Ahh, the sounds of primordial spring rising from winter’s oppression. It is early morning. I woke up wondering if I drank/ate too much last night. I subsequently found myself crawling from the loo trying to escape the proof that I had in fact (possibly) drank/ate too much last night. And my struggle is surrounded by the glorious serenade of little birdies searching for mates, food, or a substitute for that god-awful Shoney’s coffee, whose smell alone transports them to their horrifying childhood, spent in the backwoods of Florida getting latenight “spankings” and “gin lessons” from an all too amorous uncle when mommy was on “holiday” at the local crisis management clinic.
Its funny to imagine that their joyful chatter is mere conversation. Like a little opera in my backyard, wherein the phrases “These fucking worms are the juiciest in town” or “Could you please pass the suet?” are belted out in scorching mezzo-soprano. I wonder if that lovely chortle turns into an ear-rending shriek if the robin of spring was in pain or under duress. I mean, I’ve heard them calling to one another, defending from falcons and such, and it still is pleasing to the ear, wouldn’t you say? I wonder, would they still sound so whimsically enchanting if they were flying around on fire? Could one, if one were so inclined, train them to maintain any sort of formation while ablaze a’la the awesome Luftwaffe-esque flying V of migrating geese, or the swarming death-cloud that thousands of young male blackbirds are able to maintain in early spring? HMMM? Could one sell this display as a declaration of affection or marketing tool? I’d totally eat at a place that advertised their lunch specials in flaming sparrows.
And it is further my opinion that florists would have to defect to the cause or face extinction once the mundane mylar balloon was replaced with an I LOVE YOU accompanied with the smell of burning feathers and the notion that that LOVE is so powerful, something had to die to properly convey it. Could I, this burgeoning business founder train my death-birds to attack the PETA wackos who would undoubtedly try to stop me? Fuck you Pam Anderson, enjoying a good cockfight is the Ernest Hemingway guide to manly excess and is a goodness to behold. Just not dogfighting. That’s evil. Dogs rule.
Anyway, I’ll start research and development, you guys see if you can drum-up some investors.
I haven’t written here in a long time. My present job sucks and takes a lot out of me. I’m trying to get a new one.
My options are:
a) Play poker for a living. Well, that particular vocation is the biggest reason for my long absence. Per
Sharkscope, I’m “Super Hot” on Poker Stars right now (search for MrEleganza) but I’m afraid of moving up a level.
b) Move to
Bluefields, Nicaragua and just wait. Wait to be in the right place at the right time.
You see, when the DEA helicopters descend on the Colombian cocaine traffickers, and the traffickers are forced to start bailing some contraband, it’s the Bluefields residents, many if not most of whom speak English (as you might gather from the name) who are commonly the beneficiary. It is, quite simply, Cocaine Beach.
c) This has nothing to do with my job situation, but I just wanted to say that I’m so drunk that I’m voluntarily watching Ultimate Fighting. One fighter is wearing shorts advertising gunsamerica.com, a sort of ebay for guns. Testosterone’s coarsin’.
1 And God spake all these words, saying,
2 I am the LORD thy God; thou wouldst do good to keep thy asses puckered when I’m around.
3 Thou shalt not make unto thee graven images of Me. If you do, don’t do that old man with a beard shit. I’m better looking than that. Also, no likenesses of any thing that is in heaven above, or that is in the earth beneath, or that is in the water under the earth. So no worms, groundhogs, birds, fish, you get the picture. Oh, and, no other gods.
4 Also, no worshiping worms, groundhogs, birds, fish, other gods, etc.: for I the LORD am a jealous, Old Testament kinda God, who smites like a motherfucker, visiting the iniquity of the fathers upon the children unto the third and fourth generation of them that hate Me, even though they didn’t do shit.
5 Thou shalt not take the name of the LORD thy God in vain, goddamnit.
6 Remember the sabbath day: Keep it holy. Six days shalt thou labor, and do all thy work: But the seventh day is the sabbath of the LORD thy God. In it thou shalt not do any work, nor thy son, nor thy daughter, thy manservant, nor thy maidservant, nor thy cattle, nor thy stranger that is within thy gates. Nor shalt thou walk thy dogs, nor answer e-mail, nor check Facebook, nor water thy garden, nor fuck, nor eat, nor watch the game, nor vacuum or dust, nor change thy oil or have thou oil changed by thy son, daughter, et. al., nor buy wine or liquor before 1 p.m., nor operate a forklift. Sit thou the fuck down, shut thou the fuck up.
7 For in six days the LORD made heaven and earth, the sea, and all that in them is, and rested the seventh day, and so wilt thou, or I will fuck thou shit up: wherefore the LORD blessed the sabbath day, and hallowed it, and so on.
