The Curse of Lorraine

Prologue

Montreal City, Montreal… An elderly man walks up to his front door. It is springtime in Canada. The air brushed his face coldly as he opened the door, his son hugged him tight, and rushed into the house to grab his bike. The man stopped him, kneeled down and put a large wad of American dollars in his overalls. Then patted him on the shoulder.

§

The elderly man looked out his window as he drove along the narrow road circling the park. He stopped the car on the peak of the hill overlooking the rest of the area. He sat there and simply thought. Listening to his son's voice in his head over and over again.

“Papa, papa!”

“Who are those men?”

“Papa, papa!”

“I love you papa!”

"Je T'aime papa!”

He thought what he would teach his son. What legacy he would leave. The message he would reflect on for him. He hated working for the mob. They in his opinion were despicable criminals with grandeur delusions. Thugs and thieves who believed they were Kings & Counts. He didn't like confrontation, he didn't want to put his son in danger. He wouldn't. But what would his son think once he got older? He looked on at the beautiful leaves littering the park, he loved his son. Like an artist would love that view.

“Jean-Paul. Never relent. Never submit, never compromise. Remember these words son. Never stop, never be silenced. Do this my son. I pray you grow up to be a better man than your papa. Sil vous plait my dearest son. Be a better man than your dear old papa.”

Chapter 1

OTTAWA, CANADA, 25 YEARS LATER… Tall man reaches the end of a long hallway. It is dimly lit and the night time didn’t help visibility wise. The man slicks back his undercut. He looked along the edge of the hallway at the carnival at the bottom of the hill. Leland Bell’s house sat on top of this hill. With nearly bulletproof glass panels surrounding his huge house. Below about 15 miles there was a gypsy carnival taking place. The man wasn’t much excited about carnivals. Or anything really. His focus was something of legend of sorts. Leland, a thinly man with almost skeletal features in the face offered the man a glass of cognac. They then retreated to Leland’s white leather couch opposite the amazing view of the nighttime hillside of Ottawa.

“Basquiat, I again thank you for this meeting. I have as promised secured acute payment for your services. My only concern is the utmost discretion, I cannot have the likes of Mobsters and thugs knocking down my doorstep and ruining my funds. Much less my place of business.” Leland said in a calmly monotone voice

“I will secure your target, and nothing to go back to you. I thank you for the devolving of information. I appreciate these names.” Jean-Paul soothed in his bold french-canadian accent

“Here are the names, as well as the money, fifty-five thousand.” Leland said as he opened a suitcase on his coffee table separating himself and Basquiat.

“Good. I need info on your target for my end of the deal.”

“Of course, I actually called you on this meeting at my home specifically for this. You observed the carnival happening down the hill 15 miles from here yes?”

Basquiat nodded

“There is a man down there, he likes to attend these kind of events, carnivals and such I mean. So that he may rape teenage and young adult women at his leisure. Never gets caught. He happened to rape one of my secretaries. In fact, my personal secretary to be honest with you. To keep her from suing me I ask that you secure him away from the carnival and kill him. However maniacal as you please. As long as life leaves his body.” Leland explained, rather unbothered by the whole situation

“How did he get ahold of your secretary?”

“Well if you absolutely must further inquire. He’s a subclient of mine. He is represented by my law firm. they keep him out of trouble so that he can do certain things for me. But if he goes unpunished my secretary sues me and then I’ll have to kill her and cover it up and this and that the whole thing is too much to be concerned about. So this is much easier.”

“Give me a picture. And any additional info.”

“It is in the suitcase along with the list of names and your money.”

“When the job is done I will call you to confirm. vous voir bientot, mon ami.” Basquiat said as he got up to leave

“Bonjour, mon ami.” Leland said with a wave

Basquiat hopped in his ‘78 Mustang GT fastback, looking at the picture of his target with great detail. Taking in every feature. He sat there a good five minutes before he got his gun out of his doorside bottom compartment. He loaded a thick, 25 round clip into his customized tactical Tech-9. And rode down to the carnival. Nice and slow. He parked the car off the road towards town, and walked slowly into the entrance. Blending in almost instantly. He didn’t bother with the picture yet, lowlifes who prey often sulk in the shadows by their mark. And if this carnival was anything worth its ticket price, there would most definitely be a kissing booth, or something of that nature. He took in all of his surroundings as he walked deeper into the carnivals congested crowd, noting the unsurprising presence of the gypsies. He surveyed for all possible areas he would lure girls into. It didn’t take long to spot out his target however, he stood out appropriately. Owning that he didn’t belong, Basquiat hesitated to pull out his handgun, the last thing he needed was an unclear shot at his target. What with crowds of panicking people around, not that he cared. He kept his tunnel vision on the man, he was gaunt, almost skeletal, yet appeared vaguely dangerous. He fit the bill for his type, weaklings who needed a sense of power. Jean-Paul watched from afar as his prey singled out a girl.

Talked to her, smoothly lured her away from the crowd. Looking all the more creepy as he did so, Basquiat followed slowly.

☨

The man ran like a bat out of hell towards the entrance (the only way in and out of the carnival). Pushing over any in his way, pulling out his switchblade to slice at everyone not clearing a path. His right shoulder was bleeding badly. Basquiat holstered his gun, he had done all he needed to, to separate the man from the crowd. He followed calmly, with this many people at the carnival he would only need to run if they actually got the fuck out of the way. The man sliced at an old man’s throat trying to push past him. Everyone who saw screamed louder and cleared a path, the man ran for his life, like a dog running from a put-down. Jean-Paul stopped by the old man, as something had compelled him to do so, he held pressure on his wound, it didn’t take long for someone to come aid him. Basquiat tossed out a pack of sea salt and stitches and ran off.

The man was scared so shitless he couldn’t even find the right key to get into his car, he smashed the window and got in, push starting the engine, driving off. Basquiat was right behind him, he yanked the door open to get in, but his hind ears heard a whistling noise. He already knew what this meant, hoping he was wrong he slammed the door shut. His tires were slashed. No doubt the target in an effort to get away. Jean-Paul banged his fist onto the roof, cursing in french. No doubt someone had already called the police, it’d only be a matter of time before they arrived. The remoteness of the carnival worked in his favor, he’d have enough time to get away long before they show up. A girl came out to beckon to him.

“You saved my pere.” she said, her tone afraid and whiney

Jean-Paul turned around and looked blankly at her, a hint of frustration on his face

“Okay.”

“I am very grateful.”

“And?” he said after a short silence

“He would like to thank you. Before the police arrive. Please.”

“Fine.”

She lead him to the first aid booth near the entrance, standby nurses aided the old man who was sliced. Jean-Paul kneeled beside him, to hear whatever whisper he felt coming.

the old man’s voice was raspy, and barely audible. Almost faint and squeaky, like a vintage supervillain.

“le coup de foudre. coup de tonnerre.” He choked, coughed, but quickly continued before he was questioned. “l’homme de foudre. homme de foudre. coup de foudre de la mort.”

Basquiat, obviously confused by these meaningless repetitive choice of words. Got up, shaking his head.

“He might be crazy, your father. He’s too old.” he growled at the girl, walking off towards his car.

☨

Jean-Paul ran towards Leland’s house, then stopped, that’d take him too long. The target is still within reach if he stole a vehicle. He’d merely change the tire but didn’t have the time, especially with police on the way. He ran towards a parked car, breaking in and hotwiring it with ease. Starting off in the target’s direction. Fury in his eyes.

☨

Godfrey Gray, serial rapist and predator of underage young ladies. He was in a cold sweat driving as fast as he could. That monster of a man was no doubt sent by the mobster guy with the nice hair. He took advantage of his secretary, he couldn’t help it, he also, couldn’t have known who she had pull with. Had he known he probably would’ve killed her to be safe. This he thought to himself all the while trying to find a place to hide on these roadways, he heard sirens but couldn’t tell from which direction, he knew he wouldn’t last all the way back to the city. And no doubt he probably pissed the guy off by slashing his tires. He drove off the side of the road and into the countryside grass. Turning off the car and trying to think what could be done.

Meanwhile, Jean-Paul sped in his direction, he was tailing him the whole time. Taking out his gun as he slowed down a ways away from Gray’s car. He crept up to the passengers' side. Preparing to dump his clip into Godfrey’s skull. He heard a faint dial tone though, and decided to listen.

“Ben, Ben it’s me. It’s fucking Goddie, man! I need your help man I’m in deep shit.” Godfrey started to sob pathetically, cracking under all the stress. “I don’t wanna fucking die man, Leland, he sent this guy, this big fucker man. Please Ben, oh god please man! He looked like something outta the fucking terminator movies man. Please gimme somewhere to lay low man please I’m begging ya.!” Godfrey happened to glance into his passenger mirror and saw the tip of a gun. His eyes widened with horror and he immediately sped off. Jean-Paul backed up and took about five shots into the back of the car. Then ran back to his vehicle to continue pursuit. Godfrey was hit in the ear and grazed on the neck, but kept driving off adrenaline. It didn’t take long for Basquiat to catch up to him. Ramming the back of Godfrey’s car, then slamming into the side of him trying to spin him out of control. Behind tears Godfrey sped up as fast as he could, swinging the car opposite of Basquiat, then yanking the wheel full speed into the Jean-Paul’s driver’s side. Slamming JP’s car through the guard rails and into a ditch.

Godfrey yelped out a meek sound of joy and sped off to Ben’s club. Wiping the sweat from his forehead.

Meanwhile Basquiat thought for sure he was done. He was no optimist, he accepted death whenever it bared its ugly head. He laid there face on the steering wheel, bleeding from his head. He hated the mere thought of giving up in any aspect of life. But he did understand when a fight was over. He let it slip in.

His eyes shot open suddenly, An agonizing pain licked his face. The smell of searing flesh filled his nostrils, and the pain of his skin sizzling off filled his whole body. He let out an intense scream of anguish. Unbuckling quickly and slamming his shoulder into the door to get out. Forgetting it was caved in by the slam. He popped it out of place, yelling out in more agony, the burning on his face wasn’t letting up either. He kicked the passenger door open and crawled out,. Rolling around in the grass, trying to get the fire to go out. But it persisted, he didn’t see any flames from the car but couldn’t deny his face was being burnt mercilessly. He yelled and screamed, long buried tears finally escaping his eyes.

For ten long minutes he laid there screaming out in torture. Until the burning subsided, suddenly, and without warning. His eyes were shut tighter than his clenched fist. There he laid, not wanting to open his eyes, not wanting to know if he had just lost an eye, half his face, or worse. But he did, slowly, both eyes. He got up, shoulder still out of place and limp. He felt his face, to feel the severity of the burn, but felt nothing, the car wasn’t in flames either. He ran to the side mirror to look at his face. Nothing. Nothing at all, stood there bewildered for the longest five minutes ever. Then shook it off, searching the car. Grabbing his Tec-9 and lumbered along the road, awaiting for an unlucky good samaritan.

☨

Godfrey got out of the car, walking through the side alley of L'Entreprise risquee Night Club. The bodyguards knew who he was, but hesitated to let him in, Grey’s habits weren’t much of a secret among the underground. He got in anyway, going straight to the back of the club. Where there were two huge bodyguards standing tall into front of the V.I.P. section (stairs leading up to an overview of the entire club.).

“Let me through, I need to see Rique.” He hissed

“Got a fucking appointment?” One of them huffed, starting to growl

“Yes, Yes I fucking called him, let me through man! It’s life or death.”

“That wouldn’t necessarily be a bad thing.”

The guard wasn’t using sarcasm.

“Let me the fuck through, asshole!”

“You cause any trouble, give anybody the creeps. It won’t be Rique you’ll have to worry about seeing. Hurry it up, faggot.” One of them said roughly, letting him pass.

Godfrey power walked up the steps, tripping and falling midway up. Reaching the top, Rique came into view, multiple women on both sides of him. He was a slim man, low-cut fade, looked puerto-rican almost. And probably by ancestry. He, like most confident club owners with money and the night-life at their fingertips of control. Wore shades to cover how high he was. He stiffened slightly as Godfrey approached, looking particularly slimey.

“Rique, I need your help, it’s important man. He’s trying to fucking kill me! He’s probably on his way now man, right fucking now!”

Rique’s smirk faded slowly, he knew Godfrey only came to him for two reasons, to ask permission to victimize some poor girl, or if someone was on his ass. He got lots of criticism for helping out a serial rapist, but money was money. No matter whom it came from. To him, it didn’t matter whose hands it came from, but only whose hands it was going into. He sat up, beckoning Godfrey to follow him into his skyview office above the club and the V.I.P. section. He locked the door behind him. Going behind his bar, making himself a white russian, keeping his hands busy. He knew whatever Godfrey had to say wouldn’t be nice, and it’d most likely piss him off. Protecting a creep like him got annoying with time.

“Who wants you dead this time, Gray?” he asked tiredly

“It’s really bad this time, Rique. He won’t fucking stop, came at me in the middle of my…. Process. And almost killed me. I have no doubt he’s on his fucking way here right now.”

“That doesn’t answer my question, Godfrey. I cannot help you if I don’t know who to call off. Or pay off for that matter.”

“This isn’t another pissed off individual, Rique. It’s a hit. Leland sent a fucking hitman after me! Please Rique, It’s not any motherfucker. It’s Basquiat.”

Rique stopped making his drink as soon as he heard the name. This was indeed, gradually annoying and ruining his night before it had time to start. Most of the canadian underground of crime knew of Basquiat. He wasn’t an ordinary contractor, he was, exclusively, for when someone needed to be dead within the same day. He never took payoffs, never deviated from his contract, always killed whoever he was sent to kill.

Rique sat down, downing the drink quickly.

“What did you do this time, Godfrey?”

“I don’t know man, I don’t fucking know who this time.” Godfrey said frantically, pacing back and forth

“Anyone high profile? Anyone you shouldn’t be fucking with?”

“I don’t know Rique, damnit I don’t know! I can’t think right now.”

“You’d better start thinking Gray! You’ve got the fucking terminator possibly on his way to my club with god knows what intentions! Think, or get the fuck out of my club!” Rique shouted furiously, standing up in clear anger.

☨

Basquiat came through the crowd, without his gun in his hand. Almost as if unphased, for some reason something told him he’d be here. Rique Lebleu housed anyone and everyone who’d pay him, or work a job for him. It wouldn’t be a surprise for Godfrey to come here, scared, panicky, needing asylum. He went straight to the V.I.P. section,

“The boss is in a meeting.” One said stiffly

Basquiat didn’t need to be the tough guy, he pulled out 130 CADS, holding it up for them to see.

“Can I get in now, fellas?” he said, watching that look the guards gave each other.

They took the money, letting him through promptly.

“Don’t start any shit, man.”

“I got no beef with Rique. Just a business call.”

He walked up the steps, one hand in his pocket ready to go inside his jacket on the whip of a second. There were only girls here, sitting around drinking, Rique must’ve been in the office. Talking with Godfrey no doubt. He didn’t bother alerting them by pulling his gun out. The element of surprise would be the best way to kill this worm. He went in the back towards Rique’s private office. Peaking in as best he could, he couldn’t see Godfrey, so he perched his ear to the door, listening in.

“Rique please! I know he’s coming, he’s gonna bust through your doors any second and blow this place to shit.” He pleaded.

“Godfrey, calm down. If we see him, you’ll be escorted through the back alley. That’s the best I can do. As a matter of fact, we’ll get you a car and you can go now. This way you avoid having to make a scene. Is this alright?”

Basquiat heard all he needed to know, he walked back down the steps, patting the guards on the back, nodding his head. Disappearing into the crowd.

“Yes, yes that’s fine! Thank you my friend.”

“You’ll owe me for a job Godfrey. A big one. I’m not giving you any more freebies after this one. You know the rules, you will work this one off.”

“Yes, yes of course.”

They trotted down the steps. Rique instructed one of the guards to get a car, the other mentioned a man coming up there to see him. Godfrey’s eyes grew huge with fear, he made a run for the back alleyway exit, pushing and shoving anyone who became an obstacle. Basquiat, followed from far off, taking out his Mauser. Keeping it at his hip, walking with stride, calmly. His eyes never leaving Godfrey; he used the shadows of the club as his cover. Gray couldn’t see him that well, but he knew Basquiat was there, waiting. He (Godfrey), charged through the back doors into the alleyway parking lot. Looking desperately for a car, Basquiat went through the doors along with him, running up behind him slapping the butt of his gun across the back of Godfrey’s head, two security guards came out. Basquiat turned his gun swiftly to them. Giving them an urgent stare, as a lion would another over fresh zebra. They raised their hands defensively, backing up into the doors, going back in, watching. He stepped over Godfrey, gun still pointed towards them. He looked them in the eyes, sending them a message to back off. They ran for Rique. He knew they were. He didn’t have much time, Rique would buy Godfrey more time, he didn’t feel like killing Rique either.

Crouching down to Godfrey, who was reeling from that blow. He smiled, shoving the barrel of his gun in Godfrey’s face.

“From Leland, to you, Godfrey Gray. Courtesy of his secretary, and my fucking car.”

Basquiat shot him in the back on the leg first, just to hear him scream. To relish it for a second. But the guards were coming, he shot Godfrey in the head, twice. Then rushed off into the garage, stealing the nearest car. Speeding off like a thunderbolt across the sky.

☨

Chapter 2

Basquiat was home, safe and sound. But something felt wrong. He had already text Leland the confirmation of the kill. It was five hours later. Surely Rique would be calling around asking who ordered the hit, to bill them for damages, if their were any at all (there weren’t.). But his skin felt prickly, unsettled, he began feeling hotter and hotter. He dropped both his guns on the table, ripping off his clothes. Trying to get some air. He checked his C.A.S. it was on, and very cold. He started to feel a burning sensation again, the same as before.

Only if intensified this time, Basquiat fell to the floor, howling in agony, tears streaming down his face, as if he were being branded, cooked alive, and killed all at once. He felt his flesh rip apart from heat, a choking smoke cloud his lungs, his eyes roll back. He struggles around, kicking and beating on everything, screaming to the top of his lungs. He felt his very skull catch fire. Trying to will himself up, he shot himself up quickly to his feet. Running blindly towards the bathroom, unable to even open up his eyes, he always kept a nice ice bath ready for him before any job, to soak away any pain from physical activity. He dived straight into the bath. Screaming as even the icy cold water shocked his senses, but still didn’t quell the fire on his skin. He stumbled around, knocking everything down, punching walls, trying to wrestle with the pain.

He fell to his knees, eyes rolling back farther, the pain becoming too much, his senses overloading, his eyelids relaxed suddenly, as he fell to the floor. Out. Unconscious.

☨

Jean-Paul awoke. Five hours later. His body feeling different, feeling more durable, solid, unstoppable. He felt lighter, thinner, yet bulky, and strong. He got up his feet and surveyed his room, looking for alcohol (as evidence to what could’ve made him blackout). He remembered the pain but couldn’t think of what caused it. After 15 long minutes of nothing he slumped down into his armchair, the cold faux leather icy against his skin. He thought long and hard about the job yesterday, his mind bringing him back to the crash. It could’ve been that, an intense migraine of some sort. Though he couldn’t think of why a migraine would be that painful. Concussion maybe? That’d explain most of it, he did fall upside down in the car. Plus the lights from the club could’ve set it off even worse.

