Entry 0061: Nigerian Nights Part Four


LP: Nigeria Rock Special

2008 Soundway SNDWYLP011

Favorite Track: More Bread to the People by Action 13


Vargas watched the policemen question her, the girl who got him in this mess. They were rough, rude with questions that sounded like accusations. Greasy hair hung over their beady eyes which shifted left to right like a slow roving mine cart. The girl, he couldn’t remember her name at the moment but it had struck her as poignant at the time, was visibly upset, pointing to the corpse. Vargas ducked back behind the partition as the policemen walked off shoving note pads into the slim pockets of their CleanAir uniforms. The girl followed behind them morosely.

Vargas had a knack for timing. He moved at a speed that allowed everyone to see him and identify him as just a passerby, yet walked fast enough to blur his facial features. The policemen were not looking back; they joked with each other in that insensitive manner of a nervous man hiding his disgust with yet another tragic death. The girl sobbed into her hands. Vargas waited until the policemen turned the corner, they he had her.

She bit his hand, teeth ripping skin off the knuckle, but he had felt worse over years working his way up the Mafia’s top assassin list. The last assassin he had to kill had managed to be the first person to ever catch Vargas off-guard: by stabbing a sword through the ceiling and straight up his left heel. Vargas had performed an unique revenge on the assassin that he still sometimes dreams about.

Her mouth got free from his palm, “Let me go!”

He pulled her neck back by her hair, his hot breath washing over her face.

“Any more attempts at words will end in a gurgle.” The knife blade glinted reflected light. Vargas pulled her forcefully into an alleyway mewing with the feeble asphyxiation of felines. Vargas’s boots crunched as he hurried toward an open door.

“Where is my money?”

She looked at him as if he were invisible. Vargas grunted to himself. Another naïve child borrowing money from a crime organization and never realizing that the Mafia was real, powerful, organized, and deadly. He remembered almost every single thing she said when she came to him the first time: about her boyfriend, his sick father, the expensive cost to live in the city. It was obvious nothing about him even registered in her thoughts.

The girl lowered her eyes for a bit. She was pensive, perhaps reflecting on the halcyon days of her youth. But then, just when Vargas was getting ready to shake her, she looked very determined.

“Did you kill Sorrel?” The girl didn’t care at the threshold of the door. Perhaps she thought he had other intentions and preferred death. But Vargas had only one goal in mind: to retrieve his money.

“I thought she was you.”

She punched him straight between the eyes. He should have seen it coming–it being a rather obvious reaction, but, once again, this girl had made him make a mistake. He underestimated her.

She was halfway down the alley before he recovered from being stunned. He considered throwing the knife. He could bury it between her shoulder blades and then he could causally stroll over and slowly, agonizingly depress the blade deeper with the heel of his boot. But he now had something besides money on his mind.

He took a step down from the door frame when his boot slipped on a mat of dead fur. He pitched forward flailing, his head knocking against the cold brick and his arm being pinned to his side. He felt the blade slip into his thigh, hot pain flaring up and down his side. Vargas landed on his back, his head to the side. A dead cat with ruptured eyes stared at him.

“Thizzie!” he screamed, her name suddenly returning to his lips. When he was a young man, before the Mafia, he had dated a girl by the name Thizzie.

She was bad luck.


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