8 Honor thy father and thy mother: that thy days may be long upon the land which the LORD thy God giveth thee. And remember thou the flowers on mother’s day, and the tie on father’s day, and the flags on Flag Day, and Victoria Day (Canada).
9 Thou shalt not kill anything but spiders, and only be they in thy domicile.
10 Thou shalt not commit adultery, unless thou art at a business convention.
11 Thou shalt not steal, and that includes cable and Wi-Fi.
12 Thou shalt not bear false witness against thy neighbor, or open his mail if it is wrongly delivered to thou.
13 Thou shalt not covet thy neighbour’s house, thou shalt not covet thy neighbour’s wife, nor his manservant, nor his maidservant, nor his ox, nor his ass, nor his tits, nor his new Mustang, nor his new vinyl siding, nor any thing that is thy neighbor’s.
14 Thou shalt not believe everything thou readest.
1. Produce should be sorted according to color. Thus, green onions, lettuce and pears would all be next to one another, as would radishes, tomatoes and cherries. Produce that cannot settle on one particular color (apples, peppers, etc.) must be eradicated from the planet’s food chain immediately.
2. One cannot simultenously shop for groceries AND suppress the urge to kill when Huey Lewis and the News is playing on the PA.
3. One should never shop hungry.
4. One should always shop drunk.
5. Fat people didn’t have those motorized carts a decade or two ago, and they shouldn’t have them now. They should be tipped over upon sight. Failing that, food and other items should be ripped from shelves and thrown in front of them to hamper their progress.
6. One can save lots of money using one’s Giant Eagle Advantage Card. One should save up to buy an actual giant eagle and ride upon its back to create awareness of how much one can save using one’s Giant Eagle Advantage Card.
7. One should stand in front of the “free sample” lady and eat each sample as she sets it on the table in front of her while - and this is absolutely critical - never breaking her gaze or blinking, until asked to leave by the management or law enforcement.
8. Seriously. They were playing Huey fucking Lewis.
9. Babies in carts that pass you never smile and are never as attractive as your own child.
10. I detest commerce.
These have been busy times for the hurling invective dot com writing staff. And when we get busy, we don’t post quite as often, because let’s face it, we don’t give a
fuck about this blog. Seriously. But putting aside our priorities, we do feel that we owe it to you, our readers - all
zero of you - to let you know what’s been happening in our lives and why we’ve been neglecting the blog. Aside from the fact that we don’t give a fuck about it.
Elder author Kevin Beane has been simply snowed under. While simultaneously defending himself in his highly publicized mannequin sexual assault trial (his defense: “I didn’t know she was such a fucking
bitch, your honor!”), finishing his senior year at clown college, and working on the screenplay for
Butt Fuck Sluts Go Nuts Volume 16, it’s been nearly impossible for him to post here. He tells me that the screenplay is coming along nicely. Universal and Disney have shown some interest and they’re talking to Ann Coulter for the lead.
Jake Stoltz is similarly swamped, working on
three degrees at the same time. This is no joke, and I really admire his work ethic. Jake already has his degree in business and is working on his bachelors in nursing, his masters in macking and his Ph.D. in pimping. The last two are sorta honorary degrees, and we’re not
entirely sure if the universities are accredited, but that shit looks
great on a resume.
Then there’s me. I’m trying to be someone’s
dad, man. I made a
baby. I
own him. Gabriel Johann Moriarty is now seven months old. 99% of the time I’m totally down with it and I love him so much I can feel it in my bones. Then there’s this 1% of the time that I want to down a dozen Valium with a bottle of Dewar’s and, I don’t know, go make some friends. Instead, I usually just take a nap and I’m good. I understand from the approximately 450 million baby books and magazines that my wife has purchased and placed in strategic (or, as GWB would say, “stregic”) locations all over the house in the hopes that I will one day read them - mostly on my pillow or in the fridge next to the beer - that we should already have begun reading to him. We’ve just started
War and Peace, but I can tell already that he doesn’t really grasp the scope of the rivalry between the Bezukhovs and the Bolkonskys, which will cause him trouble later on. I believe I read in one of those magazines that rubbing his face in the book often helps, but that may have been in one of the pet books that I also refuse to read. To wit: absinthe and parenting only mix if you drink a
whole lot of it, and only if you eat the worm. And lick the spoon clean.
Figure 1.1: “Thus spake the gorilla: ‘I heart hairy man-boy ass!’ And it wasn’t good per se, but it was better than most things.” - The Book of Leroy, Chapter 3, Verse 12, Matchbox 20
A while back, professional closet decorator and hurling invective dot com author
Kevin Beane wrote a piece on
what to do and what not to do when you get three prostitutes in your hot tub. (Do: take pictures. Don’t: let anyone know that they’re really pre-op trannies.) He posted a helpful photograph of three lovely young ladies, probably putting themselves through college or helpin’ mama pay for her meds, in various states of undress in a hot tub waving around stacks of money.
