That's when she discovers a huge problem, one even more serious than the exploded man looming over the large walnut desk.
Footprints. The ink.
Two sets of tiny, black footprints crossing the desk through the blood and gore to that very spot. While the rational side of her knows that the local police would hardly think to consider that this murder was committed by people the size of fairies, it was still evidence... and Mistah D would not like anything left so haphazardly.
"Eva?! What the fuck are you waiting for?! Can we please just go?!" Alex pleads, still sobbing as she carefully slides closer to the floor. She wants nothing more than to leave this nightmare experience in the rear view.
"Go on ahead," Eva replies, "I'll be right behind ya. I promise. I just need to deal with one more thing."
Eva scans the cluttered desk, searching for anything she can use to cover their tracks. Her eyes lock onto a bottle of White Out resting near the far edge, which sets her legs in motion once again. The desk is slippery and treacherous, at least an ankle deep of bubbling gore covers almost everything with shards of broken glass hidden beneath. Skillfully, the athletic redhead makes it to the bottle without falling or sustaining injury.
The bottle was not terribly heavy, even for someone of only seven inches in height, but she still has to carry it back across the desk towards the computer where so many of Fulci's files are stacked up against the wall. Once Eva arrives, she wrenches the cap off the bottle and dumps its contents directly into the stack of files. Most had escaped the eruption, the computer having received most of the brunt, shielding the documents from blood spatter.
Old, dry paper... and a handy accelerant.
Removing her final match from her pack, Eva strikes the tip against the plaster wall and drops the flaming stick onto the paper below. The White Out catches fire immediately and the paper starts to burn. A single image of a streaking flame racing towards her murdered father's arm flashes into Eva's mind, then fades away.
Down below, Alex can now see smoke starting to rise from the top of the desk. "Eva! Eva are you alright?!" The redhead waves at her partner from over the edge, a gesture that allows Alexandra to breath a sigh of relief. She has no idea how the fuck they're going to get out of there and certainly doesn't want to have to figure it out on her own. She's in no state of mind to work out a complex escape plan, too stricken with fear to think clearly.
In less than a minute, the smoke detector goes off with its deafening alarm. In just over two, the main door to the office swings open wide, banging into the arm of the armrest of the sofa. The tiny perpetrators are startled, sending them scattering for the shadows. The man standing in the doorframe is Dean Roper, building superintendent extraordinaire, with fire extinguisher firmly in hand.
"Fuck! No!" The fire hasn't even spread beyond the single file Eva has lit. She hoped they'd have more time.
Initially, Roper is struck by the unfathomable horror before him. Who wouldn't be? One of his oldest tenants turned inside out and spread across the room in a hellish scene of blood and gore. Vomit rises in his throat and Dean cant help but purge right there in the hallway. After wiping the sick from his chin, the scrawny man manages to compose himself long enough to pull the pin from the red canister. It doesn't take much to dowse Eva's meager attempt at a bonfire.
"Dear god almighty...," Roper gasps. Suddenly a leaky water heater seems like the most trivial problem in the world. He'd just spoken to this man less than an hour ago, and now...
Covering she and Alex's tracks was no longer possible. Their dirty work had been discovered and Eva knew they had to get out fast or risk discovery. For a murder as strange and gruesome as this, the cops would arrive on scene in no time. A crowd of other tenants had already begun to form in the hallway, their curiosities peaking at the commotion inside Lucio Fulci's office. Taking the power cord down as quickly as a fireman descends a pole, Eva rejoins her diminutive partner in the shadows beneath the desk.
"What the fuck are we gonna do?" Alex whispers. "There's so many of them out there! We'll never get out without being seen!"
"About that," Eva replies, "I'm gonna need ya to trust me."
Alex doesn't even pause to process Eva's request. She too tired and too scared to question anything her partner had planned. Eva had earned Alex's trust, "you've gotten us this far."
The larger woman points towards the open window behind the desk, "that's our exit."
It was as if the path to freedom was laid before them. Another crooked stack of files to scale like a wonky staircase. Hop onto the top of a short filing cabinet. Then a short scramble up the draw string for the shades.
"I'll meet you on the window sill," Eva tells her.
The tiny, frightened mother's anxiety peaks with the thought of her partner leaving her side once again, "wait, what're you up to now?"
"We're five stories up, pipsqueak. This spool of thread ain't gonna cut it. I gotta find our way down. Now go!"
Alex simply nods her head with a thousand yard stare and follows her instructions. If anyone was capable of getting them out of this alive, she knew in her heart it was Eva Hutch.
While Alexandra starts her treacherous climb, Eva makes for the very thing they need to escape... the plastic bag Fulci had been scarfing his lunch out of like a human horse. She hadn't wanted to say anything to Alex, the poor woman was already running on shattered nerves, but it looked like parachuting out of this shitstorm really was on the table that afternoon.
One of the bag's handles is draped over the edge of the trash bin, making it fairly easy for Eva to drag it out. The commotion in the hallway continues to grow more restless in the background. People scream and accusations fly in every direction. Meanwhile, Eva inspects the sack for any holes and thankfully finds none. She even spots a single grain of fried rice, somehow missed by the recently deceased, stuck to the inside of the slimy bag. She takes a few large bites, then tosses the rest aside. Eva then rolls up the noisy plastic bag as quietly as possible, even as she chews on her much needed snack. It isn't long before she finds Alexandra waiting for her up on the window still.
"No way," Alex protests. By now, she trusts Eva with every fiber of her being, but asking her to jump out of a building strapped to a greasy sack is a big... fucking... ask.
The larger woman is just as nervous, but ignores her partner and wraps the handles of the sack around her upper arms and shoulders. Then a couple of times more to make sure it's passengers won't slip out in the descent.
"There's got to be another way!"
"You know there isn't. The hallway is full of people and this whole building will be crawling with pigs any minute. We have to go. Now." Eva physically lifts Alexandra off her feet and clutches her to her breast. "Wrap your arms around my neck and hold on tighter than a virgin on prom night... wait... scratch that! Hold tight enough that you don't fucking choke me out!"
"Oh fuck," Alex nervously sighs, "this is really happening, isn't it?"
"Get ready, pipsqueak... this is about to get wilder than a rodeo bull!"
"Wait! Waitwaitwaitwait!" Alex stalls. "You never told me if you've done this before!"
Eva replies, "not with two people."
"Oh fuuuuuUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUK!!!"
Eva doesn't even need to leap out the window . A gust off wind suddenly sucks them off the ledge, pulling the bag through the air and whipping its riders in every direction. Alex screams. Eva hoots with laughter. It's like the trip up the stairs in Dean Roper's tool caddy all over again.
Ms. Hutch lives for this shit.
The flight isn't long, with the excited redhead touching safely down on top of one the trash bags in the alleyway. The wind continues to drag her down the side of the large, bulbous sack until the two women crumple to the ground. Alex refuses to let go.
"Ok... Alex? Alex... you're choking me!" Eva grunts as she pats Alex's back to try and get her flight companion's python-like grip to uncoil. "Alex? Alex we're safe now... you can let go!"
All four inches of Alexandra Clark is trembling with terror. She does eventually relent, allowing Eva the breath of not-so-fresh air she so desperately needs. "I can't believe it... we're alive? We're alive!" Once again, the larger of the two found the smaller wrapped around her neck, but this time hugging and laying kisses repeatedly upon her cheeks with appreciation. "Oh my god, Eva! You're amazing!"
"Don'tcha fa'get it neither," the redhead replies in jest. She returns Alex's affections as they sit victorious, or some version of it, in the middle of the cluttered alley. The joy of relief is short lived though. Eva needs to contact DeTorres to let him know the job is done... but also severely botched. She knows him all too well, and she knows he's gonna be pissed.
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It's two hours before DeTorres arrives. The usual nightmare traffic and a cabby that got lost along the way made certain of that. They pull up to the entrance of the alleyway, the red and blue lights of emergency services can be seen bouncing off of all the buildings in the area. They wouldn't be able to park in front of the building if they wanted to as the police had the entire block taped off by this point. Between the figures of the sizable crowd that had gathered, men in hazmat suits could be seen coming in and out of the building. Eva had been accurate in her assessment... shit had, in fact, hit the fan.
The two miniature women spot Emil before he does them. They come running out from behind a wall of lined up beer bottles, waving their hands in the air to get his attention. When he sees them, DeTorres doesn't greet them or congratulate them on a job well done. He doesn't say anything, something Eva knows very well is a bad sign. He doesn't even give them the chance to climb into the pet carrier themselves. Emil simply snatches them up and drops them inside, more like objects than people.
The tiny duo slides down the inclined floor of the carrier and crash into a pile of naked flesh. Alex and Eva are hardly expecting company. Four other shrunken people, three men and a woman somehow smaller than Alex, are collapsed on top of one another at the bottom of the tilted the carrier. Each of the men is larger than even Eva, but still easily stuffed into the small handled cage with plenty of room to spare. DeTorres's little assassins are just the latest additions to this shifting dogpile.
"Who the fuck are these assholes?!" Eva exclaims.
DeTorres's face appears at the mouth of the pet carrier, looking tired, stern and unforgiving. "I'm only going to say this once, so I recommend you take what I'm about to tell you with utmost seriousness. If any one of you makes a sound before we arrive at the apartment... and this applies to you as well, Ms. Hutch... I will personally throw this cage into the Hudson and hold it underfoot until each and every one of you drowns like a sack full of cats. Do I make my self perfectly... crystal... clear?"
From the lack of his usual smarmy dialogue, Eva can tell Emil was pissed. The tiny people cowering below him can only stare back up at their enormous, angry captor in stunned silence.
"I will accept your collective silence as compliance. We'll discuss this... situation... further."
With that, the Broker wipes the coagulating blood soaked into the women's clothing from his hands with a wet wipe, then slips into the back of the yellow cab with his kennel full of shrunken criminals. The vehicle speeds away from the scene of the crime in the direction of DeTorres's apartment.
End Part 27
12:28pm
A pair of tiny figures, one almost half the size of the other, watch an unassuming man from the shadows. Not for observation' sake, but because he is a target. The man? A portly mafioso by the name of Lucio Fulci. His crime? There's too many to name here, but for our purposes the only one that matters was crossing The Broker.
An office as cluttered as Fulci's could provide a thousand places for such remarkably small people to hide, but they're close enough that he could literally reach out and touch them if aware of their presence. Hidden behind a framed portrait of his late wife, Alexandra Clark and her mentor, Eva Hutch, wait anxiously, yet patiently for a window of opportunity. Just a few seconds is all they need to slip a deadly toxin, The Bubbling Death... provided by DeTorres himself, into his drink and put an end to the man once and for all.
Getting inside the office hadn't been as difficult as nearly every other leg of their journey thus far. While in the modern era the building's mail was delivered to a series of locking slots near the entrance, at some point in the past, the post was brought straight to the tenants' doors. An old mail slot built into the door provided easy access for the minuscule hit-women to infiltrate Fulci's office space. After that, a strenuous climb up the power cord of his computer had brought the tired and winded pair to their ultimate goal.
Watching Fulci eat is like watching an industrial grade trash compactor flex its muscle. Relative tonnage of sweet, sticky chicken disappears into the giant's maw, to be incinerated in the acidic garbage heap that is his stomach. As she peeks cautiously out from behind the protection of an antique silver frame, Alex is surprised she isn't more put off by her former employer's slovenly mastication. The grumbling pain in her own belly is more than likely the culprit. If anything, she hopes a stray grain of rice might role her direction, but Fulci's mouth is like a black hole, devouring everything and anything that comes near.
"Jesus fuck," Eva whispers, "I'd kill a man for a bite of that right now."
The irony in her partner's statement is not lost on Alex, considering what they are there to do. "I was just thinking the same thing," she whispers back.
It isn't just the midday hunger wrenching at Alex's stomach that is making it ache. Her own anxieties are doing plenty of that on their own. Beads of sweat trickle down the sides of her face. Her knuckles turn white as he's holds a death grip on the oversized vial of poison in her hands. As grotesque and monstrous as he appears to her now, Alex knows this man. She's worked with him. Laughed with him. She's even enjoyed dinner at his apartment, prepared by his sweet, loving wife before her unfortunate passing. The conflicting feelings she's been grappling with are coming to their natural head. Fulci had betrayed her, yes... but Alex still doesn't want him dead. Unfortunately, that decision is out of her control. Not if she wants her daughter to have any kind of normal life, DeTorres has made that perfectly clear.
