Chapter 9 — The Job Interview

Here’s a link to my novel, “HITMAN WITH A LIMP.”

         The next day I called Julian and he told me to go to an Italian restaurant downtown.  I took a shit, showered and shaved.  Might as well look my best, I thought.  I borrowed some of Mason’s nicer clothes and hit the street.  The bright sunlight felt good and so did I.  The world was still full of possibilities I kept telling myself.  And sometimes I actually believed it.

         I took the bus downtown and eye fucked a hot redhead sitting next to me.  She noticed me leering and quickly looked away.  Whatever, she didn’t stack up to Camille anyway but I still promised myself that I’d jack off later thinking about her… slut.

I got off the bus and walked a few blocks until I found the restaurant Julian had told me to go to.  It wasn’t what I expected.  The outside looked like a slaughterhouse that had been shut down long ago due to numerous health code violations.  I decided I wouldn’t be eating my lunch there.

         I tried to open the door but it was locked so I knocked a few times and waited.  After 30 seconds Julian answered. 

         “Hey, you made it, come on in,” Julian said with a cock-eating grin on his face.  I walked in and the décor of the place looked like it hadn’t changed in 40 years.  The restaurant was empty except for an obese man in his 50’s who was sitting at a table eating lunch.  At first I almost didn’t notice him because he was so fat it didn’t seem possible that he was human. He was overdressed for the place but his pinstriped suit was outdated. 

         Julian led me to the table and the human elephant acknowledged my presence.  Julian introduced me, “This is Marshall.  He’s my friend from the joint I was telling you about.” 

The man looked me up and down and said, “Not big enough.  Sorry kid.  Come back when you put on another 20 pounds.”

I glared at Julian and he tried to recover by saying, “The kid’s got skill but he looks, you know, forgettable.  Who’s gonna remember that face huh?”

Fatty looked down at his food then said, “Yeah I already forgot it.  Fuck it, we’ll see how he does.”  Fatty put his fork down, got up and walked towards the back of the restaurant.  We followed.  He led us down a narrow set of stairs and the air smelled dank, like a tomb.  I started feeling uneasy because for all I knew he could have been leading me to a fist fucking party.  My asshole clinched up.

At the end of the stairs there was a thick metal door.  Fatty took out a set of keys and opened it.  Inside there was a man tied to a chair with a burlap sack covering his head.  Fatty and Julian looked at me, judging my reaction.  I stared back at them with vacant eyes.

Next to the chair was a table with a bunch of medieval looking tools on it.  I could see a couple of large hunting knives and an oversized hammer. 

“What the fuck is this?”  I asked both of the men. 

Fatty coughed, spit on the floor.  I looked at Julian who said, “This is your interview.” 

“You want me to torture this guy?”  I asked, not liking where this was going.  I had the urge to bolt out of the room and never look back but I stayed put. 

“No, this is more of a tryout.”  Fatty explained.

“Meaning what?”  I asked. 

“You’ll see.”  Fatty said.  He picked up a knife with a 10-inch blade and walked behind the man who was tied to the chair.  I could see a wet spot on the man’s pants indicating that he had pissed his pants, probably more than once. 

Fatty ripped the bag off of the man’s head and the guy stared at us with terror in his eyes.  I stared back at him and readied myself to do what was necessary.  I didn’t want to torture the guy but I also wouldn’t feel too bad about it. 

Fatty leaned down behind the man and cut him free from the ropes which surprised me.  What the fuck was going on, I wondered. 

Julian walked up to the table with the tools on it and kicked it over.  The knives and hammer clanked and spread out all across the dirty floor.  Both Julian and Fatty headed for the door.  I didn’t move, not knowing what was expected of me. 

Fatty opened the door and the men walked out.  Fatty turned back and said, “Only one of you is getting out of this room alive.  I would say good luck to you but I really don’t give a shit.  Try to take your time so I can finish my lunch in peace.  Knock on the door when it’s over.” 

I stared with my mouth open at Julian, he shrugged and slammed the heavy door closed.  I heard him lock the door but I tried to open it anyway.  When I turned around I saw that the man had stood up and he was much larger than he had appeared earlier.  He had the wild eyes of a desperate man but that didn’t bother me.  What did bother me was that he had already picked up the largest knife on the ground and was waving it back and forth.  He was armed and ready and I was still too stunned to know what to do. 

