“–find yourself out in Cavemanhattan, watch out for a jam around 52nd and Broadway. Old York jazz seems to attract all sorts of cool cats, even during the morning commute. That’s all for today’s smooth as silk traffic report. Anyway, it’s gonna be another hot one out there, so be sure to throw an extra ice pack into your lunch pail, fellas! It’s 6 AM, and that means it’s time for living legend Miles Cratis and his smokin’ hot single, ‘So What’.”
The sound of what I assume to be a combination of plates being smashed on the ground and a cat being strangled resonates through the thin wall of our bedroom. I grunt, trying to roll over and tune out the racket to get a few more minutes of sleep, but the cacophony will not halt its invasion attempt in my ear canal. With a huff, I throw the blanket off of my once cozy form and roll out of the bed I so desperately wish I could have spent a few more minutes enjoying.
I don’t take any time to stretch or scratch my ass. I immediately stomp into the hallway and to the closed door concealing the hideous screeching, bringing a fist to it several times in rapid succession. I speak loudly and authoritatively so there is no mistaking my mood:
“RUSSELL! How many times do I have to tell you?! Turn that shit down in MY house!”
A scramble on the other side of the door is followed swiftly by blessed relief for my irritated eardrums, then by the door being thrown open. My frazzled son stands before me, still about a foot and a half shorter than I am but with some growing left to do yet. He speaks in a cracking, pubescent voice. “S–sorry, dad! I thought you were still asleep.”
I blow a puff of air from my nostrils as I look down at him in irritation. “Was. Not exactly the alarm clock I want. What the hell are ya even listening to in here? If you wanna hear jackhammers on concrete I can take you over to all that construction they’re doin’ on Stegen Island.”
Russell glances at the radio, a newer adornment for his bedroom. He asked for it for his birthday last week. Fuckin’ thing wasn’t cheap, but money’s pretty good right now. I didn’t mind springing for it, but if he’s gonna be listening to racket like he was…
“I–it’s called jazz. It–”
I growl. “I know what jazz is. Fuckin’ noise made by skinnie mongrels.” Russell recoils at my words slightly. It’s an irritating habit, most likely instilled by pansy teachers at his school telling him how everybody is equal and special. Weak words for weak people…
“Pierce Signorelli, you leave that boy alone and come get some breakfast!” The voice calling from downstairs is that of my lovely wife, Bianca. I glance toward the staircase, then back at Russell. He continues looking up at me with his dark blue eyes, his even darker blue plated tail swaying slowly as he waits for dismissal from my scolding. Spitting image of his old man.
Ah. Well, it was an annoying way to wake up, but now that the noise is turned off I ain’t mad anymore. I give the boy a wink and a grin. “C’mon, son. Let’s go get some grub.”
He happily returns the smile. “Sure thing, pop!”
I speak over my shoulder as I start heading down the stairs. “Go ahead and get your sister up. Lazy girl’s probably still in dreamland. Don’t let her roll over and fall asleep again, either.”
Russell knows the drill. “You got it!” I hear him cross the hall to his little sister’s room and open the door, speaking quietly in order to gently wake her up. He’s a good kid. They’re both good kids. A little too soft, but… they should have their innocence for a little longer. The world is a fuckin’ prick, no reason to shove them into the filth until necessary.
They’ve got it about as nice as they can right now, though. Spacious house, each with their own bedroom, plenty of toys. Hell, we’ve even got a television. Not a rarity like it was ten years ago, but still… these kids got things I never even dreamed of. So much at their fingertips. They ain’t never gonna have to scrape like I did. Like I still do sometimes.
Life of luxury like this comes with some costs, after all.
I duck under the ceiling lip as I reach the bottom of the stairs. We got us a house with nice high ceilings to accommodate my height, but there’s still a couple spots where I can brain myself if I’m not careful. Turning the corner toward the kitchen, I see my beautiful stegosaurus wife hard at work doing what she does best: keeping the home. The smell of sizzling mixed greens on the stovetop makes my stomach growl instantly. Carnivores like to tease us herbies sometimes about not having access to the same flavor profiles they got. Dumbasses, they just need to marry a damn good cook like I did.
I cross the kitchen in two steps, bringing my head next to that of my wife so she can give me my morning kiss. She obliges, a glowing smile on her face as she does so. “Morning, Pierce. Not being too hard on Russell this morning, are you?”
I give an innocent shrug. “I just wanted him to turn down that radio was all. Trash can lids being banged together ain’t my style. Now, if he was tuned in somewhere playin’ some Bing Clawsby I wouldn’t have had reason to bemoan him!”
Bianca giggles. “That boy might be growin’ up to look just like you, but that doesn’t mean he’s gotta like the same music as you!”
I let out a sigh. She’s right, of course. The rock of my foundation, this woman. And… hell, I wouldn’t mind if he was listening to some other music made by upstanding dinosaurs. But that wretched jazz shit… purely the product of skinnies. Filthy subspecies. If I tried to list out every single problem that’s been caused by their kind, I’d be at it for a fuckin’ week.
Well. I don’t need to start my day off bad. I’ve got my wife, my two beautiful children, a spacious home, and a solid payin’ job. They ain’t taken those from me, and if they tried I know I can tear them apart with my bare hands. Thank you Raptor Jesus for letting me be born into this body. Fellas around the office always complain about the fact that they gotta work so hard at the gym to even come close. For me? I hardly exercise save for the hoofin’ I do during my errands. There’s a reason us dinosaurs were the superior race for so long.
Why we still are, far as I’m concerned.
I take a seat in the chair at the head of the table, its large frame capable of supporting all six foot eleven inches of my height and three hundred eighty pounds of my dense bones and muscle. The grooves carved into its sides give my tail somewhere to go when I sit, though my plates do still get caught sometimes. I’ve taken the chair a few feet toward the living room with me a few times after supper. Always makes the kids giggle and the wife scold me for bein’ clumsy about it.
