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ooooo ooooo .oooooo. oooooooooooo HOE E'ZINE RELEASE #736
`888' `888' d8P' `Y8b `888' `8 "The Biggest, Largest, Most
888 888 888 888 888 Exciting Heist of All Time
888ooooo888 888 888 888oooo8 Chapter 3: The Wrath of Gods"
888 888 888 888 888 " by Nybar
888 888 `88b d88' 888 o 7/16/99
o888o o888o `Y8bood8P' o888ooooood8
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About an hour and 15 minutes before Mogel was shot, a telephone
awakened Mark Thoreau. Mark always slept with one eye open, just in case of
such a call. They came often. His wife went on slumbering... she had been
conditioned the opposite way, to ignore phone calls at night.
"Hello, Mark Thoreau speaking, who is this?"
"This is Grivinsky. They're getting close"
Mark yawned. Someone was always 'getting close'. They never got
there though. He had quite a profitable niche going making sure they
didn't.
"So what do you want me to do about it?"
"What we discussed."
"And the money?"
"Look in your mailbox, Mr. Thoreau. The rest will find it's way to
you after the successful completion of the... business... we discussed."
"Okay. Where are they?"
"At 'The Gemini Diamond', 35'th and second."
A click and silence. "Bye then... call again some time, we'll talk
sports." Mark said to the now-silent voice. He had had literally hundreds
of customers, and each of them seemed to be waiting in line to end their
conversations like rudely, but then again, cordiality isn't quite a staple
of the murder for hire business. Not yet anyway. But he was always
pushing his clients. Well, in the one minute and thirty seconds before they
hung up, anyway. Maybe one day a priest that wanted a nun knocked off would
stumble upon him; the conversation might then run like this: "Hello sir,
how are you doing today?" "Quite alright. You?" "Oh beautiful. So, I'd
like you to kill Sister Francine, as we discussed." "Splendid. May I
inquire about my money?" "Certainly. The money will arrive promptly. Pray
make sure that bitch doesn't live." "Certainly. Good-bye, sir." "Good-bye,
and may the lord keep you." "Oh, thank you, though my prospects with the
lord seem rather dim with at the moment." "Comes with the profession, I
suppose" the priest would say while chuckling "well, cya 'round then."
And only then would come the once-dreaded click. This was a pipe-dream of
Mark's, at least.
Back to reality, though: Mark got up, put his clothes on, kissed his
wife, grabbed his briefcase and he was off. First he took a manilla
envelope out of his mail-box and (after inspecting the contents) put it into
his house. Then he hit the streets... his destination was a short enough
distance away that he could walk it. A casual observer, seeing him walking
casually to what he made seem like nowhere in particular at 4 in the
morning, would probably think he was a drunkard. He was certainly unkempt
enough, dressed in fading jeans and a lumberjack shirt. His red eyes (from
countless nights of interrupted sleep) added to the observers evidence. The
clincher was the carefree but self-conscious way he walked, a true drunken
shuffle. And if a casual observer should see him and think this, he would
be highly pleased. No one remembers a drunk at this hour of day, he
reasoned, but one does remember a sharply dressed man in a tuxedo carrying
a briefcase, which is supposedly the uniform of those in his profession.
His attire never came into play though; he strolled the whole distance
without seeing a soul.
As he approached the diner, he looked at two pictures. They were
Nybar's and Mogel's. Inside the diner, he casually glanced in their
direction. Nybar was making a scene. Mark took a seat and ordered a slice
of pie and coffee. He hoped he'd have a chance to have them. He didn't.
Too soon, Nybar and Mogel were out the door. He gave the waitress a twenty
and cautiously followed them. They climbed in a van, so he had to use the
'company car', so to speak. It was parked in the back of the diner, as
promised, a shitty looking Buick. He eventually followed them to an
all-night hardware store, Tony's. He decided this was the place he should
strike.
He parked the Buick behind a building, then climbed a fire-escape to
the roof of the same building. Here he set up his rifle and scope. This
was always the hardest part of the job, trying to stay alert while waiting
for what could be hours for one shot. But he was a veteran... eventually
they stepped out. He took aim and fired. Mogel went down. He prepared to
fire again... but where was the other one? Must've ducked under the van or
something. He waited for a shot. Twenty minutes of utter concentration
passed. Then he heard a 'shing' noise. The sound of a knife being
unsheathed. This was the last sound he'd ever hear.
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[ (c) !LA HOE REVOLUCION PRESS! HOE #736 - WRITTEN BY: NYBAR - 7/16/99 ]