Post by kadenkeene on Oct 1, 2006 13:56:17 GMT -5
Johnny "Cicily" Mancini was the kind of man who had lost all the benefits of youth by the age of thirty-five. Once a strong, moderately-handsome boy who enjoyed kissing girls, and throwing his fists, Johnny Cicily had become a fat man who's thick black locks had mostly fallen out. The ones that survived in a ring rounding the crown of his head had turned gray and brittle. His barrel chest had remained, but was now layered with a thick coating of fat that had sagged his pecks and turned them into tits. His once-solid arms still had their share of muscle, but the undersides had grown wings that flapped and shook when he moved them. His strong chin had weakened and now had a jiggling roll beneath it.
Maybe it was his age. He was the type of man who was complaining about his old age by the time he was twenty-six. Maybe it was the business, which had given him ulcers and a nasty nail-biting habit. He cursed the business, but he never apologized for it. Whatever it was, Johnny Cicily did not look like the man he used to. Even with women, who now fucked him because he could buy them diamonds at a whim, he was a shell of himself. His long and strong Sicilian manhood sometimes fell limp when he tried to make love, and that might have bothered him most of all. He had taken to eating pussy in his old age, something he had sworn at eighteen to never do.
His father was spared of these things. He had been the Don at the young age of twenty-one, in a time of chaos in the business. He had conceived Johnny then, and was killed six months before his son was born. A couple of thugs out of New Jersey had done the deed, representing their power-hungry Boss in the process. They even shouted his name while they gunned Anthony Mancini down.
He put those old memories in the back of his mind when his consilgiere came into the den. He looked like he had something to say, but didn't want to say it. Johnny had no patience with things like that, even when it came to Robert. You didn't waste time with Johnny Mancini.
"Spit it out, Robbie." He said, chewing furiously on his index fingernail.
Roberto Abele pulled his glance from the floor and met his Don's impatient look. "He lost, Johnny. The wrestler."
Johnny nodded, and clapped his hands as if to say "what can you do?". He pushed himself away from the large oak desk that sat by the far wall. With a grunt he pulled himself to his feet, and looked at Roberto for a long moment. Roberto nodded, then resumed counting patterns in the rug.
"So we go ahead with it," Johnny said.
"Yeah, I guess so," Roberto said. Neither man sounded sure.
Johnny scratched his chin, and rolled his eyes skyward. His father wouldn't have hesitated; he was a man of action who lived fast and died young. You don't become the Boss of a family at twenty-one years old without having a pair of steel balls. Something like this...would have been settled yesterday if Anthony Mancini was running things.
"Give it to Michael. Reward him for his good work." Johnny finally said, and Roberto nodded. The consigliere made his way for the door.
"Make sure it's clean. I want a message to be sent." Johnny said.
"It'll be pro, Johnny. Michael's a good kid." He said.
*****
Michael closed his cell phone and flushed the toilet. He took a deep breath, exhaling hard. He stepped in front of the sink and almost jumped when he saw himself in the mirror; pale skin, bloodshot eyes. He hadn't slept in a while, and the call had shaken him. He never thought it would be like this...never thought it would make him so nervous. He had kept the Boss' friend up to date on Francis' the whole time, upon request from Johnny Cicily himself. And now, the call. He had expected it, but damn if it wasn't putting a fat lump in his gut.
He ran the faucet on his wrists, a trick his mother taught him when he was a teenager and stricken with panic attacks. He hadn't had one in years, but he would never forget the tricks to get rid of them. He calmed down a little, collected himself.
Downstairs, Francis was sitting in front of the television while another match played on the screen. He tapped his fingers on the arms of the chair. Francis looked up at his young protege and nodded.
"Well?" He said.
"Well what?"
"Are you ready, Michael?" Francis said, nodding to the television. Michael followed the nod and watched with detached interest at the match. He wasn't a wrestling fan, and had no idea who the guys in the ring were. It was all spandex and sweaty men, and no man who liked to dip his stick in a woman watched that shit.
