Sunday, May 23, 2010

Another one of my Smitty stories

Here's another one of my Smitty stories. This one is entitled, Done. Smitty, if you remember, is a cold hearted killer who enjoys his work. Hope you like it.

The noise of the club was ear splitting. Some young punk band dressed in rags and chains was hammering and sawing away on stage and about four hundred kids--long stringy hair in an explosion of rioutous colors--filled the small club like the killing floor of a meat packing plant. The smell of sweating bodies, cigarettes, mary jane, and booze assaulted his senses.

Yet the lean man with the high cheekbones and black pits for eyes seemed unfazed with it all. Dressed in a dark button down shirt, expensive slacks, and wearing shades he might have looked out of place in a club like this. But not here. This shithole of a pit was The Place to be if you had lots of dough. And a bad reputation. The up and comers in the mob loved the place. Including a particularly mean little toad by the name of Willy Simmons.

Willy was tight with the mob because he could move money--and recruit young girls for the overseas white slavery trade--with consummate ease. Smooth, slick, with an oozing personality that naturally attracted young girls fresh to the city, Willy was not a man who lost any sleep over the lives he ruined on a daily basis, Which was the reason why he was here. Someone with a grudge wanted Willy removed. It had something to do with a young girl found dead in a river just outside Moscow, An American girl. From Texas. The voice over the phone--his new client--had a distinctive Texas accent. And pain, lots seeping out of the telephone. So he was here--waiting for the final go ahead to do the deed---dark eyes watching Willy as he sat at his private table and flirted with the women.

When the call came it was a little past midnight. Just a two word text message on his phone., "Do it," was all it said. A narrow smile of black malevolence lingered for a moment on his lips before disappearing. Coming to his feet he blending into the sea of flesh that filled the dance floor and like a lurking pirahna, gyrated with the masses and waited for the right moment to strike.

And when it came--it came swift, sure, and silently. Willy thought of himself as a dancer and liked to show off his moves to the young teenagers who flocked to his money and charms. Ten minutes passed by and some young blonde thing came up to his table and pulled him out into the dance floor--leaving the four big boned, muscle bound bodyguards behind him. The music, already loud, grew in intensity. The bodies pressed so tightly together it was difficult to breathe. Yet somehow Smitty manuvered through the tangled mass and slid up behind his target. They bumped once. . . twice . . . and then the man with the black eyes was gone.

And Willy kept on dancing. Dancing all the way to his grave. He never felt the six inch steel needle slip in between his ribs and penetrate into his heart. Dead in seconds he continued to dance--the crowd so packed it kept him upright and undulating with the beat of the music for another half hour.

Walking out into the cold starry night Smitty reached for his phone and quickly sent a message back to Texas. Just one word.


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