After polishing off what is left inside his plastic feedbag, Fulci let's out a belch that sounds more like a lions roar to Alex and Eva's shrunken ears. A chubby Italian King Kong, boisterously celebrating his victory over the barge's worth of General Tso's chicken he's just annihilated. With a couple more gulps of his whiskey, the enormous man is off to the restroom, leaving his unknown guests free to fulfill their orders. The door latches closed behind him.
This is it.
"Go!" Eva whisper shouts. "Go whack the fucker so we can go home. I'm fucking starving!"
The fact that her partner can be so nonchalant about what is about to happen baffles Alex... but she's right. She just needs to get it over with.
Eva stays behind to keep an eye on the door, sending Alex out into the open plain of the desk alone. At least that's the excuse she makes. She has been given specific orders from DeTorres to make sure Alexandra is the one who carries out the job.
Alex's bare feet slap against the dark hardwood as she pads her way towards Fulci's half-drank libation, the poison football tucked securely under her arm. The ice shifts within the lowball glass as it melts, startling the tiny woman to a halt before resuming her advance once again. Labored moans emanate from the bathroom as Lucio tries to uncork his clogged-up bowls.
An errant step, focusing too hard on getting to the glass and not on her path to get there. Alex catches her foot on the edge of the desk calendar as she cross onto it, falling forward onto her stomach. The vial flies out from her grasp and rolls across the desk. The tiny mother gasps as the cylinder speeds away towards the edge of the walnut mesa. She climbs back to her feet as quickly as she can, trying to chase the escaping bottle down before it topples over the side. She's nearly there, but the vial is even closer to the edge. With a diving leap, Alex reaches for the toxic payload, catching it just as it is about to drop. She sighs through her panting breaths, looking back to Eva who is biting her nails with nerves. Alex gives her a reassuring thumbs up before standing back up. Eva breathes a sigh of relief.
The little brunette makes it to the glass without further incident. Condensation beads on its surface and drips down the sides to form a pooling ring around the base that slowly soaks into the cork coaster the glass rests upon. Alex takes a moment to allow the water to bead into her hand from the rounded surface. She slurps up some much needed moisture before proceeding. The would-be killer wipes her mouth dry, then kneels down to unscrew the cap on the vial. She needs both her legs wrapped around it, as well as both hands to loosen the lid, but it does eventually give.
And there it is, exposed and unfiltered. "The Bubbling Death," as DeTorres had called it. It doesn't look like much, a white powder as fine as flour, but Emil had told her this vial had enough stowed inside to kill an elephant, but to use all of it... just to be sure. A bit of an overkill really. Literally.
"What the fuck are ya waiting for?" Eva chastises from across the desk. "Just dump the shit in and let's go!"
Alex nods, realizing she is once again lost in thought, then stands back up with the vial secured between both of her hands. The rim of the glass just about meets her brow, so the tiny woman has to lift the deadly payload over her head to dump it into the drink. On the tips of her toes, she lets the poison cascade into the boozy beverage. The powder fizzles some as it hits the ice and liquid, then dissipates quickly. Alex shakes the vial a little to empty it more... but not completely. In fact, she pulls it away with about a third of its contents remaining inside. She looks back to Eva once again as she screws the cap back on. The redhead is pulling the hair at the sides of her head in confusion.
"What the fuck are ya doing?! Pour the whole thing in, ya dumbass!"
Alex has a plan, but she's not sure she's ready to let Eva in on it just yet. She finishes screwing the cap back on and makes a b-line back for cover. She manages to stay on her feet the entire way this time. Eva does not look amused upon her arrival.
"Are you fucking crazy?! Gitcha ass back there and pour the rest in!"
"We'll talk about it later, Eva. Let's just get out of here."
"Mistah D won't like this, not a bit!"
"What DeTorres doesn't know won't kill him," Alex replies. Except... in this case, it just might. If there was enough in that vial to take down a pachyderm, then there should be plenty left to kill DeTorres as well. "Can we please just get the fuck outta here."
"We can't," Eva informs her, "we have to wait until the job is done."
"Did you not see me just dump that shit in his drink?! It's done. Let's go."
"We have'ta make sure he drinks it, and since YOU decided not to use it all, now we have to make sure he's dead before we can leave!" Eva answers.
Alex groans, storming back behind the picture frame and taking a seat with her spine pressed against the backing of the picture. "This is fucking hell. I swear to god, I must be dead and this is hell."
The minutes tick by. Fulci still hasn't emerged from the restroom. His straining grunts get more and more intense as he tries to squeeze the stubborn bowl movement from his ass. The girls can only sit by and wait until he finishes. Tension is rising, and not just in anticipation for the job to be done. Eva has an idea of what Alex has planned for the remaining poison, and it scares her. By not following orders, Alex has put her in the position of having to choose between her new, but only friend and the man who has saved her from a life on the streets.
"Startin' tuh think this was all a waste of time," Eva muses, letting her southern accent free to dictate the gate of her thought.
"How's that," Alex inquires.
"Don't think he's makin' it out of that bathroom alive."
Alex chuckles a little, "you said the same thing about the stairs."
"Right," the taller of the two agrees, "but I think the fucker might be tryin' tuh turn himself inside out in there."
Some heavy breathing follows, as well as the unmistakable sounds of the sink running and the toilet flushing. Alex and Eva duck back behind the picture frame as the restroom door swings open. The foul smell wafts through the small room quickly, leaving the tiny women gagging and holding their noses. Fulci takes his seat, sweating profusely and trying to dab it away with his already damp handkerchief. The miniature assassins watch on as his chubby fingers wrap around the poisoned glass. He raises the drink to his lips and downs the remaining scotch in a single gulp, then pours himself another.
That was it then. Fulci had taken the toxin. Though he did not yet know it, the chubby mafioso was already dead.
Alex and Eva hold their position. The seconds tick on by as normal, but it still feels like an eternity before anything happens. Fulci scrolls through through his emails, with Alex noting that the look on his face was very much one of defeat. She wonders what is going through this man's mind just seconds before it happens. He slams his fist on the surface of the desk; Alexandra barely keeps herself from screaming.
Fulci's face turns beet red, then purple. The look on his face tells the woman who poisoned him that he knows something is off. The gigantic man clutches his chest, a sure sign of a heart attack. What follows is so quick that it hardly seems to warrant the struggles it took to get there. The toxin stops Fulci's heart. His face crashes hard onto the desktop, resulting in a 8 on the Richter scale below the feet of the perpetrators responsible. The picture frame falls forward, shattering the glass. The dying man to revealed his murderers in all his glory.
Lucio's eyes are still open, bloodshot and tear-filled. Foam oozes from his mouth and soaks into the paper of the desk calendar below his face. Judging from the stench, he'd finally managed to pass the stool that had plagued him all morning.
"Is that it? Is he... is he dead?"
Alex felt numb. A reputation as a crook she could deal with, but as a murderer? If she had anything in her stomach to purge, she would have thrown it up right there and then. Eva slaps her on the shoulder to congratulate her on a job well done.
"Good work, pipsqueak. Let's hit the road."
Good work. Was it though? No... this was anything but good.
It is when the two of them turn to leave that something completely unexpected happens. Fulci suddenly jolts upright in his seat, screaming at the very tops of his lungs. His eyes roll back into his skull and he claws at his chest like he's trying to dig something out. Alex screams at the sight, as does Eva. Neither has seen anything like what is about to follow before. No one has.
The veins under Lucio's skin begin to raise and pulse. They continue to expand like balloons until the very cellular structure fails and ruptures. Little geysers of blood spray from from his arms and neck like leaky pipes. The miniature women flee for cover from the raining bodily fluids beneath Fulci's rolodex, watching on in horror as Alex's former boss bloats enough to pop the buttons clean off his shirt.
His eyeballs go next, exploding right in the sockets as more blood gushes from every orifice of the poor man's face. His bone-chilling screams gargle in the endless stream of foamy blood from his mouth. Then, like a pin falling onto an overfilled water balloon, Lucio's desperate clawing at his own flesh breaks the stretching skin. His entire chest cavity erupts with enough pressure to send his guts flying across the room and against the ceiling. Fulci's head falls back over the top of his rolling chair and dangles by the flesh of the back of his neck. The force of the explosion was strong enough to sever his cranium from his spine.
Once the room returns to an uneasy stillness, the shrunken assassins slowly emerge from beneath the dripping, rotary card holder. Neither can take their eyes off the gory crater that once was a man, like trying to process the destruction of Mt. St. Helens after it blew out its northern slope. The carbonated blood fizzles all through the room, slowly going flat like soda in a glass.
A piece of Fulci's liver, ejected with the rest of his organs, falls from the ceiling with a splat, just inches away from the tiny girl, spraying them both with a tidal wave of gooey innards. Eva shakes the bubbling gore from her hands and hair. Even though it's the single most shocking thing she's ever seen, she can't help but laugh at the sheer insanity of what she's just witnessed.
"Holy fucking shit! That was fucking epic! What a shitshow! Haha! Alex, can you believe this shit?! Alex?"
Alexandra's response to watching a man she'd known for over a decade pop like a giant grape is understandably different. When Eva turns her head to view her companion after the lack of response, she finds Alex staring down at her bloody hands. She's backing away, not so much from Eva, but out of pure fight or flight instinct. The wildness of her eyes more than suggests she is about to completely lose it.
"Woooah, easy pardner," Eva says as calmly as she can, approaching the retreating Alex with caution, "don't go all padded walls and straight jacket on me."
The terrified rookie looks up from her hands to meet Eva's gaze. The terror painted across her face is enough to break Eva's heart in an instant. As hard as she's trying, Alex is about to come unglued. She lets out a blood curdling scream, one that's only cut off as she falls. While still backing away, she trips over the edge of an open stamp pad and lands with a splat on the soft ink-saturated sponge within. Her screams resume when she sees the chunk of Fulci's jaw, teeth and all, that had landed there before her.
Eva rushes to her side, stepping onto the pad and kneeling down to take hold of her hysterical partner. "Alex! Alex, stay with me here! Don't give up on me, ok?!"
Her words have little effect. Alex continues to scream and sob in a state of absolute maddening horror. Eva hates having to do it, but she gives the smaller woman a firm slap across the face to bring her out of it. The shocking blow seems to work. Alex holds the throbbing side of her face and stares back at Eva with tears streaming down her face, but at least she's stopped screaming.
"Hey! Hey, Alex? Listen... what's black and white and red all over?"
The traumatized brunette tilts her head in confusion to Eva's strange setup. This hardly seems like the time and place for a stupid riddle. "Huh?"
"You, dummy! You are!"
Alexandra is more confused than ever, but takes another look down at her hands. She finds that she's not only covered in Fulci's blood, but thick, black ink as well. She lets out the saddest, sobbing laugh she can muster, but it isn't much and turns into more of a wail. She directs her attention back to her perpetually cheery associate, who was only doing her best to help.
Eva offers a hand. "What'd ya say we high-tail it outta here? Huh?"
Alex's eyes dart back and forth between each of Eva's, then wordlessly nods. Eva helps her tiny partner to her feet and the two of them gather up their packs. They make their way to the cables coiling down behind the computer. Alex is the first to attempt the climb back down to the floor, but Eva takes a quick look back over the carnage before beginning her own descent. That's when she discovers a huge problem, one even more serious than the exploded man looming over the large walnut desk.
Footprints. The ink.
Two sets of tiny, black footprints crossing the desk through the blood and gore to that very spot. While the rational side of her knows that the local police would hardly think to consider that this murder was committed by people the size of fairies, it was still evidence... and Mistah D would not like anything left so haphazardly.
"Eva?! What the fuck are you waiting for?! Can we please just go?!" Alex pleads, still sobbing as she carefully slides closer to the floor. She wants nothing more than to leave this nightmare experience in the rear view.
"Go on ahead," Eva replies, "I'll be right behind ya. I promise. I just need to deal with one more thing."
Eva scans the cluttered desk, searching for anything she can use to cover their tracks. Her eyes lock onto a bottle of White Out resting near the far edge, which sets her legs in motion once again. The desk is slippery and treacherous, at least an ankle deep of bubbling gore covers almost everything with shards of broken glass hidden beneath. Skillfully, the athletic redhead makes it to the bottle without falling or sustaining injury.
