Let's write a story!

We've done this before, but let's give this a try these days. We'll write a story, each poster picking up as they want. But let's try a few rules, shall we?

-At least one paragraph.
-Not more than five paragraphs per post.
-Keep it in the same person. (First, third, etc.)
-FFS at least read the thread first.

Anyway:

The Meeting

It's dusty again. It's always dusty. I guess you can't expect anything else here. You know what they say, dusty, and you can't drink the water. Only drink if it's sealed or has enough alcohol. They water that down too, so use the bottles. Everything you drink here is from bottles. You get used to it, I mean really, it's the only way to ever be sure.

I don't touch the room service. For one, I'm too nervous. I shouldn't be after this many years, this many of the same thing over and over, but something always gnaws at me. This meeting shouldn't be anything outside of easy in, easy out, like the signs on the highway. Yet at the same time, any of these could go wrong. Second, I can't trust the room service. Who knows I'm here? Who knows who I am? Who's in the kitchen? You order it to keep up appearances, but you don't eat it. Well, not always. Yuri always did, but he stayed in the kitchen while it was cooked. Which defeated the purpose of room service really. And anyone in the kitchen would've noticed him there. But that was Yuri.

As for the meeting, it's really becoming too standard these days. We slide him the locked briefcase full of money, he slides us a locked briefcase of the item. Then we share the locations of the keys. It's silly really, neither the money nor the item are ever really worth scamming the other but everyone finds it valuable as to determining the contacts and the organization.

Which in the end is pretty silly as well. I mean, who don't we know about already? And if we don't, why are they bothering with something this small game?

It's dusty now, at night it gets foggy. I don't get it. I probably have too much waiting time. You always hate the waiting. Four hours until the meeting, and yet I've already spent three days waiting, trying to keep busy. I think I've put my time to use over those days, but these next four hours...

Last edited by benji on Fri Sep 11, 2009 9:57 pm, edited 1 time in total.

On average a person lives roughly seven hundred thousand hours, yet here I am trapped in a room surrounded by my previously sealed and safe bottles for four and my mind is racing. What do you call a prisoner who can leave whenever he wants? I have been told to stay, and here I am. Arranging the empty bottles into a top ten in order of enjoyment, I'm startled by a loud noise coming from the hallway. A newly married couple laughing and drunkedly tripping over themselves on their way to their room. I always wonder if normal people are really aware of what is going on around them. They don't know about my top ten bottles, they don't know about the briefcase or the money that would surely seal my fate if it were to go missing. Ignorance is drunken bliss. Though I'm sure it would set up a nice honeymoon for them. Lying down, carefully, to not disturb my bottles, in a state of near sleep I'm awoken by a sound. The telephone is ringing...

It's room service, they want to know how the eggs are. I say they're fine, and the sausage is delicious. He gets the message. I ordered bacon, not sausage. Room service may not be a problem from here on out but everything else just got more dangerous.

The "married" couple are too obvious. Newbie mistake. They went too over the top to cover it up. Thankfully they identified which room they're in.

Now I know there's someone in the kitchen, the couple two doors down, and the bellhop. I still can't tell on maid service as I leave the room clean and do tourist stuff to clear that. I tell them to leave the bottles. I can't imagine the time they've wasted inspecting every inch of them.

The telephone was ringing again. Lazily, I leaned over and answered it. I was not surprised when the person that had become the bane of my existence announced themselves to me in no uncertain terms. "I loathe you," my new arch-nemesis seethed. "I loathe everything about you and what you stand for. Your destruction is nigh." There was a hesistant pause. "Call me." Then they hung up. I sat down and stroked my chin thoughtfully. The disturbing fact of the matter was that I probably would call them, though I was even more disturbed by their use of the word "nigh". It seemed too archaic, even for my tastes.

My eyes fell once again upon the briefcase, before shifting to the tattered notebook sitting beside it.

I purposely shift my attention away from the notebook and briefcase, ignoring it. Maybe it's because I'm afraid of what it contains. I'm running away again, like I always do.

