101 People to Kill
Before I Die.
Anthony O’Connor
Copyright©2017 Anthony O’Connor
All rights reserved
This is a work of fiction. Any similarities to actual persons, living or dead, or to any allegedly criminal organizations, are entirely coincidental.
ISBN: 978-0-646-97619-8
Acknowledgements
Cover Design by
Fiona Jayde Media
Table of Contents.
1. Instant Karma.
2. Strippers and Hackers.
3. First Blood.
4. Boris and Vadim.
5. The Men’s Club.
6. Svetlana. Psycho Bitch from Hell.
7. Domesticity.
8. An Accidental Assassination.
9. Dial a Lesbian.
10. The Organized Crime Division.
11. The Bank Job.
12. The Night of the Garrote.
13. Joint Task Force.
14. Hide and Seek.
15. Casino Royale.
16. The Monkey King Triad.
17. Somewhere Quiet.
18. Kill Brian.
19. Never Bring a Knife to a Gun Fight.
20. Caught.
21. Cygni Alpha Prime.
22. Desperately Searching for Natasha.
Chapter 1. Instant Karma.
It’s true what they say. Your life really does flash before your eyes. I was running, half stumbling, along the sidewalk - King Street in Melbourne. It was early on a Friday afternoon in the middle of summer. It was stinking hot. It had been like that for days. There were commuters everywhere, cars screaming by - the beginning of the Christmas rush. If you listened you could hear the constant all engulfing roar of background sound. Trams screeching, cars roaring, people calling out, arguing, yelling at each other. Other people rushing by. Babies screaming. Dogs barking. Demons howling.
I was desperately searching for Natasha. I needed to see her. I needed to beg her for forgiveness, even if it was the last thing I did. I turned the corner into Lonsdale Street and there they were - two massive thugs in thick grey suits sweating profusely in the summer heat - the two Russian hit men I’d been avoiding so frantically for the last three weeks. Them and everyone else.
They stared at me, eyes widening in surprise, smugly satisfied sneers beginning to form. They drew their weapons as they advanced towards me. I had a Glock, holstered under my jacket. But Boris had a Beretta already in his hand. Vadim had a Ruger P89. I saw it all instantly. This time they had the drop on me. I knew I was fucked.
Several bystanders had now seen the weapons and were starting to react in shock - panicked faces, arms rising up, bodies moving back. It was all happening in slow motion to me. I stood there like a stunned rabbit caught in the headlights. There was nothing I could do. I stared back at them, not even defiantly just vastly disappointed and sad. I remembered everything leading up to this moment. Most of it pretty fucking dismal.
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Exactly three weeks earlier I’d been diagnosed with terminal cancer. Fucking cancer! So many fucking ways to die. Cancer, heart attack, stroke, syphilis, bubonic plague, polio, encephalitis, smallpox, multiple sclerosis, Ebola … for god’s sake! Take your pick and roll the fucking dice! None of them so immediately fatal though as a four-by-two or a bullet in the back of the head. Not to mention nuclear strike! Nerve gas attack! The next asteroid! Then we're all fucking dead - more or less instantly.
I was in Doctor Robinson’s office in the George Street Medical Centre in Sydney - also on a Friday afternoon. He had the usual boring medical office - a few bookshelves, an award or two plastered onto the wall, even a pot plant on a bench, which looked sick itself. The Doctor was telling me that the blood tests I’d had and now the CT Scans and tissue samples definitely confirmed pancreatic cancer, stage three, moving into stage four. Relentlessly, with no tact or sympathy, he informed me that I probably had less than six months to live - that I would be bed-ridden in three. He was surprised I wasn’t already. I stared back at him, mouth open, too stunned to think clearly. I jabbered inanely,
“But I came in with a sore back. And feeling a bit off. I feel fine generally. I’m in good shape.”
The doctor replied,
“No, you’re not Mr. Samuals. You’re a very sick man. Dying in fact.”
I shot back at him,
“We’re all fucking dying.”
There was something about his tone I found just incredibly annoying. He actually smiled back at me, arrogant, condescending, as if anything I had to say could possibly be of any importance to him. The pompous asshole had probably condemned countless others to death - in a way very similar to this. He looked like he got off on it.
He waited for a moment and then continued speaking.
“I’ll prescribe some pain killers and we’ll need to check you into a hospital.”
I thought to myself,
“Yeah that’ll be just great. Spend my last few months chained to a bed. Feeling like shit. Tubes stuck down my throat. Chemicals dripping into my arm. Pumped up. Doped up. Tranquilized. Docile and compliant. Slipping off into the void silenced and unheard. No trouble for anyone. Denied any opportunity to express the burning rage I felt building - even then. Not fucking likely.”
I gazed back at the doctor, meeting his arrogance head-on and returning it ten-fold. I grunted,
“You can take your pain killers and shove them up your ass.”
He stiffened, glared at me.
“Don’t you talk to me like that. I’ll call security.”
I stood up and moved towards the door.
“Yeah. You do that you little prick”. I laughed at him. “Good luck collecting the bill.”
Then I stormed out of his office. It had already occurred to me with some force that the weight of consequence had significantly lessened and would diminish further with every passing day.
