On the seventh Daze of Christmas,
Tom Leins revisits some old friends.
Tom Leins revisits some old friends.
Slay Ride 2: Jingle Bullets by Tom Leins
Christmas
Eve.
The
Merry Gentlemen Rest Stop.
The
space-heater is turned up high enough to make me sweat and the slashed double
mattress is lumpy with what is left of my fuckin’ loot.
My
stubbled jaw rests on Marisol’s enormous belly and I can feel my baby boy
kicking like a little mule.
There’s
a knock on the door. Brisk and powerful, so it can’t be one of the scrawny
junkie fucks that are always hassling me for smokes on the forecourt.
“No
room at the inn, motherfucker.”
The
knocking continues.
I
clamber off the bed, tuck my Glock G19 into the back of my jeans, and press my
bloodshot
eye against the fish-eye peep-hole.
“No
fuckin’ way…”
It’s
a particularly swollen-looking Santa Claus, with a sidearm dangling from his
hip and a gold star pinned to his barrel chest.
He
hammers on the peep-hole with the flat of his hand and I jolt backwards.
“Son,
I’ve had to walk out on the Goddamn Crippled Civilian’s Festive Luncheon for
this – the least you can do is open the door for me. The ladies at the
recreation center promised to keep my turkey warm for me and I really don’t
want to test their patience.”
I
fasten the security chain and crack open the door. The icy blast hits me like
an uppercut. I shiver involuntarily.
“What
can I do for you, Sheriff?”
“Josif
Janko?”
I
nod.
“Are
you acquainted with a man named Terrell Frost?”
My
ex-partner. The ghost of Christmas past. I left his skull meat splattered
across a strip club called Lapland after he ripped me off and left me for dead
last year.
I
shrug. “I have a lot of fuckin’ acquaintances, man…”
He
yawns.
“In
that case, you probably knew that Frost was in hock to an out-of-town syndicate
run by a man named Nicholas Saint. I have been reliably informed by my good
friends in the Federal Bureau of Investigations that Mister Saint has sent a
hitter named Demyan ‘Deadman’ Moroz down to my little backwater to recover
whatever is left of the money.”
I
shrug.
“Treat
this as a courtesy call, young man. I really wouldn’t want something as
distasteful as a blood feud to harm my re-election prospects. Next time I have
to visit this dirt-box you call home, I’ll be hauling you away in handcuffs. Or
a damned body-bag. Goodbye, Mr Janko.”
He
shuffles back to his prowl car, the corrective heel of his police-issue
footwear clacking noisily on the asphalt.
Before
he can unlock the vehicle his lumpen body is shredded by submachine gun fire.
“Motherfucker!
Marisol, get in the fuckin’ tub.”
She
slides off the bed and waddles toward the bathroom as the weapon turns the
motel door into firewood.
The
shooter leers through the damaged door at me. He has a shabby electric blue
suit and a shock of white hair. He is clutching a PP-90 folding submachine gun.
The suit has seen better days, but the man wearing it looks positively
cadaverous. “We can do this the hard way or we can do this the easy way….” His
Russian accent is thicker than curdled eggnog. He flashes me a sour grin and unfastens
the security lock. What is left of the door collapses. “Mister Saint has no preference, but I prefer the
hard way.” He rakes the PP-90 across the floor at my feet, splintering my right
foot with hot lead.
“Fuuuck! The money’s in the bed, man. Take it –
just leave my girl out of it.”
He
looms over me and his cheap aftershave smells like fresh animal piss. Another
rancid smile. “She’s my girl now.” He absentmindedly sprays another round into
my ruined foot.
If
I live through this, my days of wearing fuckin’ flip-flops are over.
Marisol
steps out of the bathroom; naked, apart from her panties.
She
aims a gun at Moroz. The one I hid in the cistern, double-wrapped in a Publix
carrier bag.
He
is distracted by her pregnant belly and swollen breasts, and the submachine gun
dangles impotently from his hand.
“Merry
Christmas, asshole.” Her bullet kisses his hairline.
