This Guy #3
I didn't really feel anything for the muscle guy I killed either. I was pretty wrung out and tired by the time I got back, and eventually between the drunken sobs and hysterical giggles I dropped off to sleep. My Friend took the bottle and my gun, and eventually he must have gone to sleep in the other bed. When I woke up it was light out but still pretty early. I didn't have a hangover and My Friend had hidden my gun, probably worried that I was going to go completely mental. Then again I had a fair recollection of how I'd been gibbering the night before, not something to inspire confidence. If it had been anyone but him I would have been embarrassed. Being reduced to tears by exhaustion, adrenaline overload, and near death experiences may be a healthy reaction, but I never liked to cry, not for any reason.
After a shower and some coffee, My Friend woke up and got dressed we went up the street for some breakfast. He glanced my way a couple times, looking away real fast when I noticed, finally I said,
"Dude, I'm fine. Seriously I was just fucking wiped. You know?"
He agreed out loud but doubt hung in his eyes, and the way his face didn't relax. I told him about my trip, when I got to my kidnapping he swore, "Damn! You fucking idiot! What the hell were you thinking?" I shrugged and continued; I glossed over the strangling a little, but told him enough to get the idea. He'd read it in the paper soon enough, suddenly I started, a memory of the feel of his pulse beating through that phone wire came out of nowhere. My hands started shaking, and I shook them and clenched them trying to ignore it.
I figured I was still tired, and probably starving. The late night boozing probably hadn’t helped. I attacked breakfast like I was rabid; eating a full plate of eggs, pancakes, and hash browns, then had two pieces of cherry pie with ice cream.
"That must be why all the killers in the Godfather were so fat." My Friend quipped. I jerked my head up and locked his eyes, surprised at his comment. It was funny though and I started laughing almost right away. Now that I was done eating all that food was sitting real heavy in my gut. It was like a big greasy bowling ball and after a few seconds of quiet belching I made a run for the bathroom and threw it all up.
I got back to the table the waitress a little old lady in red plaid came up
"You're not bowlemic, are you honey?" she asked, with a slow southern accent putting a hand on my arm. I'm not usually comfortable with strangers touching me like that, but she seemed nice so I didn’t jerk away.
"No, I just had too much to drink last night, my eyes got bigger than my stomach I guess." I forced a rueful smile, rubbed at my stomach in a pantomime of some cartoon character, or Wally Cleaver.
"Well just sit down there I'll bring you a cup of tea." My friend was laughing silently into his coffee cup. I gave him a glare but had to go back to smiling when our waitress showed up with a plate of crackers in little cellophane packets and a steaming cup of tea.
"Now here you go, just take it slow, you'll be alright." She patted my arm and swept off to another table.
"Now honey!" My Friend mimicked quietly. The tea was good though and I left a hundred with the check on the table when we left. My Friend kept teasing me for a while until I punched him in the arm, then he got worse. We were in pretty high spirits, considering, and decided to go up to Philly to try and contact some people I knew.
It had been a while, I had been out of state so long the first few haunts we stopped by hadn’t even heard of the people I was looking for. The street drug crowd is like that though, more than a few months in one spot meant you were a plant from the police, luring in suckers. I finally got a hold of an old friend we called Wriggly, never knew his real name. He pretended he was called that because he chewed gum like a fiend, even when so high he couldn't walk, but we called him that because he was so thin and small. Cops had a hard time arresting him, they just couldn’t keep their grip on him.
One night a few years before after some pretty serious drinking, I had started brawling with some bearded ape named Jeremiah who tried to pretend he was tougher than me. He was tough enough to take a hit though, and we were standing in the mouth of a one block street slugging away at each other. We must have both been pretty drunk, we were giving each other turns, and I deliberately was avoiding punching him in the nose. After a little bit a pair of cops ran up and pulled us apart. I don't think we resisted too much, my arms were tired, and the last few punches I'd thrown had missed and skimmed off his face cutting him a couple times, and tearing quite a bit of skin off my knuckles.