Basquiat shook his head and grabbed a sprite from his fridge. Thinking too much, concussion, simple as that. He checked his email through his phone, making sure Leland wired his money through. He didn’t feel like having to make a house call. ----------------------------------------- $500,000 -------------------------------------------------

It was good. Not enough for the trouble but he didn’t care. There’d be others. Maybe he could meet with Rique to discuss killing Leland to cover the fee of breaking neutral grounds. He went to the bathroom to wash his face. Firstly, drawing lukewarm water. Looking up at his reflection. Dropping his sprite can. Jumping back into the door. Yelling out in surprise. And horror.

☨

Basquiat stomped through the carnivals setup team, it was daylight, they were cleaning, getting ready (for the night soon to come). He could sense they were still here, and he knew a gypsy tent when he saw one. But they were probably sleeping, so he yanked a carny boy to the side and slammed him against some of the acts’ trailers. The boy was a quick giveup. Quickly power-walking up to the far off gypsy tent, he cocked back his tech. Just in case. Barging in quickly, seeing the girl.

He grabbed her by the scruff of her blouse, lifting her off the ground.

“Where is the old man, woman?” He said roughly, with no signs of hesitation in his voice.

“Please, please my papa is a good man. He gave you a blessing. Don’t hurt me! Please!”

“Does this look, like a blessing?” He said, slowly pulling his gun out of its eager holster. “I’m only going to ask you once more, mademoiselle. Where is the old man?”

“I am back here, serviteur de Lorraine. Come forth, but do not hurt my child.” a old, raspy yet gentle voice came from further back, down a platform which lead to the back of the tent.

Basquiat put her down, tucking his tech 9 back in its holster. Staring deep into her eyes while doing so, then marched back to confront the old man.

“What did you fucking do to me, gypsy? I save your life and you curse me. I’m not the man you want to fuck with. You will remove this damned thing off my face, or I’ll guide my bullets up your daughters legs. Then I’ll see to you with less kind manner.” Jean-Paul growled.

The old gypsy man chuckled heartedly, believing every word he said, but still laughing hysterically like some evil movie character often would.

“I did not curse you, my angry friend. Young Basquiat I give you a gift. A gift you’ll need for those deep, hateful things you wish to do. Jean-Paul Pierre Basquiat, I gave you, the greatest gift that can be given. A thank you, for saving my life.”

“What are you talking about? How the hell do you know anything of me?!”

“Sit down, Basquiat. I will tell you everything you wish. But you must put your gun away, far away. I do not trust the anger or impulse of a killer of men.”

Jean-Paul stood there in disbelief, utter shock. This old man knew far too much, he obviously knew more. But how?! Basquiat quickly took out the tech’s mag, uncocked it and caught the bullet in the chamber, then threw his gun to the floor, kicking it away from him. Tossing the mag (carefully) onto the gypsy’s floor pillow as well. Then sat, indian style. Silent.

“Do you know where Lorraine is? Young Basquiat.” the man said, making tea as he spoke

“The city? It is an hour’s drive from here, give or take. What does Quebec have to do with anything?”

“Did you know there is a region in France, also called Lorraine?” the old man made Jean-Paul a cup, placed it at his feet, and sat down on his knees.

“There is also, Basquiat. Saint Stephen, the first man to die for our lord and savior. A deacon, in the church of Jerusalem. His cross, the cross of Lorraine. Is what is sealed into your skull, young Basquiat.”

J.P. sat in silence, not saying a word, letting the man explain.

“The mark of Lorraine is a powerful and blessed one. Whomever has it can do things beyond your mind’s comprehension, young Basquiat. You ask how I know you. Heh heh.” The old man rolled up his sleeve, showing the same cross of lorraine tattoo seared in his skin. It was fading.

“The cross of lorraine allows you to see whatever you wish to see, do whatever you wish to, my friend. Do you know of french philosophy my friend?”

“No.”

“Hermes Trismegistus. As above, so below, as within, so without, as the universe, so the soul.”

There was a short silence from both of them. The old man waiting for J.P. to understand, and Jean-Paul waiting to be enlightened because he couldn’t comprehend what he was being told.

“What does any of this have to do with this damned curse, gypsy?” Basquiat said rather bluntly

“Say the words, my friend. Say the words. And think of something differently.”

Jean-Paul let out an annoyed sigh and stood up. Frustration clear on his face.

“Young one! Please! Let me show you.” the old man said, worried for his safety. He looked at Basquiat’s gun, muttering something under his breath, he looked at the tech. Waiting for whatever to happen happen. Nothing. Taking his eyes off the gun and onto the old man, he saw a pained expression. As if he were putting all his being into this.

“I’m not going to ask you again, gypsy. How did you do this? And take it off!” He said, drawing closer.

“I’m not as strong as I once was. I am old, young Basquiat. But maybe I can persuade you this way. I have never in my life met you. Yet I know your name, your occupation, what you drive, who your father was, who your mother was, where you were born, what you eat for breakfast, the color of the underwear you wore last night. I even know your plan for the men you work for, whom you despise the most.”

“What the fuc- How do you know these things?!” He grabbed the old man by the collar now, lifting him up off the ground and pushing him against the tent walls.

“Who are you, old man?! Talk! Or I swear to God, you’ll never wal-”

The old man has disappeared right before his eyes, as if falling into a portal of nothingness. He literally disappeared right from his hands. Basquiat jumped back, tripping over the teapot, then the small tea table, then the pillows, falling on his face. “What the fuck? What the fuck?! Where did he go?” He thought to himself. Getting up quickly, going for his gun, but it was nowhere to be find. It had vanished from the spot he tossed it over to. Frantically looking for it, flipping everything over in a rush to get out of there. He couldn’t find it. Basquiat ran out the tent, brushing past the daughter.

The old man smiled as Basquiat astonishingly feel to the ground once more. Right in front of him, with his gun in his hand. He tossed it at Basquiat. Then offered his hand.

“Say the words, my friend. Let me show you, the gift I’ve given you.”

Jean-Paul laid there in amazement, shocked not knowing what to do. He (by instinct) took the man’s hand. Stuttering trying to think of what fucking words the old gypsy said in the first place. They said them together.

“As above. So Below.”

Chapter 3

Basquiat found himself back in time, within a dream almost. Back to the car crash last night. Standing on the opposite side of the road. With the old man.

“Every cause has it’s effect, as every effect has its cause. You saved my life, so I gave you the power of lorraine. That man was part of your job, so you killed him. You could not see what I gave you, so I show you. Everything is dual, young Basquiat. Everything, has its opposite. You here, you felt the mark of lorraine sear itself into your skull. But could not see it onto your skin yet.”

Before Jean-Paul could mutter a word, the very fabric of the world in which he stood in changed. Like a viewing room switching scenes. He was now in his apartment, watching himself shake and convulse to the pain of the scar.

“Everything flows. Everything vibrates. Nothing rest. The pendulum swing manifest in everything. It is why we are able to see what happened to you last night. It is how I know everything about you. The cross gives us the power to manifest these principles into reality. The reality created by Hermes. His seven principles offer you all the explanation you seek about this power.”

“I… I don’t understand… How is this possible?”

“Because. With the cross you are given the ability to access the realms of these principles. You are able to do whatever you conceive Basquiat. Try it. Say the words, and think of a time in your life. It will appear.”

Basquiat hesitated at first, but did so, thinking hard about something not on public record. He thought of his father making him a bowl of poutine for breakfast before school.

The ground manifested into his old home. His father, in the kitchen, his younger self, coming down the stairs, with the biggest grin as he smelled the gravy.

Basquiat jumped back, thinking to comprehend it all, and did just that. The scenes of every moment of his life flashed before his eyes, the full capability of the cross flashed itself before him. He saw it all in a rush, a slow, long, maddening rush.

☨

He awoke. In his home. Resting on his leather armchair. J.P. quickly got up and looked in the mirror, the cross of lorraine was still there, almost glaring back at him, hideously beautiful. He slumped down to the floor, amazement, shock, and depression. He didn’t know what to do with this. He was usually calm and collect about things, but this was nothing he could rationalize, nothing he could explain. He sat his head back, and simply thought about it all.

Secluding himself for weeks, he explored his newfound abilities, testing them, thinking about them. Jean-Paul read up on Hermes and the seven principles. He read up on the philosopher's stone, he read and studied everything available on the things the old man told him. And it astounded him. Almost leaving him speechless, but an overwhelming sense of familiar calm began to flood over him around the last weeks of his self imposed seclusion. He began to accept the fact that he was stuck with this scar (a tattoo he often referred to it as) and it’s abilities, as a part of his life now. He even thought of a story to compensate for his absence and the cross. He couldn’t let anyone know what he now could do, but he also wouldn’t dare turn into a sudden cliche charity case. The mission was still at hand. And now was a perfect time as any.

“No More Games. No More Bombs. No More Walking. No More Fun. No More Swimming. 67. That is 17 years past 50. 17 more than I needed or wanted. Boring. I am always bitchy. No Fun – for anybody. 67. You are getting Greedy. Act your old age. Relax – This won’t hurt.”

Jean-Paul closed his eyes, imagining where he wanted to be; where he wanted to go. Imagining the whole world at once. But focused on one location. And as he opened his eyes for what seemed a century (only five seconds), he was there. Toronto, Ontario, in a quiet little suburb he saw in a magazine. The wave of disbelief seemed to miss him entirely. He couldn’t believe he had actually teleported, but he also was not surprised he could. It all seemed true. It all was real. Basquiat, of course played around with this newfound ability. Robbing the various food trucks of their tacos, pizzas, or American food. And robbing banks freely and without thought nor plan, or heist. JP was amazed at what he could do, but he wanted to know more.

☨

The gypsy’s name was Petsha Loiza, his daughter’s name was Khole. The old man was actually younger than he looked (or said) apparently he was 67 years old. He brought Jean-Paul out to a secluded part of the countryside. With nothing but an old revolver with him.

“You’ll need to know how to fight. I would imagine your line of work permits you know this anyway. But you do not know how to fight with Lorraine. You’ll need to be much more quicker than you already are, you cannot simply win with brute strength. You’ll need to use the art of predicting the enemy. It’ll make things much easier. Especially with Lorraine.”

“It’s a tattoo for the most part, Loiza. Why do you insist on naming it?”

“It’s more than a tattoo as you’ve probably figured out, young Basquiat. It’d do you a lot of good to become intimate with it. Speaking of intimacy, you’ll also have to learn how to use this power. I’m sure you’ve been testing it out. But there is danger that comes along with it.”

“What kind of danger?” Basquiat said, taking a step closer.

“Here” Loiza held his palm flat, the old revolver lying within it. “Make this float.”

“How? Imagine it?”

“No, believe it is floating. Believe it, see it in your mind. And it will become.”

Jean-Paul stood, planted in the ground; thinking as hard as he could. To no avail, even after 5 long minutes of silence and trying.

Loiza chuckled, “You are mine for the next week, young Basquiat. I will teach you yet how to control Lorraine.”

Jean-Paul glared at him, unsure whether to threaten him or thank him.

☨

Basquiat had learned over what took 3-4 long weeks the entire blueprint of the human brain, how to work it, it’s thought process, and the art of concentration. Jean-Paul walked outside, his car would be arriving soon. The thought of Godfrey slashing his tires still slightly angered him, but the thought quickly died. Loiza walked out with him, placing a and on his broad, tall shoulder.

“Young Basquiat, I wish you well in your business of blood. You are no saint, I’ve seen that, but your heart is pure enough as it’ll ever get I suppose. These last few weeks we’ve spent will be among my last.”

“What are you dying of, Petsha?” Basquiat said blankly

“I’m old, Jean-Paul. Not even Lorraine can save me from that. I’ve lived long enough to see this country go from war, to peace, to another war, to unsettled times, to today. Where I die, or the most humorous irony God could ever make for me.”

“And what’s that? That there was no point in saving your life? Since you are going to die anyway?” with a cold tone

“That, and that I pass my gift to one who kills, because he saved me from being killed.”

“That is funny, Patsha. Almost like a killing joke. What will come of your daughter?”

“It’d be foolish to ask you to watch after her, She is a capable woman, she’ll make a way for herself. She’s seen this day coming.”

“It would be foolish. But nonetheless I wish you the best, and I’ll keep her safe from anything. I owe you this. She’ll be under my care if she chooses.”

“Merci, mon ami.”

“I’ll return in a few days. If you’re dead, I’ll be sure to bring her with me.” Basquiat placed a hand in return on Loiza’s shoulder as his car pulled up. The driver getting out and immediately getting into the passenger’s seat.

“Merci, mon ami. Je suis toujours reconnaissant.”

“Don’t die, Basquiat. Ever.”

“Age will never kill me, Patsha. Rest assured.” He said with a smile.

Heading to his car, he pulled off. Driving into the city, dropping off the man. And then heading to the first name on the list.

Chapter 4

Rique paced back and forth thinking of what to say to Basquiat, he was shaking with anger, which amplified at Jean-Paul’s calmness. He didn’t put up the least bit of hesitation or annoyance when his men intercepted him on the highway. He sat down courteously and poured himself a glass of bourbon. Watching Rique riddle himself with vile thoughts and insults to hurl at him, probably knowing he’d act on none of them.

“You broke my neutrality code, Basquiat. You have some balls sitting there as if you aren’t some smug, careless buffoon! You barged in here, knowing my policy. Are you some kind of asshole?! Fucking Basquiat, thinking you can come into MY FUCKING CLUB!” Rique rambled on, getting angrier and angrier as he went on

“You’re overreacting, Rique”

Rique slammed his hands on his desk, getting in Basquiat’s face

“THIS CLUB IS NEUTRAL GROUND, DAMNIT! Not, a FUCKING hunting ground for whatever schmuck you were hired to kill! Can you not get that through your thick, head?!”

“Rique.” Jean-Paul took a long, final chug of the bourbon, finishing it off then placing it neatly on its coaster. Standing up, towering over Rique.

“Did any of your clubgoers get hurt, injured, killed, or maimed?”

A long pause, Rique didn’t know how to respond.

“Answer my question, Rique. Did any of your patrons get harmed in any physical way?”

“No, of course not, Bu-”

“Did any of your inventory get damaged, broken, stolen, or contaminated?”

“No.”

“Did I fire any shots, in your club, Rique?”

“No you didn’t, Basquiat.”

“Did I kill any of your patrons?”

“No, you-”

“Did I kill, beat up, or intimidate any of your men and security team?”

“No.”

“Did I do any damage to anything in your club?”

“N-”

“Then why, is this a problem? I killed Godfrey outside your club, in the back alley. His body was in the loading dock after I finished. Other than a body, and some minor blood to clean up, what neutrality did I break, Rique? Please, tell me. I’d love to know.” Basquiat said both seriously and sarcastically

Rique was silent, he hadn’t thought of the incident for what it was. But took it for what it stood for: a sign of no fear. He knew Jean-Paul could care less about his neutral grounds, but goading someone he was giving asylum to was coldly blatant and uncaring, he thought Basquiat would’ve killed Godfrey either way. But the facts were there, and sobering, he sunked down in his seat, silking his oily hair back.

“What’s with the ink?” He said after a long silence

“It’s a fashion statement.” Basquiat said dismissively, walking out the door to the office

“I didn’t take you to be religious. A cross? It’s weird looking, is it one of those, nazi racist things?”

“It’s the cross of Lorraine, google it.”

☨

“So, you’re interested in employment, you say?” Monty LeCroix said with hands folded, occasionally scratching his thick, mutton chops. Staring blankly at Basquiat, who sat rather robotically in the leather armchair across from him, sunken back into the leather, as if it were him hiring.

“Yes, I’ve been getting multiple offers of contractual employment from most of the families. I would prefer to stay freelance but, the money is in the contracts.”

“How do you figure?”

“You have your guys, I have me. If we were somehow on a collision course to a single target it would make me lose more money than I would gain. Your people also tend to send two, or three of your guys on one simple job just to save the money you would have had to pay me for instance. It makes more sense to start negotiating.”

“Point taken. What are you exactly negotiating? Payment, I would suppose?”

“That, and the terms. Opportunity to move up in position, of course.”

“It does sound like a good deal, Jean-Paul.” Monty said as he lit his cigar

“Then do we have a deal or not?”

“Sure.”

“Draw up a contract.”

Monty scoffed and laughed a little, then coughed a terrible, raspy smoker’s cough.

“This ain’t exactly corporate, Basquiat. Don’t ya think you’re being a little too serious pal?”

“I only do business with a contract, Monty. You know this.”

“C’mon Jean, don’t make me do all that fuckin’ paperwork. Look, we have a deal, you got the job.”

Basquiat stood up slowly, towering over Monty. Looking down at him, deep into his eyes.

“Get me. A contract.”

“There’s no need for any of that Jean. You want a contract? You got it. Fine. Just gimme a few days to draw it up, and I’ll call you. I promise.”

“Michel wouldn’t have set this meeting up without one, Monty. He knows how I do business. Don’t try to cheat me.”

A long silence ensued from Monty, his forehead precipitated with sweat. He finally gave in, and got the contract out of his brown leather briefcase. Complete with lining rows of money.

“Heres your fucking contract asshole. And your money.”

“Count it while I sign.”

“It’s all there, Basquiat. Thirty-two hundred fifty-six dollars. All in CADs like you asked.”

“Will you please just count the money, Monty? Haven’t you tired of trying to fuck me out of my money?”

“I marked the bill holders. Count it yourself.”

Basquiat handed the contract over to Monty. Then took the briefcase.

“Why so sour Monty?”

“Why are you so damn difficult, Basquiat? Everyone else gets American dollars, no contract bullshit, and a phone with the app. And go about their fucking day. You come in here like some fucking accountant acting like this is real estate or some shit.”

“One, our country’s dollar is more in value than theirs. I like to have things in writing so that when and if you, your men, Michel, or anyone else tries to fuck me over, I have an contractual obligation to kill you, him, and anyone else who draws a gun on me. Does that answer your question?”

“Look, download the app specified in the contract. It’s how we communicate. All the money will be wired to your bank account via direct deposit. There’ll be no need for intense secrecy. We have everything backed and covered. On paper, we’re a personal security agency that deals in a multitude of occupational businesses that may need our protection. So you won’t need to worry about the cops. Once you download and sign in, just be ready whenever a job comes your way.”

“Pleasure doing business, Monty. It’s always fun.”

“Fuck you, Basquiat. Personally, I think you take yourself too seriously. There’s a hundred, hell thousands of other hitmen way cheaper. That do the same thing. You act as if you’re any better. It pisses me off.”

“If you have a problem, Monty. Then fix it.”

“Oh please, you’re not that dumb Basquiat. The tattoos and the scary stories don’t scare me. It’s amazing you’re not in jail yet.”

“Try me, Monty.” Basquiat stepped closer. Getting chest to nose with him.

“Please try me.”

Monty looked him up and down, looking for any signs of weapons. He backed off after a long intense 3 minutes of staring up at him.

“Welcome to the family, Basquiat.”

“Glad to be in business, Monty.”