At this point in the game, most people can find a photograph of anything on the interwebs. And I mean anything. Looking for a photograph of Rue McClanahan from Mama’s Family in the cockpit of a C-130 Hercules? Google it. Britney Spears Beaver shot? Google it. Want to see a camel give birth to a Tonka truck? Google it.
However, the internet can be used for other more noble pursuits other than trying to find titties, even though Al Gore, during his famous Wolf Blitzer interview, described his original vision of the internet as “the most staggering compendium of poonnanny of our age.” Those other pursuits include: procuring penis enhancement pills, getting sports scores, posting fan fiction, debt consolidation, World of Warcraft, and registering your opinion on the latest episode of
Lost. I believe that’s everything, actually. Despite this, many people endeavor to use the web to search for a variety of other items, and often via Google’s image search engine.
Said engine can be remarkably useful and remarkably pointless all at the same time, often during a single search. Say you’re looking for a picture of a tuba. The search might yield a picture of Al Jourgensen on a Ministry fansite, because it mentions that Al Jourgensen played tuba in high school on a page that includes his photo. This can be very misleading, although the resulting non sequiturs are often so hilarious and baffling that you are encouraged to click on the unrelated picture link just to see what the fuck the connection is between, say, a search for “vampire costumes” and a picture of the cast of
The Bridges of Madison County.
It appears that our hot tub prostitutes are no exception to this phenomenon. Searches for things like Ambien, Yunker Fanti, Tetris, miniature golf, blue agave, and many, many others have brought up our three hot tub beauties, which has in turn brought visitors to this site. A lot of them. I would guess that a solid 20% of our traffic is now Google image searches that lead people to the thumbnail of this picture, and then to the site.
With that in mind, I present to you a shameless array of beautiful women with wholly unrelated captions, so as to capture more of this growing market.
Figure 1.1: The Red-throated Bee-eater (Merops bulocki) is a species of bird in the Meropidae family.
Figure 1.2: On September 28, 2000, Ariel Sharon and an escort of over 1,000 Israeli police officers visited the Temple Mount complex, site of the Dome of the Rock and al-Aqsa Mosque.
Figure 1.3: The original Europa used Lotus founder Colin Chapman’s minimalist steel backbone chassis that was first used in the Lotus Elan, while also relying on its fibreglass moulded body for structural strength.
Figure 1.4: The name Oriskany was originally assigned to CV-18, but that hull was renamed Wasp when the keel was laid in 1942.
Figure 1.5: Piton de la Fournaise is over 530,000 years old, and for most of its history, its flows have intermingled with those from Piton des Neiges, a larger, older and heavily eroded extinct volcano which forms the northwest two-thirds of Réunion Island.
Figure 1.6: In Iran each ostan or province consists of several shahrestan or county (Persian: شهرستان shahrestān), and each shahrestan has one or more bakhsh or district (Persian: بخش bakhsh).
Figure 1.7: OOn3 is a model railway standard for modeling 3 foot gauge narrow gauge railways in 4mm scale scale with 12mm gauge track.
I keep my sportwriting, sports fandom, and general sportsness out of Hurling Invective. I have other outlets for this, and my readers here, of which there are legion, don’t care.
And this isn’t really about sports either, except tangentially. It’s Super Bowl time, and each year, the various sportsbooks try to dream up new, inventive ways for you to bet on the game. Wagers made up out of thin air, like the goofy one-off bets you make with your friend that he can’t eat five double cheeseburgers or whatever, are called prop bets.
The prop bets surrounding the Super Bowl are, I’m gonna say it again because it’s a great word, legion. There’s tons of them, but this year, the bookmakers apparently decided “Fuck it, were gonna do some bets just for larfs.” Consider the prop bets surrounding the halftime performer, Tom Petty, at BetUS:
smokes a joint during half time show +2500
has a wardrobe malfunction +10000
streaks field during play +50000
will smash a guitar onstage +5000
will curse during performance +8000
What the numbers mean is that, if you bet a dollar that Tom Petty will smash his guitar onstage and he does, you win $50. If you bet a dollar that he will streak and he does, it’s $500. I think I have that right. I’m a pointspread guy.
So do the odds, when compared to one another, quite make sense? I think the earnest analysis at
Vegas Watch, where I picked up the scent, is both hilarious and captures my initial thoughts on the matter:
I’m confused as to how the joint prop is the most likely. Tom Petty cannot smoke a joint during his performance. It’s just not a possibility.
