There were too many bars in Feral City. It felt like every street had an establishment to numb your pain and help you escape from the brutal doldrums of day-to-day life. Usually, Adrian looked down on the excessiveness of it all, but tonight he was glad the whole city seemed to have a drinking problem. He had a choice of where to pick his poison, which bar to hide away in and hope tomorrow was another day, and that all his problems would miraculously disappear. Maybe the solution really could be at the bottom of a bottle.
But while he sat at the bar nursing his fourth whisky, he couldn’t help but wonder where it all went wrong, despite wanting some peace from his problem. His mind wasn’t ready to indulge his ignorance just yet.
Where it went wrong was simple, really: you don’t borrow money from gangsters! And you definitely don’t not pay them back. Only, that was the part which irked Adrian. He had paid them back. He’d paid back every penny he borrowed… just not the extortionate interest.
“Should’ve read the fine print,” was all they had to say on the matter. Adrian hadn’t been aware a handshake had fine print. He was an idiot for getting involved with these guys and knew it. Nothing in this city was ever as simple as a gentleman’s agreement. There was always a catch. An angle. A way to draw more blood from a stone. The place ate you alive and purged you back into the toilet for more. An endless cycle of miserable which doubled down if you tried to break free of it.
The fight was meant to be a certainty. He had inside information from a trusted source, one who also apparently gave this ‘inside information’ to every other gullible sucker in town so he could manipulate the odds. Adrian had lost everything, except the last of his parents’ savings, which he stole from them in order to pay back the loan sharks. They’d taken it and asked for more, which he couldn’t give.
He’d always considered himself a decent man in a foul city. Tried his best to stay away from the chaos and blood, the drugs and violence. He hadn’t joined a gang or robbed anyone (before his parents). He’d gotten himself an okay job in a warehouse and had rented a modest apartment in one of the laughably better districts in the city. The one with the second lowest crime rate, only bettered by the gated community on the south side. He worked hard and kept himself out of trouble.
If it wasn’t for one slight indiscretion, he would have continued to go unnoticed amongst the rotten masses. Been an example of how one could survive this piss-stained city. But it wasn’t meant to be. One handjob from the boss’s wife and he was out of the job. Fired and blackballed from every other warehouse in the city. Who knew they had such strong connections with one another… ignorance had not been bliss.
Suddenly, he was behind on his rent and in danger of living on the streets thanks to a mild gambling addiction. His only vice as the whisky wasn’t a regular thing. The fight had seemed like a blessing when it was presented to him.
He’d been encouraged to borrow more money for the bet: ‘Opportunities like these don’t come around often. It’s been years since the last sure thing.’ What a fucking idiot. Adrian could see it all now for what it was: A setup. But he’d been in too deep at the time. Was too emotional. The exact thing you shouldn’t be when borrowing money from unsavoury sharks.
And now he’d stolen from his parents too. Become one of those assholes he despised. Only four months ago, life was good. Now he was balancing precariously on the edge of darkness. All for a lousy handjob.
When Adrian ordered another bourbon from the barmaid, a woman pulled up a seat alongside him. The bar was practically empty, with just two truckers playing pool, a suited guy agonising over the jukebox, and a lone pensioner quietly sipping his beer in the corner. The woman could have sat anywhere, so Adrian instantly wondered why she’d taken a seat beside him as she pulled a note from a bundle of cash, which she should have concealed better. Don’t wave money around in this city.
She looked ten years younger than Adrian. Maybe in her late twenties. Attractive in that way where you had to look a little closer to notice. When she smiled and thanked the stone-faced barmaid for her drink was when Adrian noticed. He always had a weakness for nice smiles; it was what led to the handjob from the boss’s wife.
“Cheers,” she said, as she tucked her money back into her jacket pocket and turned to Adrian, raising her glass.
“What are we celebrating?” he mumbled back, still perplexed by the attractive woman taking a seat alongside him. Normally, the only women who did were call girls having a slow night and prowling for desperate clients. He didn’t think she was a call girl, as by his approximation all the hookers in Feral City looked like something you’d catch a disease from. This woman looked clean. Almost too clean for the city.
Maybe she’d wandered in from the south district to see how the other side lived? If so, Adrian reckoned she’d learn soon enough when some asshole robbed her. Best to stay behind the safety of the iron gates. Although she didn’t look like money either, despite carelessly showing the wad of cash when she brought her drink.
Somehow, she just hadn’t let the city swallow her up yet, as it had him. Adrian decided not to question her friendly motives for now. Go with it. Maybe this was the solution he was looking for. She wouldn’t stop the likelihood of him wearing a pair of concrete boots in the docks, or the only slightly better outcome of having to work for the assholes who had swindled him. But maybe he could at least experience one last nice moment before his deadline was up, if it wasn’t already. They’d been vague about that part too.
“I got a new job today,” she cheerily answered, while Adrian was still calculating the possibilities of what tomorrow might bring.
“And you choose to celebrate here?”
The barmaid nodded in agreement after overhearing Adrian’s response, clearly not enamoured with her own job. A big part of her dissatisfaction was probably having to deal with guys like the truckers who had briefly halted their game to unsuccessfully flirt with her. She poured them both a rum and coke without so much as a smile. They returned to their game, audibly discussing what a ‘miserable bitch’ she was.
