Killing Time

               A wise man named Don Mclean told us about the day that the music died. As I sat in the car, listening to some nameless teen sensation croon out her tuneless braying, I reflected that someone probably should have buried it just a little bit deeper.

               I dabbed a finger to my earlobe and then removed it, pretending to examine it closely. “I think I’m having an aneurism. It’s only a matter of time before blood starts shooting out my ears. Can we turn this off before the brain damage sets in? I’d appreciate it.”

               “No,” the man beside me grumbled, “The music helps me focus.”

                I couldn’t help but raise an eyebrow. We’d been staking out our target for almost tow hours now, and that might have been the first complete sentence he’d said to me. I, on the other hand, had been running my mouth like mouths were going out of style. What can I say? I get nervous before the action starts up, and all that energy has to go somewhere. I like to think my accomplice was simply too enthralled by my clever banter to add his own two cents. Yeah, let’s go with that.

The old guy next to me sat in the driver’s seat, his eyes never wavering from the nightclub’s rear entrance. I couldn’t help but take a moment to marvel at the depths of my accomplice’s patience. Hell the guy had barely even moved a muscle this whole time; which was an enormous feat when you considered the guy’s six-foot-six and crammed in an old Volkswagen Beetle. Meanwhile, here I was, adjusting and shifting practically every twenty seconds. Of course, I didn’t have the Zen-like patience that only comes when you get to be a geezer. Well, to be fair, he couldn’t have been a day over fourty, but in this business, hitting thirty is the equivalent of a centennial.

I didn’t know his name, and he didn’t know mine. It tends to make things that much simpler in this line of work. I’d heard of him by reputation; of course, anyone who was anyone had heard of him. Went under the alias Dead End. The Big Man owed me two favor, and had decided to repay one of them by hooking me up with a living legend. Told me I could learn a thing or two.

So far, I’d only learned that Dead End’s musical tastes sat directly on the border between eccentric and non-existent.

“Seriously,” I pressed, leaning further back in my seat, “I’m dying here. Can’t we at least change the station? Maybe listen to… I don’t know, something good?”

                “No.” Dead End said flatly, “Then we would listen to it.”

                “Ahh. I see…” I said sagely, my words palpably noncommittal.

                He grunted, “You say that you see, but you do not understand.”

                “Uh, Okay?” I agreed. I can be real poetic, when I put my mind to it. “I’m just saying, if I listen to this crap much longer, I think I’m gonna grow ladyparts. And it’s a full moon tonight… no doubt we’re gonna have to go buy some tampons, and they’re gonna go on your expense account.” I added, in a solemn tone: “Tampons can get pretty expensive, man.”

                Dead End almost smiled at that. “Colorful.” The almost-smile faded as he resumed his vigilance. After a moment’s silence, full of ambient noise and the scratchy harmonies of teen sensations, Dead End finally said, “Were we to listen to music actually worth hearing, we would listen to it. It would clutter our minds with distracting thoughts and emotions that we, as professionals, cannot afford.”

                “No, I’m picking up what you’re putting down, man. I am.” I crossed my arms and arched my back, attempting to stretch out a cramped muscle. “But… I dunno, man, I think there’s something to be said for getting pumped, y’know?”

                Dead End somehow arched a quizzical eyebrow in my direction without averting his eyes from the front door of the club.

                “You know, man, something to get you energized? Ready to do your thang?”

                My accomplice shook his head ever so slightly. “A skilled hunter must focus his mind to the task at hand. He must clear his mind of extraneous thought; he must think only of what is now, and all could soon be.”

                I couldn’t help but chuckle at that. “Listen, man, I know you’re supposed to be the guru of all gurus on this stuff… but seriously, you are way overthinking this.”

                For the first time in almost an hour, he glanced over at me, eyes inquiring.

                “It’s not nearly as complex as you’re making it. We wait for him to come out, do our thang, and get the hell out. Easy as shit.”

                “Really.” Dead End turned back to the nightclub. “How many guards does Brenadine have with him?”

