Welcome To Hell.A.

by Stephens, L.

  Sitting shotgun in the van and holding a shotgun was Ray. He was an English thug about fifty, not really old by today’s standards, but he had a good fifteen years on Daryl, and with that much of an age gap it felt like he was sixty. Ray’s face was hard. Bright red stubble covered his cheeks and chin, which also emphasized his cool blue eyes that looked like they could freeze you with a stare. His graying hair was pulled back in a ponytail that sat at the back of his neck. It looked greasy and damp, and Daryl tried not to think of what it smelled like. He thanked God Ray’s cologne was drowning out any stench in the L.A. county area.

  “You fucking wore cologne to a heist?” Daryl said looking over at his accomplice. “You planning on taking this truck driver out on a date?”

  “Don’t fucking start,” Ray said in his strong Cockney accent. “You said it was three hours work. After we’ve given it the heave-ho, I’m gonna go celebrate with the missus. It’s our anniversary, mate! You can’t go calling me at short notice and expecting me to give up all my plans to come help ya.”

  Contrary to his cologne and his flippant attitude towards the heist, Ray was a pro. Daryl had met him through doing a few jobs as part of a crew, basically guns for hire doing insurance scams, bank robberies and arson. This was the first time Daryl had hired Ray, but he knew him as a straight-shooting criminal, up for any task given the right paycheck. This was why Daryl had paid him a bit extra and promised him more jobs down the line. Even though the last part wasn’t really the truth he needed to keep him in check. This stranger he was about to commit a couple felonies with could turn on him at any second. He dressed almost as stereotypically as he sounded, a leather jacket zipped tight to his throat with baggy dark blue jeans over his brand-new sneakers. These stood out most to Daryl. He expected Ray to wear a European brand like Reebok, Adidas, Puma or even Umbro, but strangely enough, he wore New Balance, an American brand. Daryl filed the thought away. He needed to keep focus. Not everyone gave a fuck where shoes originated from.

  “You know what you got to do, right?” Daryl asked, gazing through the windshield.

  “Don’t you worry, geezer,” Ray said conspiratorially “I'm on top of it.”

  “I fucking told you, man. I’m not from England,” Daryl said, turning to Ray. “Speak American to me.”

  “Righto. No need to be a cunt about it,” Ray said rolling his eyes.

  “Humor me,” Daryl said, returning his view to the street. “What’s the plan? We got a bit of time until this truck comes, so lay it out for me.”

  “Alright, we wait here like little fucking lambs until the truck reaches the underpass...” Ray started, pointing the barrel of the shotgun to the overpass down the street.

  CHAPTER 30: THE TEA LEAF

  The metallic Greytech logo on the side of the trailer reflected the hazard lights as the truck stood idle in the construction zone. The logo was comprised of three capital G’s, set back-to-back in a triangle formation, with a capital T jutting out of each. The top of each T was curved, so together it created a circle, enclosing the rest of the logo. Everything about the situation looked normal. There were your typical flashing lights and a construction worker with a stop sign standing in the middle of the road. He waved, and the driver rolled down his window.

  “What’s going on?” the driver asked, leaning out the cab. “It’s a bit late to be working isn’t it?”

  The construction worker looked up, revealing himself to be Ray. He didn’t respond. He just smiled. He was trying to be menacing. He knew it was ninety percent of the job. The look he was using was from the movie A Clockwork Orange. Ray had perfected the character Alex’s look from underneath his eyebrows. He just wished he had a little bowler hat to complete the look. He had heard the movie was a classic, but that’s not why he loved it. He loved the ultra-violence, the raping, the torture—that was all Ray’s cup of tea.

  The look had worked. Without even saying anything or pulling out the shotgun Ray had behind his back, the driver retreated into the cab and put the truck into gear. There was a loud rev of the engine, but that quickly died down as Daryl’s van sped in to block the truck’s path.

  “’Bout time you showed up,” Ray muttered to himself as he threw away the stop sign and marched to the driver’s door.

