"Who do you want?" Upper said casually into his cell, trying to look innocuous as he strolled down the sidewalk street, gaudy neon signage flashing in his eyes and mixing horribly with the burning heat and glare of the sun above, combining to make him blink and sweat profusely.
"Oh, I dunno." His employer drawled gleefully. "Take your pick-- the smug b***h across the street, sitting inside that bistro, pickin' at a sandwhich, you see her?" Upper grunted an affirmative. He didn't like how Duke liked to savor each mission, feeding him information piece by piece. By God, the man didn't even pay up front, laughed at the very notion. Insufferable, but he paid just well enough to garner Upper's attention. Plus, a**hole though the guy might be, he had miles more connections then Upper would ever have.
And so Up played attack dog, gritting his teeth all the way. "Either the sandwhich b***ch," Duke continued after a long pause to take a smoke break, "or the mousy-lookin' doofus accountant who is f**kin' me over on the stock market sitting on the bench not five yards away from yah." Upper chose accountant. The woman across the street wore nice clothes, ate at a nice place; she probably would cause all sorts of trouble for his reputation. He walked over, whistling as normally as possible, realizing dourly how bad he was at the stealth element of his side gig, and sat down next to the mousy-looking feller on the bench.
Upper cleared his throat and inwardly groaned. "Hot out, isn't it?" He tried to smile. It was disturbing. The accountant startled, looking up from the book in his hand, staring confusedly at Upper, and almost flinched, like the small talk had been a physical assault. Upper could sympathize, but such was the job.
"Uhh... Yeah, I... suppose so? Do I know you from work or something?" Upper gave him a pat on the shoulder that was meant to be pacifying, but the twiggy man was shoved back a couple inches by it, and almost tumbled off the bench before catching himself.
"Woah, watch yourself there, pal." Upper said. Menacing undertones he could do. "Look, how can I say this nicely... You got two options. Either you sell off all your stock in Bits & Bobs, Inc. for pennies on the dollar, or someone bigger, meaner, and better at this gig then my rooky ass will hunt you down and make you bleed and squeal like you can't even ima-"
Upper was coughing up blood, on his back, knife in his chest in seconds. The mousy accountant, nimble, quick, and strong as a horse, had stabbed him. What the hell? There were witnesses-- people nearby-- where the hell had they all gone?
"You're Upper, right?" A harsh kick in his side rolled Upper over onto his back. There was no stuttering nervousness to the 'accountant's' tone now. Just cold toughness. Upper coughed out a garbled 'yahg' through vomit, blood, and spit. The 'accountant' nodded, a bloody... pen in one hand. A pen in that guy's hand made Upper fold like a lawn chair , for the Lord's sake. Who the hell was this guy? The 'accountant' went on: "You were two weeks late checking with the Duke for more work. That just isn't acceptible. Learn to be punctual, dipsh*t. You're a small fish," he pinched two fingers so close together they were almost touching, "in a very large pond. Learn to play nice with the big cats, step verrry carefully, and maybe you won't ever have to see me again." With a casualness only achievable through years of practice, the Bookkeeper cleaned off his bloody pen with a handkerchief he pulled from his shirt pocket, and slid it behind his ear before strolling away with an insultingly well-done 'nothing to see hear' air about him, the polished bastard.
Upper rose to his feet unsteadily, his lips caked in blood, bile, and fouler liquids. Pulling his burner phone from his coat pocket, he quickdialed a friend. "Hey, J, buddy, can you, uhh, ow that f**kin' hurts, can you send a car out with a couple Iron Rose guys and, ughhh, my head is pounding like hell. Meds, painkillers, the works, just trace this call and get it out here before I die of blood loss. Pretty f**kin' please."
"Oh, I dunno." His employer drawled gleefully. "Take your pick-- the smug b***h across the street, sitting inside that bistro, pickin' at a sandwhich, you see her?" Upper grunted an affirmative. He didn't like how Duke liked to savor each mission, feeding him information piece by piece. By God, the man didn't even pay up front, laughed at the very notion. Insufferable, but he paid just well enough to garner Upper's attention. Plus, a**hole though the guy might be, he had miles more connections then Upper would ever have.
And so Up played attack dog, gritting his teeth all the way. "Either the sandwhich b***ch," Duke continued after a long pause to take a smoke break, "or the mousy-lookin' doofus accountant who is f**kin' me over on the stock market sitting on the bench not five yards away from yah." Upper chose accountant. The woman across the street wore nice clothes, ate at a nice place; she probably would cause all sorts of trouble for his reputation. He walked over, whistling as normally as possible, realizing dourly how bad he was at the stealth element of his side gig, and sat down next to the mousy-looking feller on the bench.
Upper cleared his throat and inwardly groaned. "Hot out, isn't it?" He tried to smile. It was disturbing. The accountant startled, looking up from the book in his hand, staring confusedly at Upper, and almost flinched, like the small talk had been a physical assault. Upper could sympathize, but such was the job.
"Uhh... Yeah, I... suppose so? Do I know you from work or something?" Upper gave him a pat on the shoulder that was meant to be pacifying, but the twiggy man was shoved back a couple inches by it, and almost tumbled off the bench before catching himself.
"Woah, watch yourself there, pal." Upper said. Menacing undertones he could do. "Look, how can I say this nicely... You got two options. Either you sell off all your stock in Bits & Bobs, Inc. for pennies on the dollar, or someone bigger, meaner, and better at this gig then my rooky ass will hunt you down and make you bleed and squeal like you can't even ima-"
Upper was coughing up blood, on his back, knife in his chest in seconds. The mousy accountant, nimble, quick, and strong as a horse, had stabbed him. What the hell? There were witnesses-- people nearby-- where the hell had they all gone?
"You're Upper, right?" A harsh kick in his side rolled Upper over onto his back. There was no stuttering nervousness to the 'accountant's' tone now. Just cold toughness. Upper coughed out a garbled 'yahg' through vomit, blood, and spit. The 'accountant' nodded, a bloody... pen in one hand. A pen in that guy's hand made Upper fold like a lawn chair , for the Lord's sake. Who the hell was this guy? The 'accountant' went on: "You were two weeks late checking with the Duke for more work. That just isn't acceptible. Learn to be punctual, dipsh*t. You're a small fish," he pinched two fingers so close together they were almost touching, "in a very large pond. Learn to play nice with the big cats, step verrry carefully, and maybe you won't ever have to see me again." With a casualness only achievable through years of practice, the Bookkeeper cleaned off his bloody pen with a handkerchief he pulled from his shirt pocket, and slid it behind his ear before strolling away with an insultingly well-done 'nothing to see hear' air about him, the polished bastard.
Upper rose to his feet unsteadily, his lips caked in blood, bile, and fouler liquids. Pulling his burner phone from his coat pocket, he quickdialed a friend. "Hey, J, buddy, can you, uhh, ow that f**kin' hurts, can you send a car out with a couple Iron Rose guys and, ughhh, my head is pounding like hell. Meds, painkillers, the works, just trace this call and get it out here before I die of blood loss. Pretty f**kin' please."