The Manipulators

Chapter 1
No-one Knows

Have you ever wandered across an old shop, or abandoned house, and you know. You feel that it should not be there. What it is. What it’s done. It’s unwelcoming and unwelcomed in return.
The sepulchre, the grave, is one of those places.
It’s a dark hostile pub, placed in the back alleys of nowhere. Even civilised society have seemed to shunned its very existence. Occasionally one or two ‘wanderers’ stumble upon its foreboding doorstep. Hell, a couple even step in for one drink, just one. Whether out of courage or courtesy is unknown.
The inside of the pub isn’t as bad as it is portrayed. The owner’s not such a bad bloke, and it’s as clean as an operating room, not that he has many other things to do than clean it, over and over again. It’s just the sense of the place, the atmosphere, the feel. Like dark secrets hidden away in a cellar.
Danny Orwin, he’s the sought of man you could tell wasn’t afraid of the dark, and apparently he loves cellars too. He’s been coming to the sepulchre for the last week. He’s made more business for the place then it would have had in a year. Greg the bartender has even taken a liking to Danny. Greg, being brought up in a younger world, admired Danny for his punctuality.
Each night Danny would walk straight into the pub at six, assumedly that’s when he gets off work from some low end cubicle job of some sorts. He exchanges greeting with Greg, then proceeds over to the second table from the wall. He sits with his back towards the front door, facing towards the old black and white television set, which looks to be fixed to the wall with cobwebs. He orders one glass of light beer every hour, and then right on the strike of nine o clock, Danny gets out of his chair, puts what he owes on his table, and says his goodbyes.
As Greg’s old man used to say, while he was breathing: You can always trust a man that’s run on clockwork.
Greg smiled to himself while he was wiping down the bar. Back and forth the rag went. It was doing its job alright. There hasn’t been a speck of dust on this bar since Greg bought the joint in ’87.
Eight forty. Twenty minutes till Danny up and leaves. Twenty minutes till Greg could go home and get some rest. Well there’s nothing else to do. May as well talk to the boy!
“Will that be all for the night Danny?” Greg swung the rag over his shoulder.
“Yup. That’s me done for the night. ” emotion rarely showed in Danny’s voice.
“Hmm… well it’s your call. I’ll be heading home early this evening, try and get an early start tomorrow. Just lock the door on your way out, but check it afterwards, the locks a right old bastard it is.”
“Will do”
Greg took one last look around his pub, the ceiling, the empty chairs, Danny, and then started to the door, with the rag still over his shoulder.
“Oh! And by the way, if you want anymore Devil Water… well … just grab whatever you want really, doesn’t mind me. Tomorrow at six then eh?”
“Tomorrow at six.”
One last awkward glance around the pub.
“Right-O”
And out the door.
Danny tipped down the last of his drink, still watching the old television. Well no one’s around, and the routines already been broken, what’s the harm in one more drink?
In one slow lumbering movement Danny got up and made his way to the bar. Same drink as before, Then back down in his usual sitting spot.
Thoughts and theories spawned throughout Danny’s mind as he started on the full glass.
How did I get to this point? What exact events occurred, or was it the whole damned thing. Maybe if I did this, or that.

Danny raised his drink in deep thought. The howling wind crept through the open front door and brushed past the hem of Danny’s coat. Danny couldn’t see the stranger, but he knew he was there.
The leather jacket clad stranger stalked over to the table behind Danny, took a seat and casually lifted his black Nike sneakers onto the top of Danny’s chair.
Danny shifted in his seat to try and get a look at this new character, but was politely cut short.
“Turn around and you’ll never see the bottom of that glass.”
Danny, understanding the situation all too well, did exactly what he said, and instinctively went for his drink.
“Can I at least finish the drink?”
Danny took the silence for a yes, and downed the last of his drink.
“So… who are you?”
The stranger chuckled.
“You’re serious aren’t you? And why the hell would I tell you who I am.”
“Okay then, be like that, I already know who you are anyway. And I got to say: you’re doing a crap job already.”
There was a brief moment before all this went through the strangers head. He reached into his jacket and retrieved something.
“Look mate do you have a death request!”
That something was a sawn off shotgun… now pointing at Danny’s head.
“I signed the one you received.”  Danny looked at his empty glass. “Mind if I get another?”
“SHUT UP!”
“Fair enough.”
The stranger looked quite concerned at this stage, struggli ng to retain and process the small parts of information Danny was giving him.
“What you mean ‘you signed the one I received”
“John Smith. Not very original, but whatever you fancy. You work for big boss George ehh? You his muscle then? You’re not very good at the whole contract killing thing are you? If you were going to kill me then you should have shot me while you were in the doorway. But theatricals  gets the best of use don’t they.”
John pressed the barrels against Danny’s head.
“Shut up! Now stop talking nonsense and answer the question!”
Danny sighed heavily
“Georgie boy gives you all you’re tasks in person. This ones the ninth, you’re a lucky man considering how many mistakes you make.”
A small whack from the barrel reminded Danny of the question.
“Okay, okay. All the other tasks where given too you from the mouth of the boss, why did this one come in a sealed envelope? Unless of course, it wasn’t the boss who sent it to you.”
The realisation hit John as a look of dread enveloped his face. Danny used this to his advantage.
“You know for a hit man – “
“Shut up.”
“You’re not too smart”
“Shut up!”
“And in this business, if we don’t have smarts –“
“SHUT UP!”
“…we die.”
John raised the gun. Muscles poised to deliver a blow that would shatter Danny’s skull, if Danny wasn’t already waiting with his hands underneath his chair. 
Blood pulsing. Muscles contracting. Calculations after calculation forming and dissolving in Danny’s mind, while all the time that little incentive dancing through his being: if I don’t get this right, then I die.
Danny stood, taking the chair with him. The hired hit tumbled backwards as his legs flipped over his head.
A burst of fire and metal, an explosion of sparks and glass burst out of the now destroyed light behind the pub.
John didn’t even have time to think, he was still thinking about the current revelations coming from his target. And then it all stoped, as something subdued all the mangled thoughts.
Pain.
Most of Danny’s weight was focused on holding down the gun in John’s right hand. He lifted his chair half in anger, half in pity, but fully committed to the job at hand.
John was dead on the second strike; his face wasn’t as pretty as before either. That didn’t stop Danny. He just kept going, and going, and going.
Blood stained the bottom of Danny’s coat, pooling around the soles of his black leather shoes.
He was enjoying this. Memories of the past, of all the bad things of his life, they all seemed to disappear just like the face of this hired goon.
Danny could swing that chair all night, - and he probably would have – but the chair didn’t have that kind of stamina. Once Danny realised all he was holding was two broken pieces of wood he stopped and assessed the situation.
One broken chair, one busted light, and a faceless man lying in a pool of his own blood. One look at this scene and it’s quite probable that Greg will never ever let anyone lock up for him again.
Danny Walked over to the bar, uncaring for the spots of blood splashed across his jacket. he pulled out a small note pad and pen, jotted something down, and left it on the bar. Along with a wad of cash.