  The van was no match for the truck, but when you added Daryl with his ski mask pulled down and his arm raised pointing a black handgun, the combination was more than enough for the driver to put the truck in park. The driver ducked down in his seat and reached across to the glove box to open it, but it was too late. Ray had already opened the passenger door and was now pointing his shotgun at the driver’s face.

  “Don’t you fucking do it, mate,” Ray warned.

  Ray was willing to shoot this poor guy in the face. He was a no-holds-barred kind of guy. Plus he had a date to make. The driver showed Ray his hands while slowly moving away from the glove box.

  “Get the fuck out the truck!” Ray barked.

  Without hesitation and sure to keep his hands visible at all times, the driver jumped out of the truck. For his age and overweight stature, Ray was actually quite quick, and he was around to the other side of the truck before the driver had gotten down from the cab.

  “Where do you think you’re going, cunt?” Ray said menacingly pointing his shotgun at the driver’s face. “Lie on the fucking ground!”

  The driver laid face down on the ground as he was told, revealing a Greytech logo on the back of his jacket.

  “What's in the truck?” Ray asked calmly.

  “I have no idea. They didn’t tell me!” the driver said shakily. “Tonight’s my first night.”

  “Where's your mobile?” Ray growled.

  “My what?” the driver asked.

  “Your phone!” Ray snapped. “I fucking know you have one, don’t fuck about!”

  “In the truck! It's in the truck! In the center console,” the driver said, motioning towards the truck. “You can’t do this, man! I’m going to lose my job. It’s my first fucking night!”

  “Alright, alright, you told me before, mate. Don’t lose your mind just yet,” Ray said. “I do need you to do one little thing for me, though, and I don’t want any hullabaloo.”

  “Okay, whatever you want, man. I got a family,” the driver pleaded. “Just don’t hurt me.”

  “How ‘bout you take those pants off,” Ray said quietly.

  The driver looked at Ray in confusion, but Ray just took a deep breath and pointed the shotgun barrel even closer to the driver's head.

  “What the fuck did I just say? No hulla-fucking-baloo,” Ray whispered. “If I have to repeat myself again, I’m just going to unload this shell into your fucking melon, you cunt! Now, take your fucking pants off!”

  The driver complied within an instant of Ray’s ultimatum, pulling his pants down.

  “Your shoes first, you Muppet!” Ray said with disdain.

  The driver ripped off his boots and scooted his pants down past his ankles. Ray grabbed the pants but stopped for a second. Something had caught his eye.

  “Oh that is quite lovely, mate,” Ray said with a laugh. “I’m a bit concerned your wife is going to have a hell of a time getting your shit stains out of her pretty little thong, though. Assuming you got a wife that is!”

  The driver was wearing a rather sexy pair of pink lady’s underwear, complete with frills and lace.

  Ray had a little laugh as he rifled through the pants pockets and pulled out the driver's wallet.

  “I’ll be taking this,” he said, putting the wallet into his pocket.

  Ray threw the driver’s pants and shoes into the cab of the truck and circled back to the helpless man on the ground.

  “I don't want you to lose your job, not in today’s harsh economic climate, but don't be calling the cops for at least an hour, pal. You understand? If you don’t do as I ask, I will find you and your family or your boyfriend,” Ray said, showing the driver that he had his I.D. and a nice shiny shotgun. “As you said
, you don’t get paid enough for this malarkey, so let’s keep your family safe, sweetheart.”

  The driver nodded his head, still looking down to avoid eye contact with Ray.

  “Oh!” Ray said getting closer to the driver. “One more thing!”

  After an awkward silence the driver looked up to see what Ray was doing. Blood sprayed from the driver’s nose as Ray flipped the shotgun around and smashed him in the face with the butt of the gun. He was either out cold or, judging by the amount of blood pouring on to the road, dead, but either way he was incapacitated. Ray dragged him behind the construction barrier and out of sight.

  “Let's go!” Daryl yelled from the window of his van.