                “Uh…” I said, scratching my bearded chin. Time for a shave. “Three, I think the report said.”

                “Wrong. Tonight he has six.”

                My eyebrows shot up. “Whoa, waitwaitwait… Six bodyguards? That can’t be right. The report said…”

                “The intelligence we gather prior to a mission usually holds little bearing on our actual assignment. Brenadine entered the club with the three armed men who usually make up his entourage. They’re his most trusted guards, but it would be foolish to assume they’d be his only cover.” He nodded towards the door. “I watched two more go in the building through that door while you were complaining about my musical choices.”

                “To be fair,” I countered, “Whatever a Selena Gomez is, her music is probably the leading cause of teen suicide.”

                “The final guard,” He continued, clearly unamused by my dazzling wit, “is in plain sight.

                I scanned the small crowd around the entrance. No one stood out. A cluster of expensively attired young businessmen loitering casually, attempting to look important, as young businessmen are wont to do. A young woman off to the side, cell phone pressed to her ear, her running mascara clearly indicating that she was in the midst of some tragic conversation. A homeless man, sitting off in the shadows, being ignored by the group of women in expensive, flashy outfits, clearly of the upper crust to which the nightclub catered. And…

                “Ah…” I muttered. “How could I not notice the bouncer?”

                “No.” Dead End shook his head.

                “What?” I turned in surprise. “But...”

                “Bouncer works for the club, the club acts as neutral ground for all the warring families of the city. That’s why we aren’t hunting Brenadine inside. The bouncer won’t interfere, so long as we take him on the sidewalk.” He sighed, glancing at this watch. It was bulky, black, ugly. “The girl on the cell phone.”

                “What? No way, man. I know you’ve been doing this awhile, but… Well, just look at her, man!”                He shrugged. “Appearances can be deceiving.”

                “But… She’s just a kid, can’t be more than twenty-one. And Jesus, man, she’s crying!”                “She wasn’t crying when she came out. In fact, she seemed perfectly calm. Yet those makeup smears, which from here indicate crying, were already on her face when she exited the club. And that cell phone? When she dialed out, she only hit five buttons. What does that tell you?”

                “That…” I paused before venturing, “it’s just a front?”

                Dead End shot me a brief, knowing smile. “I’ve seen it before. The person you’d least expect is always the one to watch.”

                “Wow.” It was all I could manage. He was good.

                “You have to be ready for anything, son. And being ready for anything means that you watch out for everything. There’s no planning ahead for a change of plans.”

                We sat in silence for a time as I soaked that all in. No wonder this guy made it this far in the business. It made me stop and think about all the times that I had just barged into situations, relying purely on instinct, ready to do my thang. It made me uncomfortable, thinking about pesky things like mortality.

                When confronted with the wisdom of others, I was forced to take one of two options. I could accept their wisdom as fact, add it to my own experience and knowledge, and accept that I had made mistakes.

                Or, I could pull a Neo, dodge that bullet of wisdom through sheer excess of personality.

                I’ve never been one to turn down a movie reference.

                “If I were a chick,” I said, lazily, “I would totally use tampons. I couldn’t do pads… not this theoretical lady. Just hanging around all day, wearing a diaper full of my own blood? It’s quite the offer, but I think I’ll pass. It’d be like living in a old folks home, except you have to change your own bloody diapers, rather than wait for the saucy blonde nurse to do it.” I grinned at my accomplice. “I’m assuming that, in this scenario, I’m a lesbian too. I don’t care who you are, some tits are just too nice to turn down.”

                Dead End listened patiently, his mouth a hard line. When I’d finished, he asked, “Do you always handle your insecurities like this?”

                “Like what?”                “Like a fool.”

                Well. I let that little storm cloud hang in the air for a second, and then decided to really make this guy suffer the awful depths of my wit and charm. “You know what I like?” When he ignored me, I gladly took it as an invitation. “I like words that sound like they should mean something else.”