The bottle was not terribly heavy, even for someone of only seven inches in height, but she still has to carry it back across the desk towards the computer where so many of Fulci's files are stacked up against the wall. Once Eva arrives, she wrenches the cap off the bottle and dumps its contents directly into the stack of files. Most had escaped the eruption, the computer having received most of the brunt, shielding the documents from blood spatter.
Old, dry paper... and a handy accelerant.
Removing her final match from her pack, Eva strikes the tip against the plaster wall and drops the flaming stick onto the paper below. The White Out catches fire immediately and the paper starts to burn. A single image of a streaking flame racing towards her murdered father's arm flashes into Eva's mind, then fades away.
Down below, Alex can now see smoke starting to rise from the top of the desk. "Eva! Eva are you alright?!" The redhead waves at her partner from over the edge, a gesture that allows Alexandra to breath a sigh of relief. She has no idea how the fuck they're going to get out of there and certainly doesn't want to have to figure it out on her own. She's in no state of mind to work out a complex escape plan, too stricken with fear to think clearly.
In less than a minute, the smoke detector goes off with its deafening alarm. In just over two, the main door to the office swings open wide, banging into the arm of the armrest of the sofa. The tiny perpetrators are startled, sending them scattering for the shadows. The man standing in the doorframe is Dean Roper, building superintendent extraordinaire, with fire extinguisher firmly in hand.
"Fuck! No!" The fire hasn't even spread beyond the single file Eva has lit. She hoped they'd have more time.
Initially, Roper is struck by the unfathomable horror before him. Who wouldn't be? One of his oldest tenants turned inside out and spread across the room in a hellish scene of blood and gore. Vomit rises in his throat and Dean cant help but purge right there in the hallway. After wiping the sick from his chin, the scrawny man manages to compose himself long enough to pull the pin from the red canister. It doesn't take much to dowse Eva's meager attempt at a bonfire.
"Dear god almighty...," Roper gasps. Suddenly a leaky water heater seems like the most trivial problem in the world. He'd just spoken to this man less than an hour ago, and now...
Covering she and Alex's tracks was no longer possible. Their dirty work had been discovered and Eva knew they had to get out fast or risk discovery. For a murder as strange and gruesome as this, the cops would arrive on scene in no time. A crowd of other tenants had already begun to form in the hallway, their curiosities peaking at the commotion inside Lucio Fulci's office. Taking the power cord down as quickly as a fireman descends a pole, Eva rejoins her diminutive partner in the shadows beneath the desk.
"What the fuck are we gonna do?" Alex whispers. "There's so many of them out there! We'll never get out without being seen!"
"About that," Eva replies, "I'm gonna need ya to trust me."
Alex doesn't even pause to process Eva's request. She too tired and too scared to question anything her partner had planned. Eva had earned Alex's trust, "you've gotten us this far."
The larger woman points towards the open window behind the desk, "that's our exit."
It was as if the path to freedom was laid before them. Another crooked stack of files to scale like a wonky staircase. Hop onto the top of a short filing cabinet. Then a short scramble up the draw string for the shades.
"I'll meet you on the window sill," Eva tells her.
The tiny, frightened mother's anxiety peaks with the thought of her partner leaving her side once again, "wait, what're you up to now?"
"We're five stories up, pipsqueak. This spool of thread ain't gonna cut it. I gotta find our way down. Now go!"
Alex simply nods her head with a thousand yard stare and follows her instructions. If anyone was capable of getting them out of this alive, she knew in her heart it was Eva Hutch.
While Alexandra starts her treacherous climb, Eva makes for the very thing they need to escape... the plastic bag Fulci had been scarfing his lunch out of like a human horse. She hadn't wanted to say anything to Alex, the poor woman was already running on shattered nerves, but it looked like parachuting out of this shitstorm really was on the table that afternoon.
One of the bag's handles is draped over the edge of the trash bin, making it fairly easy for Eva to drag it out. The commotion in the hallway continues to grow more restless in the background. People scream and accusations fly in every direction. Meanwhile, Eva inspects the sack for any holes and thankfully finds none. She even spots a single grain of fried rice, somehow missed by the recently deceased, stuck to the inside of the slimy bag. She takes a few large bites, then tosses the rest aside. Eva then rolls up the noisy plastic bag as quietly as possible, even as she chews on her much needed snack. It isn't long before she finds Alexandra waiting for her up on the window still.
"No way," Alex protests. By now, she trusts Eva with every fiber of her being, but asking her to jump out of a building strapped to a greasy sack is a big... fucking... ask.
The larger woman is just as nervous, but ignores her partner and wraps the handles of the sack around her upper arms and shoulders. Then a couple of times more to make sure it's passengers won't slip out in the descent.
"There's got to be another way!"
"You know there isn't. The hallway is full of people and this whole building will be crawling with pigs any minute. We have to go. Now." Eva physically lifts Alexandra off her feet and clutches her to her breast. "Wrap your arms around my neck and hold on tighter than a virgin on prom night... wait... scratch that! Hold tight enough that you don't fucking choke me out!"
"Oh fuck," Alex nervously sighs, "this is really happening, isn't it?"
"Get ready, pipsqueak... this is about to get wilder than a rodeo bull!"
"Wait! Waitwaitwaitwait!" Alex stalls. "You never told me if you've done this before!"
Eva replies, "not with two people."
"Oh fuuuuuUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUK!!!"
Eva doesn't even need to leap out the window . A gust off wind suddenly sucks them off the ledge, pulling the bag through the air and whipping its riders in every direction. Alex screams. Eva hoots with laughter. It's like the trip up the stairs in Dean Roper's tool caddy all over again.
Ms. Hutch lives for this shit.
The flight isn't long, with the excited redhead touching safely down on top of one the trash bags in the alleyway. The wind continues to drag her down the side of the large, bulbous sack until the two women crumple to the ground. Alex refuses to let go.
"Ok... Alex? Alex... you're choking me!" Eva grunts as she pats Alex's back to try and get her flight companion's python-like grip to uncoil. "Alex? Alex we're safe now... you can let go!"
All four inches of Alexandra Clark is trembling with terror. She does eventually relent, allowing Eva the breath of not-so-fresh air she so desperately needs. "I can't believe it... we're alive? We're alive!" Once again, the larger of the two found the smaller wrapped around her neck, but this time hugging and laying kisses repeatedly upon her cheeks with appreciation. "Oh my god, Eva! You're amazing!"
"Don'tcha fa'get it neither," the redhead replies in jest. She returns Alex's affections as they sit victorious, or some version of it, in the middle of the cluttered alley. The joy of relief is short lived though. Eva needs to contact DeTorres to let him know the job is done... but also severely botched. She knows him all too well, and she knows he's gonna be pissed.
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It's two hours before DeTorres arrives. The usual nightmare traffic and a cabby that got lost along the way made certain of that. They pull up to the entrance of the alleyway, the red and blue lights of emergency services can be seen bouncing off of all the buildings in the area. They wouldn't be able to park in front of the building if they wanted to as the police had the entire block taped off by this point. Between the figures of the sizable crowd that had gathered, men in hazmat suits could be seen coming in and out of the building. Eva had been accurate in her assessment... shit had, in fact, hit the fan.
The two miniature women spot Emil before he does them. They come running out from behind a wall of lined up beer bottles, waving their hands in the air to get his attention. When he sees them, DeTorres doesn't greet them or congratulate them on a job well done. He doesn't say anything, something Eva knows very well is a bad sign. He doesn't even give them the chance to climb into the pet carrier themselves. Emil simply snatches them up and drops them inside, more like objects than people.
The tiny duo slides down the inclined floor of the carrier and crash into a pile of naked flesh. Alex and Eva are hardly expecting company. Four other shrunken people, three men and a woman somehow smaller than Alex, are collapsed on top of one another at the bottom of the tilted the carrier. Each of the men is larger than even Eva, but still easily stuffed into the small handled cage with plenty of room to spare. DeTorres's little assassins are just the latest additions to this shifting dogpile.
"Who the fuck are these assholes?!" Eva exclaims.
DeTorres's face appears at the mouth of the pet carrier, looking tired, stern and unforgiving. "I'm only going to say this once, so I recommend you take what I'm about to tell you with utmost seriousness. If any one of you makes a sound before we arrive at the apartment... and this applies to you as well, Ms. Hutch... I will personally throw this cage into the Hudson and hold it underfoot until each and every one of you drowns like a sack full of cats. Do I make my self perfectly... crystal... clear?"
From the lack of his usual smarmy dialogue, Eva can tell Emil was pissed. The tiny people cowering below him can only stare back up at their enormous, angry captor in stunned silence.
"I will accept your collective silence as compliance. We'll discuss this... situation... further."
With that, the Broker wipes the coagulating blood soaked into the women's clothing from his hands with a wet wipe, then slips into the back of the yellow cab with his kennel full of shrunken criminals. The vehicle speeds away from the scene of the crime in the direction of DeTorres's apartment.
End Part 27
"People like Coldplay and voted for the Nazis, you can't trust people, Jeremy."
-Super Hans, Peep Show
-Super Hans, Peep Show
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Bloodthirstybutcher
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Re: Leveraged: A Sequel to Tumbled
Part 28-"A Big House on the Hill"
Two years ago...
The apartment of Alexandra Clark, her husband Bradley Simpson, and Alex's daughter, Danielle.
Alexandra is ready to leave for the airport. She's been assigned a new job by her employer, Lucio Fulci... one that could change their lives forever...
"Look, I'm only gonna be gone for a couple of weeks, three tops. You don't need to worry about me, Brad. I can take care of myself."
"Everything about your job worries me, Lex. I know you can't tell me about it, and I'm not asking you to, but every time you leave... I worry you're not gonna come home this time."
Alexandra's husband, Bradley Simpson has never been so frank about his concerns before. Alex had proven herself a strong and independent character, one of the traits that made him fall in love with her in the first place. She'd only ever described her work as "freelancing" for some "very powerful" people. Brad had his suspicions, but they ranged anywhere from international spy to professional criminal, with the fear that it was likely the later. But he loved her, and trusted her, and for a while that was enough.
These feelings regarding the secretiveness of Alexandra's work had been stewing ever since they started dating, but there was something different about the way she spoke about this current job,vague as the clues were. It had red flags going up all over inside his head, to say the least. Brad was terrified he was going to lose her.
"It's just another day at the office," Alex lies, "nothing I can't handle. Nothing I haven't encountered before."
More red flags.
"I got a real bad feeling about all this, Lex," his pet name he always used for her. "I know better than anyone how capable you are. You've managed to raise a beautiful, intelligent... and just as stubborn as her mother... daughter. All on your own, and in a city with zero empathy for a single parent."
"So what's the problem?" Alex asks as she crosses her arms over her chest.
"The problem is that you're not doing it all alone anymore. I'm here... remember?! You don't need to work so hard... shit, you don't need to work at all! I make enough for us to get by. Just... stop. Before whatever it is you're up to fucking kills you!"
While she respected her husband's concerns, he had no idea just how big this score was going to be. This was the Broker we were talking about... THE Broker! If only she could tell him... if he only knew...
"That's just the thing, Bradley... when I pull this off, neither of us will ever have to work again! Dani will never have to work a day in her life! Hell, her grandkids will never have to either! Fuck getting by! I've done that for most of my life. My daughter will never have to know what it's like to struggle like I did. All of us, we'll be able to go anywhere we ever wanted, DO anything we've ever wanted! You can't expect me to just give something like that up."
"Is it worth leaving your daughter without a mother?"
"That's not going to happen," Alex scowls. "I'm good at what I do. Very fucking good. I can handle anything."
"Until you find the thing you can't."
Now Alexandra is beginning to get angry.
"This is it, Brad. This is the last job. I do this, and I'm out. We're out. All of us, we can leave the pain of scraping by behind us and live like we deserve to. One last job, and I'm done."
"Sure... because those have never been anyone's famous last words before."
At that, Alex throws her hand up dismissively in her husband's face and storms away in huff. Brad follows her through the living room into the kitchen, and then back again. He catches her by the wrist to halt her retreat. A ding from her phone interrupts them, it's a text notifying Alex that her cab has arrived.
"Don't," he says sternly. "Don't walk away from me like that. I'm standing here, pouring my heart out to you. I'm telling you I'm terrified I'm never gonna see you again. You don't get to just walk away from me like that."