"Yeah, of course, Francis. How's it goin' down?"
"We pick him up. We bring him back. We let our friend do his work." Francis said flatly. Plainly.
"I don't know if I can watch," Michael said after a pause. He swallowed hard.
Francis laughed. He pulled himself out of the chair and adjusted his lapels. "You don't have to," He said, patting Michael on the arm. "Let's go get him."
The drive wouldn't be long. Francis asked that the tinted window between the front and back seats be left open. He wanted to see the road ahead. They drove in silence for a while, until Michael nervously pulled the small pistol from his waist and set it on his lap. When Francis spoke, he thought he was caught. The lump in his gut jumped to his throat and punched him in the jaw.
"This is pretty big for you, Michael." Francis said casually. There was nothing to worry about. Michaels was just being paranoid, and he mentally kicked himself for it.
"What's that, Francis?" He said, after he swallowed his lump.
"This," He said. "This whole thing. Isn't this your first time?"
Michael laughed. "Nah. I've done this before. I thought you knew that."
Francis shook his head. "Can I give you some advice, Michael?"
Michael took a moment, but before he could answer, Francis continued.
"There's a few things about being in this business that you need to know. A wiseguy has got to be tough, got to be slick, and got to be quiet. Like a ninja, almost. No, forget that; like an assassin. You don't need to sneak up on them, you have to be able to stand right in front of them and have them not see you, know what I mean?"
"Sure, Francis. I know what you mean."
"It's a part of the business that nobody remembers, kid. We got a bunch of fucking punks running around like they own the fucking world, but not one of them knows how to do it. I'd have a fucking nigga from the block do a hit before I called one of those jokers. You ain't gonna be one of those jokers, are ya, Michael?"
He chuckled nervously. "No, Francis. No joker here."
"This ain't funny, Michael. I'm being serious."
"I know, Francis. I wasn't laughin'."
There was silence for a moment. They took the exit for the arena. Then, "Do you know why I ask you to dress the way you do, Michael?"
Michael thought about it for a second. "So I don't look like a nigga?"
"So you don't look like a nigga, like these other guys do. Made men dressing like fucking niggas. Not you, though. You're different."
"Thanks, Francis." The arena was just around a bend in the highway.
"You still got some things to learn, though. You can't let yourself be seen, remember?"
Michael smiled. They were close. "Like a ninja,"
"Like an assassin. You gotta listen better, too."
Michael's smile disappeared. He tried to swallow the lump rising his his throat again.
"But you're young, and I expect you to fuck up a little. But you can't fuck up when we move on Johnny Cicily. You can't fuck that up." Francis said.
Michael looked in the rear view, trying to meet Francis' eyes. "When we doin' that, Francis?"
"Right now." He said, a smile creeping up on his lips.
A chill crept up Micheal's spine. "What? What are you talkin' about?"
"Our friends are moving on him right now," He said, and paused for a moment. He looked at Michael in the rear view for a moment. "You OK, Michael? You look like you just saw a ghost."
He had to make his move. He was to kill Francis because he was going to make a move on the Don, and everyone knew it. Michael had kept the cosigliere informed, and the plan was that if the wrestler lost, they could catch the ever-aware Francis when he was preoccupied with something else. He was hard to hit, as others had found out over the years, and his only weakness might be when he was busy doing a hit himself.
Michael fumbled with the gun, and gripped it in his sweaty palm. They were in the parking lot now, and Michael looked for a parking spot. He had to know more.
"What friends? I thought you said that we were alone on this."
Francis laughed softly. "I'm starting to think you'd never make a good wiseguy, Michael. You really don't listen."
He had to move. He'd smoke Francis now, and call Roberto and at least let him know someone was moving on the Don tonight. At least they could get him safe. Hopefully. He spun in his seat and hoisted the gun through the small window behind the seats. His eyes darted around the back seat, and his brain tried to catch up. His guts nearly bubbled up and made him puke when he realized that the backseat was empty. He waved the gun around, and kept looking in the empty space where Francis should have been.