I can’t add to that. Actually, I can. According to the odds, the folks at betUS think it is more than three times more likely that Petty will
smoke a joint onstage then just thoughtlessly let the f-bomb drop.
It’s
not possible, is it? Bookmakers make money on this shit, it’s their livelihood. They know shit before the rest of us do. Do they know something here we don’t? Now I’m trying to decide how establishment Tom Petty is. I guess he’s more capable of making a “f-you, status quo!” gesture like that than, say, Hannah Montana.
So I broke into betUS offices to see if I could dig up any inside information. I couldn’t, but I did discover they apparently decided on this wager awhile ago, before Tom Petty was announced as the halftime entertainment. Here is the list of toke-up odds they were prepared to give other entertainers, in its entirety.
Tom Petty: +2500
The Cast of
High School Musical: +40000
GWAR: +100
Menudo: +25000
Amy Winehouse: -2500
I used to work with a robot… jealous? No. Well let me explain.
I’m going back to AGMC… again. I left that hospital three times all ready. The first time to make more money only to find myself working at an adult video store cloaked as a used video store. Long story. I was 20, the last time I left was 2000, and I was going to conquer the world with my trustee University of Akron Business degree almost within my grasp. I left eating a small strawberry ice cream as I loaded my car with two milk crates of these orange smoothie things that tasted like push-up pops. I didn’t rip my shirt off as I did when I left the food department at Cuyahoga Falls General Medical Center that time stealing a crate of single serving chocolate milk. Needless to say I used to leave places on a real sour note as I laughed maniacally throwing kerosene on the burning bridges. Always “sticking it” to the man as I thought.
I didn’t do anything that would be deemed a matter of life and death. I was the food guy. You know, did dishes, swept and mopped floors, and took the food carts up to the floors and brought them back down. Real rocket science stuff. At the time, there was no sign of me going into the medical field. As far as I was concerned, medical people were people too filled with their precious egoes, and prejudices and I had seen too many of them treat me like a lower class person to ever want to become one. But lo-and behold I am a nursing student.
As I prepare for my 0500 wake up call to be at AGMC at 0700 sharp, I can’t help but think of the good times there. Sure, there was absolute hell while I was there. I once went insane in the pot room. No, it’s not what you think. I also received many a chemical burn from oven cleaners made almost entirely of lye. But there were the good times too.
We had a robot that delivered food trays that were late orders and missed my food carts. I crowned him– and it was a him it had a “him” voice– F.Re.D. short for Food Reconnaissance Droid. Fred was more a fancy remote control than an actual robot. He and I had a love hate relationship. Love because he reminded me of the robot in Flight of The Navigator. Don’t remember that gem? Just think of a box with a head and wheels. Or think of an inflated R2-D2 a la Kirstie Alley. Get the idea? Good. Anyway, I hated F.Re.D. because he would get in my way then have the nerve to coldly say, “You are in my way. Please move.”
Although I would just mutter to myself I wouldn’t get confrontational. My friend “Bob” on the other hand, was much more confrontational. “Bob” is not such a giant in terms of height, but in mass and has immeasurable strength. He once ripped a car door off with his bare hands. Someone who is crazy enough to eat days old chili then play rugby foaming at the mouth as he picks the teeth of his victims from his knuckles. But a real sweet, dear man to his friends and one of the funniest guys I know. Anyway F.Re.D. was pissing him off one day. I was relieved from my pot room duties to help “Bob” grab the rest of the food carts and that’s when I saw them. It was the chicken game of the millennium (sorry guys, last millennium, this is the Will-enium now) neither budging. “Bob” politely told F.Re.D. to “Get the fuck out of my way” but F.Re.D. was insistent. “Bob” punch F.Re.D. directly in his “eye.” The sheer force of the blow almost sent this two million dollar robot falling backward crashing on the floor, but gravity took over and F.Re.D. fell back forward and didn’t move. Again. Later, we pretended we didn’t know where he was and were put on the task to find him. After wandering the bowels of the hospital we figured enough time had passed and we gathered F.Re.D.s shaken remains and pushed him down to the kitchen.
F.Re.D. was never the same after that. He didn’t work for months and sometimes we’d catch F.Re.D. repeatedly running into the same spot of a wall. Just as his robot mind couldn’t comprehend love it couldn’t comprehend the hate and it tore his little micro-circuits asunder.
As I toured AGMC as a nursing student instead of a neo-facist bathroom terrorist known in the establishment as “Nutrition & Dietetics” I found no traces of F.Re.D. and even though we never saw eye to eye, I miss that ol’ bucket of bolts.
Large heavy snowflakes fall silently as the teeming streets of Bucharest die down. Even a city as eclectic and diverse as Bucharest tends to die down around three in the morning. The wintry weather doesn’t help either. It doesn’t bother me in the slightest. I love this city with its rich music scene and swinging metropolitan decadence hidden beneath the charm of European architecture. It’s the kind of place a guy like me could spend the rest of his life.
