THIS WORKS AS A STAND ALONE PIECE, BUT WAS ACTUALLY WRITTEN WITH THE IDEA OF CONTINUING. SO FAR I HAVE YET TO PICK IT BACK UP. THE TITLE IS STRICLY A "WORKING TITLE." I HAD TO GIVE IT ONE WHEN I TURNED IT INTO MY CREATIVE WRITING TEACHER LAST SEMESTER. ENJOY MY DEAR DEVOTED READER, ENJOY.










A slight hint of laughter rolled off his robust chest as he continued working with a sick sadistic grin. The cleaver came down again, this time severing the man's spinal cord. Another came down and laid the victim open from his shoulder and down his arm, leaving a widening river almost to his elbow. When he realized the unknown man was still fighting for his life, he smiled revealing his nearly movie star white teeth. He found pleasure in the fact that despite the agony he was inflicting on this man, he still found the will to live. This pleased him even more as the victim started pulling himself across the leaf littered lawn.
Abandoning the cleaver, he then picked up his nail gun and began shooting the victim slowly. Giving the doomed man just enough time between shots to realize what was happening to him. The first nail struck him in the leg, the second in the arm, third went into the left cheek of the victims buttocks. This one went all the through piercing his scrotum. The doomed man screamed out in agony for the first time during the attack. The man with the nail gun let another laugh roar out from deep within his gut. A fourth nail ripped through the man's right hand, and a fifth in the back piercing his left lung. Blood spilled from the wounds. The man with the nail gun watched intently as his creation struggled to live. The doomed mans breath shortened and came in quick rhythmic bursts. The blood sputtered and churned from the hole in his lung, it seamed to boil out of the center of his back.
Abandoning the nail gun, he then retrieved his chainsaw, from the trunk of his new Lincoln Town-car. He started it on the first pull then teasingly revved the large Briggs and Stratton engine. The smell of burning oil, and sawdust met his nose. He could also smell something else. Something he never smelled before. Could it be blood he thought, as he approached the man struggling to get away? No, he decided, it was fear he smelled. He smiled again, no sweater aroma has he smelled. As he hacked a large 'X' in the victims back, he thought back to the man that hired him.
His name was John Sloe, although that probably wasn't his real name. John was shopping at the supermarket when he first noticed his future hit man. A weak later the hit man, Bob Powers (also not his real name) walked into Mickey's Tavern looking for someone to kill his best friend.
John immediately recognized Bob from the supermarket. Bob settled down into a corner booth. He ordered an Irish Red, and surveyed the room. He didn't know exactly what he was looking for until it offered him a drink. He ordered another Red then looked at his guest. He was tall and thin, an older gentlemen of about forty. Even with his grey hair he would have been handsome if he weren't missing his left eye. Bob examined the scared mans face inquiringly.
'Sure is ugly ain't it?'� John said smiling. He was missing several teeth, many of the ones he did have were sharp and jagged. Bob wondered how he could eat without impaling himself.
'Adds character,'� Bob said careful to watch his tone.
'Bull shit!'� John shouted. The tavern quieted. Leaning closer the one eyed man said, 'Would you like to know how it happened?'�
'Well I don't mean to bring up sore times,'� Bob said, again careful to watch his tone.
'AH pidllefuck!'� he screamed. This time the tavern went silent. No one looked at the two in the corner except the bartender wondering if he should grab the sawed of shotgun from beneath the counter. He knew John Sloe and his cronies. Whenever they came in he kept the scattergun close at hand, but he didn't know the other gentlemen. He never saw him before and was curios.
'Well'�'� asked Bob.
'Well, what?'� john said smiling acutely. 'Aaaah'�spiked your interest did I?'� John then roared with laughter. He slapped his knee and shook his head. 'Worst pun ever,'� he sputtered. Bob then laughed a little too. He eyed the cyclops carefully, still unsure of his intentions.
'Yeah, I am a kind of curios.'� Bob admitted.
'Yes'�not yeah. Use proper English or you can go live with the dummies on Fletcher Blvd. got it!'�
'Yes sir,'� Bob said.
'Better, now where were we'�oh yes I remember, my eye.'� He laughed a little still thinking of the horrid joke. 'Well it all went down right here'�here in this very bar, over yonder in fact.'� He pointed to the end of the pine counter top. John reached in his shirt pocket and pulled out a pack of Marlboro Reds, the true cowboy killers. He shook one out and clenched it between his teeth. John then offered the pack to Bob. He shook his head. John waived the pack around in front of him as to say 'come on have one.' Bob still refused; he had just quit two weeks ago. John struck a match on the bottom of his cowboy boot, and slowly lit his cigarette. Bob had time to notice the real spurs on the boots. He wondered if he really rode or if he was just crazy. He hoped for the former, but assumed the latter was more accurate.
'Was it a fight?'� bob asked finally.
'Do you want to hear it or not!'� John shouted. He smiled as he took a long, slow drag from his cancer stick. Still smiling John said, 'kind of, but not what ya might think.'� Bob smiled, wondering if he should correct his English, but he decided against it. That was probably a wise decision. 'I was sitting at the bar telling the suds server how I came across my snake skins.
