by Tiana Laveen
“Yeah, send it over.” Savage hit the forward option on his special app and sent it to Harlem. After a couple of minutes of silence, the man came back on the line.
“3021 Magnolia Drive, Bettendorf, Iowa.”
“Cool. Cows and manure it is. Look, I’m making a detour. Find me a later flight for the assignment for today that I was headed to. I need to get over to Iowa first. Got something to take care of.”
“Will you make it in time though, Savage? Iowa is three hours away and depending on what you have up your sleeve, it could take a long time. Austin wants this done in forty-eight hours.”
“I will have time to spare. This crew is small potatoes. Escaped convicts who murdered a retired government official in Milwaukee.”
“All right, piece of cake for you then. As far as your request, I will take care of it. Do you need a private flight since you seem in a hurry?”
“Yup. Going over to the base right now. Call them up, please, and let them know I’m on my way. Looks like I’m going to the corn state for a second, Harlem. This motherfucker’s chickens have come home to roost…”
The three-hour flight proved uneventful.
Savage received several text messages from Zaire, and wasn’t the least bit surprised that she hadn’t mentioned the fucker who’d been harassing her. He knew his baby’s nature. She wasn’t afraid of this guy, though perhaps, she should’ve been. He was a loose cannon, and he was clearly coming unhinged.
Richard Anderson… 38 years of age… 5’8… 170 lbs… Caucasian, brown hair… blue eyes…
One hour later, Savage pulled up to the residence in his Jeep Cherokee rental car, and got out. A small white 1999 Honda Accord was parked on the gravel in the driveway. The tires looked in desperate need of air. The old vehicle was caked with dirt and the windows looked as if they’d been smeared with dry kisses from a dust storm. It was a drizzly, rainy day and the air in Iowa was clean and new, unlike the smoggy shit he was used to. He’d seen his fair share of cows on various properties during his short stint, and the locals seemed nice enough. The people were paler and a bit frumpier than he was used to seeing. Not so flashy, their voices more monotone, their speaking a bit slow. This was middle America, where wholesomeness and nostalgia met and married, then gave birth to hypocritical laws and ideologies that danced along the line of the Bible belt but held tight to the hope of the North.
There were no palm trees and grand oceans to ride the wave, no calypso music pouring out the open doors of a posh watering hole that served colorful cocktails for twenty bucks each. There were no big-time casinos and magic shows to wow the most skeptical of men, but there were however several neatly stocked and well-maintained corner stores with flashing neon lights advertising a couple different types of beer, freshly made sub sandwiches, and lucky lottery tickets. Police officers waved to people here and weren’t feared. Clean-faced children grinned while clutching their shiny lunchboxes and getting off school buses to race into the arms of their mothers. And the most ass he’d seen thus far was from a heifer shaking her skimpy tail along her wide, flat, shit-covered ass as she moseyed about a lush, green pasture, eating as she sashayed. He hated to admit it, but he thought the place was kind of cool, neat and comforting in its own down-home way.
He’d even stopped at a small Mom and Pop store and had a piping hot cup of coffee and smoked a cigar, taking a breather before setting off to turn their little town upside down. The hot drink was good—no, it was great. They threw in an apple fritter, made him feel at home, asked his name and tried to delve into his private life—so he simply stated he was there on business. He cracked a smile and left a hundred-dollar tip for the hell of it. Now, the only thing cracking was his fucking Remington rifle.
Bella, as he called her, shook the air like a snake rattle. She was ready, willing, and able. Always hot. Always loud and abrasive, aged to perfection. Stomping in muddy puddles, he made his way to the small, dingy white house with several plastic planters surrounding it, all of them housing half dead foliage. A small stone angel with a chipped wing sat at a strange angle on the front lawn, and a rusted rainbow colored wind chime blew in a sideways motion on the porch, as if beckoning him while he ascended the three steps. He promptly knocked on the door three times.
“Who is it?!” came the gruff voice he’d now heard too many times to count. Savage had played that recording on the plane over and over, such that it did nothing more than pump him up. He was on fire for revenge.
“You can call me M.S. I’m from division number 721, Unit A.A., when on assignment.”
“What the hell are you talking about? Alcoholics Anonymous?”
