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I was shaking, the gun pressed into my back painfully. The metal was sure to leave a bruise against my spine. If I still had a spine by the time the boss was done with me.
I wanted to run, I wanted to leave. I wanted to go now, now, now.
The heavy hand on my shoulder prevented any physical escape I could possibly try. The weight a reminder of how easily the brute could snap my shoulder and make it all look like a fall down the stairs.
I prayed to whatever god would listen then, my penance ringing in my ears like the bells of a dancers anklet. Similarly, the thoughts of my demise danced between the folds of my grey matter.
The man made a gruff sound at the back of his throat like clearing phelgm as he thrust me forward. My legs buckled under the force of the shove, bringing me to fall to my knees.
Tears mingled with the muck and rain as I knelt there. The gun barrel now pressed against my skull, tousling my perfectly gelled hair and reminding me of imminent death.
The boss stepped out from behind a club door. The loud music pervading the scene for a flash second before the door shut and the sounds of inside did too. Now all that was left was the sound of the pelting rain, and my last hope driving off in the wrong direction.
I screamed. Internally, externally, loudly, softly, silently, all at once.
My breath came out in jagged exhales, the steam puffing up in my face and evaporating.
"So this is him, eh?" The boss asked, unimpressed.
I flicked my eyes up, not caring for respect or etiquette. What etiquette should a dead man afford his killers?
My eyes drank in his tailored three piece suit, the dark material clinging to him. He wasn't lean, he wasn't fat, he was unremarkable. Unremarkable if not for the threat of unrestrained violence woven into his eyes, eyesbrows, laughter lines, crows feet, and course calloused knuckles. Fough from the bottom, straight to the top. Not a champagne golden boy like me. No sir. Only rotten corpses and bloodied faces lay as a foundation for his reputation.
And briefly, before the M1911 was raised to my forehead, I envied him.
I envied that his Tommy Hilfiger trenchcoat was charcoal black and silk lined, unlike the Louis Vuitton I wore.