Danny walked back, and knelt over the mess on the ground. He unwrapped the dead fingers off the handle of the sawn-off. Doing so with the greatest of care. He checked the ammo, one slug left. He sighed and looked over the body, patted down some of the pockets. Hoping for the best, but with no avail.
The sawn-off disappeared into a rather large pocket hidden in Danny’s jacket.
Danny locked the door on his way out, twice.
The backstreet was equally as empty as the pub. It wasn’t a complete mess, there wasn’t even any graffiti. No one wanted to come down this way, if they could avoid it.
Danny reached into his back pocket and retrieved a folded letter. He read the first paragraph very carefully, nodding his head when he got to the end.
“Good. Task one’s finished”

…

Dear Greg.
Sorry about the mess. Don’t worry, no one’s going to come looking for him.
Here’s $1200 to fix the damages.
You might be a bit angry at me. That’s fine. You’ll never see me again.
Signed:















Chapter 2
No-one Wins



The particular office of Richard A. Holing was designed to reflect an open and trustworthy environment. Glass walls, white marble tiles, and an unnecessary amount of ceiling lights. Appreciation for this design is lost on the likes of Mr. Holing. With the curtains always closed and the glass door replaced with a thick solid oak door, it is obvious that Richard prefers privacy over open and trustworthy impressions.
Richard himself is an eighty seven year old veteran. He’s plump around the edges, and his comb over is getting worse every day, and he’s got no quarrels with making grotesque amounts of money, legally or otherwise.
“Oh great. What the fuck do you want!?”
Today Richard’s ‘financial’ meeting is with four rather large, intimidating men who have been sent around to clear up a few business problems.
“You know what we want, Dick.” The middle one said
Mr. Holing shot him a look that made the boy step a reasonable distance behind his peers.
“You call me Dick once more and you will lose yours.”
Richard leant back in his soft I-talian leather chair.
“And that goes the same for the rest of you.”
Once he had made sure his point was clear, Mr holing pulled out a very foreign, very expensive cigar, and indulged himself.
The boys just watched him, after that incident none of them particularly felt like talking. 
“Let me guess. You cocksuckers were sent here from that shit-pile-manikin you call a boss?”
Richard glanced over each one of the thugs, looking them straight in the eyes.
“Come on, my time is fucking finite. What does he want?”
The courageous one of the pack cleared his throat and stuck to his script.
“George would like to know why his ‘shipment of goods’ is late. He would also like to politely inform you that until he gets his shipment, your clientele are no longer under our protection.”
“Well whoop-de-fucking-do. Let me remind me you of my friend: Mr. Wu, owner of a little downtown Chinese takeaway. The best damn fried rice I’ve ever tasted. Last week his little takeaway was robbed by a pack of fucking prepubescent shitheads. And guess what!? Two days ago it was robed AGAIN! BY THE SAME FUCKERS! Now, not only had I promised Wu protection, I consider him to be my friend, and since he’s a friend; not only is he under my protection, he is under my protection.”
The office phone rang three times before Richard picked it up.
“This’d better be fucking good.”
“Sir, your wife is on line-“
Richard slammed the phone down and got out of his chair, cigar still in hand, he began to walk over to the group.
“George is a relatively new kid on the block. I gave him the very small and very simple task of protecting my east district clients, so that I can see if he actually has the balls for the job. Obviously he fucking doesn’t.”

                                                           …

The young woman behind the desk was absolutely, amazingly, stunning. Long wavy, but not curly, fiery red head framed her beautifully cute yet sensual face. Piercing light blue eyes adorned by long eye lashes. Soft, full-sized lips, and a slightly upturned nose, together gave a noticeable agitated look as she explained to the woman on the other end that her husband was in a very important meeting and could not be interrupted. Her soft, pale skin could easily be mistaken for fine silk. Her body matched the classical image of a gorgeous young woman, not like most of the plastic-perfected “ladies” these days. And her legs! Her legs could send any man, and most women into cardiac arrest with just one glance.
She looked even more amazingly cute when she angrily put the phone back in its holster, muