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Today I start looking. Looking forward, looking backward, looking to the now, the then, and the going to be. Today is the day I die, today is the day I'm born, today is...
* * * * *
My name is Aiden Saenger, I'm 33 years old, I'm 5' 9" and weight 142 pounds. My shaggy, sandy blond hair almost reaches my shoulders, maybe I should get it cut sometime soon. Oh well, I should probably tell you what I do for a living. Well, here it goes.
They call me singer where I work, it is what my last name means. I work as a substance distributer for the Anges de l'Enfer, one of the fiercest, meanest, most renowned motorcycle social groups in the United States. In other words, I deal drugs for a bike gang that does awful things to people.
Well, here is the story of my last day on Earth, or at least what I thought was my last day.
It is early morning, the sweet scent of dew hangs heavy in the air. I walk through the grass, my eyes fixed on the burning horizon. The sun hanging just below the curve of the earth, the sky on fire with vivid reds, yellows and oranges, the eternal phoenix rising once more from it's death that is night.
Mist, my boss, had called me for a job. This time I picked up the coke directly from Mist, something that doesn't happen a lot, I usually get it from one of his other cronies. I walk through this back woods park quiet a bit, I was to meet the buyer here today, like I met almost every buyer when I sold. Today seemed different though. Some how it just wasn't the same.
Here came the buyer, tall, dark hair, a tan trench coat over his nice navy business suit, his fedora low over his eyes. Walking over to me he asked, "Do you know Jack?" I respond, "Why, are you his friend?" The stranger replies, "No, I'm his brother." This opening dialog was to make sure I had the right person I was selling to, nothing is worse than open dealing, it's easier to get caught by the drug busters that way. Leaning in I say, "name the case", the trench coated man answers, "Coca-cola, twelve pack".
This man was for real, he knew every line. "What comes first?" I ask. Setting his briefcase down he replied, "the dough, what comes next?" Reaching into my pocket I pull out the bag of coke, "the bread" I say as I hand him the bag and pick up the briefcase. As the stranger turns and walks away, he raises his left hand, a gun shot rings out, and the singer falls.
"Damn," I think to myself, "a professional hit agency, probably hired by another bike gang, and now I'm dead." As I bleed, my crimson getting on everything, I open the briefcase, nothing was in it except some weights to make it feel full. "Damn, we've been had." The pain in my chest subsiding, my body feeling warm, my head feeling light, my vision blurring.
* * * * *
The uniforms had been at the scene twenty minutes before they had gotten there. Homicide detectives Ander Locke and Christian Parker looked down at the body of Aiden Saenger. The scene had been too clean to have been another dealer encroaching upon Saenger's territory, this looked to be a professional hit, but why. Looking to his partner, Locke said, "Why do you s'posed someone would higher professionals to kill this guy? It just doesn't make sense."
"I know," replied Parker, "but take a look at this tattoo, it's Anges de l'Enfer isn't it? Maybe someone's sending a message to the gang."
"Maybe." Locke said stiffly
6 gun quota · Thu Feb 25, 2010 @ 12:16am · 2 Comments |
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