Wriggly got all hyper or something because he charged the cop holding me. He had the cop around the throat and was kneeing him in the back screaming about pigs and LA and a bunch of crazy shit. I don't think he was even high that night, but maybe he was having a flashback. The other cop left Jeremiah against the wall and tried to pull Wriggly off his partner. Wriggly bashed him in the face with the back of his head and leapt to the new challenger throwing punches and curses, spitting and screaming in turns. Both cops leapt onto him and tried to wrestle him to the ground, it looked like they had him too. Then his arms reached out over his head and he just pulled himself forward twisting a little and he pulled himself right out of their hands. He was up and running up the street screaming laughter and both cops started chasing him. Me and Jeremiah shared a look then he shrugged and we both walked off in opposite directions.
They never did catch Wriggly and we avoided that section of town after that. All wriggly would say was that watching us fight had "got his blood up"; I guess he felt left out. Jeremiah and I ran into each other from time to time with no problems, but one night he must have started with the wrong guy. From what I heard he hit some guy once, and that guy's friends pulled pistols and shot him 6 times. The words "Fair Fight" seem to be losing their meaning in the world.
Wriggly put us up in his apartment, he hadn't changed much in the couple years I was gone, and he didn't seem to realize I had left. He was thinner and twitchier, he told me later he had stopped a bad heroine addiction by switching to crystal, and now he was trying to beat his meth addiction using coke.
Wriggly had a fortune tucked away in different banks from some childhood trauma, surprising for an addict to be able to hold onto anything, but it was so tightly scheduled even when he was out of his mind sick he couldn't squeeze any extra out of the accounts. Then eventually he'd get the next check and sometimes he'd blow it right away and do it all over again. Sometimes though he'd resist, and spend months living like a normal person, collecting CD's and chasing girls. He was in a good way now though, the drugs were working for him now, and he had a sideline going. A few guys who'd take gear from him and sell it somewhere else, he made a pretty good profit.
It made My Friend nervous as hell to stay there. He had more reason than ever to fear the cops right now, plus he never liked drugs to begin with. I was being nice to him and declining what Wriggly offered me, figuring I had enough problems without laying around stoned waiting for them to show up at the door. I did talk to a few of the guys that came by though. I needed new ids for both me and my friend. I needed ones that could stand up to traffic stop scrutiny. It seemed pretty impossible, I ran down a couple of rumors, but each guy I met had really shady paper, and one I'm sure was a cop. I got lucky, I was so paranoid they got nothing from our conversation that they could take me for.
It was a matter of time though, I figured if I hit one more undercover cop, they'd pull me in and try to scare something out of me. I got more careful, paid the meth runners some extra cash to look out for anything like that, and in one case I had the guy go in and buy some for me. It was bad, amateur work though, I burned it and put out the word that artist was crap. I wasn't having any luck and was getting pissed. Wriggly swapped our two pistols for two different ones, only one of ours had been used, but they were from the same shop, something I never thought of, but Wriggly did. Our new guns were a retired cop's Smith & Wesson, and a 38 special that was so filed down you couldn't even see the name on it. They were automatic prison time if they were found, but we couldn't go without guns and couldn't very well apply for a concealed carry permit.
The NJ press was all over the strangling, and shooting, reporting the start of a brutal mafia war. In Philly it never made the papers at all. There were a couple of vague descriptions of me, but they could fit any over 200lb white guy. Mostly they were looking at who ordered it, figuring me for some out of town assassin. If I wasn't so scared most of the time I probably would have laughed.
Wriggly was great about us staying, but word started to spread that he had hired some muscle and was getting big. We were starting to build him a reputation he didn't want so we had to get out of there. I suppose we could have gotten a room in some sleazy hotel for cash and no questions, but police raided them sometimes. Finally we met a guy who could get some German passports. He had friends over there that we sent our passport photos to, they had them put on their passports and then sent them over by FedEx all stamped and ready to go. They cost 30 grand, but when we got them they were real, or at least good enough to fool us so it worked out. We had a little less than 90 days before the visa expired, but for now we were almost legit. My Friend became Niklas Farber, I became Alexander Seiler. We got a pair of rooms in the Marriott and started planning our next move. I was determined this time we'd take our time and find a way to get That Guy off us for good.