While Bianca finishes up breakfast, I go to pick up the morning paper. She already retrieved it from outside and set it next to my place. She’s a damn good woman and a great wife. As I pick it up, I notice the scales around my knuckles are healing up pretty well. A bit of red is still visible under the midnight blue of my hand, standing out due to the disparity in hue. Bianca never asks me how I got the cuts, bruises and broken knuckle scales I occasionally come home with. She knows my work is heavy work sometimes. She just helps me put some alcohol on the wounds and bandage ‘em up if needed. Even discreetly threw out a couple changes of my clothes that were too tattered and bloodied to be washed. And it usually wasn’t my blood that stained ‘em.
Damn good woman.
Just about the time the kids make their way downstairs, four plates of succulent cooked greens are set on the table, one at each place. Russell excitedly plops into his chair and begins digging in immediately while Angela more sluggishly finds her own place, yawning widely and wiping the residual sleep from her eyes. Girl’s only nine years old but acts like she’s always in need of a nap.
I glance at my son and daughter from over my newspaper. “You two forget to say somethin’ to your mother?”
Russell hastily swallows his mouthful of food before turning to Bianca. “Good morning, mom. Thanks for breakfast!”
Angela yawns again before speaking quietly. “... G’mornin’.” Maybe we need to push her bedtime up.
Bianca smiles widely at our children as she takes her own seat. “Good morning, you two! Dig in while it’s warm!”
The four of us enjoy a peaceful breakfast together, Russell excitedly telling me what he plans to do with one of the last free days of his summer break. School will be starting up again in a couple weeks, so he’s getting in as much play time with his friends as he can in the meantime. With his build, I’m hoping he’ll try out for the football team once he’s eligible. He’d be a monster of a linebacker.
Angela has friends, too, but seems to prefer being with her mother, shadowing Bianca as she does her daily tasks and errands. Bianca dotes on both the kids, which is her God-given right to do since she’s the one that gave birth to ‘em. Angela is certainly more attached to her mother than me, but that doesn’t upset me. I’m here to provide for the family and be a father; if Angela wants to grow up to be a woman like her mother, she’ll have to learn everything she can from her.
They’re both good kids. I’m very proud of them.
Bianca glances my way. “So, Pierce. What’s on your work schedule for today?”
I glance at the front of the newspaper that sits next to my place at the table. It’s August 24th, which means it’s close to month end. “If I had to guess, I’ll probably be playing the part of errand boy today, collecting dues from some of the places in town.”
She nods. “Think you’ll be home in time for supper?”
“Probably, unless something keeps me late. I’ll give you a call if anything comes up that’ll prevent me from bein’ home.”
She gives me a smile and we finish up our breakfast. As Bianca clears the table and washes the dishes, the kids make their way to the living room, turning on the TV to “veg out” for a little while until their mother collects them. Russell mentioned playing with some friends, so I imagine Bianca will drop him off somewhere, then attend to some errands with Angela in tow. We’ve got two cars so it’s no trouble for us to do things like that. I head back upstairs, take care of my morning preparations, and get myself dressed.
Despite not having the highest post at the Local 237, I was always taught to dress for the job you want. The job I want ain’t the one I got right now. Even though I’ve got some family connections, it seems like the higher-ups are dragging their feet with putting me in a more comfortable position, still having me do things like run errands and handle messy jobs. I know I’m good at what I do now, but I don’t want to be stuck in the same place forever, ya know?
I button up my pressed white shirt before affixing and tying the slim necktie under its collar. I sling the leather straps of my shoulder holster over my arms and tuck the snub nose .357 into its concealed home. I’ve had this particular pistol for a few weeks now. They only ever last until they get used. No reason to get overly attached to ‘em. I pull on the black sports coat that completes my preferred look, give myself one last glance in the mirror, and head out.
I slide behind the steering wheel of my jet black Cadillac DeVille. Brand new model, just came out this year. As much as I want to move up in my business, the money I make now is still good enough for me to afford a few luxuries, and this is one of ‘em. It drives like a dream. There’s plenty of room for my bulk, and four doors to accommodate when I have to play chauffeur. I love the car almost as much as I love my own children.
My house is in a quiet suburb on the outskirts of Old York City. The city keeps expanding, and someday it might overwhelm even where I’ve planted my roots; for now, the neighborhood grants serene escape from the chaos of downtown. The tradeoff is that it’s about a twenty minute drive to get to the office, but it don’t bother me. I like the peace and quiet of a solo drive. Don’t have to listen to motormouth fellas who think they’ve got a lot to say. I’m not exactly a silent guy myself, but I understand that there’s a time to talk, and a time to shut your yap and use your ears.
I bring my car around the back of the impressively sized building from which I do most of my daylight-hours operation. Standing at six stories tall, it isn’t the tallest building in eyeshot but for where it rests in Brachlyn it commands respect. The seal emblazoning its front entrance, featuring two pack mules flanking a wagon wheel engraved with our letters, is one everyone knows, for better or worse. Sure, our organization has gotten in a little hot water over the years, but we still do what needs doing, and we provide a valuable service to millions of hard-working dinosaurs across the country. It’s somewhere I’m proud as hell to work:
The International Brotherhood of Herdsters
Local 237
Most folks use the front entrance. That’s where you’ll find pristine offices filled with women processing the mountains of paperwork that come in every day, and men who will shake your hand and hear your case when a labor lawsuit arises. It’s the part of the business that keeps us running, keeps hard-working fellas safe in their jobs from abusive bosses and unfair work environments.