Alex shakes her hand free of his grasp, which Brad releases freely.
"I'm doing this for us! I need you to understand that," she snaps back.
"For us? Or for yourself?"
"One. Last. Job," she repeats, "Jesus, Brad! You may be my husband, and I love you, but I don't have to ask your permission for this. I'm going. I'm doing what I do best, and it's going to free us."
"That's funny... because I've always thought that being a mother is what you did best."
Alex fails to find a rebuttal for that one. Neither of them wants a fight, let alone right before she's leaving for an unknown number of weeks. She'd never tell him him this, but she is afraid. She always gets afraid before a job. That's just a part of the process. Once she's in it though, she always finds a cooler head and her confidence.
The cab driver sends another text, this one more impatient. Alex slips her phone back into her pocket and wraps her arms around her husband, planting a big wet kiss on his lips.
"I've gotta go. Please don't worry about me, I'm gonna be fine. Trust me. I've got this. Before you know it, we'll be staring out the penthouse window of a hotel in Dubai, sipping champagne and scarfing down caviar like it's canned cheese."
"I'll take the canned cheese," Brad replies.
As she begins to pull away, Brad grabs her by the wrist once more and pulls her back. They kiss, this time much more passionately. She may need to leave, but he needs her to know how much he loves her more.
"Please," he whispers while staring deeply and intently into her eyes, "be careful. Come home... no matter what."
"Careful is my middle name," she snarks back. She offers another little peck and her trademark pout, one she knows he's a complete slave to. "I'll call you when the job is over, ok?" She turns to pick up her luggage and walks down the hall to the door.
"You better," he replies. There's the faintest hint of a tremble in his voice.
She blows him one last kiss before stepping out the door.
That phone call never comes.
Alexandra Clark walked out that door for the last time and disappeared from Bradley's life. Her young daughter, forced to grow up without her mother, just as Brad had feared. He would spend the next few years of his life trying to find the woman he loved, to no avail. He continued to raise Danielle, loving her as if she were his own flesh and blood. The two of them would relocate to the country upstate, mostly because Brad feared that whatever Alexandra had mixed herself up in might come back to haunt them.
As for Danielle, her mother's disappearance would traumatize the poor girl. Constantly torn between the need to find her mother, and resenting the woman for abandoning her. Her teenage years were very hard.
Would either believe it if they knew the truth? That their mother was still alive, but miniaturized and forced to serve a man who has walked the earth for hundreds, if not thousands of years?
Would they really want to know?
End Part 28
Two years ago...
The apartment of Alexandra Clark, her husband Bradley Simpson, and Alex's daughter, Danielle.
Alexandra is ready to leave for the airport. She's been assigned a new job by her employer, Lucio Fulci... one that could change their lives forever...
"Look, I'm only gonna be gone for a couple of weeks, three tops. You don't need to worry about me, Brad. I can take care of myself."
"Everything about your job worries me, Lex. I know you can't tell me about it, and I'm not asking you to, but every time you leave... I worry you're not gonna come home this time."
Alexandra's husband, Bradley Simpson has never been so frank about his concerns before. Alex had proven herself a strong and independent character, one of the traits that made him fall in love with her in the first place. She'd only ever described her work as "freelancing" for some "very powerful" people. Brad had his suspicions, but they ranged anywhere from international spy to professional criminal, with the fear that it was likely the later. But he loved her, and trusted her, and for a while that was enough.
These feelings regarding the secretiveness of Alexandra's work had been stewing ever since they started dating, but there was something different about the way she spoke about this current job,vague as the clues were. It had red flags going up all over inside his head, to say the least. Brad was terrified he was going to lose her.
"It's just another day at the office," Alex lies, "nothing I can't handle. Nothing I haven't encountered before."
More red flags.
"I got a real bad feeling about all this, Lex," his pet name he always used for her. "I know better than anyone how capable you are. You've managed to raise a beautiful, intelligent... and just as stubborn as her mother... daughter. All on your own, and in a city with zero empathy for a single parent."
"So what's the problem?" Alex asks as she crosses her arms over her chest.
"The problem is that you're not doing it all alone anymore. I'm here... remember?! You don't need to work so hard... shit, you don't need to work at all! I make enough for us to get by. Just... stop. Before whatever it is you're up to fucking kills you!"
While she respected her husband's concerns, he had no idea just how big this score was going to be. This was the Broker we were talking about... THE Broker! If only she could tell him... if he only knew...
"That's just the thing, Bradley... when I pull this off, neither of us will ever have to work again! Dani will never have to work a day in her life! Hell, her grandkids will never have to either! Fuck getting by! I've done that for most of my life. My daughter will never have to know what it's like to struggle like I did. All of us, we'll be able to go anywhere we ever wanted, DO anything we've ever wanted! You can't expect me to just give something like that up."
"Is it worth leaving your daughter without a mother?"
"That's not going to happen," Alex scowls. "I'm good at what I do. Very fucking good. I can handle anything."
"Until you find the thing you can't."
Now Alexandra is beginning to get angry.
"This is it, Brad. This is the last job. I do this, and I'm out. We're out. All of us, we can leave the pain of scraping by behind us and live like we deserve to. One last job, and I'm done."
"Sure... because those have never been anyone's famous last words before."
At that, Alex throws her hand up dismissively in her husband's face and storms away in huff. Brad follows her through the living room into the kitchen, and then back again. He catches her by the wrist to halt her retreat. A ding from her phone interrupts them, it's a text notifying Alex that her cab has arrived.
"Don't," he says sternly. "Don't walk away from me like that. I'm standing here, pouring my heart out to you. I'm telling you I'm terrified I'm never gonna see you again. You don't get to just walk away from me like that."
Alex shakes her hand free of his grasp, which Brad releases freely.
"I'm doing this for us! I need you to understand that," she snaps back.
"For us? Or for yourself?"
"One. Last. Job," she repeats, "Jesus, Brad! You may be my husband, and I love you, but I don't have to ask your permission for this. I'm going. I'm doing what I do best, and it's going to free us."
"That's funny... because I've always thought that being a mother is what you did best."
Alex fails to find a rebuttal for that one. Neither of them wants a fight, let alone right before she's leaving for an unknown number of weeks. She'd never tell him him this, but she is afraid. She always gets afraid before a job. That's just a part of the process. Once she's in it though, she always finds a cooler head and her confidence.
The cab driver sends another text, this one more impatient. Alex slips her phone back into her pocket and wraps her arms around her husband, planting a big wet kiss on his lips.
"I've gotta go. Please don't worry about me, I'm gonna be fine. Trust me. I've got this. Before you know it, we'll be staring out the penthouse window of a hotel in Dubai, sipping champagne and scarfing down caviar like it's canned cheese."
"I'll take the canned cheese," Brad replies.
As she begins to pull away, Brad grabs her by the wrist once more and pulls her back. They kiss, this time much more passionately. She may need to leave, but he needs her to know how much he loves her more.
"Please," he whispers while staring deeply and intently into her eyes, "be careful. Come home... no matter what."
"Careful is my middle name," she snarks back. She offers another little peck and her trademark pout, one she knows he's a complete slave to. "I'll call you when the job is over, ok?" She turns to pick up her luggage and walks down the hall to the door.
"You better," he replies. There's the faintest hint of a tremble in his voice.
She blows him one last kiss before stepping out the door.
That phone call never comes.
Alexandra Clark walked out that door for the last time and disappeared from Bradley's life. Her young daughter, forced to grow up without her mother, just as Brad had feared. He would spend the next few years of his life trying to find the woman he loved, to no avail. He continued to raise Danielle, loving her as if she were his own flesh and blood. The two of them would relocate to the country upstate, mostly because Brad feared that whatever Alexandra had mixed herself up in might come back to haunt them.
As for Danielle, her mother's disappearance would traumatize the poor girl. Constantly torn between the need to find her mother, and resenting the woman for abandoning her. Her teenage years were very hard.
Would either believe it if they knew the truth? That their mother was still alive, but miniaturized and forced to serve a man who has walked the earth for hundreds, if not thousands of years?
Would they really want to know?
End Part 28
"People like Coldplay and voted for the Nazis, you can't trust people, Jeremy."
-Super Hans, Peep Show
-Super Hans, Peep Show
-
Bloodthirstybutcher
- Shrink Master
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- Joined: Tue Nov 10, 2020 10:36 pm
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Re: Leveraged: A Sequel to Tumbled
Part 29-"The House Always Wins"
Safely back in the confines of DeTorres's penthouse apartment, Eva filled her boss in on what went down in back in Fulci's office. Stripped down to their skins, she and Alex were soaking in a bowl of lukewarm water to wash the dried blood from their bodies. The dark splotches of ink would have to wear away on their own, leaving Alexandra especially looking like she had an extreme case of vitiligo.
Eva helped Alex with her back, the later of which had been very quiet. She held her knees drawn to her chest and stared blankly into the pink hue of the rippling water. As her partner went over the gory details with Emil, the terrible images of what had transpired played out over and over in her head. The horrific manner in which her former employer, and dare say... friend, died... which she was responsible for causing. Alexandra was sick with shame and guilt.
DeTorres paced back and forth through the kitchen as he listened. "Very sloppy, Ms. Hutch," he chastised, "very sloppy indeed. Is it safe to assume you failed to cover your tracks as well?"
Eva felt ashamed as well, but not for the same reasons. This was the first time she'd ever had a job go so sideways. She prided herself on her abilities as a hit-woman, but she'd actually let Emil down.
"I tried to burn the evidence," she pleaded, "but the fucking building manager put the fire out before it had a chance to do any real damage. Besides, how were we supposed to know the guy was going to go all Scanners on us?!"
Ah-ha, Alexandra thinks to herself, Miss... 'I don't watch old boomer movies' HAS seen an older film!
"That is a curious response," Emil admitted, pausing in the middle of his figure 8 patterned walk to pinky his thin mustache. "The late Mr. Fulci must have been prescribed a veritable cocktail of medications for the toxin to react in such an extreme manner. Still, unforeseen events such as this are no excuse for sloppy work."
"He blew up!" Eva reiterated. "That's a shitshow when ya ain't ankle high! It was like watching fucking Vesuvius erupt!"
"Your excuses grow tiresome, Ms. Hutch. If you do not recall, it was you that asked me to entrust you with the task in question, and that you'd ensure Mrs. Clark's cooperation."
"And we did! She did! Alex delivered the poison, just as you instructed! The guy ain't walkin' away... he's sprayed all over the fuckin' walls! What more do ya want from us?!"
Emil slammed his fist down on the counter, causing a miniature earthquake strong enough to rattle the bowl the tiny women occupied. Eva clasped her hands over her mouth, realizing just how far she'd stepped out of line.
"What I expect, Ms. Hutch, is flawless execution. An eye for details. And currently, a mindfulness for one's status in their respective hierarchy. I do not answer to you, Ms. Hutch. Do not forget that."
The naked little redhead nodded fearfully, still wading in the bloody water.
"Fuck you."
Emil cupped a hand to his ear, "I'm sorry, you said something, Mrs. Clark?"
Alex hadn't spoken since they'd returned. After what she'd witnessed, what could she possibly say? She couldn't shake the violent death that she herself was responsible for. Even if, by some miracle she got to see her family again, could she even look them in the eye? Could they even bear to look at her, knowing what she'd done... what she was capable of?
"I said fuck you, Emil," her delivery was dry and emotionless.
Alexandra rose to her feet, water dripping from from her still ink-stained form. Her undraped state seemed unconcerning considering everything else. She glared straight up at The Broker and repeated herself once more, "fuck you, Emil."
"Someone's getting awful big for her lack of britches," DeTorres snarked back. He crossed his arms and looked back down his nose from his full, dizzying height just to lord his size over Alex's insignificance.
Eva tugged at Alex's hand, "stop it! Have ya lost yer goddamn mind?"
"We performed your little errand," Alexandra yelled. "Fulci is dead. There's no way the cops, or whoever the fuck else you've pissed off in this city, can know you're behind it... unless YOU fucked up somehow. That cage full of Cossacks over there looks awful suspicious, don't you think?"
Emil takes pause... the mouthy little bitch had a point. He'd been very careful, but eventually someone would come looking for at least two of the Russians he'd shrunk and abducted.