☨

Basquiat had many sides to him, his reputation as a hitman for one was his cold, calm, precise demeanor. Which uneased many people around him. Thus his longtime freelance status. But Monty referenced a side of him only few get to see and live to talk to about; his inherent and spontaneous outburst of rage and intense anger. He was known for losing his usually high temperament when things didn’t go right. He always had a backup plan, but whenever there had to be a plan c, he didn’t like it. Things as little as someone giving him a dirty look while on a difficult job could set him off. What Monty meant by “scary stories” was one in particular of Basquiat hunting down a target. Who saw him coming and fled, Basquiat in pursuit, was hit by a reckless driver. Which allowed for the target to get farther away seemingly. Basquiat was on a time limit. And got so inflamed with angry he got out the car promptly, dragged the driver out of the car, and emptied his pistol clip into his chest and head. Then killed every passenger in the driver’s car, which included a woman and a man. He then carjacked a garbage truck and ran into the target who was hiding out in a public grocery store. Basquiat drove the truck through the windows and smashed him under the front wheels. Killing three families.

“Download this app. It will be the only form of communication regarding jobs. You’ll download the app. Make the dummy profile, then the app will ask you to search your respective business. Enter Simard Holdings LLC. Then type in this number. It’ll ID you, and you’ll be have an eye of everything. That’s how you’ll be getting your jobs, and how you’ll be getting paid.”

Monty slipped a business card with a code on it. Jean Paul’s name was printed smaller beneath it. To which Jean scoffed at

“And I’m the one being too corporate, Monty?”

Basquiat walked out, leaving no room for the embarrassed Monty to give a reply. He knew Basquiat was right, but couldn’t dare to give any proper reasoning on why career savvy moves were frowned upon so heavily.

☨

1 month later… The shadowy mist of Ottawa’s downtown scene was sexy. Photogenic, and great cover. Basquiat slipped into the backdoor of the small garage compound. There was loud music being played, probably to keep everyone awake and alert. It was a graveyard shift after all. Perfect, he’d shift through the compound in excellent stealth.

“I get drugs for the right price. She gone eat this molly like it’s rice.”

Basquiat moved in long, deliberate steps. Wrapping his large forearms around the neck of an unsuspecting guard squeezing his throat, using the weight of his muscle and the force from his shoulder to snap the man’s neck with a swift movement.

“Say she never had a migo night, i’m gone make her sing like kelly price.”

Basquiat stalked the nearest guards in the shadows of the dark, there were little to no windows so he had the advantage of complete darkness, save for the lights illuminating 85% of the building. That was more than enough for him. But he never minded a complete advantage. He kept his eyes trained on the one glass window he had in sight. Concentrating on it.

“Comme ci-dessus ci-dessous”

“As above, so below.”

The entire area went dark, as if devoid of any moonlight. Basquiat moved silently, snatching up guards one at a time, slitting throats, stabbing in the head, precisely cutting down the enforcers like walking, talking dominoes waiting to be knocked down. All without alarm, only the fear and anxiety of the lights going out to an extreme. And the shouts from them to one another desperate for communication. It took Jean-Paul all of 10 minutes.

He walked downstairs slowly, at a calm pace. Having not a care in the world. Wiping the blood off his knife, putting it back in his sheath. And taking out his silenced Browning High Power. Taking cover nonchalantly and shooting two men guarding the door in the head and neck.

Christian Blackmon was an artist of his craft. As a mid-level director of operations management (a euphemism for basically planning out mafia plans to a T.) he was one of the more talented in Ottawa. He drew over the blueprints of whatever was going down, whether it be a hit, a drug deal, arms deal, snatch and grab, anything; he was a master at it. The planning and instruction he made kept any op he was assigned to, working and fluent. He felt he made a difference, in being paid to think about how the activities of the Hildreaux crime family (his current employer) he knew what he did was a step up from normal tradition of simply having the foot soldiers do all the thinking. No fuck-ups can be made if everyone followed a plan, if they followed instructions on how to do what they have already knew how to do before Christian even got in the picture. A logic from Drew-Drae Hildreaux that gave him an inner satisfaction.

As he worked on his latest plan in full concentration. Without the distraction of any windows, or people in the room with him, and the classical melodies of Chopin’s Op. 9, Nocturne No. 2; he could flow freely in his hand, and in his head, the process was simple.

But his concentration was broken as the door opened. And as he turned around first in irritance, now in heart snapping fear… of seeing Jean-Paul Basquiat, smiling at him, with a gun in his hand.

“I like this song. I always thought Chopin mimicked Beethoven outrightly. In a rip off sort of way.” He said calmly, the smile instantly disappearing from his face, his natural stone cold stoic expression now ever present

“Basquiat… let me pay you, please. I’m no rat. I can leave promptly I promise you.” Christian said backing away, hitting his desk, falling past his seat, his eyes not leaving Basquiat or his gun.

Basquiat took one more step closer. He didn’t need to be face to face for a point blank, not with the state Christian was in.

“Christian, I have come for you.” Jean-Paul said as he shot Blackmon in the head. He looked over Christian’s desk and office. He took in a deep breath, finding solace in the classical music, holstering his weapon and heading back towards the back entrance where he left his duffle bag.

☨

“Sir.”

“What is it, Max?”

“Someone took out one of the Hildreaux’s garage safe spots. Killed everyone, even our mole, sir.”

“Robbery?”

“No sir, someone took out the planner. Took all his blueprints, including ours.”

“Someone got Blackmon?!”

Michel Simard stood up out of his chair fast and sudden, glaring at his associate Maximilian Rajavi in utter shock, and rage.

“Who told you?”

“One of our boys in blue. He was at the crime scene today. Someone knew exactly what they were looking for, they didn’t touch the armory, cash safes, or the drugs. The blueprints are the only thing missing.”

Simard just stood there in astonishment, thinking frantically of who would be so brazen to do such a thing so boldly. He finally took a seat after an eternal-long five minutes. He turned around to Max

“We’re gonna wait it out. See who gets killed first. That’ll help narrow down who is targeting who.”

“Sir, all the blueprints are gone, wouldn’t that mean everyone is fair game?”

“Not necessarily. If all those blueprints are gone then words gonna spread. We’ll see who starts to panic first, then we’ll look into whoever is trying to keep a low profile. We’ll root out the motherfuckers. Someone ordered that attack, and whoever is trying to move up is gonna get found out, then it’ll be open season and their ass.”

“Yes sir. What course do we take till then?”

“Cause no attention, we’re not gonna be the first one’s to call a concern about this. It’ll make us look guilty. Keep things going as usual until something happens.”

“Yes sir, very good.”

Michel sulked in his chair as Max walked out. He looked out the window down to the city. In deep thought.

Chapter 5

Monty met with Basquiat in the car as it stormed outside, he often used days of inclement weather to discuss important things. Monty was paranoid of witnesses.

“Michel has a special mission for you.”

“What is it?”

Monty handed him a folder containing pictures and a basic smartphone.

“You know those new Petro-Canada’s popping up all along the east side and country?”

“Yeah.”

“Alright those are all owned and franchised to a man named Nasir Alfarek. We loaned him a lot of money to open up his stores. He uses them as a front for his operation he’s got going for him. Small time, sells everything, is supposed to cut us a piece while also paying us back. This fucking guy actually already had his own cash saved up to buy his franchises, he used our money for his stores to make them look legit, uses that to pay his workers who sell at the stores as well. He’s also taking out loans from everyone else to buy his drugs so he can keep his profit all for himself. Greedy little fucker. You’re gonna get our money back, plus his, and kill him while you’re at it.”

“Simple enough, which one will he be at?”

“We don’t know, he always goes to a different one randomly and runs it as a cashier to keep incognito. But you’re not just gonna go to one, you’re gonna take it all. I mean every. Fucking. Store. Rob every single last one of them, kill the clerks too.”

“What about cops?”

“Our inside pigs will take you off the radar once the job is complete. You have permission to kill as many as you need to, whoever pursues you in uniform won’t be anyone on our payroll. When the jobs done, call in, we’ll kill the search. Then all you’ll have to do is either kill whoever’s still in pursuit, or lose them.”

“Michel’s pockets run deep I see. Who’ll be my partner?”

“No one. This is solo.”

“What the fuck, Monty?! That’s twenty-two fucking stores! By myself?! Are you mad?” Basquiat shouted, banging his fist on the dashboard

Much to Monty’s amusement he chuckled at Basquiat’s rare show of emotion. Grinning devilishly.

“Who the fuck does Michel think I am?!” Jean-Paul shouted

“The mission was Michel’s call. You not having a partner was mine, Basquiat.”

Basquiat froze in anger, astonished at the audacity this man had, Monty calmly pulled out his silenced USP pistol. Not even bothering to point it at Basquiat. Knowing he’d understand the message.

“You wanted a contract, right? Well earn it! You think you’re such a cut above every other hard working killer out there, well go ahead, great, big, bad, Basquiat! Such a well paid, contract only professional like you, doesn’t need a partner. You can do it.”

“You’re making me do this alone so that if I die, it’ll be easier to cover up. Thus less to pay the cops after the mission.” Basquiat said with a violently cold sneer, staring at the dashboard, as if in a raging trance

“That, and because you’re a fucking prick.”

Basquiat glared at Monty long and hard. Trying hard not to imagine Monty’s death in his mind. Not knowing if the cross would function that way.

“What’s on the phone?” He said finally

“The locations of each store, bluetooth them to your phone if you wish, but it's a burner you can use. So destroy it after. The picture is obvious. So you’ll know him when you see him. Burn everything after reading.”

“You’re a bastard, Monty.”

“Anything else? If not, you have your job. Michel says you have a week. If you take longer Nasir will find out what’s going on and he’ll be out of Canada in a day. So you have a week.”

Basquiat got out of the car, slamming the door so hard the window busted. Basically imploding. Monty let out a slight chuckle at how angry Jean-Paul was. Relishing in his hardship, and hoping for his demise.

☨

Basquiat had a plan for the mission. He knew it wouldn’t be impossible. But the principle disrespect on Monty’s part would definitely earn his death. He loaded up his H&K .45. And his Tec-9. He figured he’d need more hardware, whether than to use an excess of clips. So he packed a Ruger Mark IV and a muzzle brake to go along with it. He ordered a car from one of the Simard dealers.

He had now been living in a more upstate condo in downtown Ottawa. The bigger cash flow from Simard was a big help. He got a buzz from below, eyeing the security screen he buzzed her in, instructing the woman to wait for him in the lobby. Khole Loiza was waiting in the lobby, her bags beside her and a look of confusion, and slighty fear ever present on her face.

“How did you find me?” asked Basquiat once he approached her in the lobby

“My father sent me here.” Khole had an awfully petite voice, it didn’t at all match her curvy slim figure, nor her normally outspoken personality

“With Lorraine, I presume?”

Khole nodded

“He’s dead.” Basquiat said, non surprised, rather in confirmation

“Yes. He passed this morning, but I wanted to gather my emotions before I came to you. I spent the morning trying to think. Why’d my father’s savior had to be an evil man, a killer, and what horrible sins I must’ve done to be condemned to live with such a man.”

“I’ll take your bags, we’re on the 80th floor.”

“Why don’t we just, go up there? Why must we take the elevator?”

“I don’t use Lorraine for trivial things. But we weren’t going to take the elevator in the first place.”

He grabbed her hand, and whispered whilst shutting his eyes. They were now in his room. Her bags and all, he let go of her, immediately going to prepare her room. Khole looked from the large windows down to the city, that resembled ants and miniscule proportion.

“Why do you have two bedrooms? You didn’t know when my father was going to pass. Are you a pig as well as a murderer?” she asked, projecting her voice so he may hear her, exploring the large and luxurious space.

“I don’t have women over. I don’t have anyone over. Your father said he would die soon, so I prepared for soon.” He projected back to her, finishing up quickly, strolling back into the main room.

“Everything in this home is yours as well as mine. Obviously except my work related things. If you have men over I advise you come to me firstly. You are a grown woman but that will have to be something we jointly arrange so that they never have to meet me. Do you have any questions, Khole?”

“Are you completely devoid of emotion? Big bad Basquiat, with his big guns, and Lorraine, killing anyone and everyone.”

“You can move out anytime you feel ready. I’ll make dinner”

“No you will not. I don’t want to be poisoned. I’ll make dinner. Besides, I need time to adjust to everything.”

“Khole, I apologize for threatening you when I did. It was unbecoming, please try to be somewhat pleasant, wi?”

“I’m morning my father, Jean. I have feelings.”

“Of course.”

☨

Hours later they both sat and ate dinner. Basquiat ate like a gentlemen, refined as he always was. Enjoying every bite, yet still no expression on his face.

“Do you always do that?”

“I don’t know what, that, is. Do you always play the pronoun game?” Basquiat retorted sarcastically

“You never show any emotion, you’re stoic all the time. Why?”

“It’s an art. What can I say?”

“You’re funny. But I have more questions.”

“I supposed you would, ask away Loiza.”

“Exactly how tall are you?”

Basquiat gave her an annoyed face.

“Seven foot even. I also like long walks on the beach.”

Khole let out a giggle

“How much do you weigh?”

“What point are you alluding to? Why so concerned about my physical disposition?”

“You are HUGE, Jean. You’re like a tree. A big tree man. I have wanted to ask you for some time. You must know that’s the first thing on people’s minds when they see you.”

“Actually they ask me about Lorraine. The height comes thirdly in the conversation, if there ever is any.”

“What comes second?”

“If I’m there to kill them or not, and if so, will I please spare their life.”

A short hush came about the room, then Basquiat sounded off, in defeat.

“Three hundred pounds solid. There.”

“My God, you’re like Frankenstein!” she said playfully

“That’s childish. Frankenstein was an undead monster.”

“How did you get so big? You must’ve been a soldier.”

“Khole, you’re assuming.”

“How?! You are a hitman. And a scary looking man. It fits perfect, where’s the assumption?”

“You assumed because of my size, that’s like asking a tall person if they play basketball. I could’ve been an angry cab driver for all you know.”

“An angry cab driver with a gun, and knowledge on healing a stab wound. Sounds believable.”

“Point taken. The food is good by the way. Thank you for cooking.”

“Thank you for not, guiding your bullets up my legs.”

Basquiat expertly hid a smile. Finished his food, then headed towards his bedroom. Khole sat at the dining table quietly, eating her dinner, holding back tears. Thinking about it all. Letting out whispers to herself,

“Watch over me father. Please, watch over me.” she said in a whimper

Chapter 6

4am… Basquiat descended slowly down to his garage space. Separate from everyone else. In its own little heaven. Gazing lovingly over his restored ‘78 Mustang. He patted her, got in, driving out and off to the first location. Checking his watch, it’d be a stretch, but he’d get it done. He rode out, hitting the first store after a short run on the highway.

4:15 am…. Basquiat pulled up to the closest location to start. Charging in through the door, calmly. Gun in hand, he immediately shot the clerk in the head. Taking the money out of the register and stuffing it promptly in his burlough sack. Looking strictly under the counter for the safe. Nothing. He moved to the back of the store in the manager's office, no one present (as expected). Jean focused on the safe, trying not to have to close his eyes for efficiency. The safe opened almost ghostlike after an intense and prolonged 7 minutes.

Jean grabbed the money from the safe and stuffed it in the sack, till it was full. The remainder of the money he stuffed in the large backpack he had on. JP now focused on the security cameras, they blacked out. He walked swiftly for the car. Checking his watch, 10 minutes. The focus was coming easier for him, by the end of the day he’d have it down.

He drove to the next location. Ready to repeat and repeat till completion.

☨

12pm Noon… Basquiat had ten stores under his belt. Most of the money in various bags in the backseat, accompanied by his backpack filled with extra money in his passenger. With an extra one on the floor. His trunk space was good enough to hold the rest. He was surprised cops hadn’t caught up to him by now, but he remembered what was on his face, and how efficient he could really be. Pulling up to the next one he spotted various people in the gas station, filling up their tanks, loitering. He parked next to the tire air station across from one of the pumps. Thinking how he’d get this done. The frustration of the added difficulty reminded him of the disdain he felt towards Monty; and the painful death that he’d be rewarded with for it.

He sat there, mulling over what he could possibly do. He could make everyone vanish then simply rob the place. But he’d have to do extra work concentrating on keeping only the cashier present. It’d require a lot of concentration. He could also just go in and kill the cashier, take the money out the safe and register then wipe the feeds. But the possibility of a concealed carrier or a hero would be a problem, plus it’d be sloppy. He didn’t know how well the police protection would be, especially if someone recorded it. The sound of his leather gloves gripping and twisting the steering wheel was satisfying to his ears. Nurturing to his thought process. He sighed a heavy sigh, grabbed his bag and charged in.

Walking with purpose through the door, a cow bell sounded. He hated cow bells. Jean-Paul casually walked to the alcohol side of the refrigeration units, pretending to survey his options with intention. He observed three other people in the gas station, one leaving out. It’d be risky, but he’d go for it. JP took big steps towards the innocent life nearest his eyesight, shoving the barrel of his silencer in her gut, shooting her twice. Swiftly he pushed her over to the man at the counter, shooting him in the head, turning immediately to the clerk and shooting him in both shoulders. Holding his free hand out automatically to the doors, within seconds they locked. His concentration was tense. He got the money from the register, putting in the sack.

“Please, please man, don’t kill me! Please! Take all you want, the safe’s pin is thirty-two fourteen just take it, it’s in the back man! I swear I won’t call the cops! Oh my god, please! Please mister!” the clerk was crying uncontrollably, Basquiat was unimpressed with his act

“Save me the shit. Tell me where Nasir is.”

“I don’t know who you’re talking about man!”

Basquiat responded in another bullet to his kneecap.

“He doesn’t fucking tell us! He just pops in at any location he wants! I swear that’s the truth, man! I don’t know! We don’t get calls, he just comes-”

Jean put a bullet in his skull. He believed him, he was simply burning time. Basquiat jogged to the back, putting in the pin, quickly emptying the money. He heard banging on the doors in the front.

“Shit.”

This was going to get frustratingly messy. He wrapped it up, carrying the extra money in hand, looking at the security cameras, knowing they’d be wiped clean. As did the doors unlock. A few pedestrians came through.

“What the fuck, dude?!”

“Here. It’s lottery day.” JP said, throwing the money up, letting the singles rain down on them, they immediately scampered for it. He kept walking to his car, knowing it wouldn’t be too long.

As he got to the car door there was the loud scream. He paid it no mind, driving off quickly. Borrowed time he was on. And there still were eleven more to go.

☨

As he pulled into the next location, he was relieved there was a little less foot traffic at this one. A few cars and most of them were in the front, probably getting snacks. He parked at a pump and sped walked towards the door, as he walked an idea came to his head. He grinned. But chose to save it, the cameras already had him in sight, not that it’d matter. Basquiat forwent the casual surveying of the place, needing to get this done before the cops got on his tail, safe passage or not, he never counted on crooked cops to drown out the good ones, ever. Basquiat shot at every person in his eyesight, the clerk ran for the back, but Basquiat got him in the calf, the clerk fell into the back door headfirst. Jean-Paul used only headshots for everyone already on the ground, he figured someone was probably hiding, scared to death. He made it no point to hunt them out, he walked to the clerk, pulling him by the hair,

“Nasir. You get one chance.” He said, shoving the gun to the poor clerks neck

Nasir opened the door suddenly, barely emerging from the office adjacent to the back door, Basquiat could hear the door turning, dropping to the ground on instinct, Nasir’s shotgun fired into the wall, Jean-Paul fired at his knee, guiding his next shot upward, hitting the side of Nasir’s stomach. The clerk jumped on top of Basquiat. Wrestling him for the gun.