I’d like to say I’m here just visiting, but I’ve official business to take care of. I don’t mind burglarizing, bamboozling, swindling, or even breaking someone’s heart. These burns are easily healed through time. I have come to Bucharest to kill a man. It’s the one part of the job I cannot stomach even when the prick deserves it. Lucky for me, I’ve got some company to distract me from the ugly job that waits.
I met Mannon six months and a dozen jobs ago. She was caught up in a money laundering deal that went wrong. My cover was simple enough, a conflicted televangelist from Wisconsin traveling Europe to do some soul searching. Of course the soul searching came after embezzling a quarter of a million dollars from my religious followers. That’s what Henri ́, the financier and her boyfriend thought. But he got wise and ended up in a pine box instead of handcuffs. That was one kill I didn’t mind. Mannon walked onto the bloody scene to find me above Henri ́ and his cooling corpse. I looked up to find her battered and bruised. Apparently Henri ́ took his frustrations out on Mannon. I prefer yoga. She ran to me and kissed me violently. We’ve been together since.
Mannon is the type of French girl that screams for adventure. That’s probably why she was attracted to a money laundering bastard like Henri ́. Her personality is as daring as her looks. She is always dressed to kill even with the simplest and cheapest of outfits. Her long dark wavy black hair contrasts her pearl skin. Her body is dangerous even Audi can’t handle her curves. Her hazel eyes look like they were plucked out of a China doll. Her only fault was her unshaven arm pits. It’s a European thing from what I’m told. I’ve been keeping my cover as the televangelist. It worked for us. So I was able to explain to her the sin of unnecessary body hair. Not being a real church goer, she bought my story and has since kept those babies under control.
We stroll through the trodden snow without a care in the world. My mark doesn’t come to town until tomorrow. My plans are laid out for the kill. A simple drip of poison into his soup at his favorite restaurant will do the trick. No guns no mess, and best of all it will look like a heart attack. We in the business call them McFly’s for Myocardial InFarction.
That’s one thing about this business. You can’t become routine. You can’t let people know who you are or where you like to go. Say coffee is your thing. Go to Starbuck’s. It’s not like there’s only one Starbuck’s. Sure, it tastes like shit but at the same time you don’t become routine you can go pretty much anywhere in the world and get Starbuck’s a dozen times over and never once step foot in the same place. Randomness is keen.
Tonight Mannon and I are meeting a friend of hers that owns a bar overlooking the Dâmboviţa River. There’s a rumor that my favorite jazz singer, Sophie Milman, will be making a pit stop “impromptu” performance there tomorrow sometime after my scheduled kill. Mannon’s going to reminisce about the old days in Gay Paris. Me, I’m seeing if I can score some good seats for tomorrow’s show.
I open the heavy wooden door for Mannon and she stops for a moment. She looks deeply in my eyes as her demeanor turns from jovial to concerned. “Thomas, let’s go home,” she says through a deep French accent and pulling my arm.
I close the door to the bar. “What are you talking about? We just got here,” I say placing both hands on her shoulders as I try to read what’s troubling her so abruptly.
“I know, but I suddenly do not feel good,” she whimpers as she quickly glances around us.
“Don’t worry. We’ll only stay for a couple of minutes,” I say reassuringly lifting her chin.
Mannon lunges toward me and kisses me heavily knocking me backward onto the outside of the bar. She leans her whole body into me and I’m taken into her passions. She stops kissing me and whispers in my ear. “Let’s go home now. Wouldn’t you rather be in bed with me than in some smelly bar?”
“Definitely,” I say as instant relief sets on Mannon’s face. “But it’s Sophie Milman, baby.”
I playfully run into the bar as Mannon screams and tries to catch me. “Jake don’t!”
Inside a roaring fire blazes and seems to be the main source of light in the darkness. The bar seems empty save the lone bartender turning chairs over onto the top of the table next to him. He doesn’t pay any attention to the two people running into his bar. Ochi Cheyrne by Sophie Milman plays quietly in the background. A chill runs down my spine as I realize Mannon called me by my real name. Traps are always set by the ones you trust completely.
“Mannnon, what’s going on?” I ask grabbing her arms and pulling him into me.
“Careful darling,” a familiar Russian voice says from a booth in the corner. “Mannon’s quite fragile.”
“Ursa,” I say coldly as I release Mannon. She is wearing a black ushanka with the ear flaps up. Strands of her honey blonde hair spirals down past both her ears as the rest of her hair is pulled up into her hat. She is wearing a black leather coat with a fur lapel. She aims a Tokarev TT33 directly at my head. Her face is as cold as the steel she holds in her hand. I take it she isn’t here to rekindle any old flames.