Then, out of the corner of his eye, he could have sworn that Francis was in the seat next to him.
*****
Kaden threw his bags in the trunk hastily. He fumbled with his keys and lurched the right one into the lock. He threw the door open and flopped into the driver's seat. He slammed the key into the ignition, and...
...he stopped. His mind raced with memories of the mob movies he's seen in his life, and all he could think of was his 2002 Honda Civic rental exploding once he turned the engine over. He saw the flames bursting around him like a supernova, and how it wouldn't kill him right away; he'd burn for a few moments before the heat and fire made his heart stop. He'd feel his skin burning and peeling right off the bone, and...
He threw the door open again and jumped out. He walked around the car, looking for signs of, well, anything. Any kind of tampering. Kaden had no idea what he was supposed to find, but he wanted to find something. He wasn't sure he'd be able to make himself turn that fucking key unless he found something...he knew that didn't make any sense, but nothing did right now.
He had a thought, and threw himself under the car. He felt around in the dark until his eyes adjusted, and then he tried to see if anything looked strange.
And there it was.
A bulbous something. He had no idea what part of the bomb it was, or if ripping it out would help or just making it explode, so he left it alone. He stared at it for a second, and silently thanked Hollywood for putting out so many great mafia flicks. He slid out from the car, suddenly feeling ill, and puked on the wet pavement. A few people making their way to their own cars stopped at the sound of his lurching and came closer to see the problem. A couple of young guys whispered between themselves, and Kaden knew his cover was blown.
The two young guys came running up, and Kaden held his hands out, palms forward.
"Can we get an autograph?" They said, ignoring his gesture.
Kaden almost told them to go fuck themselves, but didn't. He studied them for a second; both with scruffy beards and, more importantly, dirty hands. Oil stains. He thought about that for a moment.
"You guys know anything about cars?"
*****
Roberto Abele jammed his fork into the bowl of pasta. Johnny had retired for the night, leaving the consigliere to watch the big TV and eat freely from the fridge. Most nights, when Roberto didn't have a lady-friend with him, he went home to his wife and baby boy. But tonight the old bag was cranky and drunk, and on those nights, Roberto stayed out. He'd eat some food here, because he knew she hadn't cooked shit in that state, watch the news and then head home. She was usually passed out by midnight, and usually in the kitchen, where they kept the liqueur.
He finished his pasta and brought it to the sink. He took the long walk from the island to the sink in the spacious kitchen, and ran some water in the bowl. He wiped his hands on the towel on the counter, and turned around right into somebody's chest.
He hollered out of fright, and threw a hand on his chest. He looked up and saw the pale face of a stranger, a tall stranger with dark eyes and a terribly yellow smile. When his eyes finally adjusted, he saw something wrong about the smile, and the man behind it. There were too many teeth. It was too wide. It was too tall. The man's upper lip curled up and covered his nose, his lower lips curling under his chin. The teeth were yellow and a thick film of spit ran down them.
Flanking the man, two other men. They had similar smiles.
"What the fuck..." Roberto managed.
Then the man in front of his snapped his head down, and a pain like he had never felt before spiked in his neck, and down his arm. He head felt like it was going to pop, and his body went numb. Very quickly, Roberto passed out.
*****
Kaden slammed his fist on the wheel as he sped down the highway. The two young guys had made quick work of the bomb, and with a couple of autographs and a hundred bucks, swore to keep the whole thing quiet. Not that it mattered, but Kaden didn't want to add any publicity to this, though he was sure that in a week's time they'd be selling their story to a magazine.
Whatever. Kaden would be dead by midnight anyway. He shook that idea out of his head. He cursed himself anyway, thinking about his match. He had walked right into Lassie's trap, damnit, and he couldn't see how he could have avoided it. It was like no matter what he did, that drunken Polack had an answer.