“Hold on a second,” I said and put my hands up.  The man took a deep breath and charged at me like a bull going after a fresh piece of cow pussy.

CHAPTER 7 — I GET KICKED OUT OF A STRIPCLUB

The following is a chapter from my latest novel, “HITMAN WITH A HEART.”

“Was it good for you?” I asked Raven.  She smiled and even let out a little laugh.  The rays of the strobe lights bounced off of her eyes making them sparkle.  Now that I had squirted all of my lust into my pants, I could focus on her and not just her tits. She had a tough look but with a touch of sadness that I could relate to.  I wanted to know about her life, like how she ended up here and not on the cover of some fashion magazine.  But it was premature for me to ask her such questions.  I didn’t want her to go.  I felt a real connection, more than your average strip club hard-on.  There are only a few people in the world that when you’re near them the world just seems better.  There’s an energy that pulls you in and the idea of not being near them is sickening.  There was also an undeniable desire to have her, to own her, to lock her up in my basement so no one else could have her but me…but in a romantic way.  Maybe it was her tits, or eyes or some kind of pheromone thing.  Or maybe it was just the first piece of ass I’d been close to in two years but something had happened.  I wanted her like a junkie wants a glass pipe full of the finest meth and if that’s not love I don’t know what love is.  I decided that whatever this feeling was, it was worth taking a shot to get to know her, as unlikely as that seemed at the time.  

“We can keep this party going for another 20 bucks.”  She offered and smiled.             

“I’m broke,” I said, “but if you want to throw in an encore for free—“ Raven stopped smiling and jumped off of my crotch like my balls were on fire.  It was clear to her that the job was done and my potentially lucrative desire was extinguished for the moment.  Relationships are not born from the dark, jizz-drenched walls of a strip club; at least not the ones that last longer than twenty bucks.   

I went into the men’s room to clean the spunk out of my underwear.  When I looked in my pants it look like a bottle of conditioner had exploded in there.  I had built up a super nut from my days spent in prison, even if I was spanking off three times a day on average. 

After a quick wipe down I left the men’s room and headed for the bar.  I was going to buy a drink but realized that I had blown, pun intended, all the money Mason had given me.  I desperately needed whiskey but I’d have to wait. 

The bartender was an Asian lady who looked like she had seen it all and she probably had.  I ordered a glass of water.  She replied, “No, you buy drink or go.”

“Relax Mrs. Miyagi.  I just spent a bunch of cash on a very satisfying lap dance.”

“No, buy drink or go.”  She insisted.

“Fuck off, I’ve paid enough.”  As soon as I had uttered the words I realized that a very large black man was standing behind me.  I tried to defuse the situation by saying to him, “Twenty bucks for a lap dance right brown sugar?  But be gentle with me, I’m still sore from the last time.” 

He smiled then said, “All right, another honky motherfucker I get the pleasure of kicking the shit out of.”

Since I didn’t want to be having a black man’s gigantic Nike surgically removed from my ass, I decided to do as he told me.

“Okay,” I said.  “I’m leaving; just let me tell my brother that I’ll be waiting out in the parking lot.”  He thought it over and reluctantly agreed. 

The massive man escorted me into the VIP room where I saw three strippers grinding on Mason.  Evidently he spared no expense on treating himself.  I walked up to him and said, “These cocksuckers are bouncing me, let’s go.” 

Mason motioned to the strippers and said, “Well these cocksuckers are getting ready to go to work.”

“Quit fucking around.  If they’re kicking me out, you’re coming with me.”

“Oh, I’ll be cumming, just not with you.”

“Fuck you, let’s go.” 

“Fine, just let me finish this lap dance, I still have like five minutes,” Mason said, as he buried his face into a pair of tits. 

I left the VIP room and headed out to the parking lot.  The black bouncer followed me out and he said, “Don’t come back less you got some money.”

“Sure thing, what time does your mom’s shift start?”  I said, lighting up a smoke. 

He smiled and said, “Shit, more like my daughter.  And she’s got the finest ass in here.”

“Can you get me a discount?”