“Move out the fucking way, James.” Nasir exclaimed loudly

Basquiat held onto the clerk defensively, keeping him locked in via wrapping James around him, keeping his head under the Clerks. They struggled, trying to get control of the gun, Jean-Paul tried to both concentrate and wrestle this man without something giving. The sound of the door’s cowbell rang out, Nasir took two steps in eyesight of the door and fired without thought. Surely enough it was some lucky person’s head that the shells just barely missed, he had ran out from his hiding spot towards his car, calling the police whilst doing so. Jean-Paul headbutted James, turning him over, punching him hard in the face, getting control of gun, swinging it around to Nasir.

As Nasir turned around, pumping his shotgun back, and aiming for Basquiat’s face. Jean-Paul’s free hand was choking James without effort. He scrambled to think of what to do for this situation. He could barely think at all, he was in fight or flight mode. The clerk got free and turned over Jean. Punching him, grabbing for the gun, Basquiat wasn’t phased by the blows, still holding onto the gun intently, he let go of James neck with his right hand and pressed down on his bullet wound, following up holding James down firing at Nasir again, missing. Nasir went for his car. Jean threw James off of him, putting a bullet into his neck. He went for the money, Nasir wouldn’t get far with two bullets eating away at him.

Finishing up the same ritual he’d been following he sprinted outside, sirens in the distance, Nasir was speeding off on the highway. Basquiat looked to his car, the engine began running, he closed his eyes. Opening them to him being in the driver’s seat. Gunning it for Nasir.

Looking back at the big fucker’s car coming straight for him, Nasir sweat bullets, one hand holding his stomach and the other on the steering wheel. He needed to call the boys still working the other stores, warn them. Tell them to be ready. He needed to think of something. He couldn’t gone on long with these wounds, he could barely walk, and he was losing blood fast. He had to think quickly. Thinking of the brakes. Stomping down on them suddenly.

Basquiat crashed in the back of Nasir, he had stopped his car suddenly. No time at all to think, Jean reloaded his gun. Nasir sped off once more, the cops were getting closer now. Jean had to think of something to do, speeding up towards Nasir’s car,

Nasir swerved over, slamming into the hitman. Braking slightly this time, and smacking into the tail end of the guy’s vehicle. The guy fired at him, then at his tires. Nasir ducked and sped towards the dirt off the side of the highway, driving off of the edge and descending down into the desert-like dirt. His car jumping and crashing down all the way down stopping just before it hit the stream of the river, which lead into the bigger scale of the river below the highway. He got out, shotgun in hand, other hand still firmly on the side of his abdomen. The sirens were getting closer now.

Basquiat drove off the side of the road after Nasir, but focused to guide his car safely down in a glide. He held his foot on the brake, then tapped the accelerator only slightly. Holding onto the brake again, as his car hit the ground, coming to a non damaging stop. He barrel rolled out of his car, a shotgun blast hitting his car door instantly. He knew that’d be coming. Basquiat tried to ignore the sirens. Nasir pumped his shotgun once more, aiming at the rock Basquiat took cover behind.

“Leave me the fuck alone, asshole! I’ll fucking kill you, man. Try me, bitch! Try me!” Nasir yelled loudly, in a slight but present arabic accent

“Simard sends his notice of collections. In case you were wondering.” Basquiat exclaimed in his usual calm tone, drowning out the sirens and focusing on the shotgun

“Fuck. Okay. Look, just walk the fuck away man. You got most of my money I’m assuming. Just walk away. Neither of us have to get hurt. I can pay ten times whatever you already got. Or what Michel’s paying you!” Nasir said, panicky

Basquiat closed his eyes, one thought in his head. Opening them, seeing the firing pin in his palm. He grinned an evil grin, getting up from his cover. Walking slowly towards Nasir. Who pulled the trigger, but no sound nor shell came out.

“What the fuck?! What the-”

Basquiat raised his gun to Nasir’s face, sending a lone bullet in between his eyes. He ran to his car now, shutting his eyes once again this time with urgency. He was back on the highway, driving towards the next location. The police stopping at the gas station behind him, he knew it was only a matter of time. He had to move faster, he took deep breaths, making sure not to panic, nor get antsy. He could do this. He only had ten more to go.

☨

Jean pulled into the next one, which was a few minutes away. He wanted to try his idea. He thought of the inside, looking at the doors, tunnel visioning, his eyes fixed on the inside. As he blinked, he was in the gas station. He clerk was in the back, along with someone else, they were doing a transaction. Jean-Paul leaned his head towards the back, hearing them speak, walking over behind the counter and taking the money. He heard the two men come up front.

“Hey man, what the fu-”

Basquiat fired his gun automatically, not even looking at his target. Then shooting at the other one this time, eyesight included. Walking over them, firing into the clerk's head for good measure. The safe opening without much thought now. He saw squad cars pull up on the security feeds, before wiping them with a wave of the hand. Back in the car now, pulling off quickly, the policemen turning and firing at him, he didn’t know if he could keep this up, now that he had no time left. And only the supposed aid of greedy pigs at his side.

He gunned it. Not wanting to continue, going over if it’d be possible to abandon the cover, and follow his mission yet. But he knew it wasn’t time. He couldn’t afford to get lazy.

Chapter 7

Basquiat stumbled into the warehouse, blood on his face, dropping two of the sacks on his feet. The grunts yelling for Monty to come down from his office. He took one look at Basquiat and his eyes told it all, frozen there in shock and astonishment. Taking a long pause to realize this was real, then beckoned Jean upstairs to his office.

“You have all of it? All the money?” Monty asked, in disbelief

“Every store. Every man.” Basquiat said, simply, dropping two of the bags at his feet.

“Where’s the rest?”

“In the car. Bagged and ready.”

“You robbed twenty two stores? Today? What about Nasir?”

“He’s dead. His clerks are dead.”

“Jean…. I’m…. fuck. Oh my God.”

“I’ll get the rest of the bags.”

“My guys will help.”

Basquiat trotted down to his car, Monty’s guys following him after Monty yelled orders for them to lend him assist. It took them 10 minutes to get all the sacks. Basquiat took the book bags. Leaving one downstairs with the men, one other up to Monty’s office. He was pouring himself and Basquiat a drink. Jean-Paul tossed the backpack at him

“Monty, here.”

He looked surprised, unzipping it and taking some of the money out, holding it. With a confused look on his face. He looked up to Jean

“What?”

Basquiat shot him in the chest, then the head. Giving Monty’s corpse a stern, hateful look. Walking calmly outside, gun in hand. Yelling down to the henchmen.

“Get Michel on the phone! Monty’s dead.” Basquiat yelled, rather calmly.

☨

Michel Simard emerged finally after an hour, he found Basquiat leaning up against a large packaging box along with a few of the guards he hired. He tried to hide the fury on his face, but was unsuccessful.

“Where is Monty?”

“Your little thief’s body is upstairs. Right where I left him.”

“What the fuck?! Thief? What was he stealing, Basquiat? I’ve known that man for five years. He isn’t a rat, a thief, or a cop. Please tell me, what did he fucking steal?” Michel said, taking his gun out, letting Jean Paul know he wasn’t fucking around

“Your money. Go upstairs and see for yourself. Your asshole associate lied to me about your orders too. This whole fucking job has been a complete FUCKING WASTE OF MY TIME!” Basquiat said, throwing in the faux anger to sell the performance

“Monty said you were giving me one day to rob twenty two fucking stores. ONE FUCKING DAY. With no crew, no help, nothing. Just some bullshit police looking the other way. When I fucking come in here to give him your money from our dead friend, Nasir. What’s he doing? He’s taking backpacks of the money filling them up, and offering me a portion for my silence. You think you can fuck me over, Simard? Monty trying to screw me out of my contract and my money is one thing, but trying to get me to steal? Letting you give me no crew and one day? Oh Michel, you wanna wave your gun around? I can too.” Basquiat yelled as he slid his gun out, alarming the guards who immediately drew on him

“None of this was in the contract, you are voiding it. Which calls for contract cancellation and payment for such violation, Simard. You can pay me now, shoot at me, or we can take this up with the congregation.”

Michel stood there in half shock and half astonishment, he started sweating slightly, taken aback and off guard by this. He slid his gun back in his holster after a long six minutes of worried facial expressions. Basquiat did the same.

“Jean, rest assure. I never said, ANY of that. These guys were supposed to be your crew. In fact, What the fuck did Monty tell you?” He said, looking now to the guards

“He said we were just here to help him with the money.”

“Oh my God. Jean, I am so sorry. I assure you none of this is necessary. I didn’t know about any of this. My words were to give you this crew and give you one week. I did not say anything about police protection either. I cannot imagine the shit show you’ve had to go through today.” Michel took in a deep breath, moving over to Basquiat and giving him a quick hug, backing away promptly

“Look, this calls for an advance, a bonus, and a thank you. I did not know any of this. You truly are a man of your word, Basquiat. Look. I’m assuming your car needs to be changed up now that you’re on radar. Tell you what, keep some of the money, call it a loyalty bonus, you’ll also be seeing an advance in your payment for this job. Lay low, one of my guys will take your order for a new vehicle sometime this week. I’ll have them clean this mess up. Thank you, Jean.”

“I’m sorry for my unprofessional behavior. Very generous of you. Thank you, Michel. And I am grateful.”

“Anytime, Jean. Anytime.”

Michel ordered one of the henchmen to drive Jean Paul home. He went upstairs to see Monty’s body. Standing there in disbelief, and immeasurable anger. He couldn’t contain it, and beat Monty’s corpse with every inch of his might.

Meanwhile, Jean walked through the door of his apartment. Immediately going into his room and stripping down, moving to the bathroom. Khole stood outside the bathroom door, talking to him through the soothing shower.

“How was it today?”

“I didn’t think you’d be fond of my occupation, nor it’s details.”

“Well I can’t ignore it, I have the luxury of not being involved or a witness to it. So how did it go, big bad, Frankstein of Ottawa?”

“That’s going to get old very quickly.”

Khole giggled, but it was inaudible to JP

“It was difficult. But I managed.”

“What did you do?”

Basquiat stopped the shower, only briefly, got a towel to cover himself and opened the door. Eager to end the conversation and lay alone in silence.

“You don’t want to know, Khole.”

“The news won’t tell me everything. Besides, If I were uncomfortable with it why would I live with such a man? Try me.”

“I robbed twenty two stores. Killed every clerk. Then killed a man who was marked for death.”

Khloe's face swam with awe. She took a step back.

“How did you rob twenty two stores in one day?”

“Effort. And focus.”

“How do you feel?” Khole asked, put off largely by the response

“Hungry. And tired.”

Basquiat retreated back into the bathroom. Turning on the shower again. Khole sat on the floor, thinking about the coldness of his words, the calmness in his voice, the nonchalant on his face. She questioned why her father would instil such a gift into this terrible murdering man, but always thought back to him saving Petsha’s life. He didn’t have to, but he did. Out of kindness, she couldn’t process this. How could a killer have kindness in his heart?

She wandered around the house until she found herself on the balcony. Thinking about the conversation still. She questioned what it was she expected, knowing the kind of man he was. There had to be more to him. There had to.

☨

Basquiat finally came out the shower after an intensely long 30 minutes. He smelled deliciousness fill the air. Khole was just finishing up in the kitchen. He quickly went into his room and changed into pajamas (sweatpants) and walked into the kitchen. There was so much food and wine. Khole smiled towards him, beckoning him to the table.

“I made a lot because you probably eat like an ox.”

“Thank you, Khole. I appreciate it. This smells beautiful.”

“Jean. I am here for the foreseeable future. I know we aren’t close, nor do you know me well. But you promised to take me in. And I am grateful, I want to know you. I know you’re a bad man, but I at least have the right to know what kind of bad man you are. You can trust me, Jean. Is what I’m trying to say.” Khole said, using all her courage inside her to sound confident and somewhat demanding

Jean was unphased, but let a grin slip. And he sat down, gesturing for her to join him. She brought the pans and plates, then finally sat down. Folding her arms before making herself anything, to which Basquiat responded by not immediately going for the food. To show he was taking her statement seriously.

“It is true, I am a bad man. Relatively. But this isn’t permanent. I assure you.”

“What isn’t permanent? This job?”

“My employer. I am not in the business of simply being a lapdog killer for men like the one I work for.”

“You plan on going to a different family?”

“I plan on giving back to the innocent victims of the mafia here in Ottawa.”

“How so?”

“By killing every single one of those pigs that run families, organizations, and most importantly... the congregation of all mafia business. I plan on burning it down to the ground, putting it on its proverbial knees, then finally blowing its brains out. Deservingly. As a payment for the all sins they are guilty of, all the pain they cause, and all the greed they have in their veins.”

“You want to disable to mafia? But why?”

“Problem?”

“You kill people, how could you have a problem with your employers?”

“It’s money, it’s my job, it compliments my skill set. I don’t enjoy killing innocents, I am merely numb from all the killing I’ve done. But what I do enjoy… is killing gangsters. The best way to kill a lion, is to go into the lion's den, become one of the lions, then take them all whilst they sleep.”

“What did they do to you?”

“Executed my father. So I killed that family. That was awhile back. Now, it’s simply the business I’m in. Preference if you want to label it.”

“So you are a hitman, but you’re also a man who kills the organizations that hire you, and the families that you work with?”

“Yes.”

A long silence, interrupted by Jean eating the meal Khole prepped for him.

“Did you tell my father, what you plan to do?”

“He already knew. There’s no other reason he’d pass down Lorraine to me, even if I saved him. The real question is, why do you not have Lorraine?”

“I did not want that kind of power, nor did my father want to burden me with it.”

“I don’t abuse it. I assure you.”

“I’m assured Basquiat.”

“I’m sorry if my revelations have killed your appetite.”

Khole sat there, staring at him, while he ate neatly, gentlemen like. He was a gentlemen, but she couldn’t see a gentle man in him. She ate as well.

“We have to talk like this more. It’s fulfilling.”

“To know the killer across from you?”

“To know why Frankenstein chooses to be a monster. It helps me live with you. It might help me be more civil and sociable with you too.”

Basquiat gave her a decoding glare. But did not think. Simply surveyed. They smiled at each other. And ate in silence, until Jean turned the TV on. And Khole hid a smile.

Chapter 8

Jean had been studying over the blueprints and his research on the comings and goings of the leaders from the other families and organizations. One of his targets, Franklin Mousset-Delin was the CEO of the M.D. Holdings LLC. A front for a gunrunning operation, he supplied Simard as well as everyone else. Basquiat had been observing and surveying long enough to know the mafia here in Ottawa didn’t have many disputes with each other. Most of the beef between rivals was settled diplomatically. Something he intended to change, but robbing the blueprints had only sent everyone’s head on a swivel, even Michel wasn’t moving his hand yet. But Frank Mousset-Delin would most definitely move his.

He was going to be on a casino boat (that he owned) in another few minutes. Basquiat sat at his workbench in the private garage below the apartment. Khole stood outside, looking at his many other cars. None of them had license plates, but they were all luxurious to a degree. Some of them classics meant only for cruising, some beautiful armoured muscle cars for tactical purposes, as well as various bikes. She eyed over at the office space-like section Basquiat was in, his back was turned to her. She quietly went in. Standing meekly behind him as he looked over everything. He calmly did not stir nor acknowledge her presence. Khole moved closer to him, looking over his shoulder, still Basquiat made no acknowledgment of her. She thought in her head for a moment if this would be a bad idea, but she felt it. And she didn’t want to think about it, nor become an annoyance with needless speech.

Jean-Paul was fitting his three gauge handheld gas bomb for a button timer. He felt Khole’s arms wrap around him lovingly. He made no gesture to speak nor acknowledge her. He was busy, and had to move out soon. His other target was on a timetable as well. He wanted to hit them both in the same night. He was just finishing up the bomb. Khole laid her head on his shoulder, not really knowing why nor what the point of this was. She was simply doing. Basquiat held her hand as he got up, though not forcefully, but gingerly. He walked to the other side of the space. Unlocking his door to the armory, which was an added sectional he paid for, stockpiled weapons for all occasions, so as not to draw attention by constantly buying from any mafia dealers. He got a few boot knives, strapped them up on both sides of his thighs and actual boots then lead Khole out.

She was wide eyed and slightly frightened, but calm, moreso surprised. Jean-Paul lead her by the hand out the office space back into the garage. He had his combat mask already in hand. He let her hand go, putting his mask on. Looking for the keys to one of his bikes on the key rack. Khole gave him one final hug as he did so. Jean gently took her hands off of him as if she were an object. Then he rode off.

☨

Basquiat got the docks where Franklin’s boat had departed, he could see the boat still near. He had time. He checked his watch, making note of the time. Then thinking of his approach as he watched the boat slowly get farther from him. He casually walked towards a couple with two jet skis in the water by them. Taking one of them and riding off. As he trailed the boat, Jean-Paul stared at the back of the boat, finding himself on it seconds later. He peered over his shoulder at the jet ski, wondering how exactly he’d be getting off this boat. Basquiat walked around the boat, going to the casino floor, surveying the area. Trying to spot the office. He walked around casually, observing the personnel, distinguishing guards from casino floor supervisors. He closed his eyes to concentrate, he didn’t have the time to sit there and do this without Lorraine. The mark showed him the way to the office in his head, he opened his eyes and followed, weary of the security. Jean Paul, waited till security began walking around the casino once more, making their rounds, then slipped in.

Walking to the control room, running into the occasional guard, whom he had to kill swiftly. He observed the office from afar, but couldn’t stay out in the open hallway. Basquiat chucked two of his knives at the two guards. Running down the hall and kicking the door open, tossing the grenades in and shutting the door promptly, focusing on the lock. Franklin and his cronies inside, banged on the door, trying to get it open. It wouldn’t budge. Jean backed away, still looking at the door, making sure the lock was unmoving, Lorraine did not betray him.

In the security monitoring room one of the guards spotted everything going on, sounding the alarm throughout the boat. Alerting and making notice over the intercom to all the guards and security personnel to go for the office, and the patrons to remain calm and hide under tables and do whatever the casino staff instructed.

Back in the hallway, Basquiat made a run for the staircase, throwing a knife out of reflex towards the bottom as he descended, knowing an unsuspecting goon would emerge. Two others came from his opposite side of the hallway, shooting at him, Jean quickly rolled out the way and hid in the private room adjacent to the elevator a bit further down. The two guards rushed towards where Jean was. One of them spotting the room. Firing at the door for precautionary measures. Basquiat took out another boot knife, he was running low on them. Basquiat hugged the wall to the side of the door. One of the guards kicked in the door, walking in slowly, gun drawn. Jean jabbed him in the neck with the knife, tackling his body to the ground, holding it over him defensively as he snatched the dead man’s gun from his hands and shot the other guard.

