Someone Snitched
by H.A.L. Wagner
It did not take
long to kill the first three men. With the door kicked in one caught a forty-five
to the head. The next thug took a bash across the bridge of his nose and then a
hard placed boot heel down on his neck. The third guy wielded a knife that ended
shoved up under his sternum. The stomach holds a lot of blood.
It was the last
guy that took longer to die but that was by design.
The stranger took
his time with the rising star of the underworld. He would savor every snap and
pop of dislocated and broken bones. This last piece of trash, Jarrod Killjoy,
would die slow.
The pocket
forty-five cracked and caught Jarrod behind the knee blowing it into a crimson
mist. Jarrod fell to the ground. He dragged himself towards the door but the
stranger stopped him with a vengeful stomp on the blown knee.
The killer grunted
as cartilage and tendons crackled under foot. Jarrod could only gasp short
catches of air into lungs that would not fill. Then he whaled in a futile
attempt for absolution. The stranger was not granting forgiveness of sins,
tonight he was dealing out justice.
“Who are you?”
Jarrod demanded to know his executioner, a last request from a sentenced man.
The stranger
stepped into the light to show a snarled and seething face. The stranger’s
insanity hid his face from Jarrod Killjoy’s recollection. A tightly balled fist
hammered across Jarrod’s pale face. The man spit blood and a piece of his cheek
to the wood floor.
Jarrod whimpered
then forced hard breaths in and out of his lungs to keep from passing out. The
stranger enjoyed the man’s willingness to suffer through what was about to
come.
“Did the Ramos
cartel send you? I haven’t done anything wrong, I swear. This is all some kind
of mistake.” Jarrod began to plead. “Who sent you and maybe we can resolve
this. I have lots of cash.”
The unidentified
man gazed upon his heart’s desire. His eyes grew large with excited ideas. A
four inch serrated boot knife gleamed off what little light penetrated into the
fourth floor walk up. He crouched holding Jarrod’s left hand tugging on the
index finger. The blade sliced into the base of the finger cutting the tendon.
Jarrod’s screams only fueled the single-minded torturer urging him to cut more
digits on the hand.
Despite the pain, Jarrod’s need to know who was
to kill him took prominence in his frenzied brain. “If you’re working for the
Deluca brothers tell them their trucks will be there and loaded with
merchandise.”
The Stranger wiped
the blade off on Jarrod’s pleated pant leg. He tucked the knife back in the
boot.
“Deluca brothers…”
Jarrod mumbled under his breath, presuming too much. His left hand was numb
except for the pinky that he could feel twitch. The stranger swiveled his head
“no”, then stomped on Jarrod’s pinky. When he lifted his boot what was left
looked like a string of pink dough.
Shock set into
Jarrod’s body. Shivering he grabbed his left hand at the wrist and cradled it
against his chest. With a whimper he said, “I am a very powerful man.”
The strangers grin
angered the dying man.
“Listen stranger, I
have powerful friends. The mayor and half the city police are on my payroll.
You wont get far so go hide back in the hole where you came from you sadistic
fuck.” A swift kick in the nuts took the steam out of Jarrod’s building rage.
The stranger
thought he might have gone too far too soon, when Jarrod Killjoy slumped over.
His pain threshold had exceeded their limits.
Killjoy awoke on
the bed. He stared up at a slow turning fan. Lights from the city street
flashed below. For less than a second he thought it was a dream until he tried
to move. Exposed nerve endings fired pain into his brain brining back the
events of the night. The stranger sat in a chair near the door.
“I have money
stranger. Lots of it, right here in this apartment. If you just call a doctor I
will give you all of it.”
The stranger sat
in silence.
“Look there in the
top drawer of the dresser. There’s about a grand there and plenty more. What do
you say?” Killjoy motioned towards the phone on the dresser.
The stranger rose
from the chair and opened the dresser. He took out a stack of wrinkled bills.
The screech of a bedside drawer spun the killer on his heels. The mussel flash of
a pocket Derringer lit the room and for a frozen second Killjoy had a smile on
his face as the stranger dove for the floor.
Jarrod Killjoy
began to laugh. He had survived the hands of the torturer and if the stranger
was still breathing would inflict some of his own torment. With the hot barrel
in his mouth, he grabbed at the sheets with his good hand, dragging him to the
edge of the bed. Peering over, Jarrod fanned the barrel searching for a target.
The stranger’s
hand shot up clenching Jarrod’s wrist and twisted it back forcing the barrel
into the man’s neck. The second shot of the derringer cracked. Flesh and muscle
ripped back. Flesh that remained intact singed from the hot powder.
The stranger rose
from the floor. His side now brown as blood soaked his shirt.
Jarrod Killjoy
leaned back starring up at the slow turning fan, grasping his neck, holding it together
in a futile attempt to cling to life.
A raspy gurgle
emerged from the dying man, “Who are you stranger?”
The stranger stood
over him, looking into wide, ever darkening eyes. He opened his mouth to reveal
a mangle piece of meat that was once a tongue.
A half grin
wrinkled Jarrod’s face. “It’s you…the snitch.”
