I shrug apologetically to the wide-eyed bartender and jab the bastard beside me twice in the throat. Jab. Jab. His knees meet the floor with a thud. My knee rises to connect with his chin. Crack. A guttural groan curdles up his throat. My knee rises again. Another groan. The back of my hand collides with his cheek. How irrispettoso. I can’t stand disrespect in any form. As I stare down at his swaying body, I notice a small stain on my shirt.
“Madonna Mia. Fare le corna a qualcuno,” I hiss at him. “Look what you did.”
***
Dustin’s brawn most definitely comes in handy as we relocate my new friend to a more private locale - an old building Dustin inherited. He doesn’t look quite as lively laying bound on the cold concrete floor. Although, my dick does like the bindings. . .
I can already tell that after this exchange, I’ll be in dire need of a lady’s company.
“Will you drag Mr. . .?” I stare questioningly at our bound captive.
“Get fucked . . .” He chokes on his own words.
“Very well, will you drag Mr Get Fucked so he is sitting against that wall just there, se?” I smile calmly in my new partner’s direction, pointing at the rear brick wall. “Thank you, Dustin.”
This disused warehouse would make an excellent abattoir; perhaps I will recommend a new business endeavour to Dustin. I ponder this as I remove a few items from my bag and set them down on the wooden workbench behind me: a blade, a bottle of aqua, and a Luna Stick. Pouring a small amount of water onto my shirt, I gently wipe at the stain. The chill from the liquid sends shivers down my spine.
“Such a pity,” I mutter to myself. When I tilt my head to watch Dustin manoeuvre our intoxicated captive to a more suitable position, I feel serenity wash over me. These are the moments where I truly shine. In the grit. When others usually waver, I am at my most contained. Perhaps, it also has to do with my new partner’s eager and obedient behaviour; after all, I did nearly squash his throat into the pavement a mere few hours ago. A sly grin draws my lips out. Who said money can’t buy happiness? Money can purchase the most loyal of comrades, and fear has no limit. Empires have been built on the foundations of both.
“I am Jimmy Storm. You know me?” I query, though I know the answer.
“No,” our barely coherent friend snaps, pulling away from Dustin’s grip.
“Well, this is Dustin Nerrock. You know him?” I ask, once again knowing the response. Our inebriated friend glances up at Dustin and nods, appearing to exhibit a suitable level of unease. “Well, now you know me too. Jimmy. Storm. I would like to know who you work for.”
“I’m not fucki—”
“A-ta-ta-ta." I wave my finger at his rude interruption. “Before you say no, we found ten grams of heroin on you. Now, don’t lie to Jimmy. Tell me who in this town supplies you. . .And then I will give you an offer you can’t refuse.”
“I’m neva snitchin’. He’d fuckin’ kill me.”
“I see.” I sigh and turn to my assortment of items. “I respect that.” As I pick up the switch knife and feel the cold metal in my palm, I run my finger over the blade, the rigid edge grating my pad. The excitement of what's to follow forces blood directly to my groin and I find myself in a state of impatience, eager to show Dustin how I assure success.
I spin on my heels and walk directly to my captive. I lean down. The blade slices through his flesh like a zipper parting fabric. The knife ruptures the nerves within. The deed is done. His eyes widen and his hand grips his left wrist. Blood trickles through his fingers and drips onto the concrete.
“Shit,” he cries. “Wha tha fuck? You said you respected tha.”
“I do, very much,” I state adamantly. “I hope you live. Loyalty is my favourite virtue.”
“Christ,” Dustin mutters from behind me. Yes, this is how we interrogate in my Family.
“You will die from exsanguination within ten minutes.” I squat at the man's side and grin, watching his face pale and his head bobble on his neck as nausea floods him. I have seen this look many times. "I am a spiritual man. You would not know, but I am a Catholic. And I could swear to Mother Maria. . ." I stare at him as he struggles to hold his head up, narrowing my eyes to better study his. “I could swear you can see death take a man. The seconds just before. . . in his eyes. . . you see death enter him.”
Something akin to a whimper splutters from his throat and panicked tears burst from the corners of his shallow eyes. This poor underprivileged street rat will not be missed and without any evidence, his disappearance will be stamped as drug related. Which, in a way, it is. “Now, tell me where I can find your boss and I will help you live.”
“What? How?” Dustin asks me.
I laugh from deep within my abdomen; I just can’t help it. “I told you, I’m a spiritual man.”
My weeping captive tries to speak, "He is. . . he owns. . ."
“Can you feel that chill?” I ask him, moving so close my lips brush the shell of his ear. “He is near, my friend.”
"He owns Le Feir. The bakery.” He passes out, seven minutes before closing time. The smell of his blood, metallic and tangy, hits my nose. It pools around his outstretched legs, creating small glistening puddles. Yes, I think to myself, this warehouse would make an excellent abattoir.
Deciding to keep my word, I stand and walk briskly