I don't know what's worse, the long agonizing wait or messing it all up. At least the room has a TV, even if it's black and white. I'm surprised it even has cable. Should I be surprised after all things I have seen before this meeting, or am I just pretending to be surprised to hide my anxiety and give myself a temporary moment of happiness? I don't know and I don't care anymore really after she left me. That may be the reason why I'm here right now doing the things I do.

Come to think about it, I don't really care about the bitch. That's what she said when she left me. I remember that everthing really started to go downhill when the dog died. That dog kept me company and I was happy for that. Fetched me my slippers and TV remote when I got home or at least what used to be my home. Always alert when strangers were near the house and ready to attack intruders or anyone with the command of my voice. I'll never forget the day I saw the dog lifeless in the couch. It was because of my neglect. That's the only regret I have in my life right now. I miss that dog.

These informercials look enticing and entertaining in black and white. I swear if I have the money right now I would buy some of it even though I won't use it. I always wondered why people buy stuff like those in infomercials. It's all about the pitchmen probably. They can make you sell and buy your own soul in one transaction if they wanted to. I bet if we had a pitchman the deal would be done right now. No more long waits like this and Yuri would have had someone to talk to.

It's somewhat fascinating on how the black and white TV reflects on the empty bottles. I didn't know that a black and white TV could produce such beautiful colors. I could do this all night. I wish I could do this every night and forget everything. I get to watch TV and my beautiful bottles at the same time. I'm a simple man with simple tastes. I get a glimpse of the notebook again. I feel it to be beckoning to me if it was a living thing. It seems that I cannot ignore it anymore.

Last edited by shadowgrin on Mon Sep 14, 2009 7:25 am, edited 1 time in total.

Someone knocks on the door, nearly making me jump out of my slippers. How long was I staring at those bottles? It feels like hours. I turn around and look at the clock on the nightstand. "It's still early" I think to myself.

I hastily grab the hotel robe and go silently to the door, putting my left ear against it. Nothing. Another heavier knock on the door makes me take 3 steps back. I try to gather myself, I can't afford to look concerned or worried, too much is at stake, even though it has become somewhat of a routine now.

I open the door, to find myself in front of a man who might as well be your stereotypical goon from any film noir. He's slightly taller than I am, and certainly much better dressed at that moment. I can nearly see a reflection of myself in his 3-piece suit. I even catch myself staring at his black moccasins in awe. How can they look so flawless when it's so dusty out there? His bushy eyebrows almost cover his eyes, which show no discernible expression. Several partially healed scars are visible under his chin and around his neck. His greyish sideburns and hair betray his otherwise young face. I guess this type of business makes you look older pretty fast.

"Change of plans" he says with a monotonous voice. I stare at him for a few seconds, trying to find the best possible question to reply to that. I guess "what's going on?" should have sufficed. He gets ahead of me and still with the same emotionless tone, he confirms "We're going to do it differently this time. Go get ready".

"I should probably let Yuri know" I reply, trying to stay composed. "We've already handled this. Get dressed, I'll be waiting for you in the lobby". He leaves, letting me stand there in the doorway.

I don't get what they're doing. The open and obvious calls, the over the top film noir goon sent to my door? The way he said "we've already handled this" when I referenced poor, late, Yuri?

They know the room I'm in, they know I have the briefcase, they have more operatives on this floor, not to mention the building itself, than we have in the entire continent. What are they doing? That guy was certainly intimidating, so why not bust down the door, come in here and grab the briefcase.

Two shots in the back of my head. Case closed.

But no, it's post-Cuban Missile Crisis CIA harassment of Castro. Nothing that makes any difference, just annoying the person because. The call, the guy, the lobby, they know I won't do anything to give them an opening. I'll be jumping off that roof before I meet him and his "business colleagues" in the lobby.

I open the briefcase again. I don't get it. Why would they murder everyone in this hotel for it? If I wasn't stuck with it knowing that everyone outside the walls of this room would kill me for it if they could. If I didn't know that if I turned it over, they'd still kill me. I'd Google it or something, but I know that'll tip off a hundred times more people and I won't even be able to drink myself to sleep as I'd have to stay up for good.