After a shower and some coffee, My Friend woke up and got dressed we went up the street for some breakfast. He glanced my way a couple times, looking away real fast when I noticed, finally I said,
"Dude, I'm fine. Seriously I was just fucking wiped. You know?"
He agreed out loud but doubt hung in his eyes, and the way his face didn't relax. I told him about my trip, when I got to my kidnapping he swore, "Damn! You fucking idiot! What the hell were you thinking?" I shrugged and continued; I glossed over the strangling a little, but told him enough to get the idea. He'd read it in the paper soon enough, suddenly I started, a memory of the feel of his pulse beating through that phone wire came out of nowhere. My hands started shaking, and I shook them and clenched them trying to ignore it.
I figured I was still tired, and probably starving. The late night boozing probably hadn’t helped. I attacked breakfast like I was rabid; eating a full plate of eggs, pancakes, and hash browns, then had two pieces of cherry pie with ice cream.
"That must be why all the killers in the Godfather were so fat." My Friend quipped. I jerked my head up and locked his eyes, surprised at his comment. It was funny though and I started laughing almost right away. Now that I was done eating all that food was sitting real heavy in my gut. It was like a big greasy bowling ball and after a few seconds of quiet belching I made a run for the bathroom and threw it all up.
I got back to the table the waitress a little old lady in red plaid came up
"You're not bowlemic, are you honey?" she asked, with a slow southern accent putting a hand on my arm. I'm not usually comfortable with strangers touching me like that, but she seemed nice so I didn’t jerk away.
"No, I just had too much to drink last night, my eyes got bigger than my stomach I guess." I forced a rueful smile, rubbed at my stomach in a pantomime of some cartoon character, or Wally Cleaver.
"Well just sit down there I'll bring you a cup of tea." My friend was laughing silently into his coffee cup. I gave him a glare but had to go back to smiling when our waitress showed up with a plate of crackers in little cellophane packets and a steaming cup of tea.
"Now here you go, just take it slow, you'll be alright." She patted my arm and swept off to another table.
"Now honey!" My Friend mimicked quietly. The tea was good though and I left a hundred with the check on the table when we left. My Friend kept teasing me for a while until I punched him in the arm, then he got worse. We were in pretty high spirits, considering, and decided to go up to Philly to try and contact some people I knew.
It had been a while, I had been out of state so long the first few haunts we stopped by hadn’t even heard of the people I was looking for. The street drug crowd is like that though, more than a few months in one spot meant you were a plant from the police, luring in suckers. I finally got a hold of an old friend we called Wriggly, never knew his real name. He pretended he was called that because he chewed gum like a fiend, even when so high he couldn't walk, but we called him that because he was so thin and small. Cops had a hard time arresting him, they just couldn’t keep their grip on him.
One night a few years before after some pretty serious drinking, I had started brawling with some bearded ape named Jeremiah who tried to pretend he was tougher than me. He was tough enough to take a hit though, and we were standing in the mouth of a one block street slugging away at each other. We must have both been pretty drunk, we were giving each other turns, and I deliberately was avoiding punching him in the nose. After a little bit a pair of cops ran up and pulled us apart. I don't think we resisted too much, my arms were tired, and the last few punches I'd thrown had missed and skimmed off his face cutting him a couple times, and tearing quite a bit of skin off my knuckles.