  Ray turned to glare at Daryl. He wasn’t happy about this hierarchy he had found himself in. Little Lord Fauntleroy was sitting back there on his palatial throne while old Ray did all the heavy lifting.

  “Alright, hold your fucking horses!” Ray called as he turned off the construction lights.

  He took his time as he jumped into the cab of the truck.

  “Who does this cunt think he is, hurrying me up?” Ray muttered to himself as he got familiar with the truck. “Smarmy cunt, didn’t even lift a finger, while I’m out here shoving shotguns in faces.”

  Once he was settled, he waved Daryl on and watched him pull away in the van.

  “Nice fucking balaclava, you old bit of minge,” Ray said with a chuckle. “You didn’t even leave the blinking van. Who the fuck is going to see your face? You’re a fucking amateur, mate.”

  He put the truck in gear, and it shuddered before rolling smoothly forward.

  “Hmph, what the fuck does that make me, then, if I’m fucking working for this Muppet?” Ray said sardonically.

  CHAPTER 31: COOL GUY PROBLEMS

  It was like a movie montage, edited super cool to a song that wasn’t quite a classic but was about to get a massive revival. Jake was in the thick of it. The camera whirled around him then suddenly would freeze frame as he was about to pour a shot of tequila into his mouth, while two strippers huddled close to him and did the same. It went a little something like shot, shot, shot, lap dance, shot, snorting blow off a stripper’s ass, shot, lap dance, getting a blow job from a stripper, shot, doing coke off a stripper’s tit, shot, stripper doing a line off her own tit, shot, stripper doing a line off Jake’s erect cock, shot, shot, shot, fade to fucking black.

  Like every place he went, Jake had walked in like he owned the place, fist bumps and bro hugs from the bouncers and kisses on the cheek from the female employees. He let all the patrons and the newbie strippers know he was the fucking man. To be clear, Jake didn’t go anywhere where he didn’t get this treatment. He was a creature of habit, and the better the establishment treated him the more likely he was to return, so the more he returned, the more love he got and the more money he spent. The thing about Jake was he was unassuming. At certain points of his life he had been a right cunt, but that was before he had money. Now, he was fun, but he wasn’t the dude maxing out his credit card showering the dance floor in champagne or grabbing the bottle service girl on the ass trying to get her number for the fourth time. He was the dude who showed up, paid full price and tipped well—not over the top, just what was warranted.

  † Thirty chapters in you’re all probably thinking this guy is a right cunt, but like everything, there are levels. One man’s cunt is another man’s best friend. †

  “Hey, Marco!” Jake said with a smile as he brought an older Armenian guy into a bro hug. “Good to see you brother!”

  Marco was the majority owner of the strip club and he loved Jake. He almost came in his pants every time Jake stepped in the door, and tonight was no exception. He must have seen Jake on the security cameras or through one of the double sided mirrors that littered the club, because he popped out an unmarked locked door and dodged every well-wisher and hanger-on in the place to go say hi to the dude with a razor blade pendant hanging from his neck.

  “Jake!” Marco beamed. “It’s been too long! You didn’t turn faggot on me, did you?”

  “Why?” Jake teased as he pulled back from the hug and looked deep into Marco’s eyes. “Do I have a shot with you? All this time I’ve been waiting! Has my chance finally come? Is this going to be the greatest day of my life?”

  Marco looked at Jake for a moment, his happy face turned solemn and stoney, before exploding back into a large smile.

  “Oooh, you’re fucking with me aren’t you, you mother fucker?” Marco said as he pretended to punch Jake in the jaw. “You know I don’t smoke the pole!”

  “I’m sure if you did, it would be amazing,” Jake said with a wink.