That damned TV, it's my only friend. I don't really get what they're saying on a lot of the channels, but after enough emptied bottles I pretend. Or I make it up. I reach for the remote that reminds me of the one we had back when I was a kid. But there's bottles in the way, there's always bottles in the way.

It all suddenly seems so absurd. I start wondering if I have gone insane, if I may be one of those schizophrenic freaks with multiple personalities, one of which would organize those strange meetings, leaving the "original" part of me confused as to why all of this is occurring...

The mindless infomercials on TV make me snap out of it. Of course I'm sane, I would have already called to order one those magical towels that clean everything otherwise. I'm not a victim of my own game, nor am I organizing my own demise...I'm the one who planned for all of this, not some dissociative side of me. I lay my eyes on my briefcase again, and it reminds me of how much I need what's in his. It just has to be done, and if it involves some overly dramatic moments in the process, then so be it.

Still, being more aware than ever than my every move is being watched, I must act carefully. The money might be within reach of his goons, he still needs the key to unlock the briefcase, and that's a wild card I'm certainly ready to hold on to as long as needed. I still call the shots, and if he wants to be paid, he'll have to be a good sport.

I got dressed without even thinking about it. My mind is too busy thinking of a plan B, and wondering why I never thought of a plan B in the first place. I mean, it's not like we're in the lemonade stand business, something is bound to go wrong with what we're dealing with here. The "married couple" are still at it next door, so at least I know they're not in the hallway. I grabbed the briefcase, quietly open my door, take a quick peak left and right and move silently towards the stairs. A maid appears at the other end of the corridor, pushing a cart with a large laundry bag. I think I found my plan B.

Then I realize, Yuri pulled that stunt in Norway. Norway, Iowa that is. That never made sense. There was no way Yuri could pass him self off there. The document we got there was probably never worth the cost of such an operation. Union Pacific stopped being relevant a century ago.

Still, it is an out. We bail on the entire operation. But what happens then. You always want to bail right when you're in the thick of it. But I don't even fucking know if I'm in the thick of it yet.

Went down to the lobby earlier. Sat and nursed a drink. Examined every person who came and went. Never got drunk, let alone buzzed. The heavy drinking in my room alone has probably saw to that. Saw nothing. I have to be paranoid, the loneliness has to be making me paranoid. That damn TV has to be making me paranoid!

I just don't get it. Is there anything happening here. Maybe I was wrong about everything so far. But what if I was right. That's just how this always works right? I pretend things are fine and next thing I know there's fifteen gunmen in the lobby as I try to bail out of the hotel. Maybe I should stay until the delivery. Maybe I should figure out an option to bail out of the entire operation. I don't know. I can't know.

What if I was right...

...but then, what if I was wrong? I tossed down a shot, awash with feelings of mutiny and melancholy. Story of my life: too afraid to follow through yet too afraid to quit either. No doubt I end up doing what I've always done, half-heartedly seeing it through to the end, cursing under my breath the entire time and collecting my cheque at the end of the day. From a psychological standpoint, it wasn't healthy but it made for great film noir.

I noticed John, the unkempt, uncouth and at times downright surly bartender cast me another filthy look. We'd gotten off to a bad start, John and I. I likened him to his namesake in Billy Joel's "Piano Man", perhaps pushing my luck when I suggested - as a friend of mine - he could get me my drinks for free. I laughed. He did not. After the second black eye and bruised kidney, I resolved not to tell that joke anymore. Watching him spit in another patron's beer, I tented my fingers and thought yes, I'll make John the Bartender pay. True, he wasn't really responsible for the current mess I was in, but the kidney punch really fucking hurt and was highly unnecessary, I thought.

John caught my eye and noticed me tenting my fingers. He started reaching for a non-descript blunt instrument I'd seen him use on people who were stupid enough to challenge him after their second black eye and bruised kidney, which I took as a friendly reminder that I'd overstayed my welcome. As I made my exit, I heard a commotion at the front desk.