                Dead End grunted dismissively. I smiled. I had him on the run now.

                “Like the word, ‘wharf’. Such a ridiculous word for a port or a dock or whatever, y’know? Wharf. Sounds like it should be some terrible bowel disease.” I affected my voice to a warbling, nasally tone, and placed an imaginary phone to my ear. “Hey boss. Yeah, it’s me. I can’t make it in today; I feel a wharf coming on. Yeah, it’s real bad.” I paused, snickering. I couldn’t help it. Sometimes I’m too much.

                Dead End apparently agreed. “Are you quite finished?”                I considered a moment. “Yeah, real bad,” I said at last, “I’ve wharfed through, like six pairs of pants today. What’s that? Yeah, maybe I should have gone with the vagina diapers. Okay, I’ll be in Monday. Buh-bye.” I hung up the fake phone. “Sorry,” I apologized, “I had to take that.”

                The large man beside me sighed. “That girl couldn’t be expected to fake a phone call for more than fifteen minutes. They’ll be moving him soon.”

                “Finally, I muttered, absently touching the handgun safely tucked beneath my long coat. I felt a shiver of excitement run along my spine. I don’t know what it is about weapons. Can’t get enough of ‘em.

                Dead End remained still and silent as ever. At length, he said, “May I ask you a personal question?”

                I blinked. Dead End? Getting personal with me? Getting personal with anybody? “Uh…sure?”

                “How many?”

                “I’m… what?”

                “How many does this make, for you?”

                “How many…. Oh!” I said, stupidly, “oh yeah, how many times have I… done my thang?”

                “No.” His voice was as rough and cold as the asphalt below us. “I could care less how many times you have… ‘done your thang’.” He turned his head towards me, and his steely blue gaze attempted to bore its way through my skull. “I want to know how many people you have killed.”

                 I couldn’t help but shift uncomfortably, pinned under the scrutiny of those eyes. Now I knew what an ant felt like every time the shadow of a giant foot suddenly appeared. “Right. Er. How many people I’ve…”

                “Killed. Yes.”

                “Well, let’s see.” I never really kept score. Didn’t feel right, keeping a tally of the people I had, well… “Four.” I said finally, “I’ve…killed four people.” I tried to give a calm, easy shrug. Given how tense I was, I’m pretty sure it looked more like I was trying to dislocate my shoulders. “I’m the first to admit it. I’m a noob.”

                “I see.” He said softly. “Why?”

                “I’m… why what?”                Dead End spoke slowly, deliberately. “Why did you kill them?”

                “I…well, I mean…”

                “Answer me,” he said, his tone almost tranquil, “or I’ll kill you.”

                Whoa. Well. Wait, what?

                “Wait, what?” I asked aloud. It didn’t sound any more intelligent than it had in my head.

                Before I could even think of moving, the cold steel barrel of a Desert Eagle was pressed gently into the fleshy parts of my abdomen. He held it with his left arm, the one farthest from me, the forearm resting easily against his knees. It took me a moment to register that he had placed the dashboard between the weapon and any casual observers. Jesus H. Balls, I hadn’t even seen the old man draw. One moment the gun was holstered safely in Dead End’s belt, the next it was making friends with my large intestines.

                I’d like to say that I kept my cool. In fact, let’s say that’s exactly what I did. The wet spot on the crotch of my expensive suit-pants was just a lingering coffee stain from earlier that evening. Yeah.

                I’m not entirely sure what the next words out of my mouth were, to this day. I do know that he gave me a calm, lopsided grin, and replied, “Well, Jesus did a lot of things, but I’m sure that none of them involved, ‘shit on a turd sandwich’.”

                My brain finally caught up with the rest of the situation. I took deep, steady breaths and began to raise my hands as slowly as I could.

                “Don’t.” He said sharply, “I can see your hands just fine where they are.” It didn’t seem to bother him that where they were happened to be mere inches from my own holstered weapon. If his reflexes were half as good as his quick-draw, I didn’t blame him.