Then reality hit him. Cindy was still in that basement. He tried to reason with himself that they wanted him to watch her die, and they'd wait for him...but they had planted a bomb underneath his car, so he could rule that out. Fuck, he seethed. He had to save her, but he couldn't for the life of him see how. A Mack truck followed him with bright headlights. He adjusted the rear view, and saw a pair of dark eyes staring at him from the back seat.
He jumped, and the car barreled to ward the guard rail. He adjusted, Francis cackling all the while behind him. He straightened the car out, and drove slowly.
"What the fuck?" He screamed.
"That's pretty smart, getting those guys to get rid of the bomb." Francis said, his voice deeper than before, and almost a hiss now. Kaden felt his stomach turn. And there was a smell in the car, a sink stench that was slowly making its way up his nose. It was a familiar one, and he immediately placed it. The basement of the house where that sick fuck stuck knives into a box.
"How the fuck did you--"
"I was going to kill you, Kaden. I was going to kill you the first time I saw you," Francis hissed, his breath foul and rotten even from the back seat. Kaden couldn't see it, but his lips were parted in a grotesque, inhuman way. It was good that Kaden couldn't see it, because he would have crashed if he did. "But things have been moving so fast, I had to change plans. I had to adapt to the situation. It's a good thing we've become so lazy in America...otherwise, I might not have been able to get this far."
Kaden could barely hear him. His mind was speeding so fast that the words were coming in jumbled, loud and then soft, and all he could think about was the sickening smell, and how Cindy was already in the box, getting poked and sliced by that sick fuck with his knives.
Every knife is significant...
...each one has a history...
"Where's Cindy? Tell me where she is!"
Francis ignored him. "But I'm too good for them now. In this fat nation, I'm too quick. You're smarter than I thought, but you're still not smart enough for me."
"Shut the fuck up! Tell me where she is!"
"But enough talk. It's time to end this."
In the rear view, Kaden saw a flash of something. Something horrible...teeth as yellow and snarled as a tiger's, and a face as white as a ghost. He saw it for an instant, then a sound like an apple being poked with a pen. Kaden screamed, and something warm ran down his neck and his chest. Pain shot through his neck and down his arm. His head felt like it was about to explode. Then, very quickly, the world went fuzzy, then dark.
Maybe it was his age. He was the type of man who was complaining about his old age by the time he was twenty-six. Maybe it was the business, which had given him ulcers and a nasty nail-biting habit. He cursed the business, but he never apologized for it. Whatever it was, Johnny Cicily did not look like the man he used to. Even with women, who now fucked him because he could buy them diamonds at a whim, he was a shell of himself. His long and strong Sicilian manhood sometimes fell limp when he tried to make love, and that might have bothered him most of all. He had taken to eating pussy in his old age, something he had sworn at eighteen to never do.
His father was spared of these things. He had been the Don at the young age of twenty-one, in a time of chaos in the business. He had conceived Johnny then, and was killed six months before his son was born. A couple of thugs out of New Jersey had done the deed, representing their power-hungry Boss in the process. They even shouted his name while they gunned Anthony Mancini down.
He put those old memories in the back of his mind when his consilgiere came into the den. He looked like he had something to say, but didn't want to say it. Johnny had no patience with things like that, even when it came to Robert. You didn't waste time with Johnny Mancini.
"Spit it out, Robbie." He said, chewing furiously on his index fingernail.
Roberto Abele pulled his glance from the floor and met his Don's impatient look. "He lost, Johnny. The wrestler."
Johnny nodded, and clapped his hands as if to say "what can you do?". He pushed himself away from the large oak desk that sat by the far wall. With a grunt he pulled himself to his feet, and looked at Roberto for a long moment. Roberto nodded, then resumed counting patterns in the rug.
"So we go ahead with it," Johnny said.
"Yeah, I guess so," Roberto said. Neither man sounded sure.