'Snake skins?'� Bob asked. John lifted his leg and swirled his Marlboro above his boot in a circle. The smoke tingled Bob's nose. His mouth watered, his eyes dried. He really wanted a cigarette. Instead he took a large drink of his beer finishing it.
'Two Reds!'� john shouted waiving his smoke in the air. He took a long drag, smoking it all the way to the butt. He snuffed it out on the tabletop as the bar tender delivered their beers.
'Come on John, I got to clean that,'� whined the barkeep. After he left the table John lit another cowboy killer, and took a sip of the fresh beer.
'Suds servers huh'�oh yeah there I was telling him how I got my new kicks, you see. And this mouthy bugger told me they didn't look real, can you imagine that! Don't look real come on! I spent a lot for these basterds, there worth it too.'� John said.
'There nice boots,'� Bob added.
'HA!! They are fuckin gorgeous aren't they? Darn tootin!'� john took another drag off his smoke. Bob still wanting it took a drink from his stein. 'Well anyway they are real of course. Then he starts yacking on about my spurs. Just a mouthy old Gus, you know the type.'� John rolled his eye as to say 'have you heard of any such thing.' Taking another long drag off his Marlboro john slowly leaned forward. Getting closer to Bob he said, 'Then you know what happened?'�
'No, what?'� Bob asked.
'Well I'm trying to tell ya! Keep your pants on!'� John screamed.
'Sorry'� Bob said.
'Anyway the suds server tells me no fighting. So I's says there wasn't going to be any fighting at all. Just one man dying and me doing the killing! Then the mouthy fella has the nerve to ask me if I thought I was tough. Can you imagine'�me tough!'� John rolled his eye again. This time it seamed as though they had been friends for many years.
'Crazy,'� Bob said taking a sip.
'So then I say I was tougher than any man he ever saw. Then he challenged me! He told me to prove it! Can you believe it?'�
'No'� Bob said wondering why he had answered that way.
'I says, lets go outside. The suds server tells me that if we fight, he's going to call the fuzz. So I says I can handle it without fighting.'� John said.
'What did you do?'� asked Bob.
'Damn it! Will ya just let me tell the story!'� He screamed hitting the table hard with his fist. Beer sloshed from the steins and on to the tabletop. Several customers left the tavern. The bartender thought about the scattergun again. John shook his body as if to tell himself to settle down. He put out the Marlboro on the table again.
'Sorry'� Bob said.
'Sorry what?'�
'Sorry sir,'� replied Bob.
'Better,'� said John with a smile that again revealed his sharp jagged teeth. 'Now may I continue?'�
'Yes please do,'� said Bob even though he wanted out of that place, and away from this dreadful man. Still something kept him here, listening to a crazy man.
'I pulls out my knife like this here'�ya see.'� John pulled a stiletto from his blue jeans pocket. It had a smooth white handle that looked to be made of ivory. John opened the knife. The blade was old, but noticeable sharp. He waved it around in front of him. The blade twinkled in the dim bar light above the table. A smile slowly spread across Johns face. It looked evil, but cunning somehow. Bob began to see where this was going, but he still needed to hear it. He desperately waited for the conclusion to this mans story. Bob shifted nervously in his seat. John's cunning smile spread even wider. He seamed to have a twinkle in his eye. Bob took another drink of his Red to calm his nerves. Minutes went by in silence. Johns smile never faltered, and he continued to wave his knife around. This time the bartender did finally pick up the scattergun. He held it at waist height, so to conceal it from behind the bar.
'Well'�'� Bob said finally.
'I plucked my eye out and dropped it in the man's beer! It looked like an olive floating around in there. HUH! He threw up like a little sissy girl. Who's tough now? I asked him.'�
'Didn't it hurt?'� Bob asked.
'The next day it did. I was to drunk to feel it that night. I just soaked a napkin with whiskey and shoved it in the socket. Then I finished out the night.'� John said smiling. Bob knew this was the man he was looking for. John stared at Bob smiling trying to decide if his story pleased him. He thought that it should. Bob shifted nervously then finished his beer in one large gulp spilling it down the front of him. John laughed a little then took a drink himself.
'Well I have a proposition for you.'� Bob whispered.
'I thought that you would.'�
'What? How?'�
'I can just tell with some people.'� John admitted. Bob looked around the room unsteadily. 'Don't worry, its not that obvious.'� John said almost as if he read his mind.
'Well then uh'�'�
'Lets go I never talk business in public. I got a place up on Cherry Grove'�you can fallow me there if you like.'� Without waiting for a reply John finished his beer and stood up. The two left the tavern in silence. Then drove the fifteen minutes to Cherry Grove, Bob in his Bronco and John in his 1965 Cadillac Eldorado.
The house was set back off the road. It had rod iron gates painted black surrounding the property. As the vehicles approached the gates opened. Once through the gates Bob noticed the beautifully trimmed lawn, and the perfectly shaped hedges lining the driveway. The house was huge. In fact it wasn't a house at all it was a mansion. The mansion looked old, but well kept. It had ivy growing up one corner all the way to the roof. The three-story building looked like you typical haunted house, except it seamed welcoming. Two large doors swung inward to a large entrance room. Here the floors were solid wood. At the back of the entrance room was a double set of solid wood stairs with solid wood banisters. These lead up to a large balcony that overlooked the entrance room. To the left was the kitchen and dining room. To the right was the library and parlor. John gave instruction to the butler to be left alone. The two then proceeded to the parlor.