                “L-look, man,” I stuttered, “I don’t know what I did, but… Jesus, man, there are people around. You shoot me, Brenadine’s gonna book and—”

                “Oh, I’m not concerned about that. I’ll miss him, tonight. But a good hunter always picks up the trail. Now.” He spoke patiently, “I asked you a question.”

                He did ask me a question, but I’d be damned if I could remember what it had been. The time between my vagina monologue and having a gun barrel to my gut had vanished. “I…uh. Well. Could you, uh… repeat the question? I kind of…”

                He waved a hand dismissively. I wish it had been the one holding the gun. I’m no chump when it comes to close quarters combat, but this guy was giving me nothing to work with. “It’s quite alright.” He inclined his head slightly down to the weapon. “Such things tend to make people nervous.”

                I shot a glance at the club. No help there. The young woman closed her cell phone and walked back towards the club. The bouncer immediately let her pass, much to the resentment of the uptown women who were still waiting in line. I turned to Dead End to let him know that time was running out… and realized by the expectant look in his eyes that he had already repeated the question to me.

                Well. Shit. This was embarrassing. Fear and panic are one thing. Not pleasant, for sure, but at least they’re base and primal, and therefore somewhat comforting. I think. Embarrassment, though… well, that’s another thing entirely. Compared to overwhelming shame, fear and panic might as well have been puppy dogs and rainbows. I took a deep breath. “Could you, um, repeat the question?”

                A smooth, salt-and-pepper eyebrow went up. “Are you serious?”

                “I was… distracted.”

                “You were distracted.”

                “Yes?”

                He stared at me, and for the first time disbelief crept into his features. It was a strange look on him, like a chimp emulating an expression it had often seen but never understood. “You were distracted… from the threat of imminent death.”

                I felt my cheeks grow hotter. God, it was high school all over again, only this time around the jocks were packing heat. “Well,” I admitted, “When you put it like that, yeah, I guess it sounds… bad.”

                Dead End stared at me for a moment and then – I shit you not – burst into laughter. It was a rolling, jolly sound, the laugh of a kindly grandfather. “You, son, are either the stupidest man I’ve ever met, or…” He trailed off, considering.

                I felt a slight, irrational, and ill-timed twinge of annoyance at my potential executioner. “I’m waiting.”

                “I’m thinking.”

                “Well, think faster.”

                “Well,” Dead End said, flippantly, “I’m sure it will come to me later. One more time… Why do you kill?”

                “I…well.” I stopped. If these were going to be my last words, I should probably take the time to actually consider them. “I never really thought about it, you know?”

                He made a slight gesture, motioning that I continue.

                “I guess when it comes right down to it…” It sounded dumb. Really dumb. But damned if I could come up with a more honest answer. “Because that’s where the big money is, and as long as I don’t think about it too hard, I can still sleep at night.”

                His cold eyes remained on me for a second longer. Then he nodded.

                “Ah,” he said, as though it explained everything. I felt the pressure against my stomach evaporate as Dead End retracted the weapon, calmly and easily returning it to its holster. His eyes returned to the club’s entrance, and a frown spread across his grim features. “The girl went back inside.”

                “Yeee..es?”

                “You should have told me.”

                I turned my brain over time and time again, attempting to combine my thoughts and feelings into a cohesive and elegant response. Failing that, I settled for:

                “Whazatnow?”

                His massive shoulders shrugged absently. “You should have informed me of any changes in the situation. Never leave an accomplice in the dark. That’s how lives are lost and enemies are forged.”

                I stared at him. “So the, what, that’s it? You just hold a gun to my head-”

                “I wasn’t holding it to your-”

                “No, I…” I sighed. I suppose after the barrage of sarcasm I’d dished out earlier, it was only fair that he had a turn at the pitchers’ mound. Also, there was a gay joke somewhere in that, but now was hardly the time. “So that’s just it then? I kill people for money, and suddenly we’re all cool?”