Johnny scratched his chin, and rolled his eyes skyward. His father wouldn't have hesitated; he was a man of action who lived fast and died young. You don't become the Boss of a family at twenty-one years old without having a pair of steel balls. Something like this...would have been settled yesterday if Anthony Mancini was running things.
"Give it to Michael. Reward him for his good work." Johnny finally said, and Roberto nodded. The consigliere made his way for the door.
"Make sure it's clean. I want a message to be sent." Johnny said.
"It'll be pro, Johnny. Michael's a good kid." He said.
*****
Michael closed his cell phone and flushed the toilet. He took a deep breath, exhaling hard. He stepped in front of the sink and almost jumped when he saw himself in the mirror; pale skin, bloodshot eyes. He hadn't slept in a while, and the call had shaken him. He never thought it would be like this...never thought it would make him so nervous. He had kept the Boss' friend up to date on Francis' the whole time, upon request from Johnny Cicily himself. And now, the call. He had expected it, but damn if it wasn't putting a fat lump in his gut.
He ran the faucet on his wrists, a trick his mother taught him when he was a teenager and stricken with panic attacks. He hadn't had one in years, but he would never forget the tricks to get rid of them. He calmed down a little, collected himself.
Downstairs, Francis was sitting in front of the television while another match played on the screen. He tapped his fingers on the arms of the chair. Francis looked up at his young protege and nodded.
"Well?" He said.
"Well what?"
"Are you ready, Michael?" Francis said, nodding to the television. Michael followed the nod and watched with detached interest at the match. He wasn't a wrestling fan, and had no idea who the guys in the ring were. It was all spandex and sweaty men, and no man who liked to dip his stick in a woman watched that shit.
"Yeah, of course, Francis. How's it goin' down?"
"We pick him up. We bring him back. We let our friend do his work." Francis said flatly. Plainly.
"I don't know if I can watch," Michael said after a pause. He swallowed hard.
Francis laughed. He pulled himself out of the chair and adjusted his lapels. "You don't have to," He said, patting Michael on the arm. "Let's go get him."
The drive wouldn't be long. Francis asked that the tinted window between the front and back seats be left open. He wanted to see the road ahead. They drove in silence for a while, until Michael nervously pulled the small pistol from his waist and set it on his lap. When Francis spoke, he thought he was caught. The lump in his gut jumped to his throat and punched him in the jaw.
"This is pretty big for you, Michael." Francis said casually. There was nothing to worry about. Michaels was just being paranoid, and he mentally kicked himself for it.
"What's that, Francis?" He said, after he swallowed his lump.
"This," He said. "This whole thing. Isn't this your first time?"
Michael laughed. "Nah. I've done this before. I thought you knew that."
Francis shook his head. "Can I give you some advice, Michael?"
Michael took a moment, but before he could answer, Francis continued.
"There's a few things about being in this business that you need to know. A wiseguy has got to be tough, got to be slick, and got to be quiet. Like a ninja, almost. No, forget that; like an assassin. You don't need to sneak up on them, you have to be able to stand right in front of them and have them not see you, know what I mean?"
"Sure, Francis. I know what you mean."
"It's a part of the business that nobody remembers, kid. We got a bunch of fucking punks running around like they own the fucking world, but not one of them knows how to do it. I'd have a fucking nigga from the block do a hit before I called one of those jokers. You ain't gonna be one of those jokers, are ya, Michael?"
He chuckled nervously. "No, Francis. No joker here."
"This ain't funny, Michael. I'm being serious."
"I know, Francis. I wasn't laughin'."
There was silence for a moment. They took the exit for the arena. Then, "Do you know why I ask you to dress the way you do, Michael?"
Michael thought about it for a second. "So I don't look like a nigga?"
"So you don't look like a nigga, like these other guys do. Made men dressing like fucking niggas. Not you, though. You're different."
"Thanks, Francis." The arena was just around a bend in the highway.