Jean ran towards the steps, not taking a chance with the elevator, sliding down. Seeing the guards he ran for the back of the boat, bullets showering behind him like they all were in a race. He hit the corner and bolted through the side door and immediately jumped off the boat into the sea. Closing his eyes and concentrating with all his mental might. The water felt cold and overbearing yet refreshing and beautifully engulfing. But it suddenly was gone, and he felt nothing but the cold air and sounds of faint horns and the hums of engines. Opening his eyes to the sandy beach shore, grinning wide and hard underneath that mask. Equally as thankful, his clothes had been dry, courtesy of Lorraine.

☨

Basquiat had stored one of his bikes in a garage he owned located by the beach where he knew the casino boat docked at. He rode it downtown. Riding into a parking garage across from a large and luxurious hotel. He took out a faux piece of concrete he placed strategically in the garage, taking out a hardwood case with a Remington MSR. Jean quickly put it together, unfolding it and attaching the stock. Checking his watch, it was almost time. He had a good three minutes. JP screwed on the silencer, taking position, but came to a halt, hearing the next target’s security and backup police enforcement survey the garage. He silently mouthed an obscenity then closed the case up and put it back in the fake concrete, restoring the false imprint, and keeping the rifle. Leaving the garage quickly.

Basquiat got back on his motorcycle and cut into an alleyway that led to a sideway entrance to the hotel, he stayed outside, it was hidden and remote, but he was sure the team had swept this part first, since he was wrong about them securing the garage first. He unfolded the MSR and waited on his bike. Like clockwork they came out, the police escort team first, then the private security team, following behind, was the second target: Drew-Drae Hildreaux. Basquiat fired off three times, hitting Drew-Drae twice, then speeding off on his bike. Hitting the corners of the streets and gunning it for the outskirts of the city, driving his bike into the river. Hiding under a freeway that went into another city, grinning as he teleported back to his condo, right into his room.

Khole had the door to the bathroom open, playing soft music as she enjoyed her candle lit, rose petal and lime slice bubble bath. Oblivious to Basquiat being home. Jean-Paul peeked in silently, taking his head back out and retreating to the kitchen. Making a quick salad, and bringing it into the bathroom. Not bothering to give Khole the kindness of knocking.

“Are you hungry?”

Khole jumped in fright, a bit of water splashing on the floor.

“I’m naked, Jean! When did you even get here?!”

“Are you hungry, Khole?” Basquiat repeated, with a hint of menace in his voice

“Is that for me?” Khole meekly replied, sensing the hints from him

Basquiat handed her the large bowl of salad. She remarked upon it with inquiry and curiosity

“It’s a combination of raspberries, strawberries, some grilled chicken breast, romaine, spinach, seasonings, two cheeses, and vinaigrette. It’s good.”

“Thank you. I appreciate it, it looks delicious.”

“Khole, why would did you put your hands around me today?” Jean asked as he stood over her, his voice blank, confusing Khole

“It was out of boredom, Jean. Nothing more. I don’t see why we have to have minimum communication. We aren’t too much of strangers. You did learn from my father, and he trusted you for some reason. I think I’m entitled to get to know you a little. Am I not?” Khole said both innocently and cautiously, still slightly taken aback and afraid of Basquiat’s possible reaction

“Don’t touch me again, Khole.” He said plainly, walking out of the bathroom

“Enjoy your salad.” Basquiat said over his shoulder as he walked out.

Khole sat in the tub, in shock, disgust, and violation. But sunk down to her neck in the tub and picked at her salad with a fork. In total confusion, wondering how her father could trust such a vile man.

Chapter 9

Michel Simard stood up at the round table of his contemporaries. All of the crime bosses of the city of Ottawa were in attendance, their personal bodyguards outside. The lower tier henchmen all at ground level outside. It was momentous the amount of money sitting and standing in the room.

“Gentlemen, in light of the tragic deaths from last night, in addition to the one last week. We need to make some things clear, and transparent. At a time like this, we need to think openly and unbiasedly. With that being said, I want to start off by offering my condolences to the Hildreaux family, as well as the Mousset-Delin’s. I can’t imagine the pain you are both going through.” Simard said gracefully, he head bowed in respect in the direction of both Sonny Hildreaux, and Franklin Jr, whose faces were freshly puffy from constant sobbing.

They waved their hands acknowledging.

“What these recent acts of hatred have showed us is that one, it is the same person or persons that robbed Mr. Hildreaux of the same in depth recon we all do onto one another. It is at this point in time we forego bullshitting one another. We all keep tabs on each other, we all steal from one another. That shit is done until we figure this out. Someone within one of our ranks is trying to get us to kill each other, so that they can kill whoever's left. It’s simple strategy men. It could be one of my men, or one of yours. We don’t know, that’s why our guards are outside and not in here with us. I suggest we all stay within our respective territories as far as our clientele, and stay within our homes as far as ourselves until whoever is trying to uproot us all shows their face. With that being stated, I conclude my opening statement.” Simard said brilliantly, as he sat down, surveying the room for the confirmations in everyone’s eyes as he said his bit.

No one uttered a word for a long time, they mulled over Simard’s words, while thinking of their own statements they each had one chance to make. A lot of them considered Simard to hit the nail on the head, after a long, painfully silent six minutes, William DeCani stood,

“Our organizations should cooperate with each other. In light of Mr. Simard’s statement, it would be the best possible strategic move to simply usher in a temporary merger in which all of us work together and cohesively as one. Which will defeat our enemies purpose in tearing us apart from within, it will force them, however many there might be, to reveal themselves. I say we do this in house, and keep it a secret. We could all give no fire orders indefinitely to confuse our assailants-”

Richard Belmonte interrupted

“I believe, we are all being manipulated. Follow me for a second here. Gentlemen, what is the best tactic for a small group such as this to eliminate us?” He looked around the room, searching for answers to his rhetoric question.

“From within, gentlemen, from within. This may in fact be, I believe, an effort to take our entire city as a whole for turf from one of our contemporaries. Someone from outta town could be pulling these strings. Trying to get us to either kill each other, or kill one of theirs first and start a war. No trio of idiots are going to come after us just cause, and I highly doubt anyone, and I speak for us all when I say NO ONE in our organizations, from the grunts, to the journeymen, to our respective guards outside, would EVER be dumb enough to come against us. I apologize for the interruption, I concede my statement.”

The eyes of the room all pondered at this revelation, mulling it over, then shifted back to DeCani, who sat down and simply waved his hand, putting off a mask of intrigue to hide his embarrassment.

“We could have separate meetings with whomever we suspect could be doing this from out of town, in the meantime we also should follow with Mr. DeCani’s plan of a ceasefire on one another until further notice, and stay within our respective territories and homes until the next meeting takes place. I hereby issue a vote for this strategy going forward. A different option is welcome to submission now at this time.” Simard canted confidently, sitting back down as he finished giving his boardroom ready speech

All of them raised a hand after a long period of silence. The vote was in.

“Meeting adjourned.”

☨

Basquiat yanked the bedcover off Khole. That swift rush of cold air hit her hard, and so wakened her. She was groggy, still trying to get her eyes open.

“How old are you, Khole?” He said in a no nonsense tone

“What?” she asked, still waking up

“How old are you, Khole?” Jean said in a more forceful tone, edging closer on the bed

“Why would you wake me up so rudely simply to ask me that? How old do I look Jean? Gosh.” Khole said annoyed and cranky

Jean-Paul swiftly thrust his hand around her throat, pinning her back against the headboard of the bed, his face in a whispering distance from hers now

“Petsha was older than he let on, I got that much from the cross. He told me Lorraine can keep the host alive for however so long they can withstand living. Until the body simply cannot take the wear and tear of living life no longer. Which begs the question, if he was truly older than I could ever imagine, how old would his daughter be? This question makes me ask myself, ‘Why indeed, would Petsha give his daughter into the care of a killer?’. Yes, one who saved his life all points taken but still a man who barged into his tent, grabbed whom I presume his only child by the neck, then threatened to shoot her from the thighs on up.” He stopped to take in a slow breath, his eyes in a deathlock stare into Khole’s.

Her heart pounded with fear, as she felt him pressing little by little, giving slight squeezes to keep her breathing off balance. She was getting light headed.

“No sensible man would. In fact, a sensible man would pass it down to his daughter. Unless, that only child I speak of is affected by Lorraine. Unless Petsha knew he needed to keep his little girl near Lorraine, even if it was with a man like me. With that being said, Khole… how old are you?” He said, letting off the squeeze only enough to allow her to breathe

Khole gasped for air, her face almost purple. Tears streaming down her face, Basquiat looked on past her tears, unmoved by them; still awaiting his answer. She put her hands gently on his. Looking him in the eyes, he felt the sudden urge to let go, but resisted, it grew stronger and stronger, until finally he let go. And she folded her chin on top of her knees which she wrapped her arms around, terrified.

“My father’s first gift to me was the knowledge of all Lorraine could do. Every trick, every corner of power, everything. Single. Thing. He made sure I could be as informed as anyone bearing the mark as if I beared it myself. He would never give it to me, he said that manner of burden is for a man to have, not a woman. His second gift to me, was everlasting youth, so long as I stayed with Lorraine, so long as I followed her. Which I did. But I wanted to grow old, I wanted to find a husband, I wanted to live my life fully and with purpose, as my father did before me, as my mother did before me.” Khole choked up tears, sobbing more uncontrollably with each sentence that went on, Basquiat was standing back now, giving her much needed space, though he didn’t know why

“When you came, he told me that he’d be having me stay with you on the day he dies. Not only to keep my youth, but to make sure you never misused her, to be an influence for you to do good, he wanted me to use myself to steer you in a path of good direction. That was his third and final gift to me, throwing me away to some giant wolf in hopes to change his ways before he rapes me, or kills me, or-”

Basquiat put a single finger over her mouth. Sitting back down, his cold eyes not leaving hers.

“Stop crying. It looks depressing.” drawing back his finger she stopped sobbing, Jean wiped away her tears as gently as his hands would allow,

“I’ll make breakfast.” he said finally, giving her a short imprint kiss on her forehead.

“Whatever influence you have, don’t use it on me. I feel differently. I don’t like that.” Basquiat said simply, unbeknownst he was already being influenced.

They hugged, Basquiat whispered an apology in her ear, in her native tongue. She hugged him tighter, switching off her influence on him. Allowing him to quickly let go of her, stand up, give her a haunting gaze, then retreat into the kitchen.Preparing the breakfast as promised, all the while contemplating his next move.

☨

Basquiat sat up, in the workroom of his garage space planning and thinking with his charts. By now he had already received the gift from Simard per his payment for his “loyalty”. Now he thought of how best to usher in the degree of panic and chaos he needed for his next step. He kept his ears to the ground on the meetings, with everyone staying to themselves it was going to be a challenge finding a joint family job taking place that he could use as cover. He needed a way to find out the next joint job, but he could not be involved in it. He spent hours upon hours in deep thought, staring at his files until he finally gave up and decided to try using Lorraine for his answers.

From Petsha’s guidance he learned Lorraine can show him things from the past, and present, and mildly show him the future but only in clues, bits, and pieces. He turned all of the lights in the private area. Ushering himself into complete darkness, the only light coming the ever holy Lorraine, burning hot with power.

“As Above, So Below.” he whispered to himself, eyes shut tightly

Jean-Paul found himself on a plantation in the middle of nowhere. Nothing but grass, dirt and miles upon miles of hills, going on seemingly forever. Save for a lone house, resembling a shack from its poor shingles and beat up exterior, nonetheless Basquiat strolled in, full stealth mode. He wall hugged once inside, keeping a low profile in the disturbingly quiet house, finding his own Tech-9 within a drawer. Whatever Lorraine was showing him would require it, so Basquiat treaded even more lightly, angling and putting almost no weight on his feet as he ascended the stairs without so much as a single sound. Moving room to room looking for assailants, or clues. Finding none.

Jean-Paul took his silent steps to the basement, his gun ready, and not even a breath from his nose. The basement was empty of people. Only home to a medium sized cocaine making lab setup. With over the counter ingredients lying about. Disgraceful really. But it felt off to Basquiat. He searched the lab desk, looking for a piece of mail or anything admissible to finding out where he was. Jean started to back away slowly, feeling a hard object at the end of his boot, looking down, Jean stared at the five bodies lying around the lab now, blood splattered everywhere, bullet holes in the equipment as well. He felt a chill run down his spine at first, not being used to this particular side of Lorraine quite yet.

“Fuck.” it took Jean only a moment to gather himself in spite of the spook, he turned one of the bodies head to the front side facing him

He got a sudden look of astonishment on his face, quickly looking at the faces of the other bodies, walking back upstairs. Confused.

“What concern would I have of some inbred coke cowboys? Who would waste the bullets?” he asked himself, until he heard the faint sound of tires and dirt crunching.

Jean looked out the window, seeing hordes of black SUVs in the distance, not very far off. His heart pounded with excitement, and he started putting it all together with a sense of urgency.

Basquiat awoke from his dream like state in a cold sweat, running to turn the lights on. Quickly finding the files on his computer of the Macklin brothers. American hillbillies who moved to Canada to find more market for their lackluster product, making the bulk of their money shipping to their buyer in Albany, New York and the rest in shipping to Winnipeg for the college kids to get high off of provided they ether ran out of money or weren’t rich enough for the good stuff. Basquiat grinned devilishly, but needed to know the time this would take place. With that thought, he slumped back into his chair, thinking of who he’d have to interrogate for answers. Thinking of any other ways as well. He plotted and pondered, long into the night.

Khole laid down on the couch upstairs, listening to the pounding of the rain against the window. Watching the lightning shoot across the navy sky. Thinking about her father, thinking about her power, thinking about her feelings, considering it all, afraid of it all as well. She perked her head up as Basquiat came through the door, a puzzled look on his face, his body language felt thoughtful, fixed, confused. She didn’t know why, but she felt the need to say something

“Are you okay?”

“Yes, Khole, I’m fine. Why do you ask?” Jean said, as he made himself a drink

“I wanted to know if you would like to watch tee vee with me. It gets a bit unsettling sometimes, especially today, with the rain.”

“What gets unsettling?” He asked, still making a drink, his attention not on her fully.

“The silence of this place. It feels like a prison sometimes, or at least, it get’s cabin feverish you know?”

“I never said you couldn’t go out and enjoy yourself. Why don’t you?” JP sipped his drink, trying to relax his mind, He and Lorraine were tired, but they had a plan, he knew what to do

“It’s raining, Basquiat. Would you go out in the rain if you didn’t have to?” She was slouching over the head of the couch, staring at him as they spoke, still not knowing why she was being this friendly and open, it all felt airy, like butterflies in the stomach airy, but not airy enough

“Yes. I happen to enjoy the rain. It’s soothing.”

“Getting drenched is soothing? What are you drinking? I would like one.”

“Whiskey and cherry bitters.” He turned back around, to make the drink for her

“The sound of beating rain, the feeling of water either trickling or showering the body, as blood does the body, or morals do the soul, is refreshing. God’s tears so to speak, feel quite heavenly, especially in today’s time. Where everything is fire, and hot, or dry, and stiff. It’s like a release to go outside and enjoy being naturally clean, or at the most, fooled into believing or feeling that somehow this rain will cleanse you. Some people like that, a feeling of being cleansed, I suppose rain does that for me, cleanses me of this dirty world. And I began to feel at home to it, my best missions are in the rain, It’s a natural camouflage. Day or night. Never matters. The wet feeling or clothes sticking to the chest, and hair slicking down in submission, feels as comforting as knowing if you fuck up on the job, you’re dead.” He brought her the requested drink, sitting by her.

“Or at least in my case, extremely annoyed.”

Khole looked him the whole time he spoke, his words shocked her, their fluidity took her off guard. Nevertheless she tried to hide it and took the drink. Sipping it lightly.

“I didn’t take you to be the deep thinking type.” Khole said coyly,

“I didn’t take you for the drinking type.”

“Touche. So will you watch tv with me?”

“What’s on?”

“Let’s see!” Khole said gleefully

She put on a movie, they watched it together, Basquiat sitting with his legs fully extended out his head tilted back, trying to relax. Khole battled with herself for a long twenty minutes. Finally laying her head down on his lap, laying horizontally and fully extending. Still watching the movie, Basquiat’s head became alert. He started to say something, but felt tired, he almost didn’t feel like brushing her off, he didn’t care. She bothered him none. He simply laid his head back once more and fully extended his entire body, his couch moving with him, electronically sensing it needed to extend out, reclining. Khole hid a gasp, not knowing it did that. Basquiat closed his eyes, falling into an unfamiliarly blissful nap. Khole noticed how uncaring he was, and relished it somewhat, knowing now that he wasn’t some typical man with issues that included deep seated barriers waiting to be torn down, but that he was a special kind of man, one who wasn’t privileged into his position, nor traumatized from it’s effects, but simply there. He was completely regular, and in that, she found him to be truly hollow.

Chapter 10

10am, next morning… Basquiat stood on the rooftop of his condo. His eyes closed, his mind totally at peace. Standing, he was. On the edge of the rooftop. Whispering to himself silently, ritualistically, with one thing in mind: The Macklin House. He whispered more and more, until he believed it. Until he could see it. And took a step forward.

“As above, so below. As I believe the world to be, so it is. As I believe, so it shall be.”

He slowly opened his eyes, finding himself not on pavement badly injured, but in the middle of nowhere, with only a house a few yards away. The same house he saw within his mind during his search, The Macklin residence. He rubbed the ground to make sure it was all real. He grinned from ear to ear, still astonished at this awesome power. Then quickly regained his composure, drawing his Tech-9, walking into the house with precision stealth. He thought better of the noise, and screwed a silencer onto it. Making sure to keep his movements slow and with purpose. He heard walking in the kitchen ahead, wall hugging in the family room to the right, he waited for the footsteps to get closer. They didn’t. Jean grabbed a nearby beer bottle and chucked it in the kitchen,

“Goddamnit!, What the fuck man?! Now who the fuck threw that?!” Sam Macklin, father of the two brothers yelled out.

“Stop that there fucking around you fucking idiots! Ya’ll better be done making that shit, them city faggots get here and been done broke a foot off in your ass not having their shit. Fuck you little shit turds wasting a good beer for anyhow?” He continued to rant, still in the kitchen, not bothering to look around

Jean creeped up into the kitchen, swiftly putting a bullet in his head, moving quietly upstairs, checking all the rooms. It was silent. He figured the brothers were downstairs, He moved with purpose. As he moved for the basement door it was pushed open, Wilson Macklin was coming up the stairs and hit Jean in the face with the door. Basquiat quickly fired three into his chest, sending Wilson back down the stairs, Jean lunged down with him, firing immediately at Jack, the last of the Macklins. He hit Jack’s shoulder and head, then stood up as the loud thud of Jack’s body echoed out.