The only normal sized human in the room side-eyes the locked cage resting on the coffee table in the living room. Three of the four Russians are crouched in the back of the enclosure, sobbing and in shock... but not Crewcut. The obnoxious man is leaning against the gate, his arms draped through the bars up to the elbows. When he catches Emil looking his way, he hocks a big wad of blood and and phlegm onto the spotless glass beneath him. He shows DeTorres the bird, then with the same hand, drags his thumb across his own throat to let the giant man know he's not done with him. After that, he just stares at his shrinker as menacingly as a little man such as he possibly can, smiling with a mouth full of broken and missing teeth.
While the two gangsters might prove useful, Emil was still unsure of what use he might have for a miniature stripper and a bartender too small to squeeze a lime into his gin. "Negotiations stalled," is the only explanation he offers the diminutive Mrs. Clark.
"Ah-ha! So things didn't go so swimmingly for the Mister Big-Bad-Perfectionist either!"
DeTorres thought about crushing the puny woman right then and there for her obstinance.
"Listen," Alex continued, "even if the police find our tracks, no one is gonna believe Lucio was blown to pieces by tiny people. That's just insane! Trust me, I've been living it for two years and still have a hard time believing all of this isn't a bad dream."
Alex continued to make her case, "and even then... just for fucking argument's sake... let's say there's some young go-getter on the force that wants to make a name for himself by digging deeper into a certain cold case. One no one else could solve because it was just too weird and nothing added up. I can't speak for Eva, but I have a record. I've done time. You know what they don't print when you're arrested? Your fucking feet! My fingerprints are on file, but that's it. There's nothing leading police to me or Eva, let alone you. So why don't you back the fuck off and make us those drinks you owe us."
"Excuse me?!" DeTorres chuckled, taken aback by the tiny woman's sheer gall.
"Booze. Now."
Emil laughed again, "you can be quite the little spitfire, Mrs. Clark. I'll hand you that."
Alex crawled out of the salad bowl bath and wrapped the small white hand towel DeTorres had provided around herself like a blanket. "We've been through one nightmare after another today," Alex explained, "you don't even know the half of it. I just wanna get drunk and forget as much as I can. We've fucking earned it."
"Perhaps you have, Mrs. Clark...," Emil mused, "perhaps you have. What can I offer my little executioners?"
"Whatever you're having is fine," Alex replied as she dried her hair in the heavy fabric.
"Gin and tonic?"
Alex turned back to Eva, still inside the bowl and looking especially dumbfounded by the way her partner was speaking to DeTorres... and how well he was taking it. She's still rattled by her boss's rare outburst though.
"Gin and tonic work for you?" The smaller of the two asked the larger.
Eva nodded, then stammered, "y-yeah. Sounds good."
"Two gin and tonics," Alex repeated, then waved the giant away to fetch their libations.
"Careful, Mrs. Clark," Emil grinned, "there's cute, and then there's cocky."
Alex waved him away again, "I was attacked by a spider the size of a Labrador this morning. Less talk, more mixing."
DeTorres looked to Eva as if to wordlessly confirm what her associate had just told him. Eva nodded again. "Wait here then," he relented, "while I fetch the ingredients."
As DeTorres turned his back to open the fridge, Eva stepped out of the bowl and joined Alex under the washcloth. "Holy shit, dude! I can't believe you just one-eightied 'em like that! I was sure we was gettin' stuffed down the garbage disposal like shaved tatter skins!"
Alexandra didn't react. She kept her eyes fixed on the giant cracking ice and shoveling it into an expensive-looking lowball glass.
"Hey," Eva prodded, "you alright?"
Again, Alexandra ignored her.
Before long, DeTorres had returned with a single glass for himself and an eye dropper. He slipped the dropper into his own drink and extracted a few drops of the delicious concoction. He then deposited a single drop each into a pair of Evian water bottle caps for each of his thirsty little killers.
As she raised her portion to her lips, Alex spoke up once more, "you know, Eva here is more special than you give her credit for."
This interrupted Emil's first sip, "oh? How so?"
"Your little mission would have completely failed without her. I lost count of how many times she saved my life today."
"Ms. Hutch has been very good to me," The Broker admitted.
"That's not what I'm getting at," Alexandra tried to clarify. "I never would have made it out of the alley without her. Your little hit would have been dead in the water from the get-go."
"Your point being?"
"My point being, you would have had to fly back to Los Angeles, pick up Eva or another one of your little slaves... sorry, employeeeees... then fly back to New York, and it still wouldn't have made a difference where Fulci is concerned. Your poison still would have had the same effect. You'd still be dealing with the same mess... only stretched out over many more days."
"I'm still waiting for that point, Mrs. Clark."
"What I'm saying is that this job went as well as it possibly could have, so maybe cut Eva some slack. I think she's earned a double, wouldn't you agree?"
DeTorres chuckled again, picking up the dropper and releasing another droplet into Eva's bottle cap. "Perhaps you should've accompanied me to my meeting with the Russians today instead. You make a shrewd negotiator, Mrs. Clark."
Alex tipped her head and raised her cup to that, then finally took a sip. The sweet taste of the cocktail felt refreshing and welcome. "I'll take that as a compliment, coming from the one and only Broker."
"I'm sure the two of you are famished," Emil realized, "what shall be on the menu for this evening?"
"Anything but Chinese," the sight of Lucio's chewed up lunch projected from his ruptured stomach was enough to put Alex off from rice and chicken for a lifetime.
"Italian?" He suggested.
"Perfect," Alex agreed.
"Splendid! I know a place near here that will deliver."
"Vincenzo's?" She guessed.
"Ah! You know it!" DeTorres exclaimed with joy.
"Anyone from around here that's ever stumbled out of a bar a 2 AM knows Vincenzo's," Alex mused.
Emil didn't reply this time, too busy searching for the restaurant's number in his phone. As he began dictating his order to the kind folks at Vincenzo's, DeTorres absentmindedly wandered into the living room. He stares out the large picture window into the city with his back turned to his miniature dinner partners.
Alexandra spots her window of opportunity.
"See," Eva nudged, "I told you he's not such a bad guy! Hey? Where are you going?"
Alex paid her accomplice little mind. She threw the cover of the washcloth aside and zeroed in on her backpack, sitting propped up against their bathing bowl. The tiny mother was determined not to waste a single second. It was still there...
The vial. The remaining Bubbling Death.
Eva's eyes grew wide when she saw it. She couldn't believe she'd forgotten. "Alex! No!" She whisper-shouted at her smaller companion, "don't-"
It was too late to stop her. Alex had already emptied its contents into DeTorres's drink. The powder fizzed and and then dissipated, just as it had done back in Fulci's office. She was fast. Almost as quickly as she had left, Alex was safely back under the towel next to Eva, the vial hidden away inside the pack once again.
"I can't believe you just did that," Eva gasped.
Alex looked her friend in the eye for the first time since they returned to the apartment, "this motherfucker isn't gonna keep me from my daughter for another goddamn day. Not one more goddamn day, Eva. Do you hear me?"
If there was any way Alex felt she could look her family in the eye again after murdering Fulci, it was by taking down a monster like Emil DeTorres. She'd already proven to herself that she was capable of killing. Ending the Broker was as a righteous a kill as anyone.
Let alone that fortune... just waiting back in California...
"...but," Eva pondered out loud, "what am I supposed to do?" The normally confident redhead looked lost and terrified, something Alex had not taken into consideration. She'd underestimated just how attached her friend had become to her captor. It was full on Stockholm Syndrome.
"Isn't it obvious?" Alex tried to assure her, "you're coming with me. I'm not going anywhere without my best friend." She took Eva's hand in hers and offered a crooked little grin.
"Dinner is on its way," DeTorres informed the miniature women upon his return. "What do you say we enjoy another drink before it arrives?" He gulped down the remaining gin and tonic with an exaggerated "ah." The slice of cucumber garnishing the rim was promptly deposited into his mouth with a grin.
Alex gripped her bottle cap with whitening knuckles. He did it! He actually drank it! She shouts with triumph within herself. Hold on, Dani! I'm coming home! I love you, Brad! I'll see you soon!
The reaction was almost as instantaneous as Fulci's. Emil's face turned a deep shade of red and sweat began to bead on his forehead. He looked disoriented and sickly.
She had him. After two long years, Alex finally had him.
Suddenly, DeTorres released an enormous belch, something terribly uncharacteristic of him. "I apologize, my little friends... that Bubbling Death really packs a wallop!"
What?! What did he just say?! Alex screamed inside her mind.
A few beats of his chest and a cough or two later and DeTorres is looking just as healthy as he did before drinking the deadly poison. Alex's jaw drops in defeated shock. Her reaction wasn't missed by The Broker.
"Come now, Mrs. Clark... would you really expect me to turn a substance as volatile as The Bubbling Death over to someone who detests me as much as you do? Not without spending decades building up a tolerance to said substance first? I sprinkle a little on my grapefruit at breakfast every morning, gives it a real kick!" He adds another rhetorical question, "do you really think you're the first to try?"
Alex's heart pounded in her chest. Her mind searched for any lie that might save her skin, but there was nothing she could say that the Broker would believe. Out of all of her many fuck-ups in life, this one may have been the biggest. She'd just gambled with her family's very lives on the line... and the house won. The house always wins.
The tiny woman felt even smaller than her already minuscule four inches. Caught. Trapped. She cupped her hands to her mouth, not even trying to suppress her tears. She wanted to run, but where could she possibly go? Survival instinct took over and her legs were moving before she had any plan of escape. Alexandra wouldn't get far.
DeTorres spotted that same look on the tiny mother's face that every small animal gets when cornered. He'd seen it plenty on the faces of those he'd shrank in the past to recognize it. He lowered his glass to block her path, knocking her off her feet and back onto the hand towel. Alex looked up to find the bottom of the glass falling down on her from above. DeTorres was resting its weight on top of her like a human coaster!
Emil taunted her, "not so fast, Mrs. Clark. I'd be delighted to share another drink with you before you have to leave." Knowing she couldn't move, the diabolical man returned to the fridge to retrieve the fixings for a fresh beverage, leaving Alexandra to struggle beneath the heavy, oversized chalice. "If I were you," he warned, "I would make it my life's meaning to keep that glass from toppling over onto my kitchen counter."
"Please," Alex groaned through gritted teeth, "its too heavy!"
To that, Emil poured a shot's worth of gin into the glass. Alex screamed as the increased volume of liquid pressed her further into the soft material beneath her.
"I'm sorry... please... can't... breath..."
Eva looked on in frozen terror. She'd witnessed her boss do some pretty terrible things, but this was like watching him pull the wings off a butterfly. "Please... don't..."
"This does not concern you, Ms. Hutch. Since our mutual friend here has proven herself inadequate as an assassin, and even less trustworthy... I'm curious to see if she is even fit to support my glass."
Alexandra braced herself as DeTorres poured the tonic water into the glass... slowly. Agonizingly slowly at that. Tears streamed down her reddening face as the weight grew ever more unbearable. She tried to maintain balance of the base with the very tips of her feet and hands, but the panic taking over her brain was winning. By the time the glass was filled, Alex had been pressed so far into the towel that Eva could no longer see anything of her suffocating friend but fingers and toes.
From his heightened position, DeTorres could. The tiny silhouette of Alexandra Clark, splayed out like Divinci's perfect man, glared back at him from beneath the clear bottom through the rippling fluid and floating ice. He rested his chin on the backs of his hands with his elbows providing columns of support for his massive head on either side of the makeshift torture device. He stared right back at her, grinning triumphantly.
Eva couldn't take any more. She threw herself at Emil's resting elbow, begging him to spare her friend from such a slow and horrible death. DeTorres ignored her, even when she tugged at the tiny hairs of his arm. He enjoyed his power over this insignificant woman for a few more seconds, just until he could feel her struggles beneath the glass begin to weaken. Only then did Emil lift his beverage away and take a generous sip. Alex gasped for air as Eva rushed to join her at her side.
Unseen by either, DeTorres had removed the empty vial from Alex's little backpack, twisting and rolling it between his fingertips as he regarded the tiny creature who had just tried to murder him. "Stay where you are, Ms. Hutch. I'm not quite finished with Mrs. Clark just yet. I believe it's my turn to slip her a little something."
The frightened redhead froze in her tracks, just feet by her perspective from Alexandra. The smaller woman had rolled onto her stomach, still trying to catch her wind. Setting his glass down on the counter, DeTorres removed a small, digital thermometer-like object from his pocket. Alex hadn't seen the device before, but Eva was more than familiar with it. She screamed, pleading with her boss not to do it...