The smile left, “Don’t push it motherfucker.”  He said then slammed the door leaving me alone in the parking lot.  I leaned against Mason’s car and smoked.  I could smell the glorious whore-scent of Raven, or whatever her real name was.  I said a silent prayer that there was a girl out there for me; a girl like Raven.  Beautiful, mysterious, perfect tits, and the open mind of a porn star.  And maybe, just maybe, I wouldn’t even have to pay for it. 

CHAPTER 3 — KILLING TIME IN PRISON

The following is a chapter from my latest novel, HITMAN WITH A HEART.

The first thing they say to you in prison is, “Bend over and spread your ass cheeks.”  It’s quite the warm welcome.  The system wants you to know that you are theirs.  You are an animal and they are the masters holding the cattle prod up to your twitching asshole. 

As I was pulling my butt cheeks apart, as instructed, I noticed that I was the youngest prisoner being checked into the joint that day.  Most of the others were in their late twenties or early thirties.  Some were old weathered men whose faces looked like life had used them as toilet paper.  I looked like the lead singer of a boy band to these monsters.  Many of them leered at me and licked their lips like there were stray dogs looking at a pile of vomit. One guy in particular, I came to know him as Randal, was a hulking brute with scars all over his face. He kissed in my direction and I could tell for him it was love at first sight.

But I knew something that most of them didn’t; I knew how to kill and wasn’t afraid to.  If I decide to hurt someone, I never hesitate.  That’s very important when it comes to violence.  Hesitation is worse than anything.  If you telegraph an attack you might as well just assume the initial prison welcoming stance.  It’s always better to attack with everything you have.  Don’t try to look pretty or fundamentally sound.  Bite, claw and tear testicles off and don’t stop punching or stomping until you hear the death rattle. 

         I slept, or tried to sleep, with my back against the wall that night keeping an eye on Randal.  From time to time I would see him look over at me with the wide eyes of a man bent butt fucking something to death.  He would come for me at some point; it was prison law.  That’s okay, I thought, I’ll be ready.  My first night in prison was coming to a close; only 729 to go.     

         Much like the lifestyle of being a hitman, prison life is mostly boring with a lot of jacking off.  But then suddenly swift, horrible violence is needed to survive. 

Each day in jail is indistinguishable from the next.  You get up early, shower, eat, and then head off to your mundane job for the day.  I was assigned kitchen cleaning duty which meant my days were spent with a mop and the desire to jump off a building.  In the afternoon they would let us go out to the yard for exercise and most guys would lift weights as if it would make their dicks bigger.  I had never been in such good shape.  I was doing 500 pushups and 1000 sit-ups a day.  What else was I doing with my time?  And besides, it doesn’t hurt to be in good shape if you have to fight to the death to protect your anal cherry. 

Randal kept his distance but I would catch him leering from time to time.  If I saw him looking, I would simply smile and wave back.  He tried to look tough and mean and although he was one scary-looking motherfucker, I could tell there was uncertainty in him.  He couldn’t figure out why I wasn’t afraid of him.

Most criminals are not educated but many of them have decent street smarts.  Part of that common sense means being able to tell who the real bad asses are.  It’s almost never the shit talkers you have to worry about.  Those guys talk shit because they’re afraid and they’re bluffing like a monkey who screams and throws shit everywhere.  The quiet men are the ones to avoid.  They rarely utter a word but when a confrontation breaks out, they’ll be the first ones skull stomping the shit talkers to death.  I guess I’m somewhere in the middle of this spectrum.

The physical stature of men varies wildly in the joint.  You’ve got everything from the little guys who look like gymnasts all the way to the fucking behemoths who look like they were meant for medieval battle.  Guys like Randal.  I’m 6 feet 185 pounds so nothing special.  But you never know what to make of the average-sized guys.  All the professional killers I’ve met and known are almost always average looking in every way.  It’s much easier to kill someone if you look like everyone else instead of the starting offensive tackle for an NFL team. 

Most of the people I’ve killed never got a good look at me.  But there are times when it makes sense to approach them face to face with a smile.  People are trusting if you have an honest face, which I have.  The trick is to hide the deadness in your eyes.  A soul is the hardest thing to fake. 