“Tammy,” the excitable woman told Adrian as she held out her free hand.
Adrian politely shook it. “Adrian,” he replied, still unsure what exactly was happening. He couldn’t help but ponder why she’d chosen to talk to him instead of the guy at the jukebox. Or even the truckers. The way his confidence had been rocked of late, he would have thought the pensioner now staring at his beer was a better proposition than him.
“So, what’s the new job?” he politely asked. He didn’t really care, but it seemed like an easy enough icebreaker if they were going to talk. He’d been content sitting alone wallowing in self-pity, but there was no harm in a brief detour.
She leaned in close to Adrian from her stool, practically nibbling on his ear. “I’ve been hired to kill you,” she ruthlessly divulged, with more than a hint of seductiveness in her voice.
Before he could comprehend what had been said, he felt a warmth in his chest, and then a wetness. Blood poured from around his heart and dripped to the floor. His hand instinctively moved towards the gaping wound, but the damage had already been done. He collapsed to the now even stickier floor alongside a dropped bloody hunting knife that hadn’t been there a moment earlier. In his last thoughts, Adrian hoped his parents would forgive him.
Tammy screamed as Adrian smacked against the wood beneath her feet. Her cry drew the attention of the barmaid and truckers, while the jukebox guy disappeared into the toilets, wanting no part of whatever was happening. The pensioner remained in a world of his own.
“What the hell…” was all the solemn barmaid could manage to say before she saw the pool of blood and the dead body. She weakly collapsed to the floor. Her iciness gone, she scrambled on her hands and knees to the corner of the bar, rocking beneath the wooden bar top, hoping to be anywhere but here.
The truckers had a stronger stomach for the blood but couldn’t help but rephrase the same question: “What the fuck happened?”
“He pulled a knife on me,” Tammy screeched, while pretending to be freaked out by the whole event. “He told me to hand over the cash, and I just… panicked.” She wrapped her arms around the wider of the two truckers, Warren, and continued her pantomime. “Is he going to be ok? Please tell me he’s going to be ok?”
Warren couldn’t help but laugh at the question as he looked down at the thick puddle of blood outlining Adrian’s corpse. “He’s dead honey.”
“Shit. Shit. Shit.” Tammy repeated as she let go of the trucker. “I just… I just tried to get away and must have knocked his arm back,” she defensively pleaded.
“Fuck him. Got what he deserved,” the callous, taller trucker, Darren, summarised. He checked Adrian’s lack of pulse. He was dead alright.
“I didn’t mean…” Tammy cried. “I’m not a murderer.” She started to hyperventilate, giving the performance everything she had. She lived for this kind of thing. Had been practising all evening. “The police…” she trailed off, leaving the statement open for interpretation.
The truckers looked at each other.
“The police never need to know,” Darren confirmed.
“This place got a back door?” Warren asked the near catatonic barmaid. She managed to nod her head towards the far right corner near where the toilets were located before making herself even smaller behind the bar. Knees tucked beneath her chin. Eyes closed. Her stone face replaced with sheer terror. How’d the shit job manage to get even worse?
The truckers locked the front door, barely noticing the pensioner. They then gathered all the long beer mats from the top of the counter and grabbed a roll of paper towels from behind the bar. Warren ordered Tammy to use them to soak up as much of the blood as possible while they dealt with the body. She was reluctant at first but soon changed her tune when they told her she could deal with it herself if she wanted. She fell to her knees and started the impossible cleaning job, trying her best to hide her smirk.
After admiring Tammy on her knees for a moment, Darren took Adrian’s head, while Warren grabbed his legs. They lifted him from his bloody outline on the count of three and shuffled the body towards the back door.
The pair had left their rig at home, but fortunately the boot of their shitmobile was big enough to hold Adrian. He fitted nicely in between the dirty rags, old tools, and empty bottles. The lock on the beaten-up old banger wasn’t the most reliable, but the drive to the docks wasn’t far. He’d be in the water soon enough.
As they finished stuffing the corpse into the car, Tammy emerged with a bag full of bloody, soaked beer mats and paper towels. “Room for these?” She asked, sounding slightly calmer now that the body had been dealt with.
If the truckers hadn’t been in the bar and offered their help, Tammy would have simply left Adrian’s body on the floor. Hoped the murder was chalked up the way she’d told the story to the others. She’d been attacked and defended herself. He’d accidentally died a ridiculous death during the tussle. If somehow the useless police felt the need to hunt her down and clarify the story, she’d repeat it and claim she left the scene because she was traumatised and scared. It had worked before when she went by Laura. And similarly, when she was Emma.
Fortunately, having the truckers dispose of the body solved any such issues. She’d been informed Adrian lived alone, and his only family currently hated him. No one would come looking for him, and by the time anyone did, it would be too late. He’d have joined the growing number of bodies at the bottom of the docks. As for witnesses, nobody talked in Feral City; they all knew better than that.
“Throw the rubbish in the boot,” Darren instructed.