"You still got some things to learn, though. You can't let yourself be seen, remember?"
Michael smiled. They were close. "Like a ninja,"
"Like an assassin. You gotta listen better, too."
Michael's smile disappeared. He tried to swallow the lump rising his his throat again.
"But you're young, and I expect you to fuck up a little. But you can't fuck up when we move on Johnny Cicily. You can't fuck that up." Francis said.
Michael looked in the rear view, trying to meet Francis' eyes. "When we doin' that, Francis?"
"Right now." He said, a smile creeping up on his lips.
A chill crept up Micheal's spine. "What? What are you talkin' about?"
"Our friends are moving on him right now," He said, and paused for a moment. He looked at Michael in the rear view for a moment. "You OK, Michael? You look like you just saw a ghost."
He had to make his move. He was to kill Francis because he was going to make a move on the Don, and everyone knew it. Michael had kept the cosigliere informed, and the plan was that if the wrestler lost, they could catch the ever-aware Francis when he was preoccupied with something else. He was hard to hit, as others had found out over the years, and his only weakness might be when he was busy doing a hit himself.
Michael fumbled with the gun, and gripped it in his sweaty palm. They were in the parking lot now, and Michael looked for a parking spot. He had to know more.
"What friends? I thought you said that we were alone on this."
Francis laughed softly. "I'm starting to think you'd never make a good wiseguy, Michael. You really don't listen."
He had to move. He'd smoke Francis now, and call Roberto and at least let him know someone was moving on the Don tonight. At least they could get him safe. Hopefully. He spun in his seat and hoisted the gun through the small window behind the seats. His eyes darted around the back seat, and his brain tried to catch up. His guts nearly bubbled up and made him puke when he realized that the backseat was empty. He waved the gun around, and kept looking in the empty space where Francis should have been.
Then, out of the corner of his eye, he could have sworn that Francis was in the seat next to him.
*****
Kaden threw his bags in the trunk hastily. He fumbled with his keys and lurched the right one into the lock. He threw the door open and flopped into the driver's seat. He slammed the key into the ignition, and...
...he stopped. His mind raced with memories of the mob movies he's seen in his life, and all he could think of was his 2002 Honda Civic rental exploding once he turned the engine over. He saw the flames bursting around him like a supernova, and how it wouldn't kill him right away; he'd burn for a few moments before the heat and fire made his heart stop. He'd feel his skin burning and peeling right off the bone, and...
He threw the door open again and jumped out. He walked around the car, looking for signs of, well, anything. Any kind of tampering. Kaden had no idea what he was supposed to find, but he wanted to find something. He wasn't sure he'd be able to make himself turn that fucking key unless he found something...he knew that didn't make any sense, but nothing did right now.
He had a thought, and threw himself under the car. He felt around in the dark until his eyes adjusted, and then he tried to see if anything looked strange.
And there it was.
A bulbous something. He had no idea what part of the bomb it was, or if ripping it out would help or just making it explode, so he left it alone. He stared at it for a second, and silently thanked Hollywood for putting out so many great mafia flicks. He slid out from the car, suddenly feeling ill, and puked on the wet pavement. A few people making their way to their own cars stopped at the sound of his lurching and came closer to see the problem. A couple of young guys whispered between themselves, and Kaden knew his cover was blown.
The two young guys came running up, and Kaden held his hands out, palms forward.
"Can we get an autograph?" They said, ignoring his gesture.
Kaden almost told them to go fuck themselves, but didn't. He studied them for a second; both with scruffy beards and, more importantly, dirty hands. Oil stains. He thought about that for a moment.
"You guys know anything about cars?"
*****
Roberto Abele jammed his fork into the bowl of pasta. Johnny had retired for the night, leaving the consigliere to watch the big TV and eat freely from the fridge. Most nights, when Roberto didn't have a lady-friend with him, he went home to his wife and baby boy. But tonight the old bag was cranky and drunk, and on those nights, Roberto stayed out. He'd eat some food here, because he knew she hadn't cooked shit in that state, watch the news and then head home. She was usually passed out by midnight, and usually in the kitchen, where they kept the liqueur.
