The Hankie Files
"I told you never to talk to me here," the large lisping man whispered. "Those damn kids are on to me thanks to YOU." "Sorry, boss, but this is the life we've chosen," was the balding man's curt retort. The large lisping man groaned in agreement. "Can you wait fifteen minutes?" he asked. "Alright." "I can't get out until at least two-thirty. Remember that, will you?" "I'll try, boss. By the way, the Little Mexican sent you a present." The balding man gave the large lisping man a Whitman's Chocolate Sampler box with no chocolates in it. What exactly WAS in the box neither man could really guess. The Little Mexican could be a nasty little cockroach sometimes. The large lisping man took the box and went back into the classroom, filled with thirty-three of Peyton High School's finest freshman students. "Okay, guys, let's get to problem 25-" "Mr. Holloway, we've already done that one!" the class whined. The mental chorus of "Why the hell am I here" rumbled in the brains of every human in the room. Even Holloway did not want to be in this after school Geometry Honors class longer than he had to. There was a gift basket of poppy blooms The Little Mexican (known to Holloway as El Latino Queero) at his house that he needed to sign for. He knew the kids were on to him, every one of them. Even Chelsea with her mononucleosis, out of class more often than in, was on to him. Anna was being especially suspicious. He gave her an A for the entire semester just to keep her quiet. No dice. She was still suspicious. Only one more course of action remained in his repertory to shut her up. Anna had to get whacked. *** Holloway's so stupid, Anna chuckled to herself from behind her binoculars. He actually thought more A's would keep her quiet. It was now 9:45 PM. Her parents were out and would be out until at least past midnight. She could stay at the boat docks for a while.*** Meanwhile, at 69 Peyton Place, zip code 42096, Lloyd Holloway was entertaining his fellow math teacher wife Ann in his Polygonic 3-D Room o'Love. The room's interior angles each measured 69 degrees. Their bed was a circle with a 138 inch diameter (now divide that by two to get the radius). Suggestive derivatives and sine ratios danced across the walls, and made inappropriate reflections when hit by the disco lights. The Little Mexican's nephew Alejandro Noriega's racy hit single "Los Dedos" played on the stereo system. For an old fat man, Lloyd could still make his rounds if he felt like it. But his passions, and this room, were reserved for Ann, and Ann alone. "Are you ready, dear?" Lloyd called. *** Meanwhile, at my house, Frank Sinatra played "Nice Work if You Can Get It" on my stereo, however not to assist me in any real romantic advances. Chad wouldn't make a bad woman, but he sure wouldn't be my type. But Sam and Morgan were shacking up at my place, so Old Blue Eyes still was able to help make me look presentable and half-way urbane. But as I mentioned before, nothing romantic even crossed my mind that night, and anything that did was under the influence of drugs. The hangout had quite a serious air to it, in fact. We were all waiting for Anna's news on the boat dock situation. We had Laura stake out the Holloway house in Peyton Place to check up on anything "goin' down" on that side of town. Our little spy troupe was doing anything but homework on this Friday night. Even the prostitution ring was being checked on, thanks to Percy and Jason's eager volunteering and full wallets. My house had become a de facto command center for our endeavours into the land of espionage. We called ourselves The Vigilantes. I shook up some sodas and handed them out to my colleagues, Sam, Morgan, Chad and Alex (with a couple grammes of caffeine pills for Alex). "To justice, and to the Vigilantes," we toasted. *** Laura's black outfit concealed her from view of the security cameras outside the house. She moved toward the disco lights coming from outside the house. The last thing she remembered was a rustling of leaves and an orange flash to her left. A guard had spotted her and got off two shots with his silenced Glock 9mm handgun, putting two fatal wounds in her torso. She died without making a sound. *** Anna couldn't believe her eyes. Boxes upon boxes of cocaine being loaded into the cargo hold of a barge. She wrote down the name of the barge in her head and started towards her car. Suddenly a hitman jumped out at her. Before she could scream, the hitman (whose name was Little Sonny) had wrapped the piano wire around her throat and threw her onto a box full of bootlegged Colombian coffee grown in Argentina. *** Being alone in your own house for a month without parents or siblings gets boring fast, even with my family, especially when you're puling an all-nighter trying to find out where a spy is. At about 12:15 I poured my fourth Sprite of the night; I had a layer of syrup in my teeth so thick it could stop bullets. Just for the heck of it I threw