As I step out into the atrium seating...no. No. No, not that. The man I least wanted to see at this moment. Waltzing in like he owned the place, maybe he does, I don't know anymore. Demanding the top floor suite. Demanding "what you'd give the President of the United States! What you'd give The Pope!"

I should have stayed in my room. Could have been ignorant of what is happening in this place. Focused on my mission. Focused on the two newlyweds, the staff, but no, I had to wander out. The wait, the delay, everything sapped at my curiosity. Those bottles, that TV, the lack of view, it drove me out. I almost know the language at this point. Then again, I've been drunk during most of this stay, so maybe I don't know anything at all. Maybe I'll float some of what I think I've learned on some of these waitresses. Drunk lonely pervert is a pretty good cover. Never fails that I have seen. Until you're arrested that is.

I can't believe a meeting like this was delayed for no reason though. There has to be a reason.

But maybe he was mistaken. Maybe he thought I belonged with everyone else in this hotel. Maybe he thought I was just another flange salesman and he was relaying a delay in their desperate justification of their existence they call a meeting. Not that I should criticize those who actually try to make a living. There will always be a need for those in my field no matter what the economic conditions. Not so for most people. But what if I took that contact as related to my job and have thrown off the entire operation? Where does this put everything? Are my contacts rotting in a jail in this country? Are people going to die? What is the deal with flanges? Was it a double cover?

Wait, why is there an international flange convention being held in this hellhole of a country of all places? Sure, it's not Canada, but it's close. Staring at the desert steppes could dull a persons senses, but we can't lose our focus, we have to question why here. Of all places, why here?

I notice that John has tensed up cleaning that glass over and over again. It's clear of spots, John, put it down. I turn and glance at what he's staring at. His eminence has moved on towards the elevators, his staff surrounding him like a gauntlet. This is not what really controls my attention. It's the newlyweds, they've suddenly made an appearance. My days of drinking down here and I've never seen them, if they aren't actually ransacking and trying to hastily rebuild my room as I stumble with the card, they're probably sneaking out the window. The bellhop who usually comes to my room is standing by the carts pretending to wait for new patrons.

I reach down and I'm not armed. If something goes down I can't do anything. Everything is hidden behind that tile. With the amount of alcohol I'm consuming I don't trust myself. Especially with my increasing paranoia. Most nights when John says the bar is closed and I have to go back to my room, I pace continuing to drink until I pass out. I can't sleep normally, I think too much. About what? About everything.

One thing I think about is when I mentioned Billy Joel. John made some kind of joke about how I shouldn't try to take a drive or I'd wind up in someones house too. I drunkenly looked up and said "what?" He said that the house always wins. I didn't understand it and still don't. It's an adage, but what does it mean? What house? This hotel isn't attached to a casino. I've never lost gambling. I can't figure it out. It's one of the things that occupy my mind and keep me up at night.

When I was offered this gig, I said "sure, what could go wrong?" Now I know. Everything. I realize something is happening here. Sending me here was not chance. The Meeting was not meaningless. There is a reason I am here. There is something I must do. I just have to put the pieces together and fast. I have to make sure there is time for me to act. But what... What is going on? What can I do?

The TVs, the TVs in the hotel bar. They're on the same channel as the one in my room. What is going on?

Am I going mad? Or is there something actually happening here?

What's that, the newlyweds, they're moving to catch the elevator. What are they doing? Should I make sure I'm on there with them? I hear my dead dog's barks and the infomercials echoing in my mind. I stand and reach for...

Re: the length and the rules, fuck you, I'm picking up after six months and it's my thread, my rules. I won't ban and murder anyone who goes past five paragraphs though, seven or more though...

...the cognac bottle beside me and bash the bartender's head with it while he's looking at the elevator, I know John keeps a revolver behind one of those bottles in case of an emergency. The situation might develop where a piece is an absolute necessity, but someone grabbed my arm like a vise before I could touch the bottle. I was about to swing a haymaker with my left fist but stopped myself as I got a look at the face of the man who grabbed me. It's old man Fats. The man who thought me and Yuri everything about the business. He was called Fats by his contemporaries because he always seemed to have an unlimited amount of ammo during 'emergencies', like that of Chow Yun Fat in John Woo movies. I settled down and he released my arm. Now I'm more surprised on what he's doing here but his presence is a calming reassurance that as long as he's here nothing can go wrong. He looks at at me and smiles, his eyes telling more than what they show.