...but it was too late.
Emil pointed the tip of the device directly into Alex's face and delivered a small cloud of the Israeli shrinking compound to its already gasping victim.
Eva screamed again, "nooooooooooooo!"
DeTorres strolled over to the sink and rinsed any trace of Bubbling Death from the small glass vial down the sink, then shook its interior dry. When he returned, he found the diminutive Mrs. Clark gasping even harder from the potent substance. Eva hadn't moved, as instructed, but also because she feared getting too close with the powder still lingering in the air.
"Aaaaaaaleeeeex!"
The compound took effect as soon as Alex's throat opened back up. With each new breath, Eva seemed to slip further and further away, though she hadn't moved an inch. DeTorres's overwhelming presence loomed ever more menacingly as the already gargantuan man grew even larger before her very eyes. The fibers of the washcloth expanded all around her, like watching white blades of grass sprout in time lapse. The room began to lose all familiarity in shape and dimension. Even the dye that stained her skin began to bead and drip down her legs as the very cells of her body squeezed as a sponge in a fist.
As soon as she was small enough, DeTorres flicked the shrinking woman inside the vial with the tip of his index finger and sealed the cap off behind her. His gigantic eye warped and contorted through the glass, but lost none of its intensity.
"Here," he said as he tossed the vial into Eva's arms, toppling the still-shrinking woman within around like one of those planes used to train in zero G, "if anything remains of her when the compound has run its course, she is yours to do with as you please, Ms. Hutch." He tossed the contaminated washcloth into the trash and then stepped away from the shocking scene towards the restroom to thoroughly clean his hands.
Eva quickly set the vial down on the countertop, kneeling down to watch with tear-filled eyes as her best... and only... friend dwindled away. Alex pounded on the curved glass within, screaming at the top of her lungs.
"Alex! You've got to stay calm!" Pleaded Eva. "You're going to keep shrinking, but if you don't stay calm and try to control your breathing, you're going to disappear!"
Eva's pleas held little effect. The rapidly shrinking figure being behind the glass kept pounding as hard as she could, trying desperately to make herself heard. Eva was forced to bring her ear to the outside of the vial to make out what Alex was screaming... "Daaaaannnni! Braaaaad!"
Eva's eyes bulged with sharp realization, springing back to her feet, "WAIT!"
DeTorres halted in his steps just before reaching the entrance to the lavatory, "what is it now, Ms. Hutch?"
"HER FAMILY?! WHAT ABOUT HER FAMILY?! ARE YOU STILL GONNA...?" Eva hadn't the heart to even finish the sentence.
In perfect honesty, DeTorres had all but forgotten about the leverage he'd used against Mrs. Clark. While he did not consider himself a liar, he wouldn't be where he was today, or built the reputation he had, without the occasional bluff. Emil had little interest in punishing an innocent child for her mother's mistakes. Alex's family meant as little to him as the ravages of time. They weren't a part of this world, nor had they any business getting pulled into it.
Now, it would be a stretch to say that the Grinch's heart grew three sizes that day, but the tears streaming down Eva's face seemed to spark whatever might pass for a father's love in the complicated man. He'd grown soft on her, despite the earful he gave her earlier that evening. In his own way quiet way, her happiness actually meant something to him.
Emil rested his arm on the doorframe and lowered his head before responding, "you may tell her we can consider the matter closed. Her penance has been paid."
"Thank you, sir!" Eva even bowed to the man out of gratitude. Emil didn't respond, he just walked into the washroom and latched the door behind him.
Dropping back to her knees and gripping the overturned vial between her hands, Eva wasted no time delivering the news to Alex. It was shocking how much her friend had shrunk in just the few short moments she'd turned away.
"It's over, Alex! He says he won't hurt them! Now please, try to calm down!"
What only a few moments prior had been a cramped and claustrophobic prison had grown into a cavernous chamber... and continued to expand even further. Eva's words echoed through the curved, transparent walls. She'd always been larger than Alex, at least since she'd known her, but the redhead's face now stretched across her entire view. Her massive hand could easily be seen clutching the base in the shrinking woman's periphery. Alex was sure she could fit comfortably in the softness of Eva's palm with room to spare. Strangely, she found that thought comforting as her very existence seemed to be fading away.
She should have been terrified...
...but Eva's message brought only peace.
Alex allowed herself to fall back against the rounded glass and rest on the assurance that those she loved would be safe... even if it meant she would never see them again. She looked up into Eva's eyes, watching what might be the best friend she ever had... if only for a day... grow... and grow... and grow. In turn, Eva watched Alex continue to dwindle within her cylindrical cell. Not a dry eye was spared between them, though Alex's tears became to microscopic to see.
"Just breath, Alex...
...just breath."
The End...
...for now.
Safely back in the confines of DeTorres's penthouse apartment, Eva filled her boss in on what went down in back in Fulci's office. Stripped down to their skins, she and Alex were soaking in a bowl of lukewarm water to wash the dried blood from their bodies. The dark splotches of ink would have to wear away on their own, leaving Alexandra especially looking like she had an extreme case of vitiligo.
Eva helped Alex with her back, the later of which had been very quiet. She held her knees drawn to her chest and stared blankly into the pink hue of the rippling water. As her partner went over the gory details with Emil, the terrible images of what had transpired played out over and over in her head. The horrific manner in which her former employer, and dare say... friend, died... which she was responsible for causing. Alexandra was sick with shame and guilt.
DeTorres paced back and forth through the kitchen as he listened. "Very sloppy, Ms. Hutch," he chastised, "very sloppy indeed. Is it safe to assume you failed to cover your tracks as well?"
Eva felt ashamed as well, but not for the same reasons. This was the first time she'd ever had a job go so sideways. She prided herself on her abilities as a hit-woman, but she'd actually let Emil down.
"I tried to burn the evidence," she pleaded, "but the fucking building manager put the fire out before it had a chance to do any real damage. Besides, how were we supposed to know the guy was going to go all Scanners on us?!"
Ah-ha, Alexandra thinks to herself, Miss... 'I don't watch old boomer movies' HAS seen an older film!
"That is a curious response," Emil admitted, pausing in the middle of his figure 8 patterned walk to pinky his thin mustache. "The late Mr. Fulci must have been prescribed a veritable cocktail of medications for the toxin to react in such an extreme manner. Still, unforeseen events such as this are no excuse for sloppy work."
"He blew up!" Eva reiterated. "That's a shitshow when ya ain't ankle high! It was like watching fucking Vesuvius erupt!"
"Your excuses grow tiresome, Ms. Hutch. If you do not recall, it was you that asked me to entrust you with the task in question, and that you'd ensure Mrs. Clark's cooperation."
"And we did! She did! Alex delivered the poison, just as you instructed! The guy ain't walkin' away... he's sprayed all over the fuckin' walls! What more do ya want from us?!"
Emil slammed his fist down on the counter, causing a miniature earthquake strong enough to rattle the bowl the tiny women occupied. Eva clasped her hands over her mouth, realizing just how far she'd stepped out of line.
"What I expect, Ms. Hutch, is flawless execution. An eye for details. And currently, a mindfulness for one's status in their respective hierarchy. I do not answer to you, Ms. Hutch. Do not forget that."
The naked little redhead nodded fearfully, still wading in the bloody water.
"Fuck you."
Emil cupped a hand to his ear, "I'm sorry, you said something, Mrs. Clark?"
Alex hadn't spoken since they'd returned. After what she'd witnessed, what could she possibly say? She couldn't shake the violent death that she herself was responsible for. Even if, by some miracle she got to see her family again, could she even look them in the eye? Could they even bear to look at her, knowing what she'd done... what she was capable of?
"I said fuck you, Emil," her delivery was dry and emotionless.
Alexandra rose to her feet, water dripping from from her still ink-stained form. Her undraped state seemed unconcerning considering everything else. She glared straight up at The Broker and repeated herself once more, "fuck you, Emil."
"Someone's getting awful big for her lack of britches," DeTorres snarked back. He crossed his arms and looked back down his nose from his full, dizzying height just to lord his size over Alex's insignificance.
Eva tugged at Alex's hand, "stop it! Have ya lost yer goddamn mind?"
"We performed your little errand," Alexandra yelled. "Fulci is dead. There's no way the cops, or whoever the fuck else you've pissed off in this city, can know you're behind it... unless YOU fucked up somehow. That cage full of Cossacks over there looks awful suspicious, don't you think?"
Emil takes pause... the mouthy little bitch had a point. He'd been very careful, but eventually someone would come looking for at least two of the Russians he'd shrunk and abducted.
The only normal sized human in the room side-eyes the locked cage resting on the coffee table in the living room. Three of the four Russians are crouched in the back of the enclosure, sobbing and in shock... but not Crewcut. The obnoxious man is leaning against the gate, his arms draped through the bars up to the elbows. When he catches Emil looking his way, he hocks a big wad of blood and and phlegm onto the spotless glass beneath him. He shows DeTorres the bird, then with the same hand, drags his thumb across his own throat to let the giant man know he's not done with him. After that, he just stares at his shrinker as menacingly as a little man such as he possibly can, smiling with a mouth full of broken and missing teeth.
While the two gangsters might prove useful, Emil was still unsure of what use he might have for a miniature stripper and a bartender too small to squeeze a lime into his gin. "Negotiations stalled," is the only explanation he offers the diminutive Mrs. Clark.
"Ah-ha! So things didn't go so swimmingly for the Mister Big-Bad-Perfectionist either!"
DeTorres thought about crushing the puny woman right then and there for her obstinance.
"Listen," Alex continued, "even if the police find our tracks, no one is gonna believe Lucio was blown to pieces by tiny people. That's just insane! Trust me, I've been living it for two years and still have a hard time believing all of this isn't a bad dream."
Alex continued to make her case, "and even then... just for fucking argument's sake... let's say there's some young go-getter on the force that wants to make a name for himself by digging deeper into a certain cold case. One no one else could solve because it was just too weird and nothing added up. I can't speak for Eva, but I have a record. I've done time. You know what they don't print when you're arrested? Your fucking feet! My fingerprints are on file, but that's it. There's nothing leading police to me or Eva, let alone you. So why don't you back the fuck off and make us those drinks you owe us."
"Excuse me?!" DeTorres chuckled, taken aback by the tiny woman's sheer gall.
"Booze. Now."
Emil laughed again, "you can be quite the little spitfire, Mrs. Clark. I'll hand you that."
Alex crawled out of the salad bowl bath and wrapped the small white hand towel DeTorres had provided around herself like a blanket. "We've been through one nightmare after another today," Alex explained, "you don't even know the half of it. I just wanna get drunk and forget as much as I can. We've fucking earned it."
"Perhaps you have, Mrs. Clark...," Emil mused, "perhaps you have. What can I offer my little executioners?"
"Whatever you're having is fine," Alex replied as she dried her hair in the heavy fabric.
"Gin and tonic?"
Alex turned back to Eva, still inside the bowl and looking especially dumbfounded by the way her partner was speaking to DeTorres... and how well he was taking it. She's still rattled by her boss's rare outburst though.
"Gin and tonic work for you?" The smaller of the two asked the larger.
Eva nodded, then stammered, "y-yeah. Sounds good."
"Two gin and tonics," Alex repeated, then waved the giant away to fetch their libations.
"Careful, Mrs. Clark," Emil grinned, "there's cute, and then there's cocky."
Alex waved him away again, "I was attacked by a spider the size of a Labrador this morning. Less talk, more mixing."
DeTorres looked to Eva as if to wordlessly confirm what her associate had just told him. Eva nodded again. "Wait here then," he relented, "while I fetch the ingredients."
As DeTorres turned his back to open the fridge, Eva stepped out of the bowl and joined Alex under the washcloth. "Holy shit, dude! I can't believe you just one-eightied 'em like that! I was sure we was gettin' stuffed down the garbage disposal like shaved tatter skins!"
Alexandra didn't react. She kept her eyes fixed on the giant cracking ice and shoveling it into an expensive-looking lowball glass.
"Hey," Eva prodded, "you alright?"
Again, Alexandra ignored her.
Before long, DeTorres had returned with a single glass for himself and an eye dropper. He slipped the dropper into his own drink and extracted a few drops of the delicious concoction. He then deposited a single drop each into a pair of Evian water bottle caps for each of his thirsty little killers.