I use the back entrance. Not that I have anything against the front entrance, I just got no business up with the pencil pushers and hand shakers. My business is conducted around town for the most part, and what I need to do in the office takes place behind closed doors or, more often, not in the Herdsters building at all. If we’re discussing heavy work, it’s not being done here. Too many chances for unwelcome ears, especially given the government’s hard-on against us the past few years.
Monday mornings are usually pretty standard, however. Things ain’t falling apart and calling for my special brand of fixing too often this early in the week. Instead, I end up getting assigned menial tasks. Deliveries, pickups, basic grunt work. Stuff I should have grown out of a few years ago, but still end up getting tasked with.
“Pierce, how ya doin’ this mornin’?” The familiar voice that greets me as I push open the sublevel door attached to the underground garage is that of a diplodocus with a wide smile to match the hand he offers me in greeting. His brownish color accentuates the tweed of his own sports jacket. He’s a little more casually dressed than I am, but professional enough to put on the right appearance for who we’ll be interacting with today. His lengthy neck technically lets him beat me in the height department, but if we were measuring based on shoulders I’d have him by at least a foot.
I accept his proffered hand in greeting. “I’m not too bad, Marty. How’re you doin’?”
“Ay, can’t complain. The wife, though… phew. You wasn’t kiddin’ when you said the month leading up to our kid bein’ born was gonna be rough.”
I chuckle, knowing all too well how ornery the women can get as they near the special day. I dealt with it twice already, and, God willing, that’ll be the only two times. I love my kids and wouldn’t be upset if a third made its way into my life, but we certainly ain’t tryin’ for it. I imparted some of this fatherly wisdom to first-time father-to-be Marty a few months back. Hopefully he remembered the part about being patient with your wife and getting her however much ice cream she wants.
Marty and I exchange a little small talk as we make our way further into the building. The basement level is a bit more spartan than upstairs, with less decoration and more unmarked doors, most of which lead to rooms with filing cabinets stuffed full of paperwork. The door we pass through, however, brings us into a simple room with a wooden conference table flanked by a dozen or so chairs. This morning, two of the chairs are occupied.
The first is filled by the form of the dinosaur I expected to see in here: my boss, Charles Rossi. Very professional fella, he don’t go by Charlie or Chuck. One of the guys tried calling him Charlie once when we was at the bar after work. Ended up getting a bottle broken over his idiot skull. Had to tip the taxi driver pretty good after he bled all over the back seat on the way to the hospital for the stitches he had to get. Charles is a professional guy unless you fuck around with that you ain’t supposed to fuck around with.
The gray-colored triceratops looks up at Marty and I as we enter, giving the same courteous smile he always offers us. Despite the chiseled appearance brought on by several menacing scars on his face, he has a pleasant way about him when he’s in a good mood. Must be in a good mood today. “Morning, gentlemen. How are the two of you doing?”
Marty speaks up. “Doin’ well, Mr. Rossi. Wife’s only about a month away from her due date.”
Charles’s smile widens. “That’s wonderful to hear, Marty. I hope she’s not too much trouble for you.”
“Oh, no. Not at all. Well… she can be a little grouchy, but she’s doing all that heavy lifting so I don’t mind.”
Charles turns my way, expecting a similar response to his original inquiry, but I don’t offer it. Instead, my eyes are affixed to the second figure filling another of the dozen chairs in this room. A weasel of a human looks back at me from behind ridiculously thick lenses, his unsettling eyes magnified to twice their normal size. He nervously fidgets with his cap, clasping it in both hands in front of him, its pinstripe patterning doing little to distract from how ugly he is even when he wears it pulled down tight.
I grit my teeth and scowl. Eggsy… what a fuckin’ stupid name. Not that the name would work well even for a dinosaur, considering we don’t lay eggs, but a fuckin’ skinnie? Some kids in my neighborhood convinced me that skinnies lay eggs when I was a child, and I believed ‘em. It’d suit their kind. They certainly got the mental capacity of birds, so it’d just make sense. Of course, I know he uses the nickname because his actual name is Egbert. Fuckin’ ridiculous… and now he’s sitting in this conference room.
… Why is he sitting in this conference room? I turn my eyes to Charles, wordlessly asking the question with my disgusted look.
He answers it. “Egbert is going to be joining the two of you today for dues collection in northeastern Brachlyn. Make sure you don’t let McIntyre push off payment again, either. He’s a month behind as–”
I cut him off. “Excuse me, Mr. Rossi. But… why is this skinnie joining us?”
Eggsy lowers his eyes, quaking feverishly with sweat pouring from his sickening troglodyte brow. Charles, on the other hand, merely cocks his head. “Because I said so. Egbert is working his way up the organization and has proven himself very loyal. You’ll be… training him today.”
I can’t help but clench my fists. How dare you. How dare you tell me to take this fucking skinnie with us on our dues pick-ups. The fucking nerve of…
… Suddenly, a thought occurs to me. He just said… “training”. As in, Eggsy is learning this job. Maybe… they’re expecting a vacancy in the position soon. Hell, I’ve been busting my ass long enough, I deserve something bigger than running fucking errands. Besides… how many times have I said that even a monkey could do this fuckin’ job? And now I’m being asked to train a monkey how to do it.
My fingers uncurl and I take a slow, steadying breath. I still ain’t happy about this arrangement, but… if it means I’ll be training my replacement, so be it. My eyes shift back over to Eggsy. He still doesn’t meet my gaze, a common supplication tactic for his cowardly kind. Glancing back at Charles, I nod. “Not a problem, boss.”
Charles immediately grins. “Excellent. Well, good luck with the rounds. Give me a phone call when you’re at the end of your route, I’ll let you know where you can drop everything off.”