“You are no longer needed Mannon,” Ursa says waving her pistol toward the door.
“But–,” Mannon begins to plead but is interrupted by Ursa.
“Careful, Mannon. You already strayed far enough from the plan to test my patience.”
Mannon regretfully stares into my eyes and I return her gaze filled with hatred. Not because she deceived me, it’s the nature of the business, but because I didn’t see it coming.
“Ever since you killed Henri ́ she’s been quite taken with you. You see, he found her snooping around. After beating the hell out of her he found out that Mannon works for me, and what she was doing there. She was supposed to steal the money from you to give to me. That’s how he found out who you really are. After Henri ́ was done with you he was going to finish her off. You saved her life,” Ursa explains as Mannon leaves the bar and leaves me to my certain doom. So much for that love affair.
“So she’s just an elaborate honey trap,” I say as I walk toward Ursa’s booth. “Gotta love the classics.”
“Careful Jake, my memory isn’t as hairy as the Tokarev’s trigger,” Ursa says extending the gun toward me.
“I figure as long as we are chit-chatting I’d have a seat. Is that all right with you?”
Ursa rolls her eyes and kicks the chair opposite of her out from under the table. It slides back to me and I catch it by the back. Every time I see that face I’m torn between animal lust and carnal rage.
“So there’s no job here either I take it. I had a bad feeling about it. The op’s name should have told me this was something was rotten in Denmark. Micul Paris (Little Paris). Jobs offing someone usually don’t have the nickname of the scene of the crime,” I say piecing together clues that I should have noticed if I weren’t so blinded by that fine piece of French tail.
“Take comfort in knowing you don’t have to kill anyone,” Ursa says drenched in sarcasm. She always thought me weak because of my disdain of killing.
“Well, the night’s not over yet,” I say poker faced as I sit.
“We’ll see,” Ursa poisonously utters through clenched teeth.
“What’s with the sophisticated trap? Why didn’t you just have her kill me in bed one night and that be that?” I pose as I think of all the times Mannon’s had me off guard and completely vulnerable.
“Trust me darling, the last thing a dim-witted man like yourself needs is an elaborate trap. I merely–,” Ursa explains but I interrupt.
“You merely couldn’t find where the dough was stashed. Seriously, after all we’ve been through, is the money all you’re really after?” I ask playfully. Dim-witted. Huh. If I’m so dim-witted, where’s the money goldilocks? That’s right, you ain’t got a clue.
“Actually I am looking forward to some retribution,” Ursa admits. “My jaw hurt for weeks.”
“Oh that. Sorry. Occupational hazards can’t always be helped,” I say as I open my trench coat.
“Not so fast!” Ursa yells and I put both hands up.
“Just getting a smoke Ursa. Surely you can appreciate that,” I insist as her nostrils flare and her eyes drill into my face.
“Mannon says you don’t smoke anymore,” Ursa says sternly.
“Yeah well, I was able to slip a few things past Mannon. She said she didn’t like it. I snuck out at night and had a couple every night,” I explained.
“Index fingers and thumb only,” Ursa demands.
I take her order diligently. No needs to blow any of her fuses. A woman with a gun is one thing, a scorned woman looking to steal millions and exact a bit of revenge on an ex lover with a gun is quite another. I reach into my trench coat inset breast pocket and pull out a pack of Dunhill’s with my thumb and index finger as I extend out my other fingers. I gently place it on the table in front of me and reach for my lighter in the same pocket.
“That’s enough digging,” Ursa demands. She reaches into her coat pocket slides a lighter toward me.
I grab it and light my cigarette. I watch the cherry smolder and smile to myself as I reminisce. “Heh. It’s amazing what a carton of these and box of Levi’s would get you back in the day.”
The tension in Ursa’s face eases and the faintest of smiles runs across her sharply seductive lips. “Things were a lot different then. I would tell you what I once got for a can of cling peaches, but I would have to kill you.”
“That seems unavoidable from where I’m sitting,” I say pointing to the gun. This little coy remark makes Ursa smile fully. Ah, I love to see that smile dazzle across her gorgeous face.
This cigarette doesn’t taste right. I quickly smother the fire into the ashtray on the table. I grab another and light it. I stare at Ursa for a moment mesmerized by her beauty. It’s no wonder she’s such a fucking pro. Looking at her face I completely forget that trigger happy hand holding a gun to my head. But only for a second, I’m still a pro too. I wave an apologetic hand and nod my head ashamed. “Forgive me. Where are my manners?” I ask as I pull another cigarette from the pack and offer it to Ursa.
