Austin City Limits

Remember me? :: Ch. 12

"Damn it," he curses through clenched teeth, "damn it all to hell." The arrogant man was pissed that he was put up to this menial task. Andros Straton is an ungrateful, audacious fool. He had done every single thing Andros had requested of him and this is how he is repaid? But still, he would do it without voicing any complaints to Andros, because he was obligated under his contract. Most of his pride was built from his effortless wisdom that the man was born with and despite his disgruntle attitude he knew when to keep his mouth shut.

The air is heavy tonight, thick with humidity. Fog weaves it way through the streets, giving him some makeshift cover. Due to previous jobs assignments, he was able to navigate the back streets of downtown Los Angeles on foot with some ease. Every so often a car would casually roll past but never slowed to assess him. The man wore expensive loafers and pressed suit that stood out in this neighborhood but it's the required uniform. Andros is a stickler when it comes to his dumb rules. The last guy who broke the dress code is now buried six feet under, and the man's claustrophobic tendencies had him terrified of being buried alive. So a suit it is.

The first time he met Andros was in his second year of pre-law at University of Texas. Andros had just recently dropped out to pursue more 'lucrative endeavors,' and he had come to the man with an interesting proposition, one that would prove hard to refuse. He was already struggling to pay for school, drowning in school loan debt and a minimum wage part time job, and he was only a sophomore. At the time, the offer seemed harmless. He would provide Andros with his services as an Attorney; in return he would receive immediate experience after graduation and no school debt. Now, years later and he had officially become a lackey. Not only had he ruined his own life, but he was constantly lying to his best friend as well.

The man's target house came into sight and his head darted back and forth a few times to check for prying eyes. There weren't any streetlights on this block, but a small porch on a neighboring house was on, illuminating enough to reach the front door of the house he needed to break-in to. He didn't want to risk being seen in the small light, so, instead stuck to the darkness of the night hoping for an unlocked back door and no noisy dogs.

The fence is low enough he can hop it with certain ease. A very old model of a sliding glass door greets the man and he lowly snickers in sinister delight. "Like taking candy from a baby. Dumb Kid, real dumb."

He lifts the door as far up as he can then wiggles it a few times while pressuring it to slide back. The basic latch releases with a 'pop' and easily glides open for the man. The person that owns this house, nicknamed the Kid, is trying to compete with Andros' clients, to most this would be downright laughable, since nobody in south California is as powerful as Andros Straton. But the Kid has a few notable connections and Andros wants to put him in the gutter before he breaks serious ground in the business.

The house was outdated with orange carpet, mustard yellow walls and popcorn ceilings. There was no furniture in the living room and the man was beginning to feel like he was told the wrong house number. He was about to travel further into the house but the smell it emanated was despicable. It was so bad he could almost see the green odor floating around the air; the sulfur from rotten-egg-like smell had the man in the polished suit trying to control his gag refluxes.

Despite the outlandish smells, the man had to finish the job he set out to do. He took out a small disposable camera and photographed the inside of the house, first the empty living room, the kitchen with a small fridge and a sink full of pans, the molded bathroom and finally the single bedroom that only had a sleeping bag and a couple of boxes. This place looked like a squatter was using it, not Andros' young rival.

He slipped on a pair of blue nitrate gloves and dug through the boxes, one contained wrinkled clothes, one had some canned foods and granola bars, but the last one was a winner. "Jackpot," the man whispered to the empty house. And about time, he wasn't sure he could take the horrid smell too much longer. Beneath old trash and squished receipts was a notebook containing a contact list. High-profile celebrities and socialites graced the pages. Legendary names along with their phone numbers and addresses filled pages and pages of the book, written in such causality and forgotten beneath trash, when most people would cut of their right arm for just one of their favorite celebrity's numbers.