His eyes tell me that he's glad because after all these years we meet up again. The last time we met was at Yuri's 'farewell' celebration and even though it was impossible for Yuri to be with us physically because he always wanted to 'leave with a bang'. We honored Yuri's request to have a celebration if he left, even though there were only three of us we still celebrated Yuri's departure. The last time I talked to Fats was a few months after the celebration, he told me that he was glad that I decided to retire from work and that a 'good man' like me doesn't deserve to be tainted by this business. Despite the happiness in his eyes it still cannot hide the sorrow that's reflected from it. Maybe because it is obvious to him right now that I came out of retirement and that seeing me back in business might have also reminded him of poor Yuri. Fats interrupted me before I could say a word to him.

He says "no need to explain". He tells me that he understands, that there are times in a man's life where he needs to go back again. Whether it is out of desperation or necessity it doesn't matter, he says. I grinned as if to say that that this situation I am in now is one of those times he is talking about. He stands up and sits to a table far away from the bartender so that we can talk without some ears on our conversation. Before I went to the table I told John to bring another round to our table and he replied with a grunt, I take that as a yes. As I sat down old man Fats starts to laugh mildly. He says how ironic it is that I'm the one who's still working and not Yuri who was probably even better than him at business. "Probably" I say, "would have" Fats replied and follows by saying that Yuri was too headstrong for his own good. Fats interrupted me again before I could ask why he is here.

"I am here to meet you" Fats said. He tells me that the people who hired me also hired him. I understand what he means, you got to be extra clean in this business. He also tells me that another interested party also hired him to give their regards to those who hired me and also to 'visit' my associates, the people I'm supposed to meet. I pause for a second to tell myself that this isn't happening right now and collect my thoughts but before I could think about my predicament John interrupts my train of thought as he gives us our drinks and leaves. Fats tells me that John is here to make sure that the work is done, cleanly. Fats asks me who I am with, I try to contain my nervousness as I am wondering again if what is happening around is the result of my madness. I answer calmly that I'm the only one hired, as far as I know. He wonders about the couple, the bellhop, the entire staff, and the flange convention participants. Fats and I glanced each others eye and immediately know that both of us are telling the truth and that we have no idea who are the other people, with the exception of John. With the uncertainty of not knowing the people around us, still one thing is for sure, I am screwed.

"Yes you are," Fats says even though I haven't said a word. "I always wanted to meet Yuri again," Fats then tells me as he leans backwards to rest his head on his arms. He tells me that the man who arrived and went up the elevator will stay in this place until the final day of the international flange convention, after that Fats has no idea what will happen next. The end of the international flange convention also happens to be the next day, such a coincidence I think to myself as I remember the complimentary breakfast stub given to me which is only good for the final day. Fat says that I have always been a good kid and requests for me to do one more thing for a tired old man. He gives me directions and wants me to go to an imported cheese store in the next province, which is about a 4 hour drive. I ask what about him and the the bartender. He assures me that nothing will happen until the start of the final day of the convention, he'll make sure of that. Fats always stays true to his word, he will be waiting for me he says. He gives me the keys to his car and tells me to hurry up because he hates how John waters down his drinks and he wants to say something about it to John in the only way Fats knows. I laugh. Haven't laughed like this in a long time but deep inside me I know it's not going to be pretty when I get back and Fats gives a piece of his mind to John. As I exit the hotel I feel a dozen eyes staring at me. I could care less as I know that Fats is in there watching my back.

