Nightcrawler
Member
I stood leaning against the bar, with my overpriced Coke in hand. I casually sipped it as I scanned the human mob. Bass-heavy techno music throbbed in my ears I examined each face I could see, trying to find my mark.
Then I saw him, dancing amidst a group of three gorgeous college girls. He had a bottle of Smirnov Red in hand, and would took a swig from it every few seconds. The girls seemed to be drunk on Zima or something, laughing and giggling as he man-handled them.
Acting as if I were scratching my ear, I spoke into a small throat mike concealed beneath my shirt collar.
"Bingo. Found our boy."
"Where?"
"Far left of the dance floor, by the wall. Grinding with the chick in the pleated skirt."
"Gotcha. I see him. Moving to intercept?"
"Negative. Waiting 'till he has to piss."
"Tried and true," Corwin replied. "Have fun."
"Stand by the bathroom door to help me haul him out."
"Roger, out."
I waited and waited, as my mark started making out with one of the girls. He was an ugly sucker, too. Why is it that every ugly, stupid jackass I ever meet has a girlfriend and I don't?
In any case, a few minutes later, he just dropped his bottle onto the dance floor and headed towards the bathroom, leaving his friends to dance with each other. The moment he left a crowd of other guys moved in on them, jockying for position, but I moved towards the bathroom too.
Exiting the dance floor, I nodded to the barteneder. I watched as my mark staggered into the bathroom. I nodded again, this time to Corwin, who was casually waiting by the bathroom door. He was leaned against the wall, sunglasses on (though it was quite dark), smoking a cigarette, prenting to be preoccupied with his cell phone. Nobody was paying him any mind.
And that's how you've got to be in this buisness. Hardly noticable and entirely uninteresting to the observer.
I followed my boy into the bathroom, and he staggered into the rearmost stall. I pretended to use a urinal, whistling loudly, as the dude at the sink finished checking himself in the mirror and walked out. I put my own sunglasses back on.
Oh, Lord, the smell. I hate these places. The aroma of the bathroom was acetuated by the sound of my target puking his guts out. Nice, I thought to myself, and I reached under my untucked shirt.
I had, concealed at the small of my back, a tiny S&W .38 snubby. I carried the .38 only in situations like this, where anything larger would be too obvious. But it wasn't the .38 I was after.
I drew from a clip a device that looked like a fat pin. I removed the cap, and waited by the stall door, hoping nobody else would come in. I heard the toilet flush, saw the door open, and was suddenly standing face to face with Christof Lavender, a young European black market Arms dealer that the US Government was willing to pay $25,000 for.
"Who the [naughty word] are you?" he slurred, in accented English. I smiled through my sunglasses, raised the pen-like object in my hand, and pushed the button. I held my breath, and a thin vapor sprayed Christof in the face.
"What the..." I caught him as he lost consciousness.
"Got him," I signalled to Corwin, who came in a moment later. Together we carried Christof down the stairs and towards the door.
"What's going on here?" the bouncer by the door asked with disinterest.
"Our friend here has had too much fun tonight," I said. "Passed out on the can. We're taking him home." The bouncer chuckled.
"Can't hold his liquor?" He asked.
"Not worth a damn," I replied. Corwin and I smiled as we carried him to the parking lot in back. We nodded to a police officer that was standing on the corner. He laughed, and shook his head, undoubtedly remembering his own crazy youth.
If only he'd known.
We tossed Christof into the back of the van, and secured him with zip ties.
"Get on the horn," I told Corwin. "Payday."
*************
Okay, I'm pretty bored right now. Got a day off for my buggered up ankle, and took to an internet cafe. I've missed writing...not having a computer at home makes any sort of real writing difficult at best.
In any case, the above is an extrapaolation of a story idea I've been mulling around. This story, should I write it, will offer absolutely NO continuity with the previous one. THe fact that I'm simpliy writing these for my own amusement allows me to do things like that. Heh.
Anyway, thank you for participating. 81 days left, until I'm through!
Then I saw him, dancing amidst a group of three gorgeous college girls. He had a bottle of Smirnov Red in hand, and would took a swig from it every few seconds. The girls seemed to be drunk on Zima or something, laughing and giggling as he man-handled them.
Acting as if I were scratching my ear, I spoke into a small throat mike concealed beneath my shirt collar.
"Bingo. Found our boy."
"Where?"
"Far left of the dance floor, by the wall. Grinding with the chick in the pleated skirt."
"Gotcha. I see him. Moving to intercept?"
"Negative. Waiting 'till he has to piss."
"Tried and true," Corwin replied. "Have fun."
"Stand by the bathroom door to help me haul him out."
"Roger, out."
I waited and waited, as my mark started making out with one of the girls. He was an ugly sucker, too. Why is it that every ugly, stupid jackass I ever meet has a girlfriend and I don't?
In any case, a few minutes later, he just dropped his bottle onto the dance floor and headed towards the bathroom, leaving his friends to dance with each other. The moment he left a crowd of other guys moved in on them, jockying for position, but I moved towards the bathroom too.
Exiting the dance floor, I nodded to the barteneder. I watched as my mark staggered into the bathroom. I nodded again, this time to Corwin, who was casually waiting by the bathroom door. He was leaned against the wall, sunglasses on (though it was quite dark), smoking a cigarette, prenting to be preoccupied with his cell phone. Nobody was paying him any mind.
And that's how you've got to be in this buisness. Hardly noticable and entirely uninteresting to the observer.
I followed my boy into the bathroom, and he staggered into the rearmost stall. I pretended to use a urinal, whistling loudly, as the dude at the sink finished checking himself in the mirror and walked out. I put my own sunglasses back on.
Oh, Lord, the smell. I hate these places. The aroma of the bathroom was acetuated by the sound of my target puking his guts out. Nice, I thought to myself, and I reached under my untucked shirt.
I had, concealed at the small of my back, a tiny S&W .38 snubby. I carried the .38 only in situations like this, where anything larger would be too obvious. But it wasn't the .38 I was after.
I drew from a clip a device that looked like a fat pin. I removed the cap, and waited by the stall door, hoping nobody else would come in. I heard the toilet flush, saw the door open, and was suddenly standing face to face with Christof Lavender, a young European black market Arms dealer that the US Government was willing to pay $25,000 for.
"Who the [naughty word] are you?" he slurred, in accented English. I smiled through my sunglasses, raised the pen-like object in my hand, and pushed the button. I held my breath, and a thin vapor sprayed Christof in the face.
"What the..." I caught him as he lost consciousness.
"Got him," I signalled to Corwin, who came in a moment later. Together we carried Christof down the stairs and towards the door.
"What's going on here?" the bouncer by the door asked with disinterest.
"Our friend here has had too much fun tonight," I said. "Passed out on the can. We're taking him home." The bouncer chuckled.
"Can't hold his liquor?" He asked.
"Not worth a damn," I replied. Corwin and I smiled as we carried him to the parking lot in back. We nodded to a police officer that was standing on the corner. He laughed, and shook his head, undoubtedly remembering his own crazy youth.
If only he'd known.
We tossed Christof into the back of the van, and secured him with zip ties.
"Get on the horn," I told Corwin. "Payday."
*************
Okay, I'm pretty bored right now. Got a day off for my buggered up ankle, and took to an internet cafe. I've missed writing...not having a computer at home makes any sort of real writing difficult at best.
In any case, the above is an extrapaolation of a story idea I've been mulling around. This story, should I write it, will offer absolutely NO continuity with the previous one. THe fact that I'm simpliy writing these for my own amusement allows me to do things like that. Heh.
Anyway, thank you for participating. 81 days left, until I'm through!