I turn to the door, meeting Marty’s eyes as I do so. He glances at me with concern; he’s worked with me for a couple years now, and knows all too well my disdain for humans. He’s got a softer heart than me, which means he isn’t the one they ask to do heavy work like they do me. He knows what gets done sometimes, but he keeps his hands clean of it. Unfortunately, that softer heart means he’s a bit more susceptible to the manipulation of these lower species.
As I exit the room and start heading back toward my car, I hear the scramble of Eggsy darting behind us, keeping several feet away as we head back out to the parking garage. He holds a hand on his cap, preventing it from flying off his head since he has to hustle to keep up with our longer strides. Yet another evolutionary pratfall that proves his kind should still be serving us. In his other hand, a black briefcase swings back and forth with his gait.
Arriving next to my Cadillac, I spin around to face Eggsy. He screeches to a halt, stepping back a pace as to not be too close, and immediately averts his eyes. Marty stands on the other side of my vehicle, nervously glancing at the two of us from above the passenger door. I extend my pointer finger at Eggsy and speak slowly and deliberately. I’ve found this tactic in combination with using small, uncomplicated words to be the best way to get your point across when dealing with a skinnie.
“Listen up and listen well, skinnie. You will be doing what we tell you to do today. You will keep your mouth shut unless we speak to you. You will listen, and you will hopefully learn a thing or two. You got that?”
He stares up at me, his knees practically knocking together. He mutters a stumbling reply. ”Y–y–yes, sir, Mr. Signorelli, s–sir!”
I shoot him a menacing look. “And if you put one scratch on my car, I will fuckin’ behead you.”
He gulps and frantically nods in acknowledgement, nearly setting his cap loose from its tenuous hold atop his greasy, disgusting hair. With a final puff of air from my nostrils, I gesture with my head for him to get into the back seat.
I’m gonna have to steam clean the whole car after this.
We depart the parking garage that’s partially buried under the office toward the first stop on our route. We follow a standard schedule as it gets to the end of the month, taking care of dues collection by neighborhood, a few blocks at a time. Each stop can take anywhere from a couple minutes to a half hour, depending on how chatty the owner of each establishment happens to be. Sometimes that’s small talk, and sometimes that’s us listening to excuses about how they came up short this month or how their guys are moaning about switching to another labor union. During the day, I just listen. I don’t thump skulls or break bones. That’s left for the higher-ups to decide on before anything of that magnitude goes down. After all, we’re the face of the Herdsters. Can’t be going around plugging guys in broad daylight just because they missed a few months of dues.
Today, we’ve got about twenty stops to make. It shouldn’t take us longer than the business day, but we’ll have to do a little driving. We’ve got a lot of partners in Brachlyn, and they’re a bit spread out. Our first stop is a liquor store that specializes in fancy wines. “The Vineyard”, it’s called. I like stopping here first because the owner’s a nice fella, never gives us trouble, and always breaks out a bottle to send Marty and I away with a glass of delicious, top quality wine in our stomachs. Not much better way to start a day than that, I think.
As we pull up to the well-dressed building tucked between a few other storefronts facing the road, I suddenly remember the quivering lump of skin in the backseat. I put the car in park and rotate as far as I can to bring Eggsy into view. He sits in the center of the backseat, hands tucked between his knees, with his black briefcase cradled between his arms and his stomach. He jolts away from me as I turn toward him, perhaps anticipating the back of my hand. As fun as it’d be to rough him up, I should at least try to keep things professional.
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“You’re staying in the car. Marty and I will be back in a few minutes. Don’t touch anything.”
Eggsy seems to open his mouth to protest, but quickly closes it. Smart move. Instead, he sheepishly nods before withdrawing his handkerchief and wiping some of the ceaseless moisture from his brow. I know it’s a hot day today, but Raptor Christ he’s gonna really sick up my backseat with his everflowing sweat.
I can’t dwell on it. I’ll just get angrier the more I think about it. Instead, I shut off the car and hoist myself out of the driver’s seat to the pavement below me. Marty follows suit, craning his neck around to give me a concerned look. I know the look. He’s gonna grouse at me. As we make our way to the front door of the wine shop, he makes good on my supposition. “... Pierce, you sure we shouldn’t be bringing him in with us?”
I roll my eyes. “Yes, I’m sure. It’s bad enough he’s here at all, but I’m tolerating it because it might mean I’m not gonna be at this menial busywork for much longer.”
Marty furrows his brow for a moment before realization sets in. He knows I’m not thrilled about performing this tedium; he and I have had plenty of time to chat during the course of our workdays together. He glances over his shoulder at the car. “You think they’re fixing up Eggsy to take your place?”
“Charles did say we’re ‘training’ him. What else would that mean?”
“Well… if that is the case, then he really should be coming in with us, shouldn’t he? He’ll have to learn how to handle the clientele when they… ya know… try to get one over on us.”
I chuckle. “And you think that petrified weasel of a skinnie is gonna be able to manage our almost entirely dinosaur patronage? Fuckin’ doubt that. You’d better harden up a bit, Marty. I think you’ll be the new smiling muscle for these transactions moving forward.”
Marty gives a nervous chuckle in reply. He’s not a weakling by any means; bastard’s got a right hook that’ll ring your bell for a week. That said, he tries to be diplomatic past the point when diplomacy should have ended. We don’t rough people up during the day, but we do sometimes have to harshly remind them where they stand.
Pushing open the door of The Vineyard, we are immediately greeted by the beaming smile of Marcel Sauveterre, a tyrannosaurus fella with an accent nearly as incomprehensible as his last name. He tried guiding me through pronouncing it once. I gave up after about twelve attempts. However, his pleasant demeanor more than makes up for the difficulty I sometimes have understanding him.
He instantly uncorks a bottle as we enter. “Bienvenue, mes amis! It is another journée chaude, no?”