Basquiat examined the product being made on the lab desk, it seemed to be a bad batch of coke. There were so many misplaced ingredients, common contaminants, he couldn’t believe these people made a living. They even had meth needles lying around on the desk, he thought no doubt it was probably for their own use. Jean quickly headed upstairs, checking his watch for the time, like clockwork the SUVs were fast approaching. He hurried up the stairs, getting into tactical position, opening the window in one of the bedrooms and climbing onto the roof. Basquiat was sweating under his combat mask, he hated the heat of this thing. The sound of car doors pushing open and thudding shut made him get into position to flank. He peeked only a little over cover to see who was coming out, but couldn’t distinguish who the three men were. Jean moved swiftly towards the front of the roof, jumping down and crouch-walking in behind them, shooting the closest one in the back of the head, the other turned suddenly, shooting first. Jean dove for cover behind a wall in the adjoining room, another goon ran in shortly

“What’s the problem?!” he said, pointing his gun around, looking for someone to shoot

“He shot Andre!” the other man said, hiding in the kitchen

“Get the fuck out of the hallway, be careful!”

“You fucking Macklin’s must really be stupid! You incest motherfucking piece of shi-”

“It’s the fuckin’ mark! It’s the target! Shoot that fuck!”

Gunshots rang out, bullets hitting walls aimlessly. Jean fired back, then collected himself, not wanting to lose his cool and give away his position. He waited, wanting one of them to make a move.

The man taking cover in the kitchen was scared shitless, his counterpart in the next room by the doorway was more so fired up, at least in his eyes. But he, didn’t want to die this way, getting gunned down by some target who was killing everyone whilst being everywhere at once. He searched around for anything he could use, anything to get him out of this, he knew where the mark was taking cover, but couldn’t risk getting capped or letting him know he knew where he was. His partner was too wound up, or not, he didn’t care, he wanted to get out… now. He took a half full bottle of gin laying down spilling on the counter, looking for a towel, no use. These people probably didn’t even use them, cockroaches crawling freely like this was their home, he knew he wouldn’t find a towel or anything that could be used to clean. So he tore off his shirt, biting hard at his sleeves, ripping one apart.

The other man in the room, near the doorway fired off just cause, hoping he hit something. Then kept firing to get a reaction out of Basquiat. Jean-Paul timed his shots, then fired back through the wall, hitting him in the shoulder. The man yelled out obscenities loudly as he fell to the ground, still shooting at Basquiat. Jean wall hugged again, but one of the stray bullets came through in the wall just before he did and got him in the shoulder. He grunted out loudly

“HaHA! Now we’re getting somewhere! C’mon and fucking die you bitch!” the man said, firing off into the wall,

Jean ran for cover behind the couch. Firing off at the wall blindly. The bullet got him good, lucky shot. But he missed the guy, this was getting frustrating.

“Nice to have some help over here, John!” the man exclaimed, getting off the floor and taking cover on the wall outside of the room, trying to get a clear view of Jean.

John ignored him, he was almost done, he dug his lighter out of his pocket franticly; lighting the tip of his gin-drenched shirt piece

“I got something for ‘em, move!” John said angrily, gathering the courage to step forward and chuck the bottle towards the room, Jean raised up the shoot towards the voices, the bottle came flying at him, he juked the other way, smacking it downstairs. Then firing at them, his gun clicked. Jean Paul’s eyes lit up widely, as he suddenly realized what he had just done, he ran for the window, not fast enough.

The explosion ripped the basement door apart, sending bits and shards of wood flying, the impact pushed Basquiat over the couch mid-step, the henchmen went flying back against the opposite wall. Jean picked himself up, blood coming out of his bottom lip. He had to think fast, they still couldn’t see him through the mask. He quickly patted down the deadman, no keys, he couldn’t focus with the ringing in his ear. Basquiat just ran out of the door, the ringing was hurting his head, he couldn’t gather his thoughts. He was seeing things he didn’t want to. Flashbacks of old memories crashing at him like wild waves. Jean Paul hopped in the Black SUV and drove off, thankful the keys were still in it. The henchmen got themselves up, pulling one another up by the collar. The keyrack was in the kitchen, John grabbed the keys and they ran outside and got into the Macklin’s pickup truck. Whipping around and gunning it for Jean-Paul.

Jean couldn’t think to turn off the radio, where to go, or to teleport. He couldn’t stop hearing voices, seeing faces, blinking his eyes and trying to get that insistent ringing to stop. He simply floored the gas and drove to the highway, not knowing where to go, barely knowing where the highway was.

You fill up my senses, like night in a forest. Like the mountains in springtime, like a walk in the rain, like a storm in the desert, like a sleepy blue ocean, you fill up my senses come fill me, again. Come let me love you, let me give my life to you, let me drown in your laughter, let me die in your arms, let me lay down beside you, let me always be with you, come let me love you, come love me again.

Jean swerved and shook the car, unable to see. Closing his eyes to really intensely focus. He had to stop seeing his father. The ringing shortly went away, the concentration was there, he let go of the wheel and centered his mind. The memories washed away like water on a windshield, pouring over and finally slithering down, Jean-Paul opened his eyes, still on the road. Turning his head to the mirror as he grabbed the wheel, no one.

John took great pleasure in ramming Jean from the side, as his partner shoot at his front tires. They watched the car swerve once more and fly off the railing down off the hill, nosediving into a steep dirt hill. They drove after the car, to make sure he didn’t survive.

The car rolled after the initial hit, Jean’s body rose slightly into the roof, slamming his head, his body went through the back, as the car rolled and smacked some more, until finally flying into a ditch.

Like a sleepy blue ocean, you fill up my senses, come fill me again.

Jean laid there, going in and out of consciousness, his body lying in the back, bleeding from within his mask. The men rode up beside him, tossing another makeshift molotov into the SUV, then quickly driving away. Jean needed to crawl out badly, but his body wouldn’t let him. He closed his eyes, waiting for death. Ashamed not that he had to die in a ditch, but had to die to John Denver singing about some woman, he thought of Khole, his Dad, and his plans. Almost like reflex, he flipped his body out of the car, rolling around in the dirt, away from the car, as it exploded.

“Let’s go back and get the body, the boss will wanna see it.” John said

“Right.”

The car pulled back around, coming to collect. Jean was dazed, confused, but quickly regained his wits, he could hear the tires on the dirt, the car coming for him. He looked over to his left, a gun.

“Thank you.” he said to himself, thanking Lorraine.

He crawled to his feet, hiding behind a large boulder that wasn’t there before. Waiting for them, he listened for the car to stop, the doors shutting, their footsteps going towards the flaming car. He looked at the gun he thought up, a Smith & Wesson SD9 VE. He made a face at it beneath the mask, he didn’t know why he thought of such a basic thing. But nonetheless, he checked the mag, ten plus one. That’d have to be enough. Jean limped forward towards the left side of the rock and shot at one of them, hitting John in the leg twice. Who fired back three times.

“Why won’t this guy fucking die?!” the other one said, popping off at the boulder, running to John’s aid.

John’s reply was more shots at the boulder, then silence, they hid behind the pickup truck’s doors. Wating. Jean Paul was in great pain, but he gritted his teeth and blind fired only twice, thinking about his mag count. He had to be conservative with his bullets, but he thought of the police coming to intervene. They fired back at him, he lunged out of the cover of the rock and shot the other goon’s legs, then his face. Jean Paul was keeping count, four bullets left. John shot him in the chest, Jean yelled out loudly and quickly emptied the rest of this mag at John. One of the bullets hit his shoulder, the rest missing him under cover of the door. Jean got up and was limping towards his partner, John got from cover, not seeing Jean. Jean Paul, made sure to be silent as he could be, creeping behind the car, trying to get behind John.

John peeped behind the boulder, no one there. His eyes opened wide as he spun around quickly, shooting first. The first three shots hitting the pickup’s door, Jean Paul dropped to the ground and shot John in the toe and leg. Then quickly limped up and shot him dead. Police sirens were in the distance. He didn’t have time to be precise, he concentrated on home, and closed his eyes. The sirens stopped, the air got cooler, and he felt at peace. His helmet was getting hotter and hotter, he could barely breathe in that thing, Opening his eyes, he was inside his garage, bleeding badly. He took the mask off. Limping upstairs via the elevator. Stripping off layer after layer of clothing as he got closer to his door, he couldn’t lift his leg up, but his upper body was bare now. He wasn’t thinking of Khole, who stood up, startled as he came in, limping towards the bathroom, blood dripping everywhere on the floor.

“Oh my God! Jean! What happened?! Jean…. Jean! Answer me! Are you alright, Jean?! Jean! JEAN!”

He ignored her, focusing solely on the bathtub, thinking of ice cold water, his body was so hot. He needed that tub to be full. He barged the door open, Lorraine had not failed him yet, a full ice bath, right there. He smiled, letting his legs give out and fall into the bath. He didn’t know what this would do to help. He knew he was probably going to bleed out and die. Right then and there, but he at least wanted to die at home, comfortable, at ease, in water. Calm water. The coldness of the water soothed him, he closed his eyes. The sounds of Khole’s panicking becoming more and more distant now. He could still hear that god awful John Denver song playing in his head. This is how death was… or how it was supposed to be. Blissful, calming… like a creek streaming its water over rocks. Like art. Jean Paul drifted off now, at peace he didn’t complete his task, at peace with his fate, ready to die now. In a cold, watery sleep. Where he just knew papa would be waiting… on the other side.

Chapter 11

“That motherfucker hit us again.” a man named Wilson said, his voice shaking with anger

Franklin Jr. calmly smoked a cigarillo, needed desperately to soothe his frustration. Shaking off the pain this mystery bastard has caused.

“What did our boys in blue say?” he said in a hushed tone

“They’re doing forensics now, soon as they differentiate our guys from whoever is doing this they’ll have an idea whose doing this. But that’s where the problem comes in.”

“Oh?” Franklin said, genuinely surprised, turning around to face his right hand man

“The chief is going to ransom the I.D. of this fucker. He knows we all want him for ourselves.”

Franklin’s face turned sour, his entire expression became demonic, enraged, disgusted.

“Did you try to persuade him?”

“I did. The fucker has been planning this for awhile, he’s got contingencies, we can’t touch him, boss.”

Franklin immediately smacked and threw things all around the room, reactionary. Shouting obscenities as he did so. It took a very long 3 and a half minutes for him to finally stop and calm down. Sinking down into his chair, looking up at Wilson

“That fucking bastard. You give him money, and a promotion and all the sudden he thinks he can not only bite the hands that feed him, but play us against each other. That fucking faggot. THAT ASSHOLE HE’S GONNA ID KILLED MY FATHER! And yet, he’s only concerned about money. Who's he ransoming the information to? We’ll buy it from them, it’s probably Hildreaux. It makes the most sense. We can compromise and negotiate with him, we’re in the same boa-”

“He’s giving the information to the highest bidder, sir. He’s going to do a sort of auction. To the entire delegation. Not just Hildreaux, but Simard, DeCani; all of them, even Gredeau. He wants us all to bid.” Wilson said meekly,

Franklin’s eyes grew wide with anger. He rose up from his chair, his hands gripping his desk, nail marks from his fingertips getting worse and worse on the cherry oak finish.

“Are you…. FUCKING SERIOUS?! GREDEAU?! DECANI?! SIMARD?! GREDEAU WILL FUCKING BUY IT THEN SELL THE INFORMATION FOR TWICE AS MUCH AS HE FUCKING BOUGHT IT! GODDAMN IT!” He said, flipping over everything on his desk,

Franklin Jr, sat back down. Trying to think.

“What if the guy’s dead anyways?” He finally said after a short silence

“There wasn’t another body at the site, sir.”

“Yes, but what if whoever it was simply crawled away to die? In some hole or something? What if this is just one of them, what if there really is more of these murderers out there. One dickhead won’t matter, dead or not. We need answers.”

“Sir, my suggestion is that we simply pay the man when he finds out who this person was. It’s not going to be anything we can’t make back, or anything we can’t spare for that matter. It’s not like he’s gonna auction it off for millions.”

“AH, but what if he does? Think about it. How much would you sell info on someone involved in fucking with a mobster’s family? To the whole crowd of them who all want the guy for themselves to rip apart. Especially if you’re a greedy pig. He very well could auction it for millions, especially if Gredeau’s sheisty ass gets his mitts on it. If we don’t pay millions with the chief, we definitely will with Leland.”

“Sir, we already offer him money to keep quiet, we got him a promotion, we have him going against the other crooked chiefs in this city when elections roll around. What more can he ask for? I believe, sir; That with these key points, he won’t have the decency to make a high offer. Especially to the others, they don’t pay him, we do. They’ll simply threaten to crush his career with whomever they have in their pocket. He’s talking out of his ass. He knows he can only go to us. The chief isn’t a man who's gonna compete with other policemen. Especially a commissioner, or three for that matter.”

“I see.” Franklin turned to the window, excited

“You want to give him a dose of reality. But I have a better idea, to piggyback off that. We have to remind our good friend what can happen if we aren’t around to protect his precious police force from this city. Our city. Call a meeting with Simard. I think I have a way to get both our chief to come to his senses, and a way to get these leeches out of hiding.”

“Yes sir. Right away. When do you want the meeting to take place, should Simard accept the invitation?”

“Between now, and Tonight around seven. Either one is fine. At Salt. I love that fucking place. Best steak in the damn city.”

“Right away sir. Oh, and Mr. Delin?”

“Yes?” Franklin asked, turning around once more to face Wilson

“You haven’t had real steak, until you’ve been to Absinthe. It’s literally the best fucking slab of cow you’ll ever taste.”

Franklin broke out in laughter. Smiling wide and proud.

“Thanks, Wilson. I needed that laughter. I really did.”

“Anytime, sir. Anytime.” Wilson said as he hurried off to set up the meeting

Franklin picked up his stuff one at a time, still smiling to himself,

“I really needed that laugh, man.” he said to himself. Thinking of everything, missing his father, missing the simpler days, missing everything, hating everything.

☨

Later that night… Michel and Franklin sat across from one another with fake grins. Eating generously before they talked. The atmosphere at Absinthe was quite nice. Franklin found Wilson to be right, his food was indeed the best slab of cow he’d ever eaten. But he didn’t indulge too much. Not wanting to fall prey into a social call, Michel was easy to talk to, and even easier to be distracted by. He took a sip of his wine, then gave Michel the look. Who in turn wiped his mouth politely with a napkin, then sat straight up, listening intently.

“One of them attacked my guys today. Killed the Macklins too. This shit needs to come to an end.”

“I agree. Although I can’t say I’m sorry about the Macklins, they’re white trash, nothing anyone will miss. But nevertheless, how do you suppose this stops, junior? These people aren’t available for negotiations, if it even is, people. We’re in the dark, we just need to try and get the upper hand. Together.”

“Michel, I have an idea. My boy in blue-”

“The police chief? How’s he doing? Still trying to get ahead?”

“Listen!, that pig wants to divide us. But I have a better way, a way we can all not only root out the rats in our respective circles, but a way we can draw out whoever's doing this.”

“I’m listening.”

“I say we start up the bounties again. This time make them public spread. Free reign for anyone under employment. Money for whoever gets the target.”

Michel leaned in, his smug look dissolving away into dead seriousness

“Open bounties across the organization? You’ll have the grunts killing each other to get to one person. And who are we even going to bounty?”

“Persons of interest, former rats living in hiding that we know of, under performers, it doesn’t matter who we pick. Because we won’t have to. My proposal is that we let the grunts do their own bounties. Have them root each other out. They tend to know more than us anyways, they keep secrets, Michel. They have suspicions they don’t bring forth, for fear of whatever may happen, or for fear of breaking their own stupid little code. I say we eliminate whoever has bad tidings. Think of it as a cleanse.”

“You’ll have this city running with blood of whatever dumbass doesn’t like about the other dumbass. You’ll….” Michel’s eyes got huge “You’ll have them citing reasons for the bounties, they’ll be marking down their own funds, and everyone will be trying to collect. It’ll be open season on easy money.”

“And naturally, it’ll gain traction and noise. And when it does…”

“Our little assassins are gonna come out to play.”

“Which’ll make it that much easier to find in the crossfire. And then hopefully-”

“An ID!” Michel stood up, his gaze crazed with excitement

“You’re a genius. They’ll expose themselves by trying to kill whoever they can get to. And when they rear their ugly head.”

“It’ll be that much easier to find out who's doing this.”

Michel and Franklin stared at each other, Michel sat back down quickly so as not to draw attention. They grinned at one another

“And you’ll need my help in proposing this to the others.”

“Precisely.”

“You’re quite good at politics. You’re also quite good at convincing. You have my support. I’ll call a meeting tomorrow. Round this time. If they vote against you however. Then I believe that auction for the attacker you don’t want anyone knowing about will be fair game, junior. And I’ll see to it that I bid the highest. Don’t worry, I’ll keep your chief from prostituting his meal ticket.” Michel said as he drank the rest of his wine.

Franklin sat in shock, he was sure he had the chief under control, as well as the situation.

“You must not be paying that man enough, Frank. He’s getting a little wild.”

“Then maybe he should be the first mark when the bounties start up.”

“Someone’s mad. Well. I think this meeting has reached its ending point.” Michel waved at their waiter for the check, whispering in his ear for two to-go boxes

“Nice selection. I like this place. Great steak.” Michel said, as he left money for the bill on the table before the waiter could come.

Franklin and Michel bagged up their food in silence, then left out together, going their separate ways in their respective cars. Franklin’s face was overcome with anticipation, and anger. He thought deeply of the next moves to come.

☨

Death felt like a peaceful sleep. A wave of calmness that continuously washed over the deceased. Death felt, like a fountain dripping a stream all over, and there wasn’t any breathing, any choking, any blindness, nor unpleasantness, just serenity. Just quietness, not even wind blowing. It felt fresh, like air gushing towards the face. Like falling and never landing. Death was uninterrupted bliss.

MOTHER MARY COMES TO ME, SPEAKING WORDS OF WISDOM. LET IT BE.

LET IT BE.

LET IT BE.

LET IT BE.

LET IT…. BE.

WHISPER WORDS OF WISDOM, LET IT BE.

LET IT BE,

LET IT BE,

LET IT BE,

LET IT BE.

THERE WILL BE AN ANSWER, LET IT BE.

LET IT BE,

LET IT BE,

LET IT BE,

LET IT BE,

LET IT BE,

THERE WILL BE NO SADNESS, LET IT BE.

Then, he heard it; an interruption. Fucking John Denver again. This time a damn Beatles song. Jean’s eyes opened wide, and he rose out of the tub. Looking around frantically. Khole

Came into the bathroom, looking shyly at him, beckoning him to follow her into his bedroom. He followed, bewildered, dropping to his knees, his legs shaken with wonderment. His face speechless.

“I live… I live? What is this?” He finally asked softly, his voice shaken

Khole sat on the bed. Looking at him as if she were analyzing something. Then answered, coyly

“Lorraine will never let you die, if you do not wish it to. If you want to die, you will pass when you allow yourself to. Whenever your body naturally does so. But Lorraine, Lorraine will never let you die, never. Until you decide to.”

“Are you telling me, I can’t die until I ask? Are you telling me I can survive gunshot wounds? Head trauma, God knows what else?!” Jean Paul said furiously, as he stood up, towering over her

“And you forgot to tell me? Moreso your father, forgot to mention as well.” he said, he voice now seething, making Khole back away, retreating towards the headboard.

“I didn’t take you as a man who wanted to live.”

“My occupation doesn’t dictate my mental state. Get out of my bed.”