'So what do you think of my little cabin?'� John said settling down in a recliner.
'Where do you keep the ghosts?'� asked Bob smiling.
'Ah we leave them the third floor they keep to themselves and we keep to ourselves.'� Bobs smile faded as he looked at John. John burst into laughter and Bob soon joined him. The two were quickly becoming friends as they drank expensive scotch and shot the breeze. Finally John asked what the proposition was.
'I'm looking for someone to kill a friend of mine.'� Bob said.
'Must not be too good a friend if you want him dead. Am I right?'� John said
'Yeah'�yes I guess so.'� Bob admitted
'Look business is business, but friendship is based on trust, know what I mean?'�
'Yes'�kinda'�what do you mean?'�
'Well, your looking for a killer, I'm looking for a partner. A partner has to be a friend, and as I said before friendship is based on trust. Can I trust you Mr. ah'�'�
'Powers, Bob Powers'�yes you can trust me.'�
'Good now tell me about your friend,'� John said.
'He made me his beneficiary, and his rich uncle just died two weeks ago.'�
'Oh you naughty naughty man Bob. So you want me to kill him so you can scoop up the dough is that it?'�
'Yes,'� Bob said, 'you will be well paid for it.'�
'Half'�
'What?'�
'I want half, half of the fortune, half of the assets, and half of the glory. Isn't that what partners do? They split things don't they?'� Said John Sloe with an evil grin. Bob thought about the knife and how he waived it around at the bar. John lit a cigarette.
'I guess so,'� Bob said reluctantly. John took a drag off his cowboy killer.
'Good, just one altercation to the plan.'�
'What,'� Bob said unsteadily. John smiled, and refilled their glasses.
'Tell me Bob do you make a habit of assigning your dirty work to others?'�
'Well, no not really no.'�
'So then why the change?'�
'Well uh, I'm not a killer.'�
'But you could be'�
'What'�
'What if I guaranteed you would never be caught. And of course you will be well paid.'�
'I don't know.'�
'Oh but I do. Let me start by buying you a car. No partner of mine can be seen in a Bronco for Gods sake. I hope you like blue.'�
After a little more conversation John walked Bob out. Sitting where the Bronco was parked was a brand new Midnight Blue Lincoln Town car. It was so shiny the rims acted as mirrors. It had a pair of fuzzy dice hanging form the mirror and two cardboard boxes in the backseat. Bob looked at John inquiringly.
'Consider it a trade my friend. All the belongings from you're old vehicle is in the one box. In the other is'�well consider it an orientation packet.'�
'But'�
'Have a good night Mr. Powers.'� John handed him a set of keys. Bob slid behind the wheel and found the mirrors already adjusted the way he liked them, a little high so he can see a distance back. This was the first time ever being close to a new car. He now understood the whole new car smell people raved about. He looked at the odometer, 8 miles. He turned the key and the engine roared to life. It was quiet yet he could feel the power. He pulled down the driveway and on to the street. Bob was still in shock. He drove slow and careful being in no condition to drive after the cocktail party at the mansion. A block from home he couldn't take it anymore. He pulled over and put it in park. Bob popped the hood and looked at the sparkling motor purring in front of him. He shut the hood and climbed back behind the wheel. Bob put it in drive and tromped on the gas. The motor growled, the tires screamed and smoke filled the night air. The car began to walk sideways as he kept on the gas. Bob left two very dark black marks almost all the way to his driveway. He smiled and parked the car in front of his garage. Not inside for he wanted all his neighbors to see his new toy. Bob then grabbed the two boxes and went inside. He set the one with his orientation materials in front of him as he sat on the couch. He was ready to open it when he passed out. There he lay until the doorbell rang the next morning.
Reluctantly and totally hung over Bob walked to answer the door. He opened the door to find no one there. He looked round, but found nothing. Bob smiled when he saw his new car shining in the beautiful morning. He then decided it was time for a Starbucks. Now that he had the car he had to fit the part. So he got behind the wheal to go buy a coffee even though he doesn't drink it. Halfway to the coffee shop he noticed a piece of paper sticking out of the visor. When he entered the parking lot he pulled out and opened it. He briefly read the hand written note from the one who gave him the car. When finished he folded it up and put it in his shirt pocket then bought his coffee, then went home.
At home he opened the box of 'orientation materials'� inside was a new Colt .9 mm pistol, a knife similar to one used to gut deer, a pair of sunglasses, a box of rubber gloves, instructions, an envelope of cash, and a very fine Cuban cigar with a note saying 'only after, congratulations.'� Bob carefully read the instructions, then set off to work. Keeping in mind the note he retrieved from the car;
'Don't get bigheaded my friend. I hate bigheaded partners. They don't live very long. The money is your signing bonus. It will be doubled when I receive confirmation of a job well done. GOOD LUCK!!!'�

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