My first and only major confrontation in prison happened in the showers.  This is cliché but it’s true.  Shower time is when you are most vulnerable and it makes sense that pussy starved men would get frisky being in a steaming room with lots of other pussy starved men.  “A hole is a hole,” is a common prison motto.  To men like this, it’s not the sex they are necessarily into when they rape.  It’s the power.  These rapist fucks get off on the whimpering pain of the weak.  The bible tries to explain the justice of it all by saying, “The meek shall inherit the earth.”  My philosophy is that the meek shall inherit the earth but only after the strong are done butt fucking it. 

I once saw a guy get shanked in the belly then while he lay there bleeding out, two other inmates jacked off onto his face.  That poor sheep was one of the weak and a lot of good it did him.  He never fought back and it cost him his life.  Let that be a lesson to anyone reading this:  If you go to prison and don’t fight back, you’re liable to end up with some holes in your belly and a face full of spunk.

Speaking of faces, as I was washing mine in the shower, I noticed the other inmates were clearing out of the area which is a bad sign if you’re not one of them.  It means that shit is going down, or in my case shit was about to get pushed in.  I looked up and saw Randal holding a prick the size of a pop can.  He had his hand around the base of it and he was pointing it at me, like a laser guided cock rocket.

I started soaping up my hands as much as possible and I turned the water on as hot as it would go.  When the big fucker came at me with dong in hand, I threw a handful of the scorching soapy water into his eyes.  He let go of his penis burrito and put his hands to his face.  I got behind him, grabbed his head with my right hand and slammed his face into the water spigot that was still pumping out scalding hot water. 

He tried to scream but only a gurgle sound came out and I continued pushing his face into the spigot.  I could hear his teeth breaking off and he started shaking.  I let go and he fell limp on the floor; both his body and penis.  I wanted him dead so I stomped on his throat putting all my weight down.  I crushed his Adam’s apple and watched him kick and claw at the air while he suffocated; kind of like the dog did that my father killed on my birthday years before.

After, I calmly washed off the blood on my hands and left the shower stalls.  When I entered the main locker area the other inmates were surprised to see me walking upright and not bleeding from my asshole.  The Aryan guys, Randal’s buddies, were especially surprised.  I walked up to their leader, he was an old White Power shithead with all those stupid fucking swastika tattoos.

“What happened to Randal?”  The leader asked. 

“He choked on my cock.” I casually said feeling like the ruler of the underworld.  The prisoners all nodded their heads in respect as I walked out of the room. When the prison investigated Randal’s death all the other inmates agreed that it was an accident which was obviously bullshit but it’s not like the officials cared. Randal wasn’t the type of man to be missed, least of all by the relentless machine that is the US penal system.  Within a day, a fresh inmate had taken Randal’s cell and his absence was only noticed by the prison softball team that now needed a new left fielder. I tried out but didn’t make the team.  I can’t hit for shit, well not a baseball anyway.

That night I stayed up late in bed reliving the shower scene and not because I was jacking off to it.  I became angrier and angrier and I was twitching with rage.  Finally, an image came into my mind that let me drift off to a peaceful slumber.  The image was Randal’s shaking body and the feeling that the act was just. Randal was bad blood just like my father.  Both men were evil beasts fueled only by a need to inflict pain on those who were unable or willing to defend themselves. 

Days trudge by in prison, like they do in all aspects of life.  The routine keeps you going; keeps your feet moving.  You make no memories because there is nothing worthy of being remembered.  Except for maybe the occasional triumph in cards or a particularly intense, self-inflicted orgasm. 

After the battle with Randal, my status among the prisoners rose considerably.  The perks were subtle, like getting a little more food at lunch time, or having other inmates get out of my way in the library.

Randal was a legend in the butt-kicking and ass-fucking department, or so they said.  But no one ever actually witnessed Randal do anything.  He was so scary looking that he never had to prove himself.  Being an average looking guy, I’ve constantly had to show the world that I can handle myself.  I’m not brave, I’m just angry all the time and anger is dangerous.  Almost as dangerous as fear or love.  It’s funny how closely related all those emotions can be. 

Killing Randal gave me a sense of pride.  It always feels good to get the better of a bully.  That was Randal’s problem.  He believed too much in the stories that other inmates told about him. He had gotten used to men voluntarily bending over for him.  He wasn’t expecting a fight, or at least such a dirty one.  But in the end all of his size and strength didn’t mean fuck all. 

Life is all about results.