“I’ll pick one,” Ursa says pulling the pack of Dunhill’s from me. She takes one from the box and tosses them back on the table. I lean over the table to light it and feel the Tokarev dig into my abdomen. Ursa wraps her free hand around mine and looks into my eyes as I light it. There’s something so irresistible about a woman who knows how to properly accept a light. Of course, I could do without the gun jabbing my gut. She takes a deep drag and exhales as she says, “Can’t have you giving me a cyanide-laced one now can I?”
I shake my head as I laugh. This cigarette isn’t right either. I quickly smother it in the ashtray. “Now why would I do that? Besides, you know I don’t carry those anymore. It gets too tricky to remember which one it is. Even if I did I wouldn’t risk it, cyanide’s too slow.”
“It’s happened before,” Ursa points out.
“And I apologized for that. I mismarked the laced one. I injected you full of sodium nitrite once symptoms displayed,” I remind her. I smack my lips at the distaste of yet another cigarette and smother it into the ashtray. I pull another from my pack of cigarettes and light it. “Hey, while we’re sitting here reminiscing you mind if I get something to drink?”
“How can I deny a request from a dead man?” Ursa says placing the cigarette between her lips then snaps her fingers. The bartender’s ears once devoid of any of the goings on before hears her call and he quickly responds in Russian. Ursa says something to him in Russian and I am again filled with hatred.
“Boy, you’ve got your Ruskie goons all over the place, don’t you?” I sneer through exhaled smoke.
Ursa slams her hand onto the table. “For the last time Jake, I’m Romanian! This is my hometown! I grew up in Bucharest for God’s sake. I’m speaking Romanian! Didn’t you notice anyone else speaking the same language?!”
“Okay, okay. You’re Romanian. Can I get a drink or what?” I say waving my hands in the air.
“What do you want?” Ursa asks tiredly.
“Ursus,” I tell her as I flick ashes into the ashtray.
“Good choice,” Ursa says then tells the bartender. He nods and obediently heads toward the bar to retrieve my drink.
“Hey, it’s the King of Beers… in Romania,” I say nonchalantly. This cigarette doesn’t taste right and I put it out. “So you grew up here, huh?”
“Yes, if you would listen for once you would know that. I was ten when we overthrew Nicolae Ceauşescu,” Ursa says taking a hit off her cigarette and exhaling slowly through her nostrils.
“I went down to the Memorial of Rebirth yesterday with Mannon,” I say as I take another cigarette and light it. “It’s quite breathtaking.”
“Yes, I know. My father died overthrowing the Communist regime,” Ursa says as she looks down at the table.
“I’m sorry to hear that,” I say then take a large pull from my cigarette.
“I do not wish for your pity. He died for his cause. His death taught me a very valuable lesson that day,” Ursa says then smothers her cigarette out in the ashtray.
Another cigarette that doesn’t suit my needs. I put it out and grab another. “Oh yeah? What’s that?”
“That governments are only as strong as the peoples’ will to follow them,” Ursa says in earnest. “All countries are vulnerable. Even your beloved USA will eventually crumble.”
“Yeah, well, not for a while at least,” I say exhaling up to the ceiling. I would love to say more, but I’m not about to get into a political debate with a woman holding a gun to my head.
“You’re president is helping speed up that process,” Ursa says trying to get my goat.
I shrug my shoulders and attempt to blow smoke rings. She may have a point about that, but I am not getting into it.
The bartender finally places the Urus in front of me and quickly returns to tiding up the joint. I point to my beer and ask, “What, aren’t you getting one?”
“Guns and alcohol don’t mix thank you,” Ursa says poignantly.
“Well, here’s to being a couple of free agents,” I say as I hold up my beer then drink deeply. Man, that’s good stuff.
“This isn’t a social call Jake, I want what’s mine,” Ursa says getting back to the business at hand.
I smother the cigarette out and light another. I shrug my shoulders. “Well, you’re not getting a dime of my money,” I say as the cigarette flicks up and down in my mouth with each word.
“Half of that money is mine,” Ursa says coldly.
“Was yours. You shot me remember. I accidentally almost killed you. You really tried to kill me. And for what? A fat bank account and early retirement. It’s called dues toots, get over it,” I say as I push the cigarette out into the ashtray. I grab the pack and light another one.
“Where is the money?” Ursa demands as her tempter quickly starts to thin.
I stare deeply into her big round baby blues. God I love it when she’s mad at me. She may be throwing me daggers, but I’m feeling butterflies. I pace my answer carefully. I slowly take several large gulps of Urus and savor its crisp, clean taste. I take a long pull from my cigarette and exhale with all the patience of a fat Southern governor fanning himself on a hot summer day. “It’s somewhere safe.”
“Tell me where the money is, enough of this foolishness,” Ursa demands as she pulls the chamber back to fill it with lead death.