As she raised her portion to her lips, Alex spoke up once more, "you know, Eva here is more special than you give her credit for."
This interrupted Emil's first sip, "oh? How so?"
"Your little mission would have completely failed without her. I lost count of how many times she saved my life today."
"Ms. Hutch has been very good to me," The Broker admitted.
"That's not what I'm getting at," Alexandra tried to clarify. "I never would have made it out of the alley without her. Your little hit would have been dead in the water from the get-go."
"Your point being?"
"My point being, you would have had to fly back to Los Angeles, pick up Eva or another one of your little slaves... sorry, employeeeees... then fly back to New York, and it still wouldn't have made a difference where Fulci is concerned. Your poison still would have had the same effect. You'd still be dealing with the same mess... only stretched out over many more days."
"I'm still waiting for that point, Mrs. Clark."
"What I'm saying is that this job went as well as it possibly could have, so maybe cut Eva some slack. I think she's earned a double, wouldn't you agree?"
DeTorres chuckled again, picking up the dropper and releasing another droplet into Eva's bottle cap. "Perhaps you should've accompanied me to my meeting with the Russians today instead. You make a shrewd negotiator, Mrs. Clark."
Alex tipped her head and raised her cup to that, then finally took a sip. The sweet taste of the cocktail felt refreshing and welcome. "I'll take that as a compliment, coming from the one and only Broker."
"I'm sure the two of you are famished," Emil realized, "what shall be on the menu for this evening?"
"Anything but Chinese," the sight of Lucio's chewed up lunch projected from his ruptured stomach was enough to put Alex off from rice and chicken for a lifetime.
"Italian?" He suggested.
"Perfect," Alex agreed.
"Splendid! I know a place near here that will deliver."
"Vincenzo's?" She guessed.
"Ah! You know it!" DeTorres exclaimed with joy.
"Anyone from around here that's ever stumbled out of a bar a 2 AM knows Vincenzo's," Alex mused.
Emil didn't reply this time, too busy searching for the restaurant's number in his phone. As he began dictating his order to the kind folks at Vincenzo's, DeTorres absentmindedly wandered into the living room. He stares out the large picture window into the city with his back turned to his miniature dinner partners.
Alexandra spots her window of opportunity.
"See," Eva nudged, "I told you he's not such a bad guy! Hey? Where are you going?"
Alex paid her accomplice little mind. She threw the cover of the washcloth aside and zeroed in on her backpack, sitting propped up against their bathing bowl. The tiny mother was determined not to waste a single second. It was still there...
The vial. The remaining Bubbling Death.
Eva's eyes grew wide when she saw it. She couldn't believe she'd forgotten. "Alex! No!" She whisper-shouted at her smaller companion, "don't-"
It was too late to stop her. Alex had already emptied its contents into DeTorres's drink. The powder fizzed and and then dissipated, just as it had done back in Fulci's office. She was fast. Almost as quickly as she had left, Alex was safely back under the towel next to Eva, the vial hidden away inside the pack once again.
"I can't believe you just did that," Eva gasped.
Alex looked her friend in the eye for the first time since they returned to the apartment, "this motherfucker isn't gonna keep me from my daughter for another goddamn day. Not one more goddamn day, Eva. Do you hear me?"
If there was any way Alex felt she could look her family in the eye again after murdering Fulci, it was by taking down a monster like Emil DeTorres. She'd already proven to herself that she was capable of killing. Ending the Broker was as a righteous a kill as anyone.
Let alone that fortune... just waiting back in California...
"...but," Eva pondered out loud, "what am I supposed to do?" The normally confident redhead looked lost and terrified, something Alex had not taken into consideration. She'd underestimated just how attached her friend had become to her captor. It was full on Stockholm Syndrome.
"Isn't it obvious?" Alex tried to assure her, "you're coming with me. I'm not going anywhere without my best friend." She took Eva's hand in hers and offered a crooked little grin.
"Dinner is on its way," DeTorres informed the miniature women upon his return. "What do you say we enjoy another drink before it arrives?" He gulped down the remaining gin and tonic with an exaggerated "ah." The slice of cucumber garnishing the rim was promptly deposited into his mouth with a grin.
Alex gripped her bottle cap with whitening knuckles. He did it! He actually drank it! She shouts with triumph within herself. Hold on, Dani! I'm coming home! I love you, Brad! I'll see you soon!
The reaction was almost as instantaneous as Fulci's. Emil's face turned a deep shade of red and sweat began to bead on his forehead. He looked disoriented and sickly.
She had him. After two long years, Alex finally had him.
Suddenly, DeTorres released an enormous belch, something terribly uncharacteristic of him. "I apologize, my little friends... that Bubbling Death really packs a wallop!"
What?! What did he just say?! Alex screamed inside her mind.
A few beats of his chest and a cough or two later and DeTorres is looking just as healthy as he did before drinking the deadly poison. Alex's jaw drops in defeated shock. Her reaction wasn't missed by The Broker.
"Come now, Mrs. Clark... would you really expect me to turn a substance as volatile as The Bubbling Death over to someone who detests me as much as you do? Not without spending decades building up a tolerance to said substance first? I sprinkle a little on my grapefruit at breakfast every morning, gives it a real kick!" He adds another rhetorical question, "do you really think you're the first to try?"
Alex's heart pounded in her chest. Her mind searched for any lie that might save her skin, but there was nothing she could say that the Broker would believe. Out of all of her many fuck-ups in life, this one may have been the biggest. She'd just gambled with her family's very lives on the line... and the house won. The house always wins.
The tiny woman felt even smaller than her already minuscule four inches. Caught. Trapped. She cupped her hands to her mouth, not even trying to suppress her tears. She wanted to run, but where could she possibly go? Survival instinct took over and her legs were moving before she had any plan of escape. Alexandra wouldn't get far.
DeTorres spotted that same look on the tiny mother's face that every small animal gets when cornered. He'd seen it plenty on the faces of those he'd shrank in the past to recognize it. He lowered his glass to block her path, knocking her off her feet and back onto the hand towel. Alex looked up to find the bottom of the glass falling down on her from above. DeTorres was resting its weight on top of her like a human coaster!
Emil taunted her, "not so fast, Mrs. Clark. I'd be delighted to share another drink with you before you have to leave." Knowing she couldn't move, the diabolical man returned to the fridge to retrieve the fixings for a fresh beverage, leaving Alexandra to struggle beneath the heavy, oversized chalice. "If I were you," he warned, "I would make it my life's meaning to keep that glass from toppling over onto my kitchen counter."
"Please," Alex groaned through gritted teeth, "its too heavy!"
To that, Emil poured a shot's worth of gin into the glass. Alex screamed as the increased volume of liquid pressed her further into the soft material beneath her.
"I'm sorry... please... can't... breath..."
Eva looked on in frozen terror. She'd witnessed her boss do some pretty terrible things, but this was like watching him pull the wings off a butterfly. "Please... don't..."
"This does not concern you, Ms. Hutch. Since our mutual friend here has proven herself inadequate as an assassin, and even less trustworthy... I'm curious to see if she is even fit to support my glass."
Alexandra braced herself as DeTorres poured the tonic water into the glass... slowly. Agonizingly slowly at that. Tears streamed down her reddening face as the weight grew ever more unbearable. She tried to maintain balance of the base with the very tips of her feet and hands, but the panic taking over her brain was winning. By the time the glass was filled, Alex had been pressed so far into the towel that Eva could no longer see anything of her suffocating friend but fingers and toes.
From his heightened position, DeTorres could. The tiny silhouette of Alexandra Clark, splayed out like Divinci's perfect man, glared back at him from beneath the clear bottom through the rippling fluid and floating ice. He rested his chin on the backs of his hands with his elbows providing columns of support for his massive head on either side of the makeshift torture device. He stared right back at her, grinning triumphantly.
Eva couldn't take any more. She threw herself at Emil's resting elbow, begging him to spare her friend from such a slow and horrible death. DeTorres ignored her, even when she tugged at the tiny hairs of his arm. He enjoyed his power over this insignificant woman for a few more seconds, just until he could feel her struggles beneath the glass begin to weaken. Only then did Emil lift his beverage away and take a generous sip. Alex gasped for air as Eva rushed to join her at her side.
Unseen by either, DeTorres had removed the empty vial from Alex's little backpack, twisting and rolling it between his fingertips as he regarded the tiny creature who had just tried to murder him. "Stay where you are, Ms. Hutch. I'm not quite finished with Mrs. Clark just yet. I believe it's my turn to slip her a little something."
The frightened redhead froze in her tracks, just feet by her perspective from Alexandra. The smaller woman had rolled onto her stomach, still trying to catch her wind. Setting his glass down on the counter, DeTorres removed a small, digital thermometer-like object from his pocket. Alex hadn't seen the device before, but Eva was more than familiar with it. She screamed, pleading with her boss not to do it...
...but it was too late.
Emil pointed the tip of the device directly into Alex's face and delivered a small cloud of the Israeli shrinking compound to its already gasping victim.
Eva screamed again, "nooooooooooooo!"
DeTorres strolled over to the sink and rinsed any trace of Bubbling Death from the small glass vial down the sink, then shook its interior dry. When he returned, he found the diminutive Mrs. Clark gasping even harder from the potent substance. Eva hadn't moved, as instructed, but also because she feared getting too close with the powder still lingering in the air.
"Aaaaaaaleeeeex!"
The compound took effect as soon as Alex's throat opened back up. With each new breath, Eva seemed to slip further and further away, though she hadn't moved an inch. DeTorres's overwhelming presence loomed ever more menacingly as the already gargantuan man grew even larger before her very eyes. The fibers of the washcloth expanded all around her, like watching white blades of grass sprout in time lapse. The room began to lose all familiarity in shape and dimension. Even the dye that stained her skin began to bead and drip down her legs as the very cells of her body squeezed as a sponge in a fist.
As soon as she was small enough, DeTorres flicked the shrinking woman inside the vial with the tip of his index finger and sealed the cap off behind her. His gigantic eye warped and contorted through the glass, but lost none of its intensity.
"Here," he said as he tossed the vial into Eva's arms, toppling the still-shrinking woman within around like one of those planes used to train in zero G, "if anything remains of her when the compound has run its course, she is yours to do with as you please, Ms. Hutch." He tossed the contaminated washcloth into the trash and then stepped away from the shocking scene towards the restroom to thoroughly clean his hands.
Eva quickly set the vial down on the countertop, kneeling down to watch with tear-filled eyes as her best... and only... friend dwindled away. Alex pounded on the curved glass within, screaming at the top of her lungs.
"Alex! You've got to stay calm!" Pleaded Eva. "You're going to keep shrinking, but if you don't stay calm and try to control your breathing, you're going to disappear!"
Eva's pleas held little effect. The rapidly shrinking figure being behind the glass kept pounding as hard as she could, trying desperately to make herself heard. Eva was forced to bring her ear to the outside of the vial to make out what Alex was screaming... "Daaaaannnni! Braaaaad!"
Eva's eyes bulged with sharp realization, springing back to her feet, "WAIT!"
DeTorres halted in his steps just before reaching the entrance to the lavatory, "what is it now, Ms. Hutch?"
"HER FAMILY?! WHAT ABOUT HER FAMILY?! ARE YOU STILL GONNA...?" Eva hadn't the heart to even finish the sentence.
In perfect honesty, DeTorres had all but forgotten about the leverage he'd used against Mrs. Clark. While he did not consider himself a liar, he wouldn't be where he was today, or built the reputation he had, without the occasional bluff. Emil had little interest in punishing an innocent child for her mother's mistakes. Alex's family meant as little to him as the ravages of time. They weren't a part of this world, nor had they any business getting pulled into it.
Now, it would be a stretch to say that the Grinch's heart grew three sizes that day, but the tears streaming down Eva's face seemed to spark whatever might pass for a father's love in the complicated man. He'd grown soft on her, despite the earful he gave her earlier that evening. In his own way quiet way, her happiness actually meant something to him.
Emil rested his arm on the doorframe and lowered his head before responding, "you may tell her we can consider the matter closed. Her penance has been paid."
"Thank you, sir!" Eva even bowed to the man out of gratitude. Emil didn't respond, he just walked into the washroom and latched the door behind him.
Dropping back to her knees and gripping the overturned vial between her hands, Eva wasted no time delivering the news to Alex. It was shocking how much her friend had shrunk in just the few short moments she'd turned away.