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I walked north down George Street heading towards Circular Quay. I had no idea what to do. I was only forty-five. If I had ever even thought about it, I had always confidently assumed that my eventual demise was decades away - far enough in the future to just ignore. No longer true. Six fucking months. Max. There didn’t seem to be any point going back to the office … ever. They wouldn’t miss me. I wasn’t even sure what it was we did half the time. Department of Education. Administration. Administering what? It had always seemed fairly pointless, and now … well … it was devoid of any fucking sense at all.
I got down to the Quay, found a table outside the Oyster Bay café and ordered some coffee. The waitress, barely eighteen, was achingly attractive. Smiling cutely. Bright blue eyes. Long black lustrous hair. Ample cleavage. I got a hard-on just looking at her, which was pretty impressive under the circumstances. Hope never fades! Right up until that last heartbeat. She placed the cappuccino on the table, smiled at me again and walked back inside - her beautiful ass swaying backwards and forwards enticingly as she moved away from me. I sighed. One way or another I was definitely going to be doing a lot of fucking in the next few months.
I looked around. The place was starting to pick up. It was after 6:00 PM now. Hordes of tired workers were pouring out of nearby offices and heading across the plaza to the railway station or the ferries. I watched them without much interest. Their faces were mostly blank. But I could easily detect in most of them obvious relief at the end of another long dull working week - and in a few of them, sly glints of anticipation of some illicit weekend pleasures. Then I realized I really didn’t give a shit. I shook my head. I couldn’t believe what
I’d just been told. It was all over for me. In a few more months all of these assholes would still be here, buzzing around, doing whatever bullshit it was they did. I’d be gone. Just gone. My dead body six feet under, rotting away in a wooden box. It was a hard fucking thing to ponder. Fuck!
I should call someone. But there was no-one to call. Maybe I should call Beatrice, my ex-wife, and our daughter, seven-year-old Laetitia. I hadn’t talked to either of them in months. I didn’t know what I wanted to say. I hesitated. Then I thought,
“Oh, what the hell.”
I pulled out my mobile phone, held it up to my face and made the call. Laetitia answered. A child’s voice, impossibly innocent.
“Hello.”
I spoke softly,
“Hello Laetitia. It’s Da__.”
But she cut me off with an abrupt shrieking scream. The connection closed.
I called again. This time Beatrice answered. She knew it was me. She spoke harshly.
“What do you want?”
I mumbled,
“I just, ah … Laetitia …”
Beatrice replied,
“She hates your guts Brian. You know that.”
Well. Beatrice hated my guts. I knew that for sure. I tried to reply,
“But … I …”
Beatrice cut me off.
“Fuck off Brian, just fuck off.”
Then she slammed the phone down.
I sat there for another hour or so, staring out. The pretty young waitress must have finished her shift. She smiled at me as she passed by and then scampered off eager to be with her friends. I watched her go. Oh man! I’d definitely fuck her. In a heartbeat.
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It was getting dark. I had no idea what I was going to do for the rest of the night … or the rest of my life! What was left of it. I felt completely flat. I decided to go to a club and made my way down Pitt Street to Robby’s Bar. It was already full. Booming. I made my way to the large bar at the back of the main lounge. I found a seat, surprisingly enough. Just lucky I guess! Yeah, right! My lucky day. I ordered a whisky, straight, and then another. I looked around. The usual crowd. For the most part younger than me. All circling each other, glaring at each other. Music screaming. The grand game of who gets to fuck who later that night was off and running. I had a couple more drinks and then another.
I glanced at the TV above the bar. There was an old rerun of ‘My Name is Earl’ showing. I couldn’t hear any of it but I recognized the episode, the one where Joy got bitten by a dog. What a bunch of fucking losers. And yet I liked Earl. I admired his charming naiveté, his good nature. Not very common in the real world. And definitely not a successful or even a viable strategy. And as for Joy, well … not everyone’s first choice for a lover, but I’d do her. She was hot. I’d feed off her nutty energy and quirkiness. And that mouth! Man. I’d certainly put that mouth to good use.
The show’s premise was bizarre. Earl’s fear of karma. Make up to anyone you’d ever wronged. Make a list and work your way through it. How fucking stupid is that? And yet the barest glimmer of an idea was beginning to form. Some dim perception from the dark undercurrents from inside of which you could always hear the raucous screaming of demons - if you ever listened closely or dared to just feel it.
Two beautiful young women sat down on the bar stools next to me, vacated only moments earlier. I glanced at them. Twenty, maximum. Tight jeans, low cut blouses, slightly larger than average tits, silly girlish faces. They were very similar to each other, almost twins - always a plus in my book. But I knew I had no chance with them and wasn’t going to say anything. Maybe I smiled, just to be polite. They giggled and sneered, clearly and intentionally exhibiting their disdain. Then they jumped up and raced back across the lounge. Fucking bitches. As if I even wanted to put my dick in their pox ridden cunnies. Yeah, I read a bit of Shakespeare from time to time. So fucking sue me. My mood shattered - like so many broken and scattered fragments of jagged bloodied glass. What a pair of fucking cunts.