Driving in the rocky, bumpy, dust-filled road with no traces of asphalt kept me from falling asleep on the wheel. In this half awake state I got a feeling of deja vu and without realizing it find out that I'm already here. The imported cheese store, I finally remember. I have been in this place only once but the memories are still clear. I knock at the big old wooden door and wait for a few minutes. An old man opens the door as I expected but gives me a hug which caught me off guard. It's been too long since I last met Yuri's father. The only time I've been to this place and met him was during the celebration for Yuri's departure. Yuri's father and Fats go way back as I was told, Yuri's father provided the tools and Fats did the job. I now know what Fats had in mind when he wanted me to go here. Yuri's father is really hospitable like I'm his own son. He once told me that he liked me being friends with Yuri because I made Yuri laugh, which is strange because I have never seen Yuri laugh. Ever. Except for that one time when he killed a bird with his motorcycle while we were waiting for a new job and it wasn't even a laugh more like cough. Maybe seeing me reminded him of Yuri that's why he's so hospitable to me but Fats is waiting and I'm here to do something. "I need a favor," I tell Yuri's father. "What is it sonny?" he replies. "I need guns. Lots of it." He looks at me and his face glowed with joy and gave out a wide smile as if he have seen Yuri again.

Long read, six long arse paragraphs. I know.

Because he has. Yuri steps out from the back room. Not the same happy drunk I knew before, but serious. Cynical. Focused. The girls wouldn't distract him this time. He takes one look at me and says "Really?"

He instantly realizes I don't get it. He says I never got it. Why else would Fats be around except to throw me off? There were only two people I'd overthink to the point of trust. Fats and Yuri. And everyone thought the latter was dead.

I take it in and pretend to relax as we consume some cheese and some vodka while Yuri lays out what he thinks the plan is. But I can't stop thinking. Yuri has been "dead" for years. Fats has been out of operation for as long. There's no reason to think either one would be interested in what's going down here. There's something I still don't know.

When Yuri and his father get up to go into the other room, one to hit the restroom and the other to resupply our drinks. I forget which did what. Bored, I take the time to look at my breakfast stub. It was a warning. Fats wasn't here as part of the plan, he was here to stop it. Most importantly he was here to make sure I got out alive.

I decide I need to get out of there fast, back to the car, back to the hotel. I grab the keys and move to the front door and as I open it there's Yuri's father. Shotgun in hand. I turn and Yuri's at my back. I don't see the escape from this point. I should have stayed at my hotel with the soul-crushing TV and the liver destroying bar. And that's when it hits me. Fats wasn't operating at the same wavelength as the rest of the operation. He wanted me out of the hotel. He wanted me to find Yuri. And most importantly he wanted me to realize that I wasn't in control, I wasn't paranoid, I am a pawn in something bigger. Something much bigger.

And that's when I figure it all out. It was staring me in the face always. But right now? Guns on both sides of me. Does it matter? Fats'll be here. I just have to bide my time. Have to take control of this situation. I think back. Fats stepped in right when I needed to make my move. Of course, it makes sense now. Fats threw me off. I realize why I am here. I realize why this is not going to be easy.

Of course, I should have never left the hotel.

But I have. And now I find myself in a "family" meeting, stuck between two unfriendly barrels, held by two supposedly trusted companions. This previous feeling of drunken epiphany is still marred by what seems like a thousand unanswered questions. Why me? Why now? Why Fats? And what the hell is Yuri doing here?

Yuri and his father make me sit down on the old wooden chair again. I feel like I almost catch a glimpse of a smirk on Yuri's face, which would obviously be as rare as a laugh on his part. His father, however, always had this unusually friendly look on his slightly bloated face, that one could almost attribute to an intense satisfaction of getting the job done, no matter the cost. Well, the vodka probably had something to do with that too. Still, seeing this almost paternal figure strangely relaxes me, even with a sawed off shotgun pointed at my chest. Sergei - which I am now remembering to be his name - always had a thing for close range shooters, as if seeing the look of terror in his unfortunate victims' eyes right before they get blown out to pieces was almost as important as the act of killing itself, like some sort of religious experience.

