The sun was blazing high in the sky, and there were no clouds nearby to get in its way. Traffic was far below the rooftop terrace where he reclined, tropical drink in his hand. He tried to remember a time when he was this relaxed, and he admitted to himself that it had been a very long time since he kicked back like this.
He felt quite fortunate, and not just for the view or the booze. Not everyone was cut out for life in lucha libre, even among the most prestigious families. Yet here he was, reclining under the sun as a direct result of his successes in the ring. There were those who claimed it was a “young man’s game,” but he thought of El Santo and the Blue Demon, who fought well into their 50s and never compromised the quality of their fighting skill or their loyalty to their fans. It was physically demanding entertainment, but it still profitable for everyone involved, and it beat working at a desk five days a week.
“Your pardon, Señor?”
The voice belonged to Carlos, his manager. Rather than responding, he pulled up the bottom of his mask to get the straw between his lips. The icy beverage sloshed in his mouth and down his throat.
“Señor, the time is approaching.”
Behind the black sunglasses, the luchador rolled his eyes.
“Come on, Carlos, can’t you see I’m enjoying one of these junkets for once?”
“This is no laughing matter, Señor. You were challenged to a relevos suicida. El Trueno de Guadalajara has been training non-stop since the challenge, and you are here drinking!”
He had to smile. A relevos suicida was a rare challenge for a luchador. It was a tag team match, with the members of the losing team fighting one another to see who would be unmasked. It was quite a spectacle, and the unmasking could lead to a serious blow for the loser’s career. Carlos was deep into the culture, and deeply feared the shame he would gain by association with an unmasked luchador.
“Do you think I am unfit, Carlos?”
“I… what?”
“Am I flabby? Slow? Do I, perhaps, smell of defeat?”
“No, no of course not Señor, I merely…”
“El Trueno de Guadalajara is a good man. A good partner. He’s also younger than I am. He’s less experienced. Of course he has been training like mad. He not only wants to do his share in the ring, he wants to take every precaution against being unmasked. Not to mention the honor he’d gain in unmasking the son of the original Rayo de Baja.”
“Señor?”
“Come now, Carlos, have you forgotten? My father first wore these colors when he took the name Rayo de Baja in honor of one of his favorite luchadors, as well as our home. His career has been long and mostly unspotted. I was, and am, proud to wear the mask and carry on the tradition. Yet I am a man. Is a man not allowed to have time to breathe, collect his thoughts, and enjoy the sunshine on a day like today?”
“It is for that reason I ask you to at least warm up, Señor.”
“Do you really think I would dishonor the family traditions in such a way?”
“I simply think you should be cautious.”
“I chose a good partner. I have trained quite extensively myself. The relaxation was soothing my nerves before you began prattling. What more would you ask of me?”
“With your match in two hours? Some stretching, perhaps?”
He lowered his sunglasses to look directly at Carlos.
“Carlos… do you have a cell phone?”
“What?”
“Give me your phone.”
The manager did so, and Rayo de Baja, Jr dialed in some numbers.
“Hello?” The voice on the other end was gruff but polite.
“Papa, it’s your son.”
“Ah, hello! I did not recognize the number. Isn’t that relevos suicida today?”
“It is, in fact. I’m catching some sunshine to relax beforehand. Like you did before yours in Mexico City, what was it, ten years ago now?”
Rayo de Baja, Sr laughed. “Twelve. And what a match that was! Nearly lost my mask.”
“I remember. Would you blame the booze?”
“No, of course not! I had worthy opponents all down the line. I would never be stupid enough to let something like booze impede my fighting skill.”
“Do you think I would?”
“Say again?”
“I’m having a drink here on this rooftop and my manager seems to think it’s a bad idea.”
“…Is this his phone?”
“Yes, Papa.”
“Give it back to him.”
He did, and watched Carlos’s face as he listened to the elder luchador. He couldn’t hear everything that was said, but he definitely heard his father raise his voice. He took courage whenever he heard it, and he hoped Carlos would too. Or at least get shocked into silence.
“Did you have to do that?”
Rayo looked up. Carlos was off the phone, but still holding it.
“Call my papa, you mean? No, of course not. I know my father well enough. I don’t have to call him before every match.”
“He… asked me if I have no faith in you.”
“I’ve asked you that before as well, Carlos. Sometimes, I’m not sure you listen.”
“Perhaps I don’t always, Señor. I apologize for that.”
