Page 64 of Sticky Fingers
There are a lot of ways you can fuck with an organization like mine, but Louis and few of my associates decided to go down this route, hellbent on toppling the Push Organization.
Most criminal bosses would respond with a quick bullet to the back of the head, but not me. I bid my time, kept tabs, and discreetly made sure that all criminal activity led back to them.
And now, I’ll use Louis and his asshole friends to buy my freedom.
Motherfuckers bought a war. I’m just delivering it to their doorsteps.
“Look,” Strong says, pointing somewhere outside.
Narrowing my eyes, I look through the large glass panel of the bar as two black vans park in front of the building on the other side of the street.
Yeah. Don’t think I parked my ass on this bar just because I needed a whisky.
I’m here for the fucking show.
“And here we go,” I whisper to myself, drumming my fingers on the counter as two SWAT teams jump out from the back of the vans, all the guys armed to the teeth.
With a few Feds trailing behind them, their black FBI windbreakers flapping in the wind, they march straight into the building.
It doesn’t take long before they’re hauling out a blonde guy in his forties. Tall, out of shape and with a broken nose, he looks like someone threw a bunch of Swede and Italian clichés into a blender and then dropped a few shavings of Wall Street crookedness on top of it.
Meet Louis Abigale, the motherfucker who wanted to be king.
“Is that him?” Strong asks me, raising his eyebrows as he peers at the scene outside.
I do my best not to laugh.
The long wig sitting atop Louis’ head is skewed, making him look like someone out of an asylum. He’s bawling like a baby, his cries carried by the wind into the bar, and his tears have ruined his makeup and turned his face into a Picasso painting.
Kinda fitting, huh?
Get this, though—more than just the wig and the over-the-top makeup, Louis is also wearing a shiny black dress and high-heels. Being that he isn’t exactly in shape, he looks like someone tried to stuff an overcooked sausage down a very tight condom.
“You didn’t tell me he was a—”
“Crossdresser?” I smirk at Strong. “I do my best not to act prejudiced. It’s America we’re talking about, right?”
I shrug, leaning back on my seat and sipping on my whisky.
I could’ve told the Feds to grab Louis in any of his other usual hangouts—but since this is probably the last time I’m seeing this asshole, I kinda wanted to make it memorable.
And there’s nothing more memorable than a grown-ass man wearing a slutty dress while a confused army of cops drag him out to the street.
“BRING BACK LOUISE!” someone shouts from the outside, and I turn in my seat just in time to see a gigantic bearded man run out of the building.
He’s carrying what looks like a baton on his hand, and he seems like a roided-out biker—black tattoo running up his neck, bushy beard, and body covered in leather.
I almost spit out my drink when the guy turns around to talk to the cops.
Apparently, not all of him is covered in leather—his ass is bare, and I can’t help but notice a few red markings on his buttocks. Seems like someone enjoys being whipped by, huh, ‘Louise.’
“Well, this is new,” I casually tell Strong as I finish my whisky. “I had no idea Louis had a boyfriend.”
“Ah, fuck me,” Strong says, shaking his head as five cops do his best to tackle the bearded giant, who’s now using his black baton to keep them at bay.
Of course, only now I realize it’s not a baton he’s carrying. It’s a fifteen-inch black dildo.
“Well, seems like you have your hands full, Detective.” I laugh, getting to my feet and clapping him on the back. “Are we good?”
