NationStates Jolt Archive

OOC: This story contains violence and swearing. If you have a weak heart or cannot stand language you can also hear in those lovely Holywood films don't read this.

A real neverending story

Yesterday I (Frank Capezza) arrived in Valetta, the capital city of Malta. The boat heading for the mainland would leave tomorrow, so I have some time to visit some old friends of mine. The boss there owns a small pub near the harbor along with a few friends of him. It's a good place, as long as you know the owner. What they serve? Nothing special, the usual pints of beer and some low-quality Scotch. I walked in and the place hadn't changed in all those years. Still the same smoky air, the dusty bar, the rusty pipelines and the old furniture. Once you tread on the weary oak floorboards the scent of tobacco and alcohol enter your nose you know this place never changes. I booked a chamber in a local inn, but I had to visit this place. The name, not very original, 'Olde Anchor of Valetta', draws little to no outside visitors. But the pub doesn't pay rent to a landlord, they just own the place. Nobody really recalls the day where the place was officially bought, but who cares? They don't harm any of the Maltese citizens. So I walked in and I immediately knew my presence was appreciated. The owner of the place came from his small but luxurious office and we shook hands, kind words followed each other and lots of friendly winks went to each other. I sat down on a crutch and the bartender, his name was Mac, offered me a gin on the house. I instantly swallowed the content of the shotglass and he poured me another one. It was then when I started telling a real neverending story.

"Hey mac, have I ever told you about my old pal John Booth?"
"Eh, Booty Booth? Yeah I remember him. Isn't he in jail or lies between six beams yet?"
"Hehe, no not yet but the last couple of months, it was damn close believe me."
"Alright, what happened?" Mac took a sip of beer and burped loudly.
"You know... he wasn't the guy you think of at the moment..."
"Yeah yeah Frank we all know he murdered a few people."
"Shut up Pritchard. He's not an ordinary killer. You see. Let me tell you all a part of my life's story."
"Oh I get it, this is gonna be a long ev'nin' lads." Again this Pritchard fellow couldn't keep his mouth shut with his 'witty' comments. Both Frank and Mac ignored this babbling.

"It was in Paris, a few weeks ago on a rainy day. We both drank a cup of coffee on some terrace in Quartier Latin when my cellphone rang. A very nervous man told me an incoherent story about a local 'shite' dealer..."
"A drugsdealer?"
"Yup. Apparantly what I understood from him this local druglord and reputed ringleader of the local North-African underground Mehmet Dougaby married a women and pissed off various people he shouldn't have. Our friendly new employer who gave us the assignment also told me relatives of him are very displeased with Mehmet's business. Our job was to make sure he'd never sell any angeldust and crack to teenage girls again. This Mehmet character owned a really popular night club near the Centre Pompidou, so getting in wouldn't be an issue. He told me the place is a four story building, basement and the first floor are club, the second floor is where Mehmet and his gang lives and the third and fourth floor are storage rooms."
"Hey wait a minute... Frank I never knew you and Booth were hitmen... Are you hiding som'thin'?"
"Let me finish Richie, we already had a quarrel with these lads. A few weeks before we got the call we blundered into a scam. We could buy large quantities of old golden and silver coins. We sent a few of our friends to pick them up but it was a rip deal."
"A what?"
"They stole our money and killed my friends."
"Fuckers. Jesus, what a scum."
"So me and Booth decided to pull this one off not for the money, but to exact some revenge. Sweet revenge... Yeah those fuckers have paid a price and the rest of the club guests. Sucks for them, they were at the wrong place at the wrong time."
"Jesus... What happened?" And this was Richie's reply when something bad or good happens. He always starts his sentences with 'Jesus'.
"Well, they didn't saw but we both carried sawn-ff shotguns under our jackets. The fools at the door didn't even asked or did a body search. Hell no, they were just winking at other men, high fiving. Not paying attention to the guests walking in and out.'
"Jesus. What a fags."
"We went in and we asked the bulldog guarding the stairs up where we could buy some good 'shit', and we waved with some dollars and he let us in. Above it really was a fucking pothead heaven. Aging hippies from the sixties, punkers, rappers, skaters. You know the bunch you won't ever see in the German Reich, Adolph Leighmar be blessed."
"Jesus... What a losers." And Richie took another shot of gin.

I was looking at the dusty bar and then at the ceiling - full of moist and fungus. What would I do...? Tell everything and the details. The truth. Yes or no? It's appalling already, they all have had a good drink and can take something now. I lit a crumbly cigaratte and inhaled the smoke deep; I started to feel better and less occupied with the thoughts of my friends in horror about what I did in Paris. I had to tell everything, I would not rest if I couldn't share my experiences with them. And of course, my plans for the future. The sights I have seen, the unexposed secrets, the classified things hidden from the eyes of the curious. Burried deep below the surface, that's where an untold neverending story lies, a story waiting to be told. A story seen by me and Booth. Story of fortune and glory, a life eternal bading in the sun, laden down with cash. I am confident everyone wants to take part in my future adventures. I got another Scotch from Mac and I threw the liquid down my throat and burped. I continued...