“Let me tell you something my father told me the first time I was humiliated in the ring.” He sat up. “Learn from this. Take what you feel now and let it reinforce the lessons to be found in this moment. We are only as good as our worst defeat. We can be better than that, but only if we learn. Understand?”
“Yes. Yes, of course, Señor.”
“Good. Now get yourself a drink.”
Carlos pocketed his phone, nodding as he left, reminding Rayo de Baja that he should come downstairs in an hour to meet his partner. The luchador raised his glass and settled back to soak up the sun.
For the Terribleminds Flash Fiction Challenge, “Fifty Characters“. RNG results below.
Hollywood. Tinseltown. It has a lot of names, and so do the people that live here. Actors have screen names. Musicians have stage names. And if that woman on the corner was actually named “Champagne” by her mom and dad back in Pleasant Corners, Bread Bowl USA, I will eat my own hat.
I don’t even use my own real name. I don’t think the guy riding shotgun with me does, either. What kind of name is “Nick Vegas”, anyway? Sure, it looks bully on a business card, but he’s not really in a line of work where you just hand those out. You don’t want to leave a paper trail when you traffic in narcotics.
I’m waiting in the car while Nick talks to Mel. That, at least, is a short version of the kid’s name. Kids don’t normally go in for serious pseudonyms until they get a bit older than Mel’s twelve years. And, honestly, if my parents had saddled me with “Melvin”, I’d be looking for a change, too.
“Good kid, but lazy,” Vegas says to me as he climbs back into my car. Mel heads off down the street, slingshot in his back pocket. I wonder idly if he’s going to egg someone’s house after he does Nick’s errands.
“Let’s not talk about it.”
“Hey, my cousin asked me to get the kid a job, and I needed some packages delivered. What’s the issue?”
“He’s a twelve year old kid, Nick. That’s a little young to be making deliveries for us.”
“First of all, there’s no ‘us’. We’ve been over this, I got the contacts so I run the operation. You just drive the car and keep it warm if any John Q Laws start snooping around. Secondly, how old were you when you started?”
“My mother didn’t let me get into any of this business until I was sixteen, no matter how much I asked her.”
“Oh yeah? Didn’t know you were such a mamma’s boy, Sally boy.” Nick leans towards me as I pull the car away from the curb. I know where this is going. “Are you still a mamma’s boy? Do you call her at night when you get home so she knows her baby is all safe and sound?”
“Shut up, Nick.”
He laughs. It’s the laugh of a schoolyard bully. I remind myself that I have car to drive and a job to do. Our next stop is down by the RKO studios. I grease the night watchman’s palm and we pull around to where the trailers are set up, stopping outside of a smaller one. Nick gets out, and a plain-looking gent meets him at the trailer’s door. I don’t know many actors by sight, and this isn’t one of them. He probably got cast in some bit role due to his ability rather than his looks. Good for him, I guess. I light a cigarette while they do business.
Nick’s back in the car and we’re driving up Sunset Boulevard. Our last two stops are up on Mulholland Drive. I’m pulling us through traffic when Nick starts talking again.
“We’re making good time tonight. You’ll probably be in home in time for dinner.”
I don’t say anything. I don’t want to engage him. I can feel him leering at me.
“With your momma.”
“You really ought to shut up, Nick.”
Before he can respond, I turn on the radio. If the drive is going to be long, I don’t want it filled just with his jibes and jabs.
“Who knows what evil lurks in the hearts of men…”
I lean back and drive. The Shadow calms me down. We listen for a bit but then Nick speaks up again.
“I’m more of a Lone Ranger kinda guy.”
“Get outta town. The Shadow is definitely better than the Lone Ranger.”
“Are you trying to tell me the Shadow wouldn’t get put down by a silver bullet or something?”
“The Lone Ranger would have to find him, first.”
“That’s why the Ranger has Tonto, dummy.”
“Has Tonto ever been in a big city? Between the food carts and the pipes backing up, it’s a bit harder to track someone’s scent, kemo sabe.”
“I’ll give you a kemo sabe if you don’t drive the car.”
“You mean like I have been this whole time?”
“Quietly, damn it.”
I smile and keep quiet. It’s good to know his skin isn’t that thick.
A while later, we’re up on Mulholland. There are some really nice houses up here. The first one we stop at is owned by a diplomat. I’ve run packages in there before, when Nick hasn’t been feeling well. The guy likes to throw big parties, with celebrities and girls and live music. He might not be American, but he’s certainly living the American Dream, as big and loud as he can, and I for one can’t fault him for it.