I return his smile but scratch my head in the process. Journey what now? Marty seemed to pick up on the context. “You can say that again, Marcel. I’m already down a pound and a half just by sweatin’!”
Marcel lets out a hearty laugh as he pours three glasses of the freshly uncorked wine. He joins us in our morning taste, rattling off the name of a village somewhere on the other side of the world that I’ve never been to and will never go to. Damn tasty wine, though. I might not appreciate the history or craftsmanship behind it, but I sure as hell know a good taste when it hits my tongue.
As he makes a little more partially incomprehensible small talk with us, Marcel slides a white envelope across the counter. Marty gives a nod as he plucks the dues from the counter. Another minute later, we finish our drinks and bid the wine salesman a pleasant day.
Back at the car, I notice Eggsy in the same place, briefcase in the same position, with his eyes focused on nothing in particular. Half the time I don’t even think thoughts go through the thick skulls of those apes, and moments like this prove my theory. As I open the driver’s side door, however, his head jerks in my direction. He decides to speak up. “D–did everything g–go well?”
I don’t say anything, but Marty, ever the polite one, answers. “Yep. This place is run by a fella named Marcel. Real nice guy, but he’s got a heavy accent. Always on time with his dues, so it’s a pleasant first stop.”
Eggsy smiles at Marty, clearly happy that he’s being treated as less of a burden by him than by me. Nothing I can do about it; I’ve discussed the topic at great length with Marty in the past, but he seems convinced that skinnies “aren’t all bad”. Fool thoughts like that will get you shot in the back of the head someday.
As I ignite the engine and start moving us toward our next few stops, Marty glances down at the briefcase that the skinnie in my backseat is clutching. He looks down at the envelope in his hands, then back at the case. “... Hey, Eggsy, why don’t you hand that up here?”
Eggsy blinks. Before he can respond, I make an inquiry. “Marty, what on God’s green earth would you want that skinnie’s wretched luggage for?”
Marty shrugs. “I’m guessing he brought it to help carry the dues. Hell, I been saying we should bring one, but we always just stuff everything in your glove box. By the end of the day there’s six envelopes that can’t fit in there.” He looks toward Eggsy again. “That is why you brought it, isn’t it?”
Eggsy excitedly nods. “Y–yeah! Yeah! I figured, ya know, we could use somethin’ to carry the dues. I figured you guys woulda had one, but, ya know, just in case, I could help out and show that I’m ready to–”
I cut him off. “For fuck’s sake. Give Marty the fuckin’ case already. I’m gettin’ a headache listening to you yap.”
Eggsy casts his eyes downward again before holding the briefcase out to Marty. My dinosaur cohort accepts it, flicks open its clasp and opens it up in his lap. The gaudy green felt lining of its interior informs me of two things: one, the case is indeed empty, and two, Eggsy has fuckin’ terrible taste in accessories.
Marty drops the envelope into the case, clicks it shut and attempts to tuck it into the floor by his leg. This takes some effort on his part; for as roomy as my car is, we are both large dinosaurs who have to make some sacrifices with comfort when it comes to travel. One of those sacrifices is having very little extra space when transporting ourselves via means besides our own two legs. He seems to find a spot for the case, though he wears a bit of a sour expression, possibly due to being jabbed in the leg by one of its corners.
His inconvenience doesn’t last for very long since our next few stops are only about a minute away. The following several hours go by with little issue. I still don’t allow Eggsy to join us, demanding that he wait in the car while me, Marty and Eggsy’s briefcase do the rounds. If I’m gonna be training this guy, it’ll be my way, and I am not going to tolerate walking into these establishments with a skinnie in tow. I’ve got some goddamn pride.
Around 12:30, we pull up to another stop on our list. I slam my car door a little more fiercely than I meant to, immediately regretting the action as I hear glass loudly rattling inside of it. It’s hot enough to have the windows rolled down, and it would have been a real fucking mess if I just shattered my window inside of the door. Thankfully, I think I dodged a disaster. Not thankfully, I’m still in a rotten mood.
The place we just came from is one of the few “businesses” we service that’s run by a skinnie. Some fuckin’ produce stand down the street. Place reeks of rotten fruit and disgusting flesh bags. It makes my skin crawl to go in there, but they pay up every month so we gotta collect.
That is, they usually pay up every month. This time, the owner was sniveling and mewling about coming up short. Begged us for some leniency. We don’t rough people up during the working day, but I never wanted to backhand a piece of trash skinnie more in my life. Instead… I was professional about it.
I’ll wait for the order from upstairs to take care of the trash.
Using the fantasy of executing that little shit to cheer me up a bit, I head around to the back entrance of Sal’s Butcher and Grocery. I know where Sal’s office is, having been here a handful of times already, and it’s easier to just use the back door. Less ornery dames slapping the cabbage out of each other’s hands to deal with. Plus, Sal is a pretty stand-up guy. It’s another one of the easier stops of the day.
At the steps leading up to the door stationed next to the loading dock, I tell Marty to wait for me. He does so, briefcase in hand as he withdraws his pack of smokes. He knows I don’t like him smoking in my car, so he uses these opportunities to get his nicotine fix. I jog up the small set of stairs and throw open the door–
A skinnie in overalls and glasses nearly as thick as Eggsy’s stumbles backward from the swinging metal barrier. Whether he was about to leave or was just standing there like the braindead mongrel he is… well, that’s anyone’s guess. Glancing around, I see several more skinnies staring up at me, jaws slacked and eyes devoid of thought. Warehouse workers. Physical labor is about the best thing they’re suited for. Shame we have to pay them now.
I stride across the internal side of the loading dock toward Sal’s office, leaning my head to peer through its large glass windows and hopefully flag down the parasaurolophus so I can collect his dues and be on my way. However, I do not see him. Instead, yet another skinnie stands near the office, gazing up at me like a toddler mesmerized by a balloon salesman.