I stormed out of the bar, made my way along Market Street, back onto George Street, heading towards Town Hall, looking for a cab. I decided to just go home or what passed as such - a cheap rented flat in Leichhardt, all I could afford after the divorce. I had a near full bottle of Johnny Walker Black. I would finish it off, collapse unconscious, and wake up in the morning with a thundering, splitting headache, spewing my guts out. Seemed like a good fucking plan to me.
I passed a fight, not uncommon on a Friday night in Sydney. All the late lockout laws bullshit had made very little difference. Two large youths were beating up one smaller one. The little one was getting a fucking pasting and wouldn’t last long. Once they had him on the ground they would no doubt start kicking him - first in the chest and the guts to soften him up and then in the head. At the very least they’d crack his skull and then certainly brain damage, possibly, probably death. The two attackers weren’t even drunk, just angry. Maybe high on Ice or Crack. It was hard to tell these days. There were some other people watching on. No-one intervened and neither did I. It just wasn’t worth it. Far too risky. They punched him in the head a few more times and then sure enough he fell to the ground. Then they started to kick him, screaming out their rage. I stepped away. I thought maybe I should at least call the cops. Then I heard police sirens approaching. They were on the way. They’d better hurry. I walked off quickly, not wanting to get involved in any possible way.
I used to be a cop, ten years - down in Melbourne - for the last few of them a detective in the Fraud Squad. And I was a soldier in the Australian Army for thirteen years before that. I was thrown out of the Victorian Police three years ago for embezzlement and excessive use of force. I did a year in Barwon Prison. The excessive use of force was a crock of shit. I never killed anyone. Well, not as a cop. I don’t think I did even in the Army - hard to tell at a distance. And I certainly never bashed anyone that didn’t have it coming. The scumbags we had to deal with on a day to day basis ... what are you supposed to do? Pat them on the cheek, say please and thank-you, and give them a little kiss on the ass.
The embezzlement was an even bigger crock of shit. Someone faked my ID and transferred two million dollars from one of the slush funds to my personal account. Had to be an inside job, and cover for some bigger swindle that went unnoticed. The only one it could have been was Jack Williams - my old partner and supposedly a mate. I tried to argue that I wouldn’t have been so stupid as to put it in my own account. But they weren’t buying that. I was found guilty, sentenced to three years - one-year minimum. Beatrice divorced me and moved to Sydney. Our house was repossessed. When I got out I was flat broke.
I should track down Jack Williams and blow his fucking head off. Bullet in the back of the head. The dumb cunt would be dead before he even knew it. No. Too quick. Do a couple of knee caps, a gut shot and then the slow leisurely coup de grace - straight between the eyes, up close and personal. The only thing stopping me was the certainty of capture and a very long prison stretch. No way was I going back there. Hmm! Again, the beginning of an idea. From across the street someone - or something - stopped, turned towards me and glared at me. It had savage, burning red eyes and an evil sardonic grin. It seemed vastly amused.
On an impulse, I passed by the Town Hall taxi-rank and headed further down George Street towards the Church of the Sacred Heart. It was an old grey brick building, completely out of place amongst the surrounding offices and shops. I went on in, not quite knowing why. I felt like a great hypocrite. I was raised a Catholic but hadn’t been inside a Church since I was eighteen and my life since then had not been exactly virtuous by any account. It was surely too late to start anything now. I passed through the foyer into the main area. I was feeling strange - and not just from too much alcohol. There was a large life-size crucifix hanging on the wall. What an image! God becomes man and dies for our sins, murdered by … well, us. If you really think about it, it makes no fucking sense at all. But it ha
s an unavoidably powerful emotional impact.
The figure of Christ on the Cross seemed to respond to my presence. He moved his head, leaning towards me, looking down at me with infinite sadness and just a tinge of despair. Then, almost sneering but not quite, in a slow, thick voice, surprisingly like that of Rocky Balboa, he said,
“Hey Asshole! What are you doing here?”
His heart was bleeding. I didn’t know how to respond. I stumbled out of the Church a bit confused, troubled. Religion would provide no solace. I was foolish to even consider it. And that little episode? Obviously, a hallucination. What else could it have been?
Walking away, thinking of Jesus hanging on the cross, I began to think of all those who had wronged me. Jack Williams of course. The newsagent and his wife who stole a winning lottery ticket from me a few months before that. How different everything might have been with money. Maybe I would still be with Beatrice and Laetitia. The asshole who managed to stick me with a knife in prison. The fuckwit banker who foreclosed on my mortgage - with malice and forethought. My dickhead, arrogant, condescending parole officer, just for being a dick. And many, many others. Right down to Tommy Barton, the nasty snide little bastard who beat me up in kindergarten that one time, and then when we were twelve stole my first girlfriend from me. Jennifer! I wonder what ever happened to her?
Was I too, to go quietly into the night asking that they be forgiven their transgressions against me, my bleeding heart full of compassion? Not fucking likely. Brooding, smoldering. Glaring about like a mad dog. It seemed so unfair that they got to live and prosper, while I would be stone cold dead, all too soon, and rapidly crumbling back into the dust from which we all come.
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