Our last stop is the furthest one out. The house is one of those ‘modern’ jobs, all harsh angles and round windows and weird lighting. Nick told me that the guy living here designed it himself. He also told me that the architect’s wife hates it. I catch sight of her briefly through the windows on the top floor – curvy, long hair, dressed in a bathrobe, on the phone with someone, not happy at all. The architect meets Nick at the door. He’s a sliver of a man, shorter than Nick (who’s a few inches under me), with a pretty browbeaten expression on his face. You don’t need a scriptwriter to see how these two got together, or how it’s likely to end.
Nick climbs back into the car, looking mighty pleased with himself.
“Want to grab a drink? It’s on me.”
I shrug. “Sure.”
We start driving back towards Los Angeles proper, and Nick finds, of all things, The Lone Ranger. I wait until the big chase sequence begins and the familiar horns of the William Tell Overture are heard before I pull the car over.
Nick turns to me to ask why we’re stopping and he gets a blackjack in the face for his trouble.
He’s not out. He’s dizzy and seeing stars. I reach past him, open his door, and shove him out into the dirt. I climb over the gearshift, grab my gloves from the glove compartment, and step out after him. He’s trying to get to his feet. I reach under the wheel well, finding the gun taped there, and I give Nick a crack on the head with it.
“Talk.”
He’s holding his head. “What? What the hell is-?”
“I said talk.”
I wallop him again for good measure. He cries out.
“What? What do you want? I don’t understand.”
I cock the revolver, a little snub-nosed .38, and aim it at him. “Say ‘what’ again.”
“Okay! Okay. You got me. My name isn’t Nick Vegas. It’s Greg.”
“How much longer were you planning on ratting us out, Greg?”
“I’m sorry. I’m sorry. One of my brothers is on the Vice Squad. They didn’t want to put a cop in the car. They knew you’d smell it.”
“Why is that, Greg? Do you know who I am?”
He shook his head. “All I know is your name is Tony and you work for one of the families. That’s it.”
“If you’re not a cop, how in the hell did your brother talk you into doing this?”
“We want to make the world better. Cleaner. More educated.” He fiddles with the ring on his finger, and shows it to me. “I’m a Freemason.”
I examine the ring with a scowl. “And your ‘brother’ is a Mason too?”
He nods. “Yeah. Called it a ‘moral obligation’.”
“Well, let me tell you something, Greg. Your ‘moral obligation’ is gonna get you killed. Where I come from, we don’t tolerate rats. Tell me how much your cop buddies know and I may let you walk home.”
“I told you. They know your name and who you work for.”
“Do they know what I look like?”
“They never asked for a description.”
“Dumb cops, then. The thing about Hollywood, Greg, is nobody uses their real name. My name isn’t Tony. It’s Nick.”
He blinked at me. “What…?”
I shot him. He went down, grabbing his leg. I walked closer as he squealed, drawing the hammer back again.
“Bye, Greg.”
“Wait! Wait! You said you’d let me walk!”
“I said I’d think about it. And I did. Besides, you think you’re walking far on that leg now? Ciao.”
I fire two rounds into his chest. I’m turning away, and I hear him gasping for air. I make a face, turn, and shoot him once in the head for good measure. I then toss the gun into the brush and kick the body into the ditch.
It’s a long drive back to the city, but I’ll be home in time for dinner.
It’s lasagna night, and I never miss my momma’s lasagna.
18 – The shiftless rascal.
42 – The puerile, aloof smuggler who belongs to a secret organization.
40 – The plain actor.
34 – The tactless ambassador with big dreams.
22 – The weak, tolerant architect.
I got about three steps down the street before my phone buzzed.
“Let’s… Let’s rethink this.”
I looked up at the buildings above me. “You do all the thinking you want. I’m done.”
“You made a good point about the heat. My associate misspoke.”
I paused just long enough to make them sweat. “If he misspeaks again, I will not answer this phone when I walk away.”
“I understand. Shall we continue?”
“Not yet. What’s the magic word?”
“Seriously?”
I smiled at a gentleman passing me on the street. “I’m waiting.”
There was an audible sigh. “Please come back inside.”
I turned and walked into the storefront again, removing my sunglasses. The steamer trunk remained where it was, between the patch of worn carpet I’d been standing on and the bare floorboards where the two men behind this mess now stood. The shorter man was putting his phone away while the taller one glared at me. I’m sure others found that look intimidating. From my perspective, it was keeping me from wrapping this up and grabbing lunch.
The interior of the antique shop was dark. It hadn’t been open for business in years. It wasn’t boarded up, though, so nobody took notice. It was just one of those city street curiosities folks walked by every day on their way to somewhere more important or interesting.
