the man who said it was lonely at the top was either a liar, or a chump.
hand gripping the cold metal railing of the balcony, Bill surveyed the dazzling and nauseating world below him. my world now, in all of its sick beauty.
the stars in the night sky had been pulled down to this desert as a testament to man's hubris. the las vegas strip, grotesque in splendor and cheap opulence, stretched out before him in its perpetual state of jubilation. even forty-three floors above the streets, he could feel that deceptively cloying pull to lose himself down in that world of vice. he wanted to drink, to gamble, to laugh, to forget all of his worries and celebrate this moment fully; to shed the skin of civility and embrace the monstrous urges within him. but he would not. he could not. now came the time for his true ambitions.
even zeus, atop his mount olympus, does not sit the throne comfortably, he thought, and finished what remained of his drink before stepping away from the edge.
like a wounded animal, their last mark had come here in a desperate attempt to escape his fate and hide amongst the filth of vegas. some dirty ex-senator, they said. friends in high places -- enemies in higher ones still. connections to the old mob, some said; connections to kennedy, said others. no no, not that kennedy, his father. the one with the head in one piece.
bill did not ask questions; his instructions were clear: rats are exterminated. and when the price on their head is ten million dollars, he would go about setting his mouse traps with ruthless precision. senator mickey came out of hiding only for his daughter's birthday party. one blown candle later, one cake slice later, one father-daughter dance later, one hail storm of bullets later, and the assignment was complete.
bill left his favorite handkerchief in the dead woman's hand; budd ate a piece of cake.
with the comfortable stride of an old alley cat freshly back from a kill, he slowly walked across the terrace of his new penthouse; the rotten, magnificent fruit of their unforgivable work.
his mind went to his mother. drugs, sex, endlessly running from hovel to hovel. he stared at his reflection in the lit, turquoise waters of his pool and for a brief moment thought he could see her there, but the face of his mother was turning more and more hazy by the day; a fading memory now and nothing more. how young she had been when she was killed.. how young he had been when he was left to raise budd on his own.
brother, father, mentor, protector. but for how long? what will happen the day i'm not there to keep the snakes at bay?
his brother had gone off to devour the night, and bill would certainly have fun in his own way, at his own time. but first things first . . . he would need to deal with his uninvited guest.
he sat in the patio chair across the pool, poured from the bottle of vodka, threw back the tepid water he had replaced it with in one gulp, let out a long and exaggerated sigh.
she had been trailing him all day. a statuesque blonde, poised and subtle, keeping a curiously steady eye on his movements. most certainly working for one of the cartels -- they had reason enough to want him flayed alive. or was she with the albanians?
either way, she's sloppy. dangerously inpatient. dangerously confident. dangerously beautiful.
" before you decide to start off the fireworks and turn my pretty new pool red . . would you first care to join me for a drink? " his voice was clear and unwavering. bill would have his fun tonight, in his own way, at his own time.
" come on down to spin the wheel, miss assassin. i don't bite. "
