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One Man Army: Part I
One Man Army: Part 1
The man cowered behind the counter, hands shakily outstretched.
“Please!” he shrieked. “Please, I no know nothing!”
“Yeah, sure,” I snorted, leveling my USP .45 at his head. “That’s why you managed to buy a new BMW as a sales clerk.”
Eyes wide, the man babbled on in his accented, choppy English. “I win lottery! My money has nothing to do with drugs!”
“Now who said anything about drugs?” I took a step closer, making the Mexican’s mustache stand on end. “Maybe you know something that you’re not telling me.”
The middle-aged man quivered as my approaching footsteps nearly made him wet his pants.
“I beg you! I know nothing!” he shrieked.
“Now, buddy. No second chances in real life,” I said. “Now tell me everything you know about this man.”
I held up a faded mug shot of El Chango, ‘The Monkey’, my current mark who had a $2 million bounty on his head and leader of The Familia cartel. My hostage’s eyes widened.
“I don’t know him! He not my boss!”
I sighed. Clearly, they paid this guy quite a bit to stay silent.
Pulling out my bowie knife, I poked the tip of his nose with the point. He went cross-eyed trying to keep it in view.
“Don’t make me start cutting bits off, now,” I said, making my voice all deep and menacing.
The man shook his head. So did I. I grabbed his throat and pulled him towards me. Quickly, I took his hand and cut off his pinkie.
The man recoiled and shrieked in pain, staring at his four-fingered hand in fright. The unattached digit fell on the counter.
“No! Stop!” he screamed. “I tell you truth!”
“’Kay,” I said. “Speak up.”
The man took a shaky breath, and stammered. “I- I work for a…uh….Gustavo Gonzales. He, uh, sells…uh…bikes.”
“Sí. Uh….bikes are very popular here. We make big business.” He gave a shaky grin, which promptly disappeared at my glare. I strolled over to the other side of the desk. The man backed up in his seat.
“Now,” I said, my left hand wrapping around his throat. “Tell the truth.”
His fat hands scrabbled at his throat. “That is the truth!” he protested.
My hand tightened around his fat neck.
“Waiting,” I said in a singsong voice. I started humming the Jeopardy! song.
The man’s red face was now slightly tinged with purple.
“P-p-please!” he choked out. “I-I—”
I loosened my grip but kept a firm hold. The faded picture made another appearance. “Do you work for this guy?” I growled.
“Yes, I-I—” he paused again. “I mow his lawn.”
Rolling my eyes, I stowed my knife, brought out my pistol, and shot him in the forehead. A little spurt of blood stained my shirt as he slumped in his seat.
“Boom! Headshot,” I said. “What an idiot.” I searched his pockets, and was rewarded by a few quarters, a half-empty pack of cigarettes, a walkie-talkie, and his driver’s license.
“Ugh,” I snorted in disbelief. “Did I accidentally kill an innocent man?” Frustrated, I kicked his belly. His body rippled, and a paper fell out of a secret pocket.
“Oh. Cool.” I bend forward and picked it up. I started to unfold it when the door behind me burst open. I turned and looked down the barrel, or barrels, of three AK-47s.
“Sit down!” one screamed. I sat.
Oh dear. This was not good.