“Jean, I’m sorry I didn’t t-”

“Get out of my bed. Now.”

Khole’s eyes watered, she arose from his bed. Standing in a corner, unsure of what to do.

“Were you simply going to wait for me to rot?”

“No, I was going to call the police, and leave.”

“What else are you keeping a secret from me?”

“Why do you sound so cynical, Jean? I mean you can’t expect me to have thought you cared about your life, when-”

“Shut up!”

His gaze was menacing at best. Her heart fell into her stomach,

“Move.” he said simply, his facial expression softening,

Jean fell onto the bed, face first into pillow. Simply taking it all in. Simply laying there, defeated with human emotion, something he thought himself immune to. And Khole, who sat there, thinking about her next move with teetering uncertainty, decided to crawl up next to him, and wrap herself around him. To which he simply lifted his arm, allowing her to get under him, as he laid there, motionless, ignoring her presence, and thinking deep.

“Turn that music off. I hate John Denver.”

“Not a man of good taste I see.” She said, getting up

“I’ve heard enough of him for today. Everyday.”

Khole went outside the room to turn off the bluetooth, then scurried back in, nesting under Basquiat.

“I’m glad you decided to stay with us, this house would’ve been lonely.”

“I still have things to do. Besides, I enjoy life. Even when I’m only taking it.”

☨

Khole sat at the glass table eating a small dessert plate of butter tarts. She ate slowly, trying to breathe in between bites. Thinking heavily of laying on Basquiat’s broad chest. Thinking of her father. Thinking of bullet wounds, stab wounds (her father in particular), and waiting to never hear from Basquiat as he goes out to destroy and kill one night. She thought about festivals, smiling faces, simpler life. Walks in the park, walks in the countryside. She thought of wind. She thought of her many days wandering the streets of downtown Ottawa. She thought until she stopped mid-bite, and broke down in tears. Sobbing uncontrollably, not really knowing why. But at the same time not knowing how to cope with this; with life. Basquiat emerged from the shadows of his room, placing a hand on her shoulder, to which he was met with an instant, jumping onto his torso. Drenching tears staining through the shirt he had just put on.

“What troubles you?” He asked, slightly puzzled

“I just… I don’t know… how to deal with it sometimes. It’s just hard, Jean… it’s just hard. It’s like this… this… hand that throws you wherever it pleases, and you just gotta cope with wherever you land… I’m just confused… i don’t know Jean… I don’t know.” she spoke in between sad little sobs, tears covering her face like a mask.

Basquiat didn’t know what to do. But knew how she felt. He held her chin up and kissed her, passionately.He started to stop himself, but she threw her arms around him, and kissed him back with a fiery enthusiasm , like a release… of everything. Jean carried her back to her bedroom, but didn’t leave. They unclothed one another, and let their passion take them into the hollows of the night, and the warmth of each other’s souls.

Chapter 12

Jean was up early. He had received a call from Michel. They spoke about Jean returning to work, the heat had finally died off and Michel wanted to give Jean a heads up on the coming bounties that would hit the fan. Naturally, Basquiat’s eyes opened wide. He knew this was his chance. He was eager, and happy. Michel told him about the police chief having the sample of who was behind the Macklin hit. He grinned a wide grin. Two birds in one stone. Michel told him his plans to hold faux bidding talks with the chief. Basquiat affirmed fake thanks, and reassured he’d be ready. Michel wouldn’t see him coming, even if he did, he’d be dead before he could tell anyone.

He woke up Khole, carried her into the shower, washing her.

“What’s the eagerness for?”

“A date. People go on those, I’ve never been on one. Have you?” he said nonchalantly as he got dressed

“Romantic ones? Of course not. I’m surprised you’ve had sex before. You don’t seem like the intimate type.”

“Only once, I was more so catatonic when it happened.”

Khole was pleased, but hid it.

“What do you have in mind?”

“Brunch, then make it up from there. I’m not well educated on these things.”

“Interaction?”

“People. The ones I deal with, I either kill, interrogate, or do business with. None of that gets intimate. Or social.”

“I guess this’ll be a first for both of us… brunch sounds nice.”

She came over to him and placed a hand around his face

“Last night was well needed. And appreciated. I liked it.”

“Don’t talk to me that way. Talk nicer. More… lovey dovey. Makes things easier”

“I think you like it this way more. Who wants to be a cliche?”

“I want to get drunk.” Basquiat said as he stood up, fully dressed.

“Lead the way, Mr. Frankenstein.” Khole said, wide smile in tow

☨

IF I, COULD SAVE TIME. IN A BOTTLE.

THE FIRST THING THAT I’D LIKE TO DO, IS TO SAVE EVERYDAY TILL ETERNITY PASSES AWAY,

JUST TO SPEND THEM WITH YOU.

IF I COULD MAKE DAYS LAST FOREVER, IF WORDS COULD MAKE WISHES COME TRUE.

I’D SAVE EVERYDAY LIKE A TREASURE AND THEN, AGAIN, I WOULD SPEND THEM WITH YOU.

Basquiat suited up in his vest, and combat mask. Packing a plethora of tactical artillery with him. Loading up his shotgun, mentally preparing for today’s plan of action. The date with Khole gave him a centering, a peace, an escape. But he was back to reality. And ready to perform. With the thought of dying out of his mind, he could focus on the task at hand, and how much mental strength it’d take. Khole watched him load up from afar (the safety of her rooms doorway). She couldn’t find words appropriate to say, she couldn’t think of anything.

This man had not known her all his life, they were not “dating”, and he did this as a career choice. She couldn’t think of anything, one night of unexpected sex wouldn’t inspire love, nor could it (in her mind). She couldn’t find words to discourage him from doing this. But simply stared at him, geared up and ready to go to war with people she assumed were as dangerous if not more than him. But thought better of that. Considering Lorraine, and her gifts and privileges. Basquiat strapped the shotgun to his back, then walked over to her, looking taller than normal in his combat boots (which added inches to his towering figure, thus creating a monolithic aesthetic to him). He kissed her forehead, then slipped his mask on. Patted the top of the war helmet, and she could feel him smile underneath that bland and blank mask, through the emotionless gaze of the black pitched out visor she could feel his joy. And it make her skin twitch and scatter, and crawl. Although she couldn’t see it, or prove it, that smile made her spine freeze over, in a chill of fear; and slight pity… for his enemies.

Jean actually did not smile, but simply looked her in the eyes through the two way visor. Heading down to the garage. He decided he’d probably lose one of his prized vehicles. He decided he’d rather lose one of the motorcycles. He rode out, heading to the police station, early enough to beat Michel, but late enough to meet the dear chief.

I COME UP HARD BABY, BUT NOW I’M COOL.

I DIDN’T MAKE IT SUGAR, PLAYING BY THE RULES

I COME UP HARD BABY, BUT NOW I’M FINE

I’M CHECKING TROUBLE, SURE, MOVING DOWN THE LINE.

I COME UP HARD BABY, BUT THATS OKAY CAUSE,

TROUBLE MAN, DON’T GET IN MY WAY.

The station wasn’t as full of life and activity per usual, while still it was busy enough, it had a notable emptiness in it. Enough emptiness to have this meeting with the crime boss in privacy. He headed to his office to prepare one of the interrogation rooms for the negotiations. He was going to milk that bastard for every penny he could spare and then some. As he shut the door, an incredible force suffocated his breath, a massive arm around his neck. His eyes quickly began to roll in the back of his head, he threw a weak elbow in the backward direction of the attacker to no avail. He was struggling, turning blueish purple all in a matter of seconds. He knew this was the end,

“I want Simard. I will have him. Do you understand?” Basquiat uttered almost in a whisper.

The chief couldn’t nod his head, so he gave a thumbs up, feeling all the light leave the room. Feeling life slipping away, trying to hold on until his attacker stopped. Basquiat let him go suddenly,

“Continue your meeting as planned. Say a word, and I’ll end you.” Jean stated

“Interrogation room three.” The chief coarsely coughed out, looking back to see who this man was, finding no one

☨

Simard entered the station not long after, long enough for the chief to gather his bearings and reclaim the little breaths he had left, and long enough for Basquiat to lock the police side of the interrogation room, and measure the right ammo to use. Simard entered the interrogation room interview side with two armed guards, one that Jean wasn’t familiar with, The Mousset-Delin seed entered with him, and from the shadow of light underneath the police side, he saw two fixtures cloud the shiver of light. He didn’t anticipate Mousset to come along, He knew he couldn’t be able hit both Simard and Delin before things got complicated. He couldn’t risk the chief exposing him either. Jean-Paul raised his gun, and waited for the chief to enter the room, and close the door. Than he fired, shooting the policemen in the head, the guards in the stomach and head. Then switching to the guards just outside of the door he was in, shooting through the door. Simard and Frank made a run for the door, keeping their heads down as they made their escape. More of Delin’s’s men crowding that doorway and proving a human wall. Jean Paul chucked a smoke grenade down the hall as he took cover. Mousset rushed out the back door getting into one of his SUV’s. Calling Simard automatically.

Simard was already en route to his penthouse, having anticipated an attack.

“WHAT THE FUCK WAS THAT, MICHEL?! WHERE IS YOUR FRANKENSTEIN? YOU’RE MACHINE, YOUR FUCKING HITMAN IS MIA, AND WE WERE ONE BODY AWAY FROM BEING COLD FUCKING SLABS!” Delin shouted with almost no more breath into the phone, veins protruding out of his sweat-drenched forehead.

Simard appeared calm, but was shaken, confused, and taken off guard, he didn’t know what lie to tell Frank Jr, he didn’t want to not be in control, or have answers. He couldn't stand coming clean. But the iron clad pounding of his heart nearly beating out of his chest reminded him this was not the time, nor the situation, to indulge or be prisoner to his own flaws. He owned up… the best he could.

“Basquiat is never a no show… if that fucker got into the police station, he probably got my guy as well. Fuck. Fuck. This is fucked.” Simard said, rubbing his hair all the way back,

“Your best guy?! Fuck Michel, fucking fuck. This is fucking shit, we need an entire sweep. No more fucking politics. We need to burn this city to the ground until we find these fucking scum! And rub them out, LIKE FUCKING STAINS, MICHEL. LIKE FUCKING STAINS!”

“Come to my penthouse, Frank. We will call an emergency meeting there. You wanna burn the city? We’ll burn the whole fucking Ottawa. Get all your men upon my suite, we’re gonna fuck these fucking hack jobs. If they think this is getting mean, we’re about to get fucking diabolical.” Simard snarled, his face red with angry passion

“On it. See you soon.”

They hung up, Frank Jr. directed this driver to Simard’s penthouse, issuing a call for all his men and payroll killers to direct themselves to the same destination. Simard called Hildreaux, who then called Gredeau, who called DeCanti, who continued the cycle until all of them (employees in tow) were waiting as Simard and Delin arrived. A fortress of armed men stood guard all around the large condo. Jean Paul stood three buildings away, using binoculars to spot the men high up in firing position. Thinking to himself how he would be able to step foot in there without raising alarm. He didn’t want to test his supposed invincibility, those bullets actually hurt like hell. He couldn’t think of how to approach the situation, He closed his eyes, trying to think of where he’s been, in that damned penthouse. He struggled to remember, he struggled to put forth an image, for Lorraine. His eyes shot wide open in a cold, killer grin. Jean quickly left the roof.

☨

The men standing guard at the front of the lavish condo shifted their feet, the collective safeties on their weapons off and fingers desperately on the triggers ready for what they believed was a cowardice gang of disgruntled and hungry wannabe gangsters, eager to either make their mark (via hostile takeover) or to avenge a mark (bad business practice). None of them feared anything, they saw their bosses as careless men, this was a dose of reality. This was the real business. They crowded one another, exchanging pleasantries whilst still onguard and ready for anything. Smoking and looking about, all of them blocking the door. A car was pulling up, too fast. They all rained down bullets at the large truck, they thought the 18 wheeler was simply some drunken asshole. It was not.

Basquiat leap out of the semi, (filled to the tanker with gasoline) and immediately sprayed at the tanker, just as the truck smashed through the doorway into the condo, splattering most of the men along with it, save a few others injured, and some who got out of the way far enough in time. It exploded far, and wide. Incinerating whomever was nearby. Jean-Paul casually walked through, rifle hot and ready, shooting at any who came to investigate the carnage. Cutting through men left and right. He took the stairs up, not wanting to chance anything with the elevator. Some of Gredeau’s men came through the second floor door, he clipped them.

He hesitated, and thought about Simard. He was here for Simard. Not the others, he could easily get then later.

Basquiat backed away and charged upstairs for the penthouse. Killing the occasional cowardly henchmen trying to escape via stairway. The stairway went too far up, he closed his eyes, teleporting himself to the penthouse. Opening his eyes, outside of the hallway to Simard. He raised his Tec-9s. Playing music in his head, concentrating on his goal. Kicking open the door, blasting towards anyone between him and that door. Wall Hugging to avoid bullets. He cleared them out. Jean-Paul reloaded his clips patiently. As Jean-Paul strolled up to the door he saw the door was locked.

On the other side, four of Simard’s best stood two at a side watching the handles. Waiting for him to make his move.

Basquiat was in full concentration, the door handles disappeared. The men’s eyes grew wide and shocked in peril.

Jean teleported behind Simard, unbeknownst to him. Smoke appeared and thickened the room, only six gunshots rang out in the room. Simard whipped his chair around, sensing a presence. He found nothing but the large windows, he whipped back around, and the door handles were back, the door itself was shut, locked. The smoke nonexistent. And Jean-Paul stood there, one Tech pointed at Simard. Automatically he shot him in the shoulder.

“Look at me, Michel.”

Simard cried out in agony, but obeyed. His eyes red from fear, and suppressant tears. Jean took off his mask, tossing it at Simard. His eyes grew wide, and the tears trickled out.

“Jean….. Jean… j-j-” Michel muttered out

“Do you remember fondly of your father, Michel?” Jean said calmly, walking over to the bar stand.

“Your father, who ran this business before you. Employed my father. My father, Clement Côme Basquiat was your father’s accountant. One of them. He did physical transactions and sorted the money properly among the brutes, as well as count the takes from whatever deal was assigned to him. To cut cost and staff, he was killed. Your father, killed two birds with one stone, by killing my father. Saving himself the worry of liability, and also cutting staff effectively, not allowing any to the competition.”

Simard sat in disbelief, watching Basquiat stroll back and forth, looking at him with cold, delighted eyes. He wanted to go for his gun, but Jean shot the right shoulder, he couldn’t do anything.

“Your father died of cancer, unfortunately. The two men he ordered to kill my father, also died. One from old age, in prison I might add. And the other, to a seizure, stemming from his old age as well. Of course you’ve never heard of this transaction, it wouldn't make much necessity to speak of a small wage cut resulting in a death. Your father wasn’t in the right state of health to mention this most likely anyway.”

Jean finally stopped pacing, looking Simard in the eyes, cold, blank, stoic, and with purpose

“Therefore, you will pay for his misdeed.”

Jean lifted his gun and aimed at Michel’s forehead. Simard couldn’t hold back the tears falling silently down his face.

“Sins. Of the father.”

The loud BOW! Seemed to ring out in Jean-Paul’s ears. He felt a sense of relief, the blood exiting Michel’s head and splattering over the window behind him gave him great happiness. As did eyeing his wall safe. It opened as soon as Basquiat fixed his stare at it. HE took all the money from it, leaving the jewels and passports. Jean put his mask back on and kicked the door back open, deciding to take his time, and kill every single person who he came in contact with on the way down, he grinned a large, snakeish grin, taking the elevator, making sure to stop on every floor.

The elevator stopped however, Jean quickly pressed floor buttons, not wanting to be forced to climb out. But it wouldn’t move. Suddenly the elevator became weightless, and fell. Jean felt the pressure of the falling shaft make his stomach fly into his lungs like a kid on a rollercoaster. He tried to concentrate on getting out, but couldn’t the surprise of it all had the best of him. It seemed to only have fallen for a split second, before it was already crashing into the ground floor. Jean-Paul slowly opened his heavy eyelids, weakened, hurt, but not dead. He was slumped down like a drunkard after a binge on the elevator floor. His head pounding with pain. The heat from the sweat in his mask was suffocating, he took it off, slowly. And made the elevator doors open. Dragging himself up, he limped out of the elevator, making sure his guns were still operable. As he limped out of the building, he stopped dead in his tracks.

A man stared him down, not any regular lackey from one of the organizations, but a man different than he’d ever seen. He couldn’t move. He couldn’t shoot. He could only simply stare into the soul of the man who stepped in his way, the man seemed to have, been staring into Jean’s soul as well. They circled around one another, looking confused, in a trance at one another’s presence. The man was no doppelganger, but they simply stared. As if something, were keeping them at peace, unable-ing them to harm one another. Not a word was said, they simply backed away. Eyes never leaving each other. Basquiat couldn’t simply walk away, but he couldn’t attack either. There was something about this man. Something unsettling.

“You’re not my enemy.” Basquiat said, without actually wanting to say it, the words spilling out of his mouth, as if it were being woven out of his lips, rather than him sewing these words together.

“We will be in touch.” the man said, in a faint Australian accent, his face showing the same disbelief in his sentencing as well

They both backed away some more, finally taking their eyes off one another, ceasing the marveling. And they both disappeared into their own separate missions. The man, retreating into the staircase of the building. Jean, to one of his cars that he summoned (courtesy of Lorraine), driving off to his condo, to quickly relocate. Before things got any weirder.

Chapter 13

Dial tone…

“Hello?” came the shy voice on the phone

“Khole.”

“Jean?” Khole said, slightly startled

“Pack your clothes and necessities. Do not ask questions.”

Silence. A hard effort attempt at not giving in to the natural reaction. Khole battled with submitting whilst not wanting to be impractical. It took a few minutes, but not after long, she finally cooperated and obeyed.

“Okay. I’ll be ready.”

“I’ll be there in an hour or less. We are going to America. Los Angeles to be exact. Pack warm.”

“I have questions Jean. I want to ask you questions. I’m confused.”

“I will answer everything when I have the time to do so. Get your things ready. Be ready. Goodbye.” Jean hung up promptly, driving out to Leland’s.

Dial tone…

“Basquiat, I am surprised. However, I am also pleased to hear from you. I’m fully aware this isn’t a social call, you aren’t the socializing type. You’re also, too professional and calculated for this to be a routine need of service. I am taking this as an emergency. Don’t bother driving out to my residence, meet me at my office downtown. I’m sure you know the address, however, if you don’t. I’ll text it to you. Am I on the right track of assumption, Basquiat?”

Jean was impressed but not surprised, informative deduction was Leland’s specialty, a rarity in the business they served. A valuable one.

“Yes. I’ll be there in 10 minutes.”

“I’ll make sure to send you directly up.”

Jean hung up, lucky that Michel didn’t stay far from Leland. Lucky he didn’t get on the highway yet. Lucky his driving was impeccable.

☨

“I need a relocation deal to Los Angeles. Similar living situation. I’ll have one passenger with me.”

“I was fearing the day you had too much heat on you. I heard gossip of the gas station job. Legendary Jean, simply legendary. Also, is the passenger male or female? For the passports of course.”

“A woman.”