“Where were we?” The short man wiped his brow. The pleasant weather outside combined with drawn shades and poor circulation made the interior rather toasty.
“Your friend was just apologizing for calling me – what was it? – a ‘smarmy cunt’.”
“I’m not apologizing for shit, you-!”
The short man glared at his companion. “Just do it.”
The tall one said nothing. I crossed my arms. The suitcase held in my right hand rested against my hips.
Finally, he shook his head. “If it’ll move this along, fine. Sorry.”
“That doesn’t sound sincere.”
For a second, I thought the tall one was going to suffer some sort of aneurysm. He turned a fascinating shade of red. The short one shook his head, his pudgy hands raised.
“I honestly think that’s as good as you’re going to get. We’re not going to be here all day, are we?”
I made a show of rolling my eyes. “Fine.”
“Thank you. Now, can we please see the money?”
I lowered myself into a squat, something you have to do carefully in a skirt cut this way, and laid the case on the trunk. I opened the clasp and lifted the lid. The two men looked at the contents.
“Count it,” the short one said.
“Why am I counting it?” The tall one looked down at his partner as I stood.
“Because A, you’re the one who nearly fucked this up, and B, I fucking say so!”
“Ugh.” The tall one bent towards his task. “Still not sure why Escobar put you in charge.”
“Maybe because he trusts me to not do stupid shit like insult a buyer.”
I reached towards the bookshelf next to me, and one of the few books not covered in dust. The tall one shrugged.
“I call ’em like I see ’em, you know that.”
“Yeah, well usually they’re not standing right-”
The false book fell into my hands and opened, revealing the .32 Welrod inside. I took hold of the weapon and raised it, letting the book fall, aiming at the tall one first. The only sound the gun made was the firing pin hitting the primer, and that was nearly lost in a well-timed honking fit out in the street.
A shudder went through the tall man’s entire body when my bullet hit his skull and burrowed inside. The short man, mid-sentence, caught his breath and swung his eyes from his partner to me. My left hand worked the pistol’s bolt as he reached into his jacket for his sidearm. I fired again, the bullet shattering the short man’s knee. As he dropped, I worked the bolt a third time and, pressing the muzzle of the silenced antique to his suit jacket, destroyed his shoulder. I know he wanted to scream, but I stepped over the steamer and put the gun in his mouth.
“I’m going to ask you a question, and I want an honest answer. Do you understand?”
His eyes were wide. He nodded. I removed the gun, cocking the bolt.
“Where’s Escobar?”
“…Who?”
I shook my head and put a bullet in his kidney, again filling his mouth with gun before he could scream. He tried anyway.
“I thought you understood.” He squirmed under me, bleeding onto the dusty floorboards. “You said his name in front of me two minutes ago. Now, tell me where he is.”
“I don’t know. He has a yacht. Usually he keeps it at the marina but when there’s sales going on he takes it out to sea.”
“What it’s name?”
“Libertador. I think it’s registered in Malta or something.”
“Thank you.” I worked the pistol’s bolt one more time. “I’m going to kill you now.”
He started to beg. He pissed himself. Neither one stopped me.
I dropped the pistol into the case, closed it, and set it aside. I opened the steamer trunk, feeling relief wash over me when I saw the contents.
“Come on, sis,” I told the girl inside the trunk. “Let’s get you out of here.”
She was malnourished and probably dehydrated, but she grabbed my arm and let me pull her out. She leaned on me as I picked up the case and aimed us at the door.
“How… how did you find me?” Her voice was quiet and felt broken, like she hadn’t used it in a long time.
“I made friends with an FBI agent. Soon as we get you to a hospital, I’m calling him about the boat. Escobar will pay for what he’s done.”
For the Terribleminds Flash Fiction challenge, “Life Is Hell“.
The stairs under the curio shop go down, down, down.
Marcia didn’t mind the exercise, and the decent actually helped her clear her head. The ambient noises and constantly guttering lights no longer set her on edge, as was certainly their intent. She was able to screen the flickering incandescence and barely intelligible pleas for mercy out as she mentally prepared herself. When it came to these negotiations, even moreso than with the fae or the vampires, one had to word things in a very particular and precise way.
Demons loved loopholes.
She finally arrived at the bottom of the stairs, 666 steps from the trapdoor in the curio shop’s back room. Demons loved shit like that, too. Marcia wasn’t in the mood for any of it. She pricked her finger with her knife, knelt in the semi-darkness that dominated the space outside of the stairwell, and touched the groove set into the stone floor.