"Do you know why you're here?", asks Yuri with his habitual calm demeanor, interrupting my pointless thoughts. I turn to him and by the look on my face, he obviously understands my confusion. This almost feels like an out-of-body experience, like a scene from a cheap made for TV movie that I could very well have caught during my hours of drunken stupor back at the hotel. But the raw intensity on Yuri's face brings me back to reality. He always had a way to make people talk fast, he just had to look right into their eyes, and you'd know trying to stall would not be such a brilliant idea.

Sergei's look is now much more somber, the kind of look that you adopt when about to lay some life-altering truths on someone's mind. His blood-shot blue eyes have lost their friendliness, they are partly covered by his thick greyish eyesbrows it's back to business now. With his thick Ukrainian accent, he says: "I think it's time you understand why it's all been leading to this, everything that we taught you, this brings us here, right now...To answer your previous request, yes I do have guns. Lots of them. And you will be needing them where you're going, trust me."

"We first need to make sure that you're on our side" interrupts Yuri, as to justify the reason of having two guns pointed at me. "Why wouldn't I be?" I think to myself, but somehow the words are not coming out. I've been through a lot with them, so having them seemingly questioning my loyalty - my skills maybe? - makes me feel uneasy. Each time I feel like the puzzle is finally coming together, something that I observed within the last few days, however trivial, comes to mess it all up. The latest hotel guest obviously has a role to play in this affair, even if it's just having his pompous guts spilled over his crocodile leather shoes.

"Why is Fats here?" I finally decide to articulate.

"Fats is alive?" Yuri says incredulous. Sergei rushes to bolt the door as Yuri drops the blinds.

Yuri pulls up a chair to match mine, as Sergei sits on the couch nervous and overly aware. Yuri leans and asks again "Fats is alive?"

"Yes, I just spoke to him in the bar," I respond. Yuri looks at Sergei, then back at me as he leans in and mutters "Fats was here, while we were setting you up."

"He thinks you're dead." And as I turn, saying "and he sent me to your father." I gesture to Sergei as Yuri's eyes get wide. "He knows we're here." "Apparently."

Yuri falls back in the chair, puts his hands over his face, as Sergei desperately tries to avoid eye contact. Yuri then looks up as he puts his hands behind his head before staring at me, deep, practically into my soul. "This." He punctuates by stabbing the air. "Was not supposed to happen." After a pause he stands and throws the chair aside. "This was not supposed to happen. Fats was not supposed to be around. We weren't supposed to involve you in this. You weren't supposed to play a part in this at all. And Fats?!? Fats wasn't supposed to be within three thousand miles of here!"

That's when I start to realize, "you didn't know I was here? You aren't here for what I am?"

Yuri spins, but Sergei speaks first "why are you here?"

I consider responding, but it strikes me that none of this might be related after all. My burner ringing breaks the silence. Yuri gestures to answer it, make everything seem fine.

"Yeah, Fats, sorry, was pouring a drink."
"You need to cut that back, especially if you're going to pull this off."
"I have literally hours to sober up. Besides it was water in this case."
"Just be aware, and don't answer questions."

As he hangs up, Yuri and Sergei look at me, they want to know what it is, but we're interrupted again by a knock at the door.

Yuri and Sergei take positions, and hide the weapons, as we were all trained from day one, and I approach the door. I grab the room service menu off the table and answer, but it's the police and hotel security. "I'm so sorry sir. But there has been a murder on this floor, and we need to ask a few questions if possible."

When I woke up, my head was pounding.

I was prone, laying in something wet, sticky. I could smell vodka, gunpowder. My ears began to clear and the rush of sound was nothing more than the Sham-Wow! creep blathering on. Otherwise, there was nothing. My mouth tasted like someone took a shit in it. I blinked, but nothing seemed to happen. With a clumsy, sticky hand I felt my face, rubbing the crust out of my left eye. The right eye was broken, swollen shut, puffy with dried blood. I wasn't sure if I was blinded - no way of knowing until the swelling went away. I pushed myself up and felt sharp pain in my right knee; the pain jerked my to my senses and I realized how fucking bad my eye hurt.