“Have you finally found love, Basquiat?”

“No. She’s simply, in my care.”

“Of course.” Leland shuffled papers and typed on his computer filling out Basquiat’s order. Hitting the enter button in flamboyant fashion.

“Eunice will have the order ready for you momentarily. You’re open to a drink while you wait.”

Jean poured Leland and himself a glass of whiskey, with coke. They sat down and Jean acted natural, it was never a long process with Leland’s service. He was the best at these situations, a symbol for the success of his company, servicing both the right and wrong side of the law.

“Jean, because of the tremendous job you did with our last transaction I simply cannot let you pay me full price for this order. I am going to apply a discount, you’ll be paying the base payment for this service. Granted, it will take approximately a week upon your relocation for the full payments and money trail to put you into your new home. I have a low risk residence for you to stay until then. A token of my gratitude, Jean.”

“I really appreciate that Leland. Your generosity is very satisfactory.”

“Will this be a permanent transaction for you? Is this the last I’ll see of the Ottawa Frankenstein?” Leland smiled, knowing Basquiat hated that nickname

“I’ll return when heat is fully dead and my name forgotten amongst the intended crowd. It may very well be awhile.”

“I hope you find a smooth transition there, and an even smoother transition back Basquiat.”

Leland’s assistant brought out the passports and paperwork. Jean paid her pennies on the dollar than what should have been charged for this service. He signed his alias initials, and shook Leland’s hand. Leaving in a masked hurry on his way to Khole. Eager to take her away from this country.

☨

Jean took the window seat of the plane to LA. It was going to be a long flight, so he could comfortable, as did Khole. She watched a movie for a while before getting abruptly tired, gradually falling asleep. Jean couldn’t take his eyes out of the clouds, thinking of everything, accessing the situation, and that man he encountered. All that focus on his thoughts and yet he still took notice when Khole laid her head on his shoulder. Finally going, into a light sleep that would surely become deep. He took his mind from his courses of action and put mental energy into thinking about her, and how they came to be, then laughed. In spite of himself.

☨

Sonny Hildreaux and Gredeau stormed into Leland’s office, their men collectively filling up the room menacingly. Sonny said not a word, his face red with anger, he knew to collect himself. Gredeau stepped forward, establishing he would be doing the talking.

“Mr. Bell. A pleasure to see you as always. I’m sorry for the hostility and intrusiveness as they very well may appear. But this is matter of utter emergency. Particularly concerning of a possible client of yours.”

“What matter would that be? As you both know, only certain situations overturn the confidentiality clause of my services. I sure do hope an entrance as brazen as this does in fact warrant such a situation. Go on, debrief me.” Leland said s he lit his skinny cigar

“Simard is dead. There’s a traitor in our midst. We have reason to believe whoever it was fled the city, or most likely the country. You’re the best to go to for escape routes. Who recently employed your services, Leland?” Sonny interjected, his tone confrontational and ugly

Leland sat there with his mouth open wide, his cigar falling from his mouth, a look of utter disbelief on his face. He slowly stood, shaking as if he had seen a ghost. Until finally he poured himself a drink, taking it down in one gulp, than pouring another plus glasses for everyone in the room.

“Sit down. All of you. If what you’re saying is true. You’ll want a drink, cause nothing will be able to done today. Please, just trust me and drink. This is truly a devastating occasion. I hoped this would never come to be.” Leland said dreadfully, his tone however authoritative,

Everyone looked at one another, than sat down accordingly. All of them grabbing the glasses and taking a much needed sip. Leland still looking shocked.

“Jean-Paul Basquiat. Simard’s top hitman. He requested the kind of package you speak of.”

“He was supposed to be dea-.... Fucking traitor. He killed Simard.”

“He’s in the states. Los Angeles to be exact. We’ll need to plan an attack so that he doesn’t see it coming. I set him up with a ghost package. I’ll make sure to cancel it.”

“Our partners in the states are gonna go hunting. I’ll make a few phone call. “

☨

Salt Lake City International Airport, Jean knew his transaction with Leland would give him away. He wasn’t going to chance whether or not Leland and the rest of the organization’s remainders had a trpa waiting for him and Khole at LAX. He threw away the IDs he was given by Leland. They would now be travelling incognito. He took Khole’s hand and led her into the nearest women’s restroom.

“What are you doing?!”

“Close your eyes.” Jean said in a threatening tone

“Sex in a bathroom, Jean? You don’t seem like the type.” she said with sas

Jean held onto her in a bear hug, imagining where he wanted to go. Feeling the breeze of the air in an instant. Opening his eyes to the streets of L.A. Everything in tact. Khole opened her eyes and nearly had a heart attack. He breathed a sigh of relief, than destroyed the phone Leland gave him for jobs. He had long already made an alter ego but doubt he’d need it, still caution. He had a safe house in many cities across the U.S. the one he had in L.A. would be no different. They walked to the hotel, wanting to keep a low profile.

After Jean helped unpack Khole’ belongings he insisted to go out, leaving her there, security was just as tight in this luxurious loft, she didn’t mind at all having some time to get acquainted with the place. Jean teleported to a few blocks away. In a seedy storage lot underneath a busy highway in a neighborhood most tourist avoided. He flipped on the light, his babies were still in one piece. Three vehicles, covered in a blanket to prevent dust. His motorcycle smack in the middle of the two cars, one a vintage american muscle relic, the other a smooth, sleek luxury car. He sat on the lone stool at the workbench behind the priceless cars, turning on the laptop. Going online to the American version of the app he got his jobs from. Under his assumed name. A grin flashed across his face. Pure. Happiness.

Chapter 14

What was left of the organization was repairing from the damages. At least most of them, the young Hildreaux was in L.A. hot on the tail of Basquiat. Searching the mediums of their American partners for any paper trails of Basquiat. But from the shadows, both as diplomacy, and tactic.

6 months to a year later… Basquiat enjoyed the new beginning he forged for himself. He made a killing in America. They were short tempered and blood thirsty, the Americans there sent out hits for almost nothing. He could kill all night if he wanted to. Him and Khole were dating, a first for him. No-one knew who she was. He never brought her around and always made sure they went out at odd times when it'd be easy for him to spot a recon from a mile away. He somehow earned the same nickname he garnered back in Ottawa. He didn't mind it. He enjoyed this place too much. Apart from the horrific laws, terrible leadership, and the untrustworthy families, he liked America a lot. It was a haven inhabited by the perfect mixture of demons, angels, and confused sheep in between.

Jean parked in the garage to his second apartment downtown. LA was riveting yet overcrowded. He stayed on the outskirts of downtown near the hills where the celebrities stayed. He took the garage elevator up to his floor, right in the middle. Still luxurious and expensive, yet placed strategically, Jean didn't allow the good life to spoil him and make him sloppy. Khole met him at the door. Jumping on top of him. They kissed and spoke. Talking of the day, each other, groceries, trivial things he normally never discussed.

Their day was a combination of different things. Jean insisted they never fall victim to routine. Which at first proved difficult for Khole. Nonetheless, they always switched up the routine. This country (the US) was more violent and underhanded than up north. He wouldn’t take chances, nor allow himself to get sloppy and lax.

☨

Jean walked right in the abandoned film processing plant for the kill. His bounty was an escaped informat. And he had word the rat liked him dominatrix fix, the scenery puzzled him though. However he had seen much up to this point. He now knew to never count anything out in this vile city. The mark was laid out in the middle of the room, handcuffed behind his back, a gag in his mouth. Jean figured the hooker had stepped away to grab her naughty little tools. Jean wasted no time. He waltzed over and put a bullet through his head without hesitation. As he walked back towards the door, he was pushed back by a stiff hand from the shadows. A henchmen, along with 4 others who came from the shadows, surrounding him. Jean took out his other silenced pistol, but was halted from killin them when Sonny Hildreaux came out of the shadows as well, clapping slowly. A sick look in his eyes, enhanced by his equally unsettling grin. Looking at Basquiat like a raw piece of rare meat.

“You just signed your death warrant, my friend.”

“How is that?” Jean said, raising up one of his pistols in onny’s direction

“I’m not amazed you fell for this little trick. I’ve been planning it for a while now. But I thought more of your intuitive skill. Too high of an expectation I suppose.”

Basquiat pointed one of his pistols at Sonny.

“That man has been missing for quite some time. Kidnapped. Held for a ransom. And you just killed him on video, Jean.” Sonny took out a small device, it resembled a walkie talkie.

“A four gee device cannot be cloned. However, your work phone isn’t a four gee unfortunately. It’s susceptible to device cloning, a proper hack can make it say whatever it wants these days.” Sonny continued

“All this for little ole me?”

“You killed Simard. You and whoever else your working with killed my father, and my best friend’s father. You’re a fucking bastard, a traitor. You know how we deal with those.”

“You have no proof, junior. I simply came over here after the shitshow that happened in Ottawa. As you know, there’s no penalty for relocation.”

“SIMARD SAID YOU WERE DEAD!”

“He may have thought I was dead. Everything got out of hand pretty quickly. You can attest to that.”

“You don’t order the vanishing package for nothing. You took a girl and fled. Why would you Jean? You had nothing to fear if you didn’t know anything. No one else left. You left because your employers called you home. You fucking snake!”

A short, small ding ringed out. Followed by another, and another, and another.

“That. My friend, is five hundred thousand dollars. On your head. For killing an innocent capo. Have fun.” Sonny grinned as he backed away

Basquiat cocked back the hammer of his gun. Sonny paused.

“You’re not here on a hunch, nor would you have been sent on one. Unless you are here on a revenge scheme you can’t prove. Which means, you aren’t spoken for.”

“There are five guns on you. And one on me. How do you think that will play out? Jean.”

Basquiat smiled devilishly, lifting up his other arm

“Let’s see.”

Basquiat shot at all of them, they pulled their triggers, only to hear clicks that send lightning fast chills down their spines before a bullet met them. Jean pointed both guns at Sonny now. Who fell backwards in horror. Basquiat stood over him, sprinkling the firing pins down onto his face. A tear formed in Sonny’s eyes. Basquiat emptied his clips in his head.

“Tell your father It was me, and only me. After you give him your hellos, and my best regards.”

Jean looked at his phone, it went fully blank. He was a mark now. A half million dollar mark. He broke the phone, running outside, running to his car. But stopped and elected to hide it in the garage, closing his eyes and appearing in his apartment as he opened them. The city would be in chaos in less than an hour. He looked at his closet, opening its door he found his bags packed. He was getting good at this.

“Jean.” Khole’s voice sing sung in the room, bouncing around in his ears

Basquiat turned around facing her, towering over her. His eyes stoically looking into hers

“There’s a price on my head. I’ll have to go into hiding until the bounty expires.”

“These things have time frames?”

“Yes, if a mark survives the time specified on the hit, they’re free to go. It saves time and gives other families opportunities for recruitment. The time give them leverage.”

Jean started for the door, but Khole stopped him.

“How long is yours?”

Jean looked at the phone he lifted from Sonny’s dead body.

“Twenty-four hours. The higher the money, the less time. Rule of thumb. Stay here, I’ll return to you.”

“Jean!” she grabbed his arm, not knowing exactly what to say or what she could say

Jean could see everything she wanted to say through the fear in her eyes. He gently yanked his arm away.

“I’ll return. There’s no need to fear. Be safe. Stay in this loft.”

Jean got to the door, Khole ran to him and turned him around, jumping up into his arms, kissing him. Long, and deep. Eyes closed. Jean kissed back. Then left for the garage below, driving one of his armored classics. He had a small shifty apartment outside the city he would hide, far from the garage (under the highway across town) but Lorraine would make sure that wouldn’t be too much of a problem.

☨

The outer road was especially lonely, almost deserted. The Los Angeles desert area was unforgivable. It wasn’t showy and fast like the city, it was nice and quiet. He liked that about it. Easier to kill and not be heard. He turned up the radio as he drove, thinking about Khole, and that kiss.

Unforgettable. That’s what you are.

Unforgettable. Though near or far.

Like a song of love that clings to me, how the thought of you does things to me.

Never before, has someone been more…

A car pulled up beside Jean. Two men in the front seat. Basquiat wasn’t stupid, but he couldn’t focus on them and the road. He immediately started shooting at the car. The men dodged oncoming trucks and dunebugeys. Basquiat sprayed at the driver’s seat. They sprayed back, Jean killed the passenger. The driver rammed him, hoping to run him off the road and into the deep ditches on the sides of the outer road. Jean clicked his Tech to single fire and shot repeatedly at the driver. Nailing him in the chest and shoulder and lower arm and the neck.

*interlude plays softly*

Unforgettable, in every way. And forever more, that’s how you’ll stay.

A man from the back seat lifted his head, chucking a mazel tov cocktail into the car with Jean. Then another. And another. Not realizing the driver was quickly dying. The backseat goon aimed his pistol and Jean and shot him in the shoulder and through his palm. Jean was trying to react to the fire in his backseat and beside him. The backseat man chucked another into the driver’s seat with Jean. The dying driver gave a heroic slam into Jean’s car once again. Basquiat lost control and drove into a deep ditch. His head snapping back and forth in a furious whiplash. The fire in his car getting worse. The driver in the other slumped over a he straightened out the car and died. While the man in the back patted him on the back. Asking him what was wrong. Smiling at first, until he realized. The backseat man struggled to move his comrades body to gain control of the wheel to steer it away from the 18 wheeler coming towards them. The trucker tried to slam his brakes. Not enough time. The truck ran over the puny car. The screams of the backseat man being squashed with the initial impact.

Jean thought of Khole’s kiss still. It’s tenderness, how soft it was. How beautiful it felt.

That’s why darling, it’s incredible. That someone, so unforgettable…

He longed for that kiss. He found solace in the music, as the fire grew and began to engulf the car.

“At least it’s not John Denver.” he said to himself.

He closed his eyes, preparing to die. At peace with it all. His head slumping over. Khole’s kiss, guiding him to death.

Thinks that i, am unforgettable…

Too.

☨

Chapter 15

The man with the knife tattoo approached the flaming car. Jean was still alive. He knew he would be. The man took out his knife and sliced it down in half. Carrying the large Basquiat out. Putting him in the back of his Jeep, heading towards Jean’s ‘secret apartment’.

“This is gonna be fun.” he muttered to himself.

When I look out my window, many sights to see.

And when I look in my window, so many different, people to be.

That it’s strange, so strange.

You’ve got to pick up every stitch,

You’ve got to pick up every stitch,

You’ve got to pick up every stitch.

Must be the season of the witch, must be the season of the witch, yeah

must be the season of the witch

☨

Basquiat woke up in a cold sweat. Bewildered, confused, and slightly (for the first time in a long time) frightened. He looked around to see himself in his own apartment. He ran to the bathroom to look in the mirror. Not a scratch.

“You can survive anything.” he said, as if in a chant. Remembering the old man’s words

“Damn right, you can.” a voice said from in the shadows.

Jean reached for his gun reactively. Feeling nothing but pocket. Not even a holster.

“It’s on the counter in the kitchen mate.”

Jean walked out, it was the man from back in Ottawa. They shared glares, reading one another.

“That’s one hell of a tattoo there mate. I’ll give ya that.” the man said

“I take it you and I have that in common.”

“Right again.”

“So why exactly are we friends?” Jean said, sitting down on the couch.

“I take it your particular line of work is gonna dry up here in L.A.”

“Something like that.”

“The late old man who gave you that good ole’ present called my place of business. Enrolled you.”

“I had a feeling it wasn’t free. Was wondering what made him so grateful. I take it the girl kept tabs.”

“She’s good at her job. Really good.”

“This isn’t off to a good start.”

“The money is, as well as the work. Wouldn’t be any different from what you do now. You could also continue to do what you do now. As well as have an extra set of hands.”

“And what exactly is the job, employee of the month?”

“Let’s figure out your current shituation. You would only believe it, if you see it.”

“Who sent you?”

“The United Native Congregation. I’ll fill you in. But it’d be better if they told you themselves.”

“Why is that, aussie?”

“I didn’t believe them when they plucked me out of a shitty situation either.”

“What’s your name?”

“Jason. Runner. People call me Big Knife.”

“Jean-Paul Pierre Basquiat. People call me Frankenstein.”

“A real pleasure to meet you, Jean. You’re gonna like the work we do. You’re gonna fucking love it.”

“I hope so. For everyone’s sake.”

They shook hands. Grinning at one another, letting the natural chemistry not befuddle them, but rather let it run its course.

☨

5 weeks later… Jean and Jason stood before a great, grand hall in a secluded church the size of a catholic church in Prince George, British Columbia. A small group of First Nation Natives stood before Jean and Jason.

“The job is simple, and quite enjoyable. You’ll be paid handsomely for your services.”

“I’d like to know what exactly is all this, with respect.”

“Of course. Khole’s father first came to us as a young man. Wanting badly to contribute to society when he first had his gifts. Back then we were strictly under the catholic church’s canadian chapter. But with growing success and notoriety he soon begun to champion along with us and those before us for an independant chapter. We did not want to work for the white man. However, our goals were similar, eventually all this as you can see, was the result of our hard work and diplomacy. We started out as simply an independent of the catholic church as First Nation Natives. But further diplomacy and mutual interest garnered us merging with natives of the U.S. Thus beginning what you see now as the United Native Congregation. We are under the catholic church but as our own branch.

“What made him choose me?”

“When you saved his life, he chose you as a successor. He didn’t want Khole exposed to the dangers of the field work you and Big Knife shall do.”

“Then why was he a carny?”

“This goes into another part of your employment. You see, while we serve the Lord God, we operate largely outside of the white man’s law. It is scientific, and lacks reason. It’s more authoritative than anything. The catholic church has paper trails that can be easily protected and spoken for by higher ups within the church. However, as an independent branch we forfeit that luxury. We use the financial backing of cover jobs and shell careers to fund these assignments. You’ll maintain your current occupation as a contract killer, the money you amass of that will fund the assignment you and Knife will handle. And you’ll both be not only paid for what you funded, but also for the assignment upon completion of course.”

“Doesn’t this go against the church’s values?”

“Mr. Basquiat, you kill evil white men who serve other evil white men. That is no concern of ours. Besides, the assignments will make up for you being a murderer.”

“What are these ‘assignments’?”

“We mean quite literally when we say, you and Knife, will be killing evil spirits and taking them off this earth. In simple terms, the places in the entirely of North America that people go, and never return from. You and Knife will go, and kill whatever makes people not return.”

Jean was taken aback. He looked at Jason, who nodded with a smile back at him.

“Killing… bad spirits?”

“As we say, you’ll have to see it, to believe it. Mr. Basquiat. This is why we assigned Big Knife as your partner. You two have a lot in common in way of… ‘special’ abilities.”

The meeting adjourned. Jason placed a hand on Jean’s shoulder.

“It’ll make sense once we go into the media room. They’ve got enough evidence to make this sound as not crazy as possible.”

“Where is Khole?”

“Debriefing hall.”

“I’ll need some space for a short while. This is much to process.”

“True. But with Lorraine, is it entirely impossible to believe?”

“You make a good point.”

They walked together to the media room. Their hands shoved in their pockets. There was much unanswered, and much to question. Jean didn’t worry about that now. As always, he feared much of nothing.

To Be Continued....