He finished his pasta and brought it to the sink. He took the long walk from the island to the sink in the spacious kitchen, and ran some water in the bowl. He wiped his hands on the towel on the counter, and turned around right into somebody's chest.
He hollered out of fright, and threw a hand on his chest. He looked up and saw the pale face of a stranger, a tall stranger with dark eyes and a terribly yellow smile. When his eyes finally adjusted, he saw something wrong about the smile, and the man behind it. There were too many teeth. It was too wide. It was too tall. The man's upper lip curled up and covered his nose, his lower lips curling under his chin. The teeth were yellow and a thick film of spit ran down them.
Flanking the man, two other men. They had similar smiles.
"What the fuck..." Roberto managed.
Then the man in front of his snapped his head down, and a pain like he had never felt before spiked in his neck, and down his arm. He head felt like it was going to pop, and his body went numb. Very quickly, Roberto passed out.
*****
Kaden slammed his fist on the wheel as he sped down the highway. The two young guys had made quick work of the bomb, and with a couple of autographs and a hundred bucks, swore to keep the whole thing quiet. Not that it mattered, but Kaden didn't want to add any publicity to this, though he was sure that in a week's time they'd be selling their story to a magazine.
Whatever. Kaden would be dead by midnight anyway. He shook that idea out of his head. He cursed himself anyway, thinking about his match. He had walked right into Lassie's trap, damnit, and he couldn't see how he could have avoided it. It was like no matter what he did, that drunken Polack had an answer.
Then reality hit him. Cindy was still in that basement. He tried to reason with himself that they wanted him to watch her die, and they'd wait for him...but they had planted a bomb underneath his car, so he could rule that out. Fuck, he seethed. He had to save her, but he couldn't for the life of him see how. A Mack truck followed him with bright headlights. He adjusted the rear view, and saw a pair of dark eyes staring at him from the back seat.
He jumped, and the car barreled to ward the guard rail. He adjusted, Francis cackling all the while behind him. He straightened the car out, and drove slowly.
"What the fuck?" He screamed.
"That's pretty smart, getting those guys to get rid of the bomb." Francis said, his voice deeper than before, and almost a hiss now. Kaden felt his stomach turn. And there was a smell in the car, a sink stench that was slowly making its way up his nose. It was a familiar one, and he immediately placed it. The basement of the house where that sick fuck stuck knives into a box.
"How the fuck did you--"
"I was going to kill you, Kaden. I was going to kill you the first time I saw you," Francis hissed, his breath foul and rotten even from the back seat. Kaden couldn't see it, but his lips were parted in a grotesque, inhuman way. It was good that Kaden couldn't see it, because he would have crashed if he did. "But things have been moving so fast, I had to change plans. I had to adapt to the situation. It's a good thing we've become so lazy in America...otherwise, I might not have been able to get this far."
Kaden could barely hear him. His mind was speeding so fast that the words were coming in jumbled, loud and then soft, and all he could think about was the sickening smell, and how Cindy was already in the box, getting poked and sliced by that sick fuck with his knives.
Every knife is significant...
...each one has a history...
"Where's Cindy? Tell me where she is!"
Francis ignored him. "But I'm too good for them now. In this fat nation, I'm too quick. You're smarter than I thought, but you're still not smart enough for me."
"Shut the fuck up! Tell me where she is!"
"But enough talk. It's time to end this."
In the rear view, Kaden saw a flash of something. Something horrible...teeth as yellow and snarled as a tiger's, and a face as white as a ghost. He saw it for an instant, then a sound like an apple being poked with a pen. Kaden screamed, and something warm ran down his neck and his chest. Pain shot through his neck and down his arm. His head felt like it was about to explode. Then, very quickly, the world went fuzzy, then dark.