GOLDEN WINGS This place is toxic with the fumes of couples breaking up and shady business deals being made under the whiskey breath of creatures with bulging hungers and anemic souls. But, the Bananas Foster is brilliant and I refuse to stop having fun just because we are in the waiting room for the Seventh Circle of Hell. His expression is that of a man who has just eaten a rotten persimmon. He demands that I take the cucumber slices off of my face, and make fucking sense for once. I laugh, and tell him he needs to be happier. Near the door marked exit, there are two Armani-clad demons exchanging tiny packages they’ve tucked into their jacket sleeves. Could be drugs, nuclear codes or plans to demolish a neighborhood preschool. No real way of knowing, but, I am sure it isn’t those little candy valentine hearts with silly love sayings on them. I look at my serious friend. He is still speaking in a “this is very important” tone, but the words are like circus clowns stumble-dancing from a big red tunnel. I laugh again. Mostly annoyed, and tiring quickly of this odd game, I pull my black patent leather briefcase from beneath the table, pop it open and hand him the big ugly manila envelope therein. He opens it to find black and whites of the dead bodies of all the potential victims on his list. He simultaneously slides me a white envelope full of money. After the exchange, my right hand snakes to the small Glock 9mm tucked into my waistband. My left hand is under a white cloth napkin on the table so he’ll believe I already have the gun drawn and pointed. As he flips through the sickest little slide show in Texas, I tell him a joke about a priest, a donkey and shoe repair salesman who all happen to be swimming in the same public swimming pool. He smirks, but doesn’t laugh. He spouts some tired line about loose cannons and loose women. I’m thinking that I’d like to put pink bunny ears on him and chase him around the woods with a squirt gun full of ketchup. I’m not sure why. There’s another mental puzzle box for my therapist to play with. I can see his hitter, dressed in a navy blue Brooks Brothers number fresh from the deal rack. He’s at the bar, finishing up his Apple-tini. What kind of a hitman drinks Apple-tinis? As I'm wrapping the conversation with Mr. Serious, Hitter walks outside to get himself in an advantageous enough position to kill a pro killer. I make an offhand comment about the comfort of silk boxer shorts, and wonder to myself how long they’ve been planning this. We get up and begin our exit, and my heart starts beating like a punk rock drum solo on cocaine. Just as we hit the door, and step outside, I run a tidy blade across Mr. Serious’ throat and hit a button on a remote in my pocket that blows up my car which Hitter is hidden behind. Then, I do my best impression of Daffy Duck in one of his manic fits to my auxiliary vehicle, and take off to collect the real bounty. I have another hit list in my briefcase, in another ugly yellow manila folder, that only has two names scrawled on it. Right now, my life is as sexy as a naked underwear model lying in a Roman tub filled with crisp new hundreds. I am the Death Angel, and I am about to get new wings; golden wings.
Niall Rasputin
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