OOC: more will follow later, i'm tired.

This part contains violence and cursing. I have no clue what the minimum age of this part should be so I'll guess 50 should be safe. Seriously, if you cannot stand written violence, don't read this. I write, and you decide if you want to read it. Same as porn on the web, it's everywhere yet; nobody forces you to look.

IC:
"Yeah, so we walked in this potheaven... The sweet scent of weed made my head spin from the inside. Terrible stuff."
"Jesus... Fucking potheads." And another shot of gin dissapeared in his mouth.
"So there was this man sitting behind a desk with a pile of coke next to him and he occasionally took a big sniff. All the hippies sat there like fucking fakirs smoking weed and drinking bongwater or something. We stepped to the man behind the desk and we grabbed our sawn-off shotties. I opened the shotgun and - without this crackhead noticing - put a shell in each barrel. Not the regular buckshot but grounded granite. When I aimed the gun, point blank a perfect shot and I pulled both triggers back. I remember it welll... I told them exactly as I saw it.

*****

The song 'Shiny Happy People' was on the radio when our party started. The head of the cokesniffer blew open, his brains and eyes spread evenly on the wall behind him. In the dim light the red fluid was dripping from the walls. He dropped from his chair while blood was still squirting from all the ripped open arteries. The body was still shaking a bit, convulsing. Booth turned around with his loaded gun and pulled back both triggers and shot two hippies in the chest, the ribs cracked open and everything on the inside streamed out, the hail turned into a meaty cocktail. The others noticed what was going on, so we both took aim on the ones able to get on, all three where hit in the back, throwing them to the wall. Blood was everywhere and the music still going on, a great tune. But not really fitting.

*****

"Holy... Fuck..."
"Again we loaded our shotguns and this time two tough guys thought they could dodge hail... They couldn't. One had to live on without a neck in the afterlife and the other misses a few vital organs like the heart and liver..."
"Jesus..."
"So we walked up to the storagerooms and killed everyone we saw. When we were done we burned the place to the ground with gasoline and kerosine stashed in a shed."
"And all the guests?" Pritchard seemed a tad worried about those people, but I didn't felt like lying to him.
"Oh they all died in the flames. When we were back on the streets we broke the necks of both high fiving idiots on the streets, and sealed the front exit."

I lit another smoke and waited until this part sank in. Everyone was drinking gin and Scotch like maniacs. Drinking away what I just told. I sat relaxed smoking my cigarette, and some fifteen minutes later I continued.

"You know, the next day there was only a small article on the frontpages of the many French newspapers. 'Cafe burned to the ground: all guests and personnel dead'. The same day I got a call from our friendly employer and he was most pleased with the results. We told him again we didn't want any money for the job and he finally accepted that, after a long talk that is."
"Man Frank, I never know you pulled shit like that off. I always thought you were some small time crook, not somethi... eh someone like Booth."
"Yeah well you know the old saying."
"What old saying?"
"Shut up."
"Sure."
"Well a week or two later we walked in a Paris bar and we saw to our horror the fucking idiot Beck."
"Who...?"
"Beck Rothschild, a wealthy, pompus and dumbass business man who made his money with laundering and blackmail."
"What kind of cloth?"
"For fucks sake Pritchard shut the hell up idiot!" Thank God Mac said this, I would have insulted him much worse.
"Well this Beck guy... You know the place where we were was a real hole where lowlife punks deal their stuff. Under the table deals, shady persons in raincoats offering crack or guns. Not too obvious for the police to take care of them, but also certainly not to secret for locals who want to get a gun or a shot of heroin. We both walked in, we knew really unsavory scum was ganging up and terrorizing the neighborhood... They became unwanted competition and brought a lot of unneeded attention to this part of Paris. It was time to kill them all. Beck recognized us, and what started as a friendly chat ended in a bloodbath.

*****

"Hey... Well what the hell! Frank... Booth grab a chair and sit down! We haven't talked in ages." The stench of cheap wine was overwhelming. Even though he had plenty of money to go the most expensive restaurant and order the finest wine, he decided to go to such an awful low boozer.
"Beck, we don't want to see you, we all know how you kept on nagging to get yer fifty dollars from beggars and then you kill them."
"Shut the fuck up and sit down!" Booth walked to the war and ordered two beer, which me and him drank quickly. I wanted to lite a smoke but Booth told me not to. Beck began to yell around, making an even bigger fool out of himself.
"Hey Booth, can you pay the bills? Why don't you kill some drugdealers for cash...? Low piece of... Just write another iou hehe" When Beck said this Booth snapped and drove a dagger in his right ear, he pulled out the dagger, the blade covered in blood, brains and earwax. Apparantly he hadn't cleaned his ears in months.
"That'll shut him up." By this all the others fled the bar... Thanks to Beck we couldn't do what we wanted to and Booth kinda fucked up.

*****

"Serves this Beck guy right, I met him once. What an asshole." Mac sat behind the bar, serving the needs of all the others. I still sat down and was overlooking the people. The 'shock' wasn't nearly as big as my first story, but still. People don't really expect such revelations on a day like this.

OOC: more to come!