“You’ll get no dough in your pockets offing me, just blood on your hands,” I say feeling confident having the upper hand.
“At this point both scenarios are equally satisfying,” Ursa coldly states.
Oh boy. I smother my cigarette and light another. I pull deeply as the sour chemical tasting smoke hits my taste buds. Finally, a smoke to die for.
My chain smoking is obviously getting to her. “Why aren’t you finishing those? Nervous?” she asks getting off on making me quiver.
“You think?!” I rhetorically ask. “You got a freakin’ gun pointed at my head for Christ’s sake!”
“The money,” Ursa says devoid of any playful banter. This is it. I’ve finally gotten to her.
“Okay, okay. You’ll get what you deserve,” I say cowering at her attitude. I carefully hold my cigarette and inhale as the smoldering red cherry turns a bright yellow. The flash of light catches Ursa off guard and her eyes bulge at the sight. Suddenly, a snap no louder than a firecracker explodes out from my cigarette shooting a dart into Ursa’s beautiful slender neck.
“Kee-yah!” I yell as I fiercely judo chop Ursa’s wrist. She fires blindly and I feel the heat of lead ripping through the air as it whizzes closely past my head crashing into the ceiling before dropping the Tokarev. Ursa wraps her hands around her neck as she heaves violently for air.
The bartender’s raging scream as he rushes to bludgeon me with a chair alerts me to his advancing attack. I quickly send a backhanded fist across his cheek spinning the bartender mostly by his own inertia. I crash a devastating kick to his knee as he drops the chair and falls to the floor. I swipe the Tokarev from the table and aim it at the lump of a man crying and babbling something in Romanian. I put the safety on, and tuck the gun in the back of my pants.
Ursa falls to the floor under the table as she chokes to death. I hurry toward to the door and start to leave. That’s when the guilt sets in. Death. It’s the “banana-who” to the knock-knock joke we call life. It’s not a pun I’m ready to pull on a woman I used to love.
I rush back to Ursa’s side. I shake my head and reach into my trench coat inset pocket and pull out a syringe. I toss the table over and accidentally hit the bartender causing him to cry louder. I look over at the wrecked man and wince. “Oops,” I apologetically let out.
I wrap my arm around Ursa and place the syringe my mouth. I undo her leather coat and pull slender arm out as her breath become shallow and labored. I roll up her sleeve and feel for a vein. I watch her face as her olive colored skin turns ghostly and her pupils shrink to pinholes. I smack her cheeks a couple times and take the syringe out of my mouth. I pull the cap off the needle with my teeth and spit it out. “Stay with me Ursa!” I yell then inject the serum into her arm.
Instantly, Ursa’s breathing becomes deeper and her pupils grow. She shakes her head in bewilderment. “Okay , so I lied,” I confess as I roll my eyes. It wasn’t quite cyanide rather a faster acting synthetic version. Instead of just denying tissues of oxygen slowly suffocating a person, my derivative also creates anaphylaxis, which is an allergic response and makes all the blood vessels in the body dilate causing circulatory shock and death. The whole process only takes one and a half minutes before it’s irreversible. I deliver the antidote in photo-finish time.
“This is hydroxocobalamin,” I say as I hold the syringe up to show Ursa what I injected her with. “It’ll help you live but you need to go to the hospital still.”
Ursa weakly nods that she understands.
Suddenly, I am overtaken by the smell of burnt hair. I search my head and find a deep line across my cranium of singed tresses. “Great Ursa. You shot my hair!” I yell angrily. “I just got it cut today too. Now I’m going to have to get it fixed. Happy?!”
As I stand up and feel Ursa grip my trench coat pulling me down to her. “Did— didn’t know it was— loaded,” she weakly says.
I check the clip in the Tokarev. Hmm. Fully loaded save the one that burned a line through my hair. I sigh deeply and shake my head. I wipe the spit emanating like two rushing rivers from the sides of Ursa’s mouth. I lift her head and kiss her filled with the memory of painful happiness. I wipe the sweat off her forehead and stare into her eyes as I smile softly. “Nice try. Better luck next time babe.”
I search her coat and find her cell phone. I leave her lying on the floor clinging to life. I lift the table off the bartender as she shivers on the floor. I smack him upside his head to get his attention as he tries to protect himself with shaking arms.
“Hey stretch! Call an ambulance! Do you understand this word? Ambulance!” I yell at him as I point to the cell phone. I have no idea why I am yelling. It’s not as if I speak louder he will understand English.
“Yes, I understand. I speak English,” the bartender mutters.
“Oh, well, call an ambulance.”
I drop the empty Tokarev on the floor and leave the bar disappointed that I won’t be seeing Sophie Milman tomorrow. At least I’ve got her CDs.
