Page 1 of Masked
1
RICKON
All Hallows Eve.
Such a splendid time of year.
For most, it’s a night to don a mask, rush into the streets, and terrorize the neighborhood for treats or tricks. Show your dark side without consequence.
For me, it’s the one night I can take the mask off.
And how better to kick off the celebrations, than kicking in someone’s teeth?
“I’m disappointed that you made me come here tonight, Johnny. Thought we had an agreement,” He’s sitting. I’m standing. A tactic from the good old days I haven’t yet learned to shake. In my younger days, it made me feel powerful. Scare them by making myself bigger than I already am. Puffed chest, flared nostrils, narrowed eyes, carrying dark intentions.
But time has a way of disabusing silly notions. I’m not scary because I’m tall, big and mean looking. I’m terrifying because of the destruction I leave in my wake.
“We did. Do. It’s just?—”
I can smell his fear. Stale sweat and dry piss. A God’s bouquet.
“Don’t bother wasting your breath on excuses. I’ve heard ‘em all before.” A .38 Special sits heavy in one of my hands, a bullet it in the other.
Only one bullet, held into the light to convey its authenticity. Spun around to give it dimension. If I hadn’t tied his hands to the chair already, I’d have him hold it. Feel the weight and sting of cold brass against his fingers. Make him understand that he’s found himself in quite the pickle.
He looks as long as he can manage. Observes, cowers, and recoils.
I slot the bullet into the .38 Special. Roll the cylinder around with my palm so neither of us know where it lands. A classic start to a round of Russian Roulette, but we’re not gambling tonight. It’s all for show. To get under his skin and bury myself in his mind.
See, the wraps around his wrist aren’t fastened very tight, and in a minute, this poor fool has a choice to make. One that opens my options on the best way to deal with him.
“Can I get you a glass of water?” No reason not to be polite while I wait for it to happen.
“Sure,” he says, on the verge of tears. “But come on, Rickon, what are we doing here?”
“Gave you a finger and you took the hand.” I rest the gun on the table in front of him. “Time to take my pound of flesh.”
Shouting upstairs. Mrs. Gilford, on the phone to the cops, probably. It’s the second voice I can’t place. Someone soothing the potentially soon-to-be widow. Whoever it is, she sounds pleasant. Kind.
The revolver stays on the table and I head to a cart a few chairs over. Atop it, a fancy bottle withAquaon the label, three tall, thin drinking glasses and a silver tray carrying a lot of weight on its back to make this shit hole restaurant look fancy.
“How does the owner let you live above ‘em, if your old lady’s shouting, screaming and clopping her feet against the cheap wood floors, John?” I pour, never bothering to look over my shoulder at him.
Might be a strange reaction having a weapon in arms reach. Might be I’m a little insane. Might be needing a grave for two on a job that should’ve been done and dusted twenty minutes ago.
Any moment he could free himself, lift it and shoot me. Kill me dead where I stand, right?
Wrong.
Safeguards are in place to mitigate the risks. An obstructed barrel is all it takes to ensure my safety. If he’s got big enough balls, he’ll squeeze that trigger until the bullet fires, malfunctions against an inch of welded steel, and blows his hand off.
Still, there’s a chance it all goes horribly wrong. My survival odds are around ninety-six percent. The rest is split between a malfunction that leaves a hole through my chest, or some other freak accident I couldn’t account for in my calculations. Something stupid like tripping onto a steak knife that pierces my heart.
Nothing in life can ever be one hundred percent certain.
And it’s the gamble that keeps things fresh. Makes them exciting.
You might think kicking the shit out of people for money is a fun gig. Most are too scared to fight back because I’m big, scary and in control. I’m taking candy from fat, sweaty babies, and you’d think it would be sweeter for it.