“I can’t thank you enough…” Tammy started to say as she turned her back on them, before a screwdriver pierced the side of her neck. Her hand darted to the puncture wound, but she couldn’t stop the crimson spurts from splashing down onto the filthy alleyway pavement. A look of utter betrayal filled her fading eyes despite not knowing the truckers before ten minutes ago. How could this be it?
“Sorry love, just business,” Warren smugly told her as he angled Tammy towards the boot of the battered car. There was just about room for a second body.
“But…” she tried to ask, struggling with her words as blood gathered in her throat.
The truckers could guess the question. “We were paid to kill the person who murdered that man at the bar tonight,” Darren told her with a shrug of his shoulders, like it was a perfectly reasonable explanation for her impending death.
“But…” she tried again, not exactly sure what she’d say even if she was capable. Tammy couldn’t stop the red gushing through her fingers. Her eyes gave up on her, heightening the sensation of the blood leaking down the side of her neck. It was the only warmth left as she prepared to die.
She’d started the evening with such wild expectations. Completing her third hit. Having a few drinks to celebrate. Find some hot young piece of meat afterwards to bend her over her bed. The money was enough to cover a few months’ rent, but she’d already become addicted to the killing. She had a good thing going. A job she enjoyed. She knew one day the lifestyle would catch up with her, but she’d expected that to be decades from now. It’s not fair.
The truckers slammed the boot shut as Tammy took her last breath. She’d seemed like a cool girl, but a job was a job. She wasn’t exactly what they’d been expecting when they were hired to avenge the man, but nothing in Feral City was ever what it seemed.
They decided to return to the bar to finish their drinks and game of pool. They also needed to check on the barmaid and make sure she had no intentions of telling anyone what had gone down. Maybe they’d threaten her. Never hurt to put the fear of God in someone.
This was the truckers’ fifth hit in what was becoming a growth industry in Feral City. No one worthwhile knew who they were yet, but that was the dream. To have the Beast, or Chad, or one of the other big gangs in the city hire them for freelance work. Pay them the big bucks. Truck driving paid their bills, but they had higher ambitions. They didn’t want to be stuck in the east district forever. An apartment closer to the south could be within reach if they played their cards right.
But they never found out whether their dream could have become reality.
As the pair re-entered the bar, the jukebox guy put a bullet in the back of each of their heads.
He’d been ready to make his move when the pair returned to the table after ordering their drinks, but then the woman suddenly stabbed the barfly. Having no clue what any of that was about, he retreated to the toilet to consider his options. He’d been hired to kill the two oafish truckers but was now expecting the place to be swarming with cops. The hit would have to wait, and he had half a mind to flush his gun.
But when he inched the bathroom door open, he saw the truckers helping the killer. They were cleaning up the crime scene and getting rid of the body. This city. While he still wasn’t sure if the hit was possible, he decided to wait and see how everything played out. Maybe there would be an opening.
He then watched as things took an even more bizarre twist. The duo offed the woman and stuffed her in the back of the car with the other body. He wanted to phone his contact and ask what was going on, but there wasn’t time as the pair began to head back to the bar.
The contract was too big not to fulfil. Eighty thousand for the duo was life-changing money, enough to get him out of the hole he was in, with some play money left over. He could start afresh. Do things right this time. Actually have a reason for wearing a suit. Who knew answering an anonymous ad in the back of Fever could lead to such an incredible payday.
Obviously, he’d considered the implications of killing a person (or two): both the criminal side and what it supposedly did to your soul. But, having weighed up the pros and cons, it was worth the risk.
They were just a pair of truckers, no one important. He wasn’t even sure why the contact wanted them dead and hadn’t asked. It was none of his business, and the money was too good. Having seen what he’d seen of them, it was easy to conclude they weren’t a pair of delightful citizens. Good men with strong morals. They were a couple of murdering bastards. No stain on his conscience. What mattered was the money in the holding account. The money which would change his life.
Jukebox man pocketed his gun and strolled towards the bar, having never picked a song. The barmaid was still hiding beneath the counter when he took a seat. “Weird fucking night,” he joked, as he reached across the counter to pull himself a drink, seeing as she was in no state to.
While stretching across the bar top, he noticed a pair of legs in the doorway behind the counter. His eyes drifted from the unknown legs to the barmaid, who was now standing with a gun pointed at his forehead.
“Isn’t it just,” the stone-faced barmaid noted as she pulled the trigger and added to the body count.
Her attention turned to the remaining patron, the old-aged pensioner. “You see any of this?” she asked, her tone making it perfectly clear only one answer meant he would walk away from the bar tonight.
“I was just here to see Larry,” the old man mumbled. “Is he working tonight?”
Her stone face broke into a smile. “He’s out back,” she told, before strutting out of the bar without a care in the world.
That will teach those amateurs, Lola thought as she reached her car. She’d thoroughly had enough of all the opportunistic freelancers undercutting the professionals in the city and had decided to do something about it. The idea that any of these inept idiots considered themselves hitmen made her sick. She didn’t pretend she could drive a truck, so why should they pretend they can kill for money? Maybe word would get around now not to fuck with her kind. Professional killers don’t answer ads in the back of fucking Fever magazine!