Wriggly got all hyper or something because he charged the cop holding me. He had the cop around the throat and was kneeing him in the back screaming about pigs and LA and a bunch of crazy shit. I don't think he was even high that night, but maybe he was having a flashback. The other cop left Jeremiah against the wall and tried to pull Wriggly off his partner. Wriggly bashed him in the face with the back of his head and leapt to the new challenger throwing punches and curses, spitting and screaming in turns. Both cops leapt onto him and tried to wrestle him to the ground, it looked like they had him too. Then his arms reached out over his head and he just pulled himself forward twisting a little and he pulled himself right out of their hands. He was up and running up the street screaming laughter and both cops started chasing him. Me and Jeremiah shared a look then he shrugged and we both walked off in opposite directions.
They never did catch Wriggly and we avoided that section of town after that. All wriggly would say was that watching us fight had "got his blood up"; I guess he felt left out. Jeremiah and I ran into each other from time to time with no problems, but one night he must have started with the wrong guy. From what I heard he hit some guy once, and that guy's friends pulled pistols and shot him 6 times. The words "Fair Fight" seem to be losing their meaning in the world.
Wriggly put us up in his apartment, he hadn't changed much in the couple years I was gone, and he didn't seem to realize I had left. He was thinner and twitchier, he told me later he had stopped a bad heroine addiction by switching to crystal, and now he was trying to beat his meth addiction using coke.
Wriggly had a fortune tucked away in different banks from some childhood trauma, surprising for an addict to be able to hold onto anything, but it was so tightly scheduled even when he was out of his mind sick he couldn't squeeze any extra out of the accounts. Then eventually he'd get the next check and sometimes he'd blow it right away and do it all over again. Sometimes though he'd resist, and spend months living like a normal person, collecting CD's and chasing girls. He was in a good way now though, the drugs were working for him now, and he had a sideline going. A few guys who'd take gear from him and sell it somewhere else, he made a pretty good profit.
It made My Friend nervous as hell to stay there. He had more reason than ever to fear the cops right now, plus he never liked drugs to begin with. I was being nice to him and declining what Wriggly offered me, figuring I had enough problems without laying around stoned waiting for them to show up at the door. I did talk to a few of the guys that came by though. I needed new ids for both me and my friend. I needed ones that could stand up to traffic stop scrutiny. It seemed pretty impossible, I ran down a couple of rumors, but each guy I met had really shady paper, and one I'm sure was a cop. I got lucky, I was so paranoid they got nothing from our conversation that they could take me for.
It was a matter of time though, I figured if I hit one more undercover cop, they'd pull me in and try to scare something out of me. I got more careful, paid the meth runners some extra cash to look out for anything like that, and in one case I had the guy go in and buy some for me. It was bad, amateur work though, I burned it and put out the word that artist was crap. I wasn't having any luck and was getting pissed. Wriggly swapped our two pistols for two different ones, only one of ours had been used, but they were from the same shop, something I never thought of, but Wriggly did. Our new guns were a retired cop's Smith & Wesson, and a 38 special that was so filed down you couldn't even see the name on it. They were automatic prison time if they were found, but we couldn't go without guns and couldn't very well apply for a concealed carry permit.
The NJ press was all over the strangling, and shooting, reporting the start of a brutal mafia war. In Philly it never made the papers at all. There were a couple of vague descriptions of me, but they could fit any over 200lb white guy. Mostly they were looking at who ordered it, figuring me for some out of town assassin. If I wasn't so scared most of the time I probably would have laughed.
Wriggly was great about us staying, but word started to spread that he had hired some muscle and was getting big. We were starting to build him a reputation he didn't want so we had to get out of there. I suppose we could have gotten a room in some sleazy hotel for cash and no questions, but police raided them sometimes. Finally we met a guy who could get some German passports. He had friends over there that we sent our passport photos to, they had them put on their passports and then sent them over by FedEx all stamped and ready to go. They cost 30 grand, but when we got them they were real, or at least good enough to fool us so it worked out. We had a little less than 90 days before the visa expired, but for now we were almost legit. My Friend became Niklas Farber, I became Alexander Seiler. We got a pair of rooms in the Marriott and started planning our next move. I was determined this time we'd take our time and find a way to get That Guy off us for good.
posted by Goodkingalan | 4:04 PM
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