Apparently I have to interact with these troglodytes. I speak slowly and with authority. “Where’s Sal Fontana?”
The skinnie nervously clears his throat. Not that it does him much good as he begins instantly stumbling over his words. “H–he’s not here. C–can I help you with–”
In two steps I’m across the space, staring down at the lump of worthless skin in front of me. I grit my teeth as he stumbles backward. “Can you go get him for me?”
“H–he’s n–not in the s–store. A–are you–”
I’m surprised the beast can even form sentences. Feeling the sickening disdain spreading across my face, I lower myself closer to the skinnie and address him as I would a preschooler. “I am here for his dues. And you’re telling me he’s not here?”
He is petrified beyond words for a moment, lowering his eyes in pacifism. They come to rest on the Herdsters pin on my jacket before widening. His eyes shoot back up to meet mine again. “I c–can get that for you!”
He can… what? Before I can process his rambling, he darts into Sal’s office and pulls open a drawer of Sal’s desk. I feel my plates stand on end as I stride over to the door. If this skinnie draws iron on me, he’ll be losing that gunfight in a sore way. However, he doesn’t lift a pistol from the drawer; rather, he fishes out an envelope with the word “Dues” scrawled across its front.
“Mr. F–Fontana asked me to g–give this to you! Here!” He holds his hand containing the envelope in my direction, his arm quaking slightly. I will admit, I’m a bit shocked by the development. Did Sal really entrust a skinnie, of all people, to handle this task for him? Wouldn’t he be worried about the dishonest fuck running off with the money, or, more likely, failing to remember where it was? The fuckin’ things can’t even tie their shoes most days, it seems.
I just don’t understand other dinosaurs sometimes. Begrudgingly, I snatch the envelope from his hand, taking a quick glance inside of it to ensure it’s full of the owed money and not folded up tissue paper. The cash is all there. Looking back up toward the human, his messy and unkempt brown hair doing little to contain the sweat atop his head or shield his nauseatingly reddened cheeks, I jab a stern finger in his direction.
“You tell Sal that the next time we come by to collect, it’s him here, not some skinnie fuck.”
He rapidly looks downward, adequately intimidated. “Y–yes, sir! S–sorry, sir!”
I let out an audible grumble. While I’m not pleased I had to deal with even more skinnies… at least these ones weren’t completely retarded. My business here concluded, I turn and head back to the door. As I throw it open and step outside, Marty’s head cranes around to me. He drops his cigarette to the ground and stomps it out. “Everything go okay in there?”
I hand him the envelope which he stuffs into the briefcase as we both make our way back toward the car. “If I never have to see another skinnie fuck in my life, it’ll be too soon.” Of course, Raptor Jesus is fickle and immediately blesses me with the sight of Eggsy, still seated in the backseat of the car, just as sweaty and nervous as ever.
But… something makes me pause. Something about the encounter I just had. I climb behind the steering wheel again and start the engine, mulling over the skinnie in Sal’s and how quickly he fetched that envelope. The fact that Sal, someone I know to be a pretty reasonable guy despite employing those apes, actually trusted one of ‘em enough to hand off his dues. And the skinnie actually did it.
I glance in my rearview mirror at Eggsy. He peers out the window, watching the cars go by in the other direction. Though it looks to me like his head is empty of thoughts… he is working his way up in the Herdsters. Enough for Charles to be giving the little shit a legitimate shot at some work that requires a lot of trust.
Huh… maybe…
… Nah, I’m not gonna think about it too hard.
The rest of the day goes by without a hitch. At some point in the afternoon Marty finally gets fed up with trying to find a compromise between the sharp edges of the briefcase and his thighs, so he tosses the case in the empty space of the backseat next to Eggsy. At first I glare daggers at him, wordlessly emphasizing that I wouldn’t trust a skinnie with a fuckin’ nickel, but Eggsy doesn’t do anything with the case. He barely even acknowledges it, going back to looking out the window or occasionally making small talk with Marty.
That twinge in the back of my head again.
… Maybe I am being too hard on the little fucker. He’s been pretty kosher all day, despite the usual nervous behavior and profuse sweating. He’s done what I told him, and he hasn’t put a toe out of line. He even waited in the car while Marty and I got lunch, despite Marty inviting him. Said he wasn’t hungry. When we came back, I’d have expected him to have wandered out of the car, milling about and fanning himself off with his cap, but he was right where we left him, patiently waiting.
Hmm. Well, granted, I ain’t gonna change my perception on skinnies due to the good behavior of one. But… Eggsy might not be such a waste of space as the rest of ‘em.
As the small hand on my wrist watch nears the 5, I park the car about fifty feet away from a payphone. Closest spot I could find. The briefcase, laying on the seat next to Eggsy, is packed full of almost two dozen envelopes stuffed with cash. It was a long day with a few minor hiccups, but nothing that needed any drastic action. All that’s left is to give Charles a call to let him know we’re done, get our meetup location and make our deposit.
Lifting the handset from its cradle, I slide a dime into the slot next to it before punching in the familiar numbers for the Herdsters office. Once connected to the receptionist, they transfer me to Charles’s desk. He answers as punctually as he always does: exactly two rings, then a click followed by his voice.
“Charles Rossi speaking.”
“Hey, Charles. It’s Pierce. We’re all done for the day.”
The sound of him passing his own handset from one hand to the other is followed by his response. “Excellent. How did it go?”
I shrug unconsciously, knowing the gesture doesn’t communicate itself through the phone lines. “Pretty good, all things considered. Did have a problem with the produce stand on 43rd. Owner thinks they don’t have to pay on time.”
Silence for a moment as I hear Charles rustling some papers. “Hm. Seems they’ve got a pretty good payment record. When did they say they can settle up?”