Savage smirked and sucked his teeth.
“No. Apocalypse Assassins…” He ran his hand along his jaw, time ticking like miniature bombs within him.
“M.S. from the Apocalypse Asians? What the fuck?” The guy chuckled.
“Assassins, Mr. Anderson. Assassins.”
“How’d you know my name? You’re some wierdo! Whatever you’re sellin’, I don’t want it. Get tha fuck off my porch and go home.”
“I’m not sellin’ shit, not a gotdamn thing but believe you me, buddy boy, you’re buyin’ the farm!”
BOOM!
Savage kicked the door in and burst into the foyer that smelled like weak weed and boiled hot dog water. “This is on the house, motherfucker! I’m givin’ away free ass whoopings, but national travel charges do apply!”
“WHAT THA FUCK, MAN?!” Richard yelled.
Savage grabbed him by the collar before he could make a run for it. Hoisting him up in the air, he used the bastard as a human shield as he went from room to room, kicking in each door, ensuring they were alone. All he saw were a few bongs here and there, some old beds with ratty sheets, a television tuned in to Jerry Springer, a murky fish tank, and a bathroom in desperate need of a good cleaning and repair.
The coast was clear. He led him back into the small living room, lifted him high with one arm, and shook him like he was trying to get change to fall out of his damn pockets.
“Who are you?! What do you want?! I don’t have much money but you can have what I’ve got though! My wallet is in the bedroom!”
“I don’t want your little piddly money, Mr. Anderson. There’s nothing you can give me, but there’s some shit I’m going to definitely take. Now, open your mouth wide.”
“Huh? What?!”
“OPEN YOUR FUCKIN’ MOUTH!”
The man did as he asked. Savage aimed the tip of the rifle at his throat. The man’s complexion turned dark crimson as he gagged, and his blue eyes filled with tears. He wiggled about like a desperate worm on a hook.
“Yeah… why aren’t you keeping that same energy you had to pick up your phone, call a podcast, and threaten someone, huh? Your mouth was wiiiide open, then, now wasn’t it? You fucked with the wrong one this time. That Dr. Zaire Ellington you keep calling? You know, the one you called a Black bitch not too long ago? Guess what? That Black bitch, you inbred, illiterate, unpleasant piece of shit, is my fuckin’ woman! Shazam!” The man’s eyes grew impossibly larger. “It’s time you learned some respect, motherfucker. Class is in session.”
The man tried to talk, but he could only make incoherent sounds, his face turning odd shades of green.
“I know what you’ve been doing.” Savage’s eyes narrowed. “For over a year, before I was even on the scene, you’ve been harassing her.” The man shook his head vehemently, denying it. What a coward…
“No… No! You’b got tha w’ong guy!” he said as the rifle slid in his mouth.
“Oh no, I’ve got the right one, baby! Yes! It was you, motherfucker. No doubt about it. I need to see your tonsils! Put your mouth back on the front sight… SUCK IT!” The man whimpered and wrapped his lips tighter around the gun. “You wanna act like a fuckin’ bitch, call and threaten women like some pussy, then I’ll treat you like one! You’re going to give Bella here a nice blowjob. Chicks with steel dicks!” Savage cackled. “Hey, whatev
er you like! Whatever floats your boat; I’m not one to judge. You just don’t know when to quit though, do ya? You’ve been fucking with your ex-wife, too, making her life a living hell. I found out you have a loooong history of this…
“Let’s see, domestic violence with some ex-girlfriends, threatening to kill a stripper, all sorts of crazy horse shit. Looks like you constantly strike out with the ladies and instead of trying to find your mojo, you blame the women for not wanting your ass after they discover what a lame you are. You make me fuckin’ sick! Going around threatening someone you don’t even know, all because your ol’ lady took her advice, woke up and didn’t want your stinking ass anymore. It was about damn time!