Dark red light blossomed from the pentagram carving as the beacon activated. The star was pointed towards the stairs, making it inverted from Marcia’s perspective. An upright pentacle, like the one around her neck, was a symbol of protection. Its opposite was anything but. A howling noise from deep in the darkness beyond the pentagram began to rise and increase in volume, and after a few moments, the ground began to shake.
Marcia crossed her arms impatiently, and waited.
Symbols and script of an unspoken language began to float above the circle, and from the midst of them a gaunt figure slowly emerged. It towered over Marcia, clad in tight black leather, a dire cassock stained with blood that caught the light in a disturbing fashion. Its collar was high and tight, jutting its chin permanently upwards. It bared its teeth without choice as it had no lips to speak of, and its eyes were bound with what appeared to be vinyl, held in place with iron spikes through the eye sockets. Air hissed between its blackened teeth, and pale skin stretched as it spoke.
“WHO… DARESSSSSSS…”
Marcia rolled her eyes.
“Not today, Bee. I’m not in the mood.”
Silence, for a moment.
“WE HAVE SSSSSSSSSUCH SSSSSSSSSIGHTSSSSS….”
“Did you watch the Hellraiser movies again last night? I’d say you do that religiously but I don’t want to be that insulting.”
“INSSSSSSSOLENT MORTAL…”
“Come on, Beelzebub. Cut the bullshit.”
There was a pause. Then, all of the black leather burst outwards, taking the form of bats and flying away with squeaks and squeals. Underneath them was a gentleman slightly taller than Marcia, wearing a suit that, if it had been bought in one of the boutiques far above their heads, would have easily cost $10,000 or more. The man’s eyes, set in a deceptively handsome face, mirrored the red glow of the circle he stood in.
“You should have seen the last would-be summoner that happened down here. Making your lot piss themselves never gets old.”
“Hilarious. I told you I’m not in the mood.”
“Dear Marcia, when are you ever in the mood?” The Arch-Duke of Hell sighed. “This is why you can’t get a date.”
“No. I can’t get a date because I have to keep cleaning up your messes.”
An ancient mason’s hammer hit the stone floor without Marcia breaking Beelzebub’s eye contact.
“I found this in the home of a murderer. For some reason, when he killed someone, the spouse or nearest next of kin got pinched. Evidence and everything. I’m sure you know what that is.”
Beelzebub’s smile didn’t waver as he glanced at the hammer. “Well, well. These are increasingly rare.”
“I want to know what it is, in full, and I want to know what it’s worth.”
The demon crossed his arms. “I don’t think I like your tone.”
Marcia raised her chin. “Do something about it.”
For a moment, they stood and regarded one another. Then, Beelzebub started laughing.
“This is why you stay around, Marcia. I may not care for such disrespect, but I do admire your courage.”
“You can’t moisten me up that way. Tell me about the hammer.”
“It was one of many tools used to build Gomorrah. When the city was destroyed, so were most of those tools, along with their people. A few survived, including this one, saturated with the brimstone that fell from Heaven. As it was most often wielded by wicked men…”
“So it’s magical.”
“If you wanted to be utterly pedestrian about it…”
“What’s it worth?”
“Name your price.”
Money meant nothing to demons. A snap of their fingers could make extra zeroes appear in any number of bank accounts. But Marcia knew that if she wanted to maintain an edge in this game, she needed more than that.
“I want to add a clause.”
Beelzebub shook his head. “You keep doing this, we’ll have to redraft the entire contract.”
“That isn’t an option and you know it. The original stipulations stand. I just want to add a clause. My sister just had a baby boy. He’s off-limits.”
“Hmm. A good job keeping that hidden from us, girl. I didn’t even see anything on Facebook.”
“Do we have a deal, or not?”
The demon glanced down at the hammer. “You said this was used in murders? Recently?”
“Yes.”
“Where is the murderer now?”
“I don’t know.”
“Would you like to?”
Marcia hesitated. Beelzebub smiled.
“We can’t have a loose end running around, Marcia. This is the deal: leave the hammer and kill its wielder when you depart this place, and your clause will be added. The contract itself remains unmolested. What say you?”
Marcia frowned. She wasn’t a killer by nature. Part of the reason she was in this situation in the first place was because she’d been too chickenshit to go after her assailant on her own. But after the contract had been signed, it’d been frighteningly easy. And now Beelzebub was telling her to kill again.
She thought of her radiant sister, and the innocent baby.