“He said next week, but I ain’t–”
“We’ll give them a week. No reason to break eggs if they haven’t gone rotten yet.” I let out an irritated huff a little too loudly. “What was that?”
“... Nothin’, sir. No problem.”
“Very good. Meet me at Santiago’s Bar in a half hour. After that, you’ll be all done for the day.” He pauses. “Of course, you’d be welcome to stay for a few drinks.”
I chuckle. “Not tonight, sir. Wife is expecting me home for supper. Speaking of, I need to give her a call real quick before I head over to Santiago’s. I’ll see you in a bit, Mr. Rossi.”
“Very good, Pierce. See you soon.”
I place the handset back on its metal holster, hearing the telltale sound of my dime settling in with all the others. Waiting a moment, I lift the receiver again, deposit another coin, and tap the only numbers more familiar to me than those of my office.
“... Hello?”
“Hey there, beautiful.”
She giggles. “Well, if it isn’t my darling husband. How was your day?”
“Long, but almost done. I’ll be on my way home after making a quick stop.”
“Mmhmm. And how many drinks will this quick stop involve?”
“Hey! I told you I’d be home for supper, so I’m gonna be home for supper! I even told my boss ‘no’ when he mentioned the prospect of drinks.”
“Oh, my! And you’re trying to move up in the business? I don’t think you’ll go anywhere if you turn down Charles Rossi when he’s offering to socialize with you.”
This woman. I sigh, rotating in the phone booth. “You know, Bianca, here I thought I was being a good husband and prioritizing my wife’s delicious supper over… over…” I trail off.
After a moment, Bianca notices. “... Pierce? Are you still there?”
I narrow my eyes, peering back toward my car. It remains parked where it was, with Marty lazily resting his chin on his hand, eyes half closed. But…
… The back seat is empty.
… Where is Eggsy?
… Where the FUCK is Eggsy?!
I instantly drop the phone, its metal cord emitting a sharp snapping sound as it hits the bottom of its reach, momentum sending the device clattering against the glass walls surrounding me. I only barely hear the voice of my wife as I slam open the door of the booth, nearly ripping it off its hinges as I barrel down the street toward my car.
I arrive in only a few seconds, roaring as I come to a stop. “Marty! Where the FUCK is Eggsy?!”
Marty only partially opens his eyes before addressing me through the rolled down windows. “He said he was hungry. Said there was a hot dog stand behind us he wanted to hit.”
My head snaps left and right, looking for any hot dog stalls in sight. There are none. Already knowing what I’m about to not see resting in my backseat, I pull my head through the open rear window.
I bellow. “THE FUCKIN’ BRIEFCASE IS GONE! HE FUCKIN’ TOOK IT!!”
Only now do Marty’s eyes snap open. His head instantly whips around, scanning every part of the backseat, including the floor, before throwing open the passenger door and stumbling out of the vehicle. “Holy shit. HOLY SHIT! Oh my God, what the FUCK?!”
As much as I want to box this absolute idiot’s ears, there’s no time. We have to find that fucking lying piece of shit skinnie, and now. I charge down the street in the direction our car does not face, knowing Eggsy would have had to go this direction to slip away without me noticing him waltz past the phone booth, tens of thousands of dollars that belong to the Herdsters swaying merrily in his deceptive little hand.
I crane my head around, scanning every place I can for any sign of the little shit. Marty follows close behind, worthless apologies tumbling from his lips. He can apologize to me after we wring this puke’s neck and recover our money. I can’t fuckin’ believe it. Just when I was thinking even one skinnie might not be that bad, they prove my disdain right yet again.
I shove past two dinosaurs walking the opposite direction. They complain, but I don’t stick around to hear exactly what rude words they spew at me. Bigger fish to fry. Just as I pass by an alleyway, frantically surveying the other side of the street for the freakishly thick glasses and pinstripe cap, Marty shouts at me. “PIERCE! The alley! There’s the case!”
I screech to a halt, the heels of my shoes leaving black streaks on the paved sidewalk beneath me. Spinning around, I dart into the alley that Marty’s long neck is already surveying. Sure enough, a black briefcase with nauseating green felt lining lies discarded on the ground, its contents and its owner nowhere to be seen. I only spend a second scanning the concrete for any evidence of the envelopes before throwing myself toward the other end of the alley. It bends, which means it might–
I turn the corner, spotting the back of a sweat-drenched skinnie in the alley opposite the street. Not a second later, a large truck pulls to a stop between us, blocking my view. I barrel out of the alley and dart around the back of the truck, not bothering to look both ways. My blood’s too boiled for a hit by a vehicle to do anything but piss me off more. I make it to the other side and rush into the alley.
At that moment, Eggsy spins around and collides with me, letting out a cowardly shriek as he does so. My hands instantly close around his head and I toss him like a ragdoll into the brick wall next to us. The sickening slap of his head hitting brick brings his screaming to a rapid stop. He probably ain’t dead yet, but his bell is definitely rung.
I shout at the crumpled heap of worthless skin in front of me. “Where’s the fuckin’ money, Eggsy?!”
He doesn’t reply, trying to pull himself off the ground. His legs wobble underneath him and he falls back to his knees again. Not that escape is an option anymore; Marty stands at the entrance of the alley we entered from, panting due to being a bit out of shape and because of his smoking habit. I feel fit as a fiddle, full of adrenaline and ready to break this fuckin’ skinnie’s neck.
I repeat my question, slower and more clearly so that his addled mind can process my words. “Where is the money, you skinnie piece of shit?”
Eggsy pulls himself from his daze and onto his feet, glaring up at me with newfound hatred in his eyes. Gone is the nervous exterior; either it was all a ruse, or he’s come to accept his fate. “I don’t have it, you meteor dodging fuckwit. It ain’t here. It’s gone.”