“You can’t let go… can’t handle rejection. You lie around here with no job, collecting checks from the government, joining little websites that encourage men like you to harass and stalk women. You’re pathetic! You’re not a man! You cut your own balls off and tossed them in the fire! You silly motherfucker,” Savage snarled, getting off on how afraid the bastard was. “I gave you a chance, tried to see if you’d stop, but you didn’t. You just kept on calling… kept on bothering my baby. So now, you’re having a visit from your worst nightmare and unlike the local police who tried to coddle you in years past, I didn’t come all this way to play. I’m angry, motherfucker. You’ve disrupted my schedule. So, here’s what’s going to happen. I want you to think long and hard about all of this shit, the dumb things you’ve done. Etch it in your mind right before I blow your brains out.” Savage grinned wide, practically salivating.
“No! P’ease! P’ease!” the man begged, the gun in his mouth preventing him from pronouncing the words correctly.
“Peas! Peas!” Savage mocked. “You want some peas and carrots with your tombstone?” He dropped the man to the ground, then yanked him back up, tossing him on the couch.
“Where’s your phone?!” The man pointed to the kitchen counter. Jamming the gun in the back of the bastard’s head, he made him march over to it and grab it. “Now, call your ex-wife.”
“I… I don’t have her number… the restraining order.”
“That’s a lie. You just called her last week and threatened her and her boyfriend.” Savage wrapped his hand around his skull and squeezed. “I could crush your dome with my bare hand!”
“I don’t understand why you’re doing this! I can’t—”
Savage yanked him off his damn feet, slammed him back down onto the couch, and jammed the gun against the bastard’s ear. “Can ya hear me now?! Understand me now? Can. You. Hear. Me. Now?!”
“Yes! Yes!” the bastard sobbed.
“It was in the police report! WHO THE FUCK DO YOU THINK YOU’RE FUCKIN’ WITH, HUH?! I SAID CALL HER!” The man shivered and went limp for a second, then pulled her up in the contacts on his phone. “Put it on speaker…” The phone rang and rang, then went to voicemail. “Leave her a voicemail telling her you’re sorry for everything and you’re going to leave her alone,” Savage stated quietly, his chest about to burst with rage. The introduction greeting from a sweet, feminine voice ended and the man began to speak.
“Hi… Hi, Ash… Ashley… This is… this is Richard…” His teeth chattered. The man pitched Savage a glance, then continued, “I just wanted to tell you how sorry I am, and… and that… I won’t call or bother you… any… anymore… okay? Just… take… take care of our kids. I—”
“Hang up.”
“I love—”
“I SAID HANG UP, MOTHERFUCKER!” Savage snatched the phone and ended the call. “This isn’t any love song dedication! The damn request line on Hot ’97! Playing all the classic jams… There is no, ‘And IIIIIIIIII, will always, love yoooou, Whitney Houston moment here to be had, you silly fuckface, you! FUCK THAT! You had years to give a shit! Don’t start pretending to do so now. Now get up…”
Moments later, Savage had the bastard hogtied on his bedroom floor.
“Pleeeease, don’t hurt me! I’m beggin’ you, man!” the guy pleaded, looking so feeble and stupid.
Savage smacked the shit out of him with the stock of his gun. Blood sprayed in all directions, and the man moaned and yelled so loud, it was music to his ears.
“Say, ‘I’m a whiny White bitch,’” Savage taunted.
The man looked at him with blood all over his face, hatred glowing in his eyes.
BAM!
He hit him again, starting a series of curses and cries.
“Say it!”
“I’M A WHIIITE BITCH! I’M A WHINY WHIIIITE BITCH! MAN, PLEASE STOOOOP!”
BAM!
“Say, ‘I like to hit women because I’m a punk ass waste of cum!’”
“I… I like to hit… women ’cause I’m uh puuuuunk ass… ass waste of cuuuum!” Spit and blood dribbled out of the man’s mouth, soaking his white shirt.
“You really don’t love your kids. Because if you did, you wouldn’t be doing what you’re doing to their mother. Now, you should count your lucky stars. Your ass got lucky today. I actually have some other shit to do.” Savage glanced down at his watch. “So I can’t stay here and play with you all damn day. Before I leave though, I’m going to cut out a piece of your tongue to make sure you can’t make any more calls to my woman, or your ex—well, you could, but you won’t be sayin’ much.” He cackled. “And since you like to beat up women, I’m taking that right hand, too… So, you get to live, but you’ll look a bit different. Now that’s a bargain. Do we have a deal?”