"It's over, Alex! He says he won't hurt them! Now please, try to calm down!"
What only a few moments prior had been a cramped and claustrophobic prison had grown into a cavernous chamber... and continued to expand even further. Eva's words echoed through the curved, transparent walls. She'd always been larger than Alex, at least since she'd known her, but the redhead's face now stretched across her entire view. Her massive hand could easily be seen clutching the base in the shrinking woman's periphery. Alex was sure she could fit comfortably in the softness of Eva's palm with room to spare. Strangely, she found that thought comforting as her very existence seemed to be fading away.
She should have been terrified...
...but Eva's message brought only peace.
Alex allowed herself to fall back against the rounded glass and rest on the assurance that those she loved would be safe... even if it meant she would never see them again. She looked up into Eva's eyes, watching what might be the best friend she ever had... if only for a day... grow... and grow... and grow. In turn, Eva watched Alex continue to dwindle within her cylindrical cell. Not a dry eye was spared between them, though Alex's tears became to microscopic to see.
"Just breath, Alex...
...just breath."
The End...
...for now.
"People like Coldplay and voted for the Nazis, you can't trust people, Jeremy."
-Super Hans, Peep Show
-Super Hans, Peep Show
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Bloodthirstybutcher
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Re: Leveraged: A Sequel to Tumbled
Post Script-"Ten Years Later"
It feels surreal standing outside of his house.
The path that led me to this moment is long and winding, but here I am. Staring through the glass exterior of a Beverly Hills home. A man sits inside, completely unaware of my presence. That's just as it should be. The minute I walk inside... I'm going to place a bullet in his fucking brain.
Like I said, it wasn't a straight path to find this man. I was forced to make allegiances with some fairly awful people... and enemies of even worse ones. I've crossed this country again and again, running into more dead ends than leads. I didn't know I was searching for this gentleman. Not until I came across an incident involving the death of a certain member of a prominent New York crime family. An individual I didn't know I was so indirectly tied to until even more strange truths began to emerge. Lest we should ignore the bizarre circumstances surrounding this man's demise. An event that took place more than a decade ago. Finally, vengeance could find the party responsible for the disappearance of my mother. My father, hard as he tried, never got this close.
The night provides my cover, as well as the light emanating from inside the expensive midcentury abode. I am a ghost to him. He's there, sitting on his sofa and reading a book. A clear cocktail of some sort dangling from the fingers of his other hand. Completely oblivious to the feminine eyes watching from the outer darkness. I feel like a panther, clad in black from head to toe and inching through the shadowy brush towards my unsuspecting prey. I am a predator.
I'm careful not to tread on the concrete when the grass can muffle my footsteps. I'm so close now. I feel like my heart is going to pound right out of my chest. There are security cameras placed at the corners of the roof, but they're easily dispatched with my silenced pistol. I'm a crack shot, my father saw to that. He always feared someone might come for us. Ready to punish us for my mother’s sins.
There it is, the front door. I try the latch... of course it's locked up for the night, but that isn't going to stop me. A few well placed kicks and the frame crumbles behind the deadbolt. The door swings open and I'm met by an enormous, hulking beast of a man... Alphonso Rudolph, my target's live-in bodyguard. I was expecting to encounter this absolute unit of a human being. I place a round into each of his kneecaps before he can even lift his gun. He drops like a stone. I'm quick to kick the sidearm out of his hand before he can retaliate, claiming it for myself. He's lucky. I could just as easily have made canoe out of his head. I'm not here to fuck around.
With both weapons extended in front of me, I briskly make my way into the living room. The man is completely unfazed by the commotion at the front door. He doesn't even look up from his book.
"Emil DeTorres?" It sounds like a question coming out of my mouth, even though I know exactly who this motherfucker is. I've been stalking him for the better part of a month.
"Mr. Rudolph?" He asks, still not looking up from his novel. His bodyguard's screams of pain echoing through the corridor seem like more of a distraction than a concern to him.
"He'll live. Not sure he'll be running any marathons though."
"Pity," he replies, still refusing to make eye contact, "I have grown quite fond of the man, but perhaps time has come to seek a replacement."
"I wouldn't buy any green bananas," I tell him. His time is up, there’s no need to go placing want ads for new hired goons.
DeTorres finally finds a stopping place on the page and lays an ornate bookmark against the spine. He places the book aside and crosses his fingers together, resting his hands on his knee. "Would it be safe to assume you are here to rob me, my dear?"
I take a step forward, "you killed my mother, you sonofabitch... and now you're going to pay."
The man seems amused by my accusation. My skin burns with rage. I can’t help but feel that he does not take me seriously. I storm towards him, placing the business end of my firearm directly at the center of his forehead.
"I must have missed something, what exactly is so funny?"
He looks up at me, his face as calm and collected as before I interrupted his quiet evening. "Oh Danielle... after all these years... it is a genuine pleasure to finally make your acquaintance."
I can't help but recoil at his reply. How the hell does he know who I am?!
"I apologize for my lack of formality," he continues, "but I'm unsure whether you use your adopted father's surname, or grasp to your mother's"
As shocked as I am, it makes no difference. I force the gun back into his face and prepare to pull the trigger. Emil DeTorres has to die. I have to avenge my mother.
"Any last words before you answer for my mother's death?" I cock the gun and prepare to fire. My finger quivers on the trigger. "I'll be sure to pass them along to the D'Amatos."
"Off the top of my head, I can think of seven to start with," he replies. A smug, knowing grin begins to spread across his face, "Alexandra Clark is not dead, my dear."
I stumble backwards at these words. Words I hadn't considered after twelve years without my mom in my life. "Save your lies."
DeTorres casually waves the weapon away from his face, "While I understand your position, child… what I am telling you is the truth..."
"...your mother is still alive...
"I can arrange for a reunion, if you’d like... perhaps… if you and I can strike a deal?"
To be continued in the third and final installment.
It feels surreal standing outside of his house.
The path that led me to this moment is long and winding, but here I am. Staring through the glass exterior of a Beverly Hills home. A man sits inside, completely unaware of my presence. That's just as it should be. The minute I walk inside... I'm going to place a bullet in his fucking brain.
Like I said, it wasn't a straight path to find this man. I was forced to make allegiances with some fairly awful people... and enemies of even worse ones. I've crossed this country again and again, running into more dead ends than leads. I didn't know I was searching for this gentleman. Not until I came across an incident involving the death of a certain member of a prominent New York crime family. An individual I didn't know I was so indirectly tied to until even more strange truths began to emerge. Lest we should ignore the bizarre circumstances surrounding this man's demise. An event that took place more than a decade ago. Finally, vengeance could find the party responsible for the disappearance of my mother. My father, hard as he tried, never got this close.
The night provides my cover, as well as the light emanating from inside the expensive midcentury abode. I am a ghost to him. He's there, sitting on his sofa and reading a book. A clear cocktail of some sort dangling from the fingers of his other hand. Completely oblivious to the feminine eyes watching from the outer darkness. I feel like a panther, clad in black from head to toe and inching through the shadowy brush towards my unsuspecting prey. I am a predator.
I'm careful not to tread on the concrete when the grass can muffle my footsteps. I'm so close now. I feel like my heart is going to pound right out of my chest. There are security cameras placed at the corners of the roof, but they're easily dispatched with my silenced pistol. I'm a crack shot, my father saw to that. He always feared someone might come for us. Ready to punish us for my mother’s sins.
There it is, the front door. I try the latch... of course it's locked up for the night, but that isn't going to stop me. A few well placed kicks and the frame crumbles behind the deadbolt. The door swings open and I'm met by an enormous, hulking beast of a man... Alphonso Rudolph, my target's live-in bodyguard. I was expecting to encounter this absolute unit of a human being. I place a round into each of his kneecaps before he can even lift his gun. He drops like a stone. I'm quick to kick the sidearm out of his hand before he can retaliate, claiming it for myself. He's lucky. I could just as easily have made canoe out of his head. I'm not here to fuck around.
With both weapons extended in front of me, I briskly make my way into the living room. The man is completely unfazed by the commotion at the front door. He doesn't even look up from his book.
"Emil DeTorres?" It sounds like a question coming out of my mouth, even though I know exactly who this motherfucker is. I've been stalking him for the better part of a month.
"Mr. Rudolph?" He asks, still not looking up from his novel. His bodyguard's screams of pain echoing through the corridor seem like more of a distraction than a concern to him.
"He'll live. Not sure he'll be running any marathons though."
"Pity," he replies, still refusing to make eye contact, "I have grown quite fond of the man, but perhaps time has come to seek a replacement."
"I wouldn't buy any green bananas," I tell him. His time is up, there’s no need to go placing want ads for new hired goons.
DeTorres finally finds a stopping place on the page and lays an ornate bookmark against the spine. He places the book aside and crosses his fingers together, resting his hands on his knee. "Would it be safe to assume you are here to rob me, my dear?"
I take a step forward, "you killed my mother, you sonofabitch... and now you're going to pay."
The man seems amused by my accusation. My skin burns with rage. I can’t help but feel that he does not take me seriously. I storm towards him, placing the business end of my firearm directly at the center of his forehead.
"I must have missed something, what exactly is so funny?"
He looks up at me, his face as calm and collected as before I interrupted his quiet evening. "Oh Danielle... after all these years... it is a genuine pleasure to finally make your acquaintance."
I can't help but recoil at his reply. How the hell does he know who I am?!
"I apologize for my lack of formality," he continues, "but I'm unsure whether you use your adopted father's surname, or grasp to your mother's"
As shocked as I am, it makes no difference. I force the gun back into his face and prepare to pull the trigger. Emil DeTorres has to die. I have to avenge my mother.
"Any last words before you answer for my mother's death?" I cock the gun and prepare to fire. My finger quivers on the trigger. "I'll be sure to pass them along to the D'Amatos."
"Off the top of my head, I can think of seven to start with," he replies. A smug, knowing grin begins to spread across his face, "Alexandra Clark is not dead, my dear."
I stumble backwards at these words. Words I hadn't considered after twelve years without my mom in my life. "Save your lies."
DeTorres casually waves the weapon away from his face, "While I understand your position, child… what I am telling you is the truth..."
"...your mother is still alive...
"I can arrange for a reunion, if you’d like... perhaps… if you and I can strike a deal?"
To be continued in the third and final installment.
"People like Coldplay and voted for the Nazis, you can't trust people, Jeremy."
-Super Hans, Peep Show
-Super Hans, Peep Show
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AB23
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Re: Leveraged: A Sequel to Tumbled
Phewwwwwwwwwwwwwww.
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Bloodthirstybutcher
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Re: Leveraged: A Sequel to Tumbled
Yeah, middle portions of trilogies rarely have a happy, tied up ending
. Thanks for reading!
"People like Coldplay and voted for the Nazis, you can't trust people, Jeremy."
-Super Hans, Peep Show
-Super Hans, Peep Show
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Flippity-Floosy
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Re: Leveraged: A Sequel to Tumbled
I swear, your stories read likes a movie. Having me gasp aloud and actually getting my heart rate up. You're writing skills are something I aspire to (as well as your consistency, I have to muster up energy some days nowadays to even pull up google docs on my computer if I'm not working, lol).
Also, to see daughter like mother at the end has me excited for the next installment!
Also, to see daughter like mother at the end has me excited for the next installment!
Little lady. Big weeb. Normal-sized writer. What's on the menu?
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Bloodthirstybutcher
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Re: Leveraged: A Sequel to Tumbled
You know how to make a fella blushFlippity-Floosy wrote: ↑Sat May 25, 2024 5:25 pmI swear, your stories read likes a movie. Having me gasp aloud and actually getting my heart rate up. You're writing skills are something I aspire to (as well as your consistency, I have to muster up energy some days nowadays to even pull up google docs on my computer if I'm not working, lol).
Also, to see daughter like mother at the end has me excited for the next installment!
. Thank you so much for your kind words. And I’ve been there plenty of times too, where the idea of writing anything feels like work when it should be feeling like fun. I think the trick is just making sure it’s a story you really want to tell. And as for google.docs, be careful using it. I’ve heard recently that google has been using AI to hunt through files for fetish content and deleting it
"People like Coldplay and voted for the Nazis, you can't trust people, Jeremy."
-Super Hans, Peep Show
-Super Hans, Peep Show
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