I stare down at him for a moment before roughly grabbing his coat, throwing it open and rapidly patting him down. If there are any envelopes stuffed into his pants, I’ll be ripping more than just the money away from his groin. He slaps at me, but it is a fruitless gesture. I am the stronger race; he has no hope in this encounter.
Standing up straight again and still empty handed of the money, I move a rung up the ladder of “how fucking serious I am right now”. I draw the .357 from my shoulder holster and point it directly at Eggsy’s heart. He flinches in response, but still stands defiant against me. Marty, on the other hand, immediately whips his head around, making sure no bystanders observe the unfolding scene before scolding me in a whisper. “Pierce, are you nuts? Put that away, we need to bring him back in. Charles will know what to do!”
I coolly repeat my question a third time. “The money, Eggsy. Where did you hide it?”
Eggsy glares at me, a strange combination of foolhardy bravery and undeserved confidence in his eyes. “You’re not gonna shoot me in public, you club-toed sack of scales. How am I gonna show you where it’s at if I’m dead?”
I glance around the alleyway. It’s an absolute ratnest paradise, packed with trash and filth. Fitting place for a skinnie to die, if you ask me. I look back at Eggsy and shrug. “It’ll take a while, but we’ll find it. I don’t think your services will be needed.”
Marty’s eyes widen and he begins to speak. “Pierce, we need to–”
He doesn’t finish the sentence. The only sound any of us hear for a moment is that of the tinnitus ringing in our ears. Eggsy’s eyes widen in surprise. The adrenaline certainly coursing through his body prevents him from feeling the lead that just passed through his torso and embedded itself in the brick wall behind him. He glances down at the slowly spreading red spot on his white dress shirt before looking back up at me in disbelief.
One isn’t enough for this skinnie fuck. So I release another from the gun’s chamber. Then three more in rapid succession, each bullet pushing him further backward until he collides with the wall and slides downward. He keeps staring up at me, unable to speak through the blood that begins seeping from his mouth but communicating his intense hatred of me all the same. His pained expression conveys his absolute shock at his bluff being called by the smoking end of my snub-nosed companion. His quivering eyes make known the feeling of utter betrayal he feels in this moment.
The feeling is mutual.
A second or two pass before I can hear Marty’s voice past the ringing in my ears. “PIERCE! What the FUCK did you do?! We have to go! NOW!!”
I calmly turn his direction, a weird sort of smile resting on my lips. And here I thought it was gonna be a bad day. Nothing quite like executing a skinnie to turn a frown upside down, I suppose. But… Marty is right. The panicked look in his eyes communicates the urgency of our situation, and we both charge across the street and into the adjacent alley in the direction of my car.
A few bystanders looked our way, but nobody pointed or screamed. Nobody called our names after us. It was another day in Old York for them. Someone got greased in an alley, someone who probably deserved it or maybe didn’t. The cops would show up soon, putting up their tape and waving people along, giving themselves something to do. The ambulance would arrive, identify that the skinnie is, in fact, dead, and stuff him in a black bag to be carted to some furnace that Eggsy would be tossed into. Burned and sent to hell… a fitting end for a cowardly traitor like him.
We throw ourselves into my car; my foot’s on the gas before the engine even finishes spinning up. Not a moment too soon, either, as the approaching sirens herald the arrival of those boys in blue. Once again out of breath, Marty stammers. “Raptor Jesus fuck, Pierce. You–you fuckin’ killed him. You shot him in broad daylight. Are you out of your fuckin’ mind?!”
I shrug. “He betrayed us. Stole Herdster money. He got what was comin’ to him.”
Both Marty’s eyes and his tone reveal the anger boiling inside of him. “That wasn’t your call to make and you know it. We should have dragged him back to the car and taken him to Charles.”
I wave a hand in his direction. “Ahh, pomp and circumstance. You know Eggsy was gonna end up on the wet side of a pier for this stunt, even if he handed the money back to us.”
Marty’s tone is even more serious. “That wasn’t your call to make.” I glance at him, not taking my eyes off the road for too long. I know he’s got a softer heart than me, but I honestly can’t tell why he’s making such a big stink of this. He ain’t the one that pulled the trigger, I am.
“Well… what’s done is done. We’ll go to Charles and let him know what happened. I’m sure he’ll understand.”
Marty shakes his head at me in disbelief before slumping back in his chair and crossing his arms. He doesn’t speak to me again, but he knows we have a new stop that we have to make on the way now.
I pull the car up to the small iron bridge that connects part of Stegen Island to one of its several adjoined man-made “islands”, a platform littered with cranes and industrial equipment designed for loading and unloading cargo ships. This particular dock doesn’t see much use anymore as it’s been outclassed by several other larger and more modernized operations. Rather than tear this one apart, it’s been mostly abandoned save for the occasional need to load a ship that couldn’t fit into the other overcrowded bays.
I’m not here to load, however. I’m here to unload. Stepping up to the edge of the bridge, I glance around, making sure no kids on bicycles or nosy old women out for an evening stroll are looking my way. Seeing that the coast is clear, I toss my .357 revolver into the bay. Twenty feet below, a small kerplunk sound is followed by the metal sinking to the bottom of the sea, joining what is almost certainly several hundred of its retired brothers. I’ve made my fair share of contributions here, but I’m not the only fella who likes to send spent pieces to the pasture off of this particular bridge.
Looking up toward the ocean, the setting sun at my back paints the water in a majestic tapestry of orange and blue. I breathe deeply through my nostrils, the scent of salt and brine adding a sense of nostalgia to the moment. The sound of the waves lapping at the steel beams below me whisper words I do not understand, but they speak to me all the same.
I wonder what Bianca is making for dinner tonight.