The clock was ticking softly while his fingers tapped just as quickly on the wooden table. He was sipping a scotch on the rocks, he glanced at the clock again. He finished the drink in a single gulp, left a $100 on the table and exited the hotel's cafe before the waiter had even returned.
My long cloak, made of sturdy brown leather, splashed in the puddles, while the rain gently fell, my also leather cowboy boots keeping my feet warm and from getting soggy. I started to hurry down the dark alley, not wanting to miss my chance. My chance of redemption.
I'm a hired hit man, and I targeted the wrong person,
which ultimately ended in the death of an innocent.
It was mass confusion, and I took somebody's head off that did shit wrong.
The Boss wasn't pleased. Now I have to make it up to him in a big way.
Genaro Amadeo, is a leader of a pack of crones that my boss doesn't appreciate so much. He likes to go by, "The Kid", real tough.
He thinks he's a wiseguy, but no family has really claimed him. Maybe he was pissed no one wanted him, and decided to try and make a name for himself. Tough luck, kid. It didn't fucking matter, The Family didn't approve, and I'm here to fix the little nuisance. I have to get it right this time, or it'll be my head full of bullets, and not that low life's.
This hit might clear my head up a little.
I'm looking forward to a good, clean kill, not another stupid fucking mistake.
The last place I saw the kid, he was in Paulie's, a small dingy Italian joint downtown. Don't think I'm Italian, I'm not. I'm not part of the Family.
They just like how I kill, up until that last time.
I glance at my watch, it's time to get things going.
The Kid should still be at the diner. I have my pistol fully loaded
and silenced. I am ready. I walk out onto the wet black street, making my move to the Kid sitting at a table, alone. 'Odd' I think to myself, something is wrong.
An all blacked out Cadillac speeds in-front of me, blocking off my rout.
This can't possibly be good. A large olive skinned man swings the passenger door open, he looks dead at me, looks back in the car, mutters
something in a forgien language. It's not Italian. As he looks back at me, I notice
there is a good foot difference between him and I. I think to myself that I better play this cool. He flashed me an Uzi tucked into his belt, open's the back door nearest me, and points into the car. "Sure comrad." I get in.
He had been watching the other man in a long cloak from a distance.
In his jacket pocket, made from pure white Egyptian cotton, he pulled out a cigar, and lit it.
As a blacked out vehicle approached, he ducked behind a building.
"Che continua l'inferno" He gently said to himself, exhaling smoke.
His face was smooth and light, his eyes dark brown. He had a mustache
that hugged his top lip perfectly, even ending where his lips did.
He took several long puffs from the Cubian,
put the lighter back in the silken pocket,
and headed off in the direction of the Cadallac.
My long cloak, made of sturdy brown leather, splashed in the puddles, while the rain gently fell, my also leather cowboy boots keeping my feet warm and from getting soggy. I started to hurry down the dark alley, not wanting to miss my chance. My chance of redemption.
I'm a hired hit man, and I targeted the wrong person,
which ultimately ended in the death of an innocent.
It was mass confusion, and I took somebody's head off that did shit wrong.
The Boss wasn't pleased. Now I have to make it up to him in a big way.
Genaro Amadeo, is a leader of a pack of crones that my boss doesn't appreciate so much. He likes to go by, "The Kid", real tough.
He thinks he's a wiseguy, but no family has really claimed him. Maybe he was pissed no one wanted him, and decided to try and make a name for himself. Tough luck, kid. It didn't fucking matter, The Family didn't approve, and I'm here to fix the little nuisance. I have to get it right this time, or it'll be my head full of bullets, and not that low life's.
This hit might clear my head up a little.
I'm looking forward to a good, clean kill, not another stupid fucking mistake.
The last place I saw the kid, he was in Paulie's, a small dingy Italian joint downtown. Don't think I'm Italian, I'm not. I'm not part of the Family.
They just like how I kill, up until that last time.
I glance at my watch, it's time to get things going.
The Kid should still be at the diner. I have my pistol fully loaded
and silenced. I am ready. I walk out onto the wet black street, making my move to the Kid sitting at a table, alone. 'Odd' I think to myself, something is wrong.
An all blacked out Cadillac speeds in-front of me, blocking off my rout.
This can't possibly be good. A large olive skinned man swings the passenger door open, he looks dead at me, looks back in the car, mutters
something in a forgien language. It's not Italian. As he looks back at me, I notice
there is a good foot difference between him and I. I think to myself that I better play this cool. He flashed me an Uzi tucked into his belt, open's the back door nearest me, and points into the car. "Sure comrad." I get in.
He had been watching the other man in a long cloak from a distance.
In his jacket pocket, made from pure white Egyptian cotton, he pulled out a cigar, and lit it.
As a blacked out vehicle approached, he ducked behind a building.
"Che continua l'inferno" He gently said to himself, exhaling smoke.
His face was smooth and light, his eyes dark brown. He had a mustache
that hugged his top lip perfectly, even ending where his lips did.
He took several long puffs from the Cubian,
put the lighter back in the silken pocket,
and headed off in the direction of the Cadallac.
No comments:
Post a Comment