                The neon red lights of the nightclub stretched across Dead End’s features, revealing a smile as cold as it was coy. “Something along those lines, yes.” For the first time in the entire night, his sharp eyes became distant, unfocused. “I needed to find out what sort of man you were. I’ve decided that you are no threat to me, and therefore felt no need to kill you.”

                Embarrassment and fear finally dropped to the wayside, replaced by confused anger. “Oh, that’s great. Fuck you too, buddy. Not a threat to you…You must have quite a pair, huh? That how you build all those muscles up? Carrying those cantaloupes you’ve got stashed in your pants?”

                A wave of low, rumbling laughter escaped his lips, and the very sound of it brought fear back up to the surface of my thoughts. This time, there was nothing grandfatherly about it, not a single ounce of joy or kindness. It was the laugh of a bitter, broken man, whose cynicism had given way to malice, malice given way to… well, I didn’t want to think about what came next.

                “In the grand scheme of things, son,” he said, in a voice detached and dangerous, “you’re a bird and nothing more. Loud. Colorful. Painfully obvious. A scavenger, feeding on the glory of others.” He paused, watching the loiterers outside of the entrance. “I’ve killed fifty-six men in my lifetime. I remember each one of their names, and the manner in which they were dispatched. In truth, I was only contracted to kill thirty-two of that total. The twelve others were incidental. Ten more were for my own amusement. Exercise, if you will. Do you know why?”

                Cold sweat fell from my bangs as I shook my head.

                “I only take money because society dictates I must, and even then I only accept what I need.” He turned his icy stare back towards me, speaking simply, slowly. “You sit here with our fancy suit and you see Brenadine as just another paycheck, a paycheck which you can use to buy more fancy suits. You will live and work recklessly, mistaking your youth for invulnerability. You will live as you die: fast and hard. And you will die young. Because all of this is just work in your eyes…a living.”

                That cold face seemed to grow colder still, and a strange hunger danced in his eyes. “I sit here in my unspectacular car and see Brenadine for what he is. He is Game. He is Prey. He is an adversary who needs to be outsmarted and then dispatched. I will live as a true hunter, cautious and calculating, always a step ahead of my Prey. I will live to old age and die peacefully in my sleep… and in spirit, I will live forever. Because I will have lived. This is no game. It is a hunt.”

                I caught motion in the corner of my eye, and turned towards the nightclub. Brenadine’s escorts were exiting the building, and Brenadine would be close behind.

                “Do you know why it is,” Dead End asked softly, “That I kill people?”

                I found enough saliva in my throat to mouth the word, “Why?”

                “Because deer are not worth hunting.”

                Without another word, he exited the car and began walking over towards the target. The ‘Prey’.  As I watched him prowl across the parking lot, his gait full of agility and confidence, I finally saw him for what he was. Perhaps he looked like one of us, in body, but I knew that he was nothing like human. No longer a man, but something more. An abomination the thought itself above the law of man, the rule of mortality, and the judgment of whatever after might await. Somehow I knew that if I stepped out of the care, then and there, and walked besides that thing, that not-man, that there would be no turning back. I knew he would teach me, and I would want to learn. I would become Dead End, in the end. I would become death incarnate.

                And in that moment, I had to ask myself… is that what I really wanted?

                For once in my life, I could not dodge that mighty bullet of wisdom. I had reached a fork in the road that could not be ignored. Did I call in my second favor to The Big Man, tell him I wanted out? Get a real job, live a real, bland life? Or did I go down that road, that infamous road down which madness lay, and become that which now stalked towards the awaiting Prey with a capital P?

                We, as humans, like to think that everything we ever do, every decision we make every day, is important. That’s bullshit, I think. In life, there are really only two or three choices a person will ever make that matter. The rest is just fluff. This. This was not fluff. I walked with the demons, or rejoined the zombies of society. It would be the biggest decision of my life. Yet, as these things often go, the greatest consequences stem from the simplest of choices.

                As simple as opening a car door, or doing nothing at all.