in an Excedrin; as small as I am and as low as my blood pressure is, caffeine is my physiological equivalent of LSD or ecstasy. All of my compatriots were asleep in various parts of the house. I leaned up against a wall and blinked my eyes a little bit- Oh, crap. Colors started leaping out at me like I was looking through a kaleidoscope. I heard "Grand Illusion" by the Styx blaring in my head. A meatball sub slid across my psychedelic/peripheral vision. Next thing I knew I was on my parents bed, my pulse rate at about three beats per second. I was buck naked. Scattered throughout the bed were my colleagues, wearing their fine (and in two cases not-so-fine) birthday suits. The room stunk of olive oil and whipped cream- "AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHH!" I came to, screaming my bloody head off in my bathroom, ready to give myself the Swirly of No Return. But I came to my senses for five seconds and found the Ritalin we used on our pet cat, Lily. I promptly loaded up the syringe and dumped the medicine into my mouth. My pulse rate dropped ninety beats in twenty seconds, causing me to collapse on the bathroom floor. In my peaceful coma I remembered the medicine was also a very effective bowel loosener. Meanwhile, Mr. Holloway and Mr. Nately, my world history teacher, were relaxing in the steam room (ugh) of the Peyton Friars Club. Now at 2:30 in the morning, there is no steam available to fill up the steam room. So the men chose the best alternative. Holloway smoked his marijuana through an old recorder. He had been using it for that purpose since his bachelor party in 1967. He played "Come Together" as he opened his doors of perception. Nately worked his cannabis through an antique YodaBong; he had found it in his physician's equipment catalog (the physician had been a closet pot addict for thirty years, until the state legalized it for medicinal purposes. "I gots what you needs," he'd say. "Bongs, roaches, paper clips, everything you need. And it's all covered, baby."). Only about two hundred YodaBongs existed in the entire world. Everytime you puffed, Yoda would say something wise. "Fear is the path of the Dark Side." "I sense much fear in you." "Hey Nately, you goin' to Cancun?" Holloway asked. "Hell, yeah." "Gonna put cameras in Chanelle's bathroom?" "You bet, brother." (Chanelle was a sophomore and Nately's premier prostitute) "I need you to do something for me, Nately." "What's that?" "I need three of my Geometry students dead." "You will be. You will be," warned Yoda. "Okay. How do you want 'em?" "Make it quick--and quiet. Kill two of them and make the other look like a suicide." "Hey, aren't you taking this a little far? I mean, you've already whacked two in the past few hours--" "Dammit, these kids have caught on faster--" Holloway gagged on the pot fumes for a moment, and continued. "--Faster than my past classes. I have no choice, Nately. I just have no choice." *** Lloyd Holloway had been dealing drugs since that revealing bachelor party in 1967. After doing two joints of pot, he ran out into the center of town in a toga (he was much thinner back then) and threw bags of marijuana into the streets. He played "My Favorite Things" as he was carted off to jail. In his twenty years as a teacher at Peyton High, he had overseen the exchange of over 25 million kilograms ($387 million) worth of illegal substances. All while teaching honors students day in and day out. "Damn, I'm good," he'd tell himself every morning when he woke up. Now his standing was in danger. Those kids were being smart at something other than math. How else could they figure it all out? Anna and Laura were now dead. The guards had put Laura's body in the compost pile behind his house. Anna was literally "sleeping with the fishes". What else would keep them quiet? Holloway pensively tapped his massive gut. Thinking of a more peaceful solution. What would Pablo Escobar do? Kill them all, that's what Pablo Escobar would do. *** Kai Holloway lit up a hot-pressed Cuban cigar and peered out at the Gulf of Mexico. The Philip Morris trudged along at about twelve knots (if it weren't for the 12,000 kilos of coke in the cargo hold, the barge could hit 30 knots). Kai had been skipper of the PM for over four years now. His father had pulled some strings with Esteban Cerveza (aka The Little Mexican, who was in the Middle East on business for God knows what reason) to put him into the shipping business of the Peyton Cartel. The shipping of drugs was considered the cleanest part of the business, in that it was nothing more than following orders and getting people and things to where they needed to be. It was strictly business, the way it ought to be. Few items can fall victim to sick jokes nowadays than a hot-pressed Cuban. Kai had the whole lower half of the cigar jammed in his mouth, so that the tip pushed out his left cheek. An immature fellow would find it a strain not to laugh at Kai blowing that tobacco tube