“OH GOD, NO! HEEEEELP! Somebody heeeeelp me!”
“I’ll leave the left hand so you can at least jerk off. See? I’m a compassionate son of a bitch today. I guess love can do that to ya, huh? Now be still…”
“AHHHHH!” Savage shot the fucker in the shoulder.
“Didn’t I tell you to be still? Now your left shoulder is all fucked up because you don’t know how to follow instructions. Tsk, tsk. How are you gonna masturbate in peace, man? It’s all in the wrist though, right? You should be just fine.”
Savage pulled out a sharp blade from his back pocket. The man’s eyes grew big as he blubbered and begged, cursed and wiggled about, trying to break free. “Let’s have a little small talk, you know, like how they do in the dental office during a root canal. Let’s see, oh I know what we can talk about. What do you like to jerk off to? Pictures of corn fields? Maybe chickens ’nd shit? Bawk! Bawk! Cock-A-Doodle-Doo!” He burst out in tears from laughing so hard.
“FUUUCK! Help! God!!! HEEELP! Oh my G—”
The blood quickly poured, pooling into the matted carpet fibers as Savage sliced off the tip of his tongue. He tossed the bit of flesh across the room then sliced the fiend’s right hand off with one swift chop. The wails of pain practically vibrated through the walls of that house. The moaning and shivering was a thing of beauty. Richard turned ghostly white. Savage pummeled the bastard’s chest and stomach with both his fists, tenderizing him, pouring all of his angst, hatred, and ugly desires into each blow. After he’d grown tired of the human punching bag, he stepped over the almost lifeless body and made his way to the door.
“After your very long recovery, Mr. Anderson, if you decide to contact your ex-wife, my lady, or any other woman and threaten them and I get wind of it—and believe me, I most certainly will—I will be back to finish the job. I hate loose ends anyway. Don’t make me return and strangle you with them…”
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Charity Begins At Home
Each room had its own vibe. Every space in the Spanish style mansion was bursting with layers of texture, paired with sleek design. Attractive contrasts abounded with all the muted earth tones balanced with pops of unexpected flair and color. Zaire’s heels clicked against his glossy wooden floors as she took it all in. It was exciting to stand in Savage’s home for the very first time. Definitely long overdue.
“Maximus, who is your decorator? Your house doesn’t look anything like I imagined it would.”
“His name is Paul François,” he answered, his b
ack towards her as he poured them each a glass of the good stuff, even though he wasn’t a fan of dry white wine. Perhaps he just had a bottle around for her. “How’d you expect it to look?” He placed the glass down before her as she slid onto a gray barstool, one of four that surrounded a polished glass and white breakfast bar.
“Less… I don’t know…” she shrugged, “put together. Definitely not like this. I really like it even though it isn’t to my personal taste.”
He stood for a while watching her, a strange fire in his eyes, his expression thoughtful. Sipping from his glass, he grimaced at the taste. He set the glass on the bar next to a bowl of glass fruit.
“I don’t know how you can drink that shit. Too dry!”
“Only classy people like it. That’s why it makes you sick,” she teased, poking fun at him.
He rested his elbows on the counter, getting in her personal space, invading her boundaries and observing her like some specimen. She relished his natural scent mingled with the slight lingering aroma of cigars, the mints he often devoured, and his cologne. She brought her wine glass to her lips and took a sip.
Damn. He always smells good. I wouldn’t mind taking a sip of him, too…
She inhaled, then exhaled, overdosing on his fragrance.
“If you ever run low on that cologne, you let me know. You smell so good.”
“Are you flirting with me?” He winked.
“Of course I am.” She winked back.
His signature musky, rich cologne surrounded her like sun rays, warming her emotions, giving her a sense of comfort. He looked good and relaxed too, in an open silky black button-down pajama shirt. A thin gold chain hung from his neck over his tattooed chest.
“Just so you know, baby, I have an assignment I need to leave for in the morning. I told you about it last week, but you may have forgotten.” He picked up a crumb from the counter and tossed it in a silver trashcan.
Assignment… He really kills me calling it that. Wait? Did I really just say kill? I am certain I could have chosen a better word.