  Jake loved old guys. Whether it was Max or Marco, he just loved their desperate attempts to suck back some youth into their lives, whether by fucking young sluts, partying with the boys till 6AM or buying a ridiculously sick half million dollar Lambo and only driving it once or twice. It wasn’t as if he used these guys, either. He never mooched off them; if anything he brought more to the party than they did. Even though Marco owned a strip club, it was nigh on impossible for him to fuck the girls who worked there without getting neck deep in lawsuits, so he stayed clear, and that’s where Jake would come in. He wasn’t a pimp; he just know every gold-digging wannabe from the Valley to Orange County, and they liked to party and cozy up to rich guys regardless of age.

  “Marco, should I set your friend up at your table?” asked the beautiful hostess with massive tits that had sidled up next to them.

  Jake did a double take. For him, the worst thing about strip clubs, other than the money for play scenario was that the hottest girls were always the servers, bartenders or hostesses, and they were always off the market.

  “No, no,” Marco said, turning his head to the hostess. “I’m taking him in the back. Give us a few minutes, and then send back a couple girls who want to take a break. No ugly ones, okay?”

  “You got it!” the hostess said enthusiastically before sashaying away.

  “Fuck!” Jake murmured under his breath. “Who’s that?”

  “Fresh meat!” Marco said with a smile as he nodded his head. “You like?”

  “Who fucking wouldn’t?” Jake responded, trying to keep his eyes from popping out.

  “Well,” Marco said as he pulled Jake through an unmarked door. “I’ll see what I can do.”

  The back room was just like a mini strip club. It had a bar, a few booths and a small stage with a pole. It was mainly used for private parties or special guests where discretion was important. Marco walked around to the other side of the bar, and Jake took up position in front of him. This was all part of the routine. He was used to coming here after the main part of the strip club closed, or after he had dropped some money on lap dances.

  “So, how you been, bud?” Jake asked as Marco put a couple glasses in front of them.

  Marco froze for a moment, and Jake watched as color drained from his face. It looked like he was having a stroke or a brain embolism, but after a couple seconds the lights turned back on again.

  “You know, Jake, I’ve been better,” Marco said solemnly as he poured a couple shots of tequila into the glasses. “We have a problem.”

  Jake’s hand instinctively went to his chest, and internally he winced like his insides had been cut open and doused with lime juice. Externally, he was cool as a cucumber, eyeing that shot of tequila and wishing they had done it before Marco had brought a shit sandwich to the table. A litany of probable causes to Marco’s dilemma flashed through Jake’s mind as he waited to hear how much being a fun and unassuming guy was going to cost him.

  “Let’s do this drink first, okay?” Jake said with a smile. “Problems always look better through the bottom of an empty glass.”

  Marco did his best Robert DeNiro impression as he nodded his head and pushed Jake’s glass towards him.

  “This is true, my friend,” he said as he raised his glass to Jake. “Salute!”

  The men brought their gla
sses together and sunk the shots of tequila, no salt or lime, just pure face-wrenching swallows of God’s nectar. Once more, Jake held it back like a champ. There was no way he was going to throw up in front of Marco.

  “So what’s the problem?” Jake asked confidently.

  He knew the problem, whatever it was, mustn’t have been a big deal. Jake had just randomly turned up at the club, and Marco hadn’t called him, so it must have been a “last time you were here” you did something or said something kind of deal. Jake was loose with his words, especially when the blow and booze were flowing. He probably upset a friend of Marco’s or fucked a girl Marco had set his sights on, typical small world shit that Jake didn’t give two fucks about.

  “You are my friend, Jake, so I’m going to give you the benefit of the doubt,” Marco started, pouring more shots. “But it has come to my attention that you were involved in a little, how do I say, transgression.”

  The internal wince of doom started roiling again. He was stuck between a rock and a hard place. The choices were always simple but painful: come clean and be royally fucked or lie and most likely lose a friend with benefits.

  “Marco, you know me,” Jake joked, offering his palms up in surrender. “I’m involved in some sort of transgression on a daily basis.”

  “This is serious,” Marco said, pushing the fresh drink towards him. “You know I’m friends with everyone in this town, and I like to keep it that way, but your name keeps coming up, and I’m sorry, I can’t protect you.”