I stood and looked around the room with my one good eye. There was blood everywhere, mostly around the door. I was laying in a mixture of my blood and the blood of others. The two police officers were lying on the floor. The taller of the two was now shorter - looked like he had been shot in the head with a shotgun, a messy stump looking at me. The other one had been shot in the neck, probably a pistol. Sergei had two neat shots in the chest, near the heart. Yuri was no where to be seen. All I remembered was Yuri yelling something and then everything went black...

The bathroom light was on. I stumbled into the room, splashed some water on my face. Took off my shirt, pants. I washed the blood off - most of which was not mine - and put on a clean shirt and slacks. The Glock I'd hidden underneath the toilet tank was still there. It seemed to be in working order. A round was chambered, the safety flipped on, the pistol slipped in the back waistband of the slacks. Grabbed a sportcoat and took a pull off the bottle of vodka that hadn't been broken. Sighed.

I walked back into the main room. The briefcase was gone. I wasn't surprised. I slipped on my loafers and left the room, grabbing the keys to the car on the way out the door. My mouth tasted of blood and dust. So fucking dusty. I sighed, walking cautiously down the hall...

Standing at the doorway I take a swig of the vodka as I look at the bodies. The vodka might keep me sane in this ordeal or I simply want a much needed buzz. A lot of it, after what had just happened and about to happen. I see that the guns of the officers are still here. Yuri never did trust using others equipment. If it jammed on you you're pretty much screwed. I notice that one of the officers was disarmed as I look at the gun near my feet with the chopped off hand still holding it. The breakfast stub is gone too. Yuri must have taken it. I turn and walk away from that party scene.

Fats car, it's gone. Yuri took it. As expected, he knows that Fats can be trusted in maintaining things. A car, a piece, situations, Fats knows how to maintain it. All of us who worked with him are aware of that. Hmmm, the key of the police car is still in the ignition. Yuri must have forgotten to take and hide it or he wants me to follow him. Yuri is not the type that panics.

I wonder what is Yuri going to do, what is Fats planning to do, what I'm going to do as clueless as I am as I drive along the dusty road at full speed that the police car can handle. I arrive at the hotel as I immediately notice that my rented car is in the front parking lot. I clearly remember that I parked it at the back lot and left the key at my room. Was it Yuri? Fats? The parking attendant? I also noticed that my car has no other cars parked near it. Empty space that you could park a 10 wheeler truck in. Throwing caution to wind or the vodka is having an effect, I decide to park the police car near the rented car and take look.

The windows are not broken, no damage I remember the last time I parked it. The keys are left in the lock of the trunk. There's also a paper pressed in the trunk's slot. I grab and see that it's the breakfast stub. It's now tainted with blood spatter and smells like vodka, or it's just me. There's also something written at the back. Fats wrote it. I recognize that handwriting anywhere. But that means Yuri got to him already. I think what happened if something did happen as I open the trunk. This is not good. Inside the trunk are explosives. Not enough to blow up the hotel but deadly enough to kill a group of people, say a conference room full of participants. A cellular phone is also inside the trunk, must be the detonator. It's the phone I left at my room. That means Fats or Yuri or anyone whose behind this have already searched the place. I grab the phone, close the trunk, keep the car key in my pocket, and take a look again at what's written on the breakfast stub. It says "In case of emergency".

I take another swig of the vodka as I prepare myself to enter the hotel lobby.

The lobby is full of the most magnificent plastic shrubbery. I stare at the soft glimmer of the neon door lights and shaking dancing rays reflecting off the stiff plastic leaves. I see myself within them, as a child playing by a wide river. I would throw rocks at driftwood and rob people's houses. The floor tiles are ivory white. My shinny black shoes are reflected in them. I find myself wondering why I have not taken the time to pause, take a break from all the action, and simply observe the majestic scenery around me. A fat man with a rolling balding head is leaning a large flower printed suitcase next to him at the counter. The girl attending him has the most vicious piecing lizard eyes. I walk in and stumble over a shadow. Everyone looks at me as I fell down flat on my empty stomach. I think of harakiri, but simply cannot be bothered.