like nobody's business. Kai made one last exhalation and tossed the soggy cigar into the Gulf. He was tired, and needed his rest. *** Little Sonny downed his third double vodka as six multiracial women stuffed to the hilt with grocery bags (back alley breast implants were cheap like that) and salt water ran onto the nightclub stage. A man in pimp attire materialized onto the stage and began singing the popular rap tune "I Like Big Butts." Too damn easy, Little Sonny moped to himself. I should be killing important people, not little girls. It is not easy being a hitman these days. Politics has become too self-righteous to become corrupted by ambitious mob and cartel bosses; after the world saw The Godfather, law enforcement cleaned up (the Rodney King incident being a small exception) too. They didn't let little things like assassination slip by anymore. Only stealth and lies worked in Little Sonny's business nowadays. It was one hour until sunrise. Not good for a thirteen year old to be out so late. Thankfully, he was only about five minutes from his house. There weren't any cabs to flag down, and he didn't have any friends at any time of day. *** It was already past lunch time in Riyadh, Saudi Arabia. Mullah Omar al-Nayir read a note lying on his work desk: In your suitcase is a loaded Uzi SMG. Go to Allah's Finest Khlav-Kalash diner at1630. Four men will be there. You know what to do. *** Nayir hid behind the cloth doorway. Four Hispanic looking men were talking quietly in what sounded like Spanish. Allah, thy will be done, he prayed. He lunged into the restaurant and opened fire. The first five rounds landed in the chest of a man wearing a white suit. Blood splattered everywhere as he fell to the floor. A man cried "Esteban!" before receiving two bullets in his forehead. The other two men each caught seven bullets in the chest and back before dying. Nayir dropped the machine gun and ran for his life. *** The dry air of the desert would betray Nayir. He had placed a cyanide pill in his teeth for easy swallowing. When he was being captured, he tried to gulp it down. Luck was not with him. His mouth was too dry to swallow it. A police officer knocked out four of his teeth and a huge chunk of his gums to remove the pill. Fortunately, enough of the pill absorbed into his system so that Nayir eventually would expire. It took six hours, though, and by then, he had confessed to killing The Little Mexican and three of his associates. He was paid by Alejandro Noriega, The Little Mexican's nephew. *** It was now 2:00 PM in Sucre, Bolivia, 10 PM in Riyadh. Alejandro Noriega shook up a margarita while sitting on the toilet. Half an hour ago he was asleep, with two "lucky" teenage girls on either side of him. Noriega had to be at the Sucre Arena in half an hour, or he would be late for his rehearsal for tonight's concert. The bathroom's flourescent lights were giving him a splitting headache. His signature hips were sore from long hours of double duty. His voice was hoarse from substance abuse. To summarily understate it, Noriega was an absolute wreck. Noriega pulled out a syringe loaded with Botox; the needle had once been used by a potentially diseased Chilean whore, not that he cared right now. He drilled the Botox into his arm. Within minutes, the botulinium cells were revitalizing his wasted body, taking hours of prodigious labor away from his physical appearance. Alejandro Noriega had not yet heard about his uncle's death, but he was certain the mission was a success. Nayir had been recommended by all of his references, including Lloyd Holloway. In excahnge for 5000 free copies of his new CD No Puedo, Noriega had formed an alliance with Holloway and the Peyton Cartel. Noriega, the Sexiest Man in Bolivia, was finally following in his family's footsteps. He thought his family would be dissappointed if he ignored his heritage. Now he was making up for lost time. Tonight he would announce his retirement from the music industry, in front of 70,000 fans. With his money and Holloway's brains (and his fellow faculty members' expertise), he would become the wealthiest drug dealer on earth. "Oye! Esperamos para ti," (Hey! We're waiting for you,) one of those bitchy girls yelled from outside the bathroom door. Noriega sulked over to the door and scowled. "Tengo que ir ahora, mujeres." ("I have to go now, ladies." They were so slutty he didn't even bother to call them by formal titles. He didn't know their names either.) Then he got an idea. He had an extra car in the garage that he wasn't using. "Vienen con mi, mujeres." (Come with me, ladies) Noriega led them into the car and told them to keep the engine running and gave them explicit orders to wait for him in the car until he came back. It worked! The dumb sluts actually stayed there. For three hours, until they succumbed to the hot Bolivian air, and the carbon monoxide from the Toyota Camry's internal combustion engine. To be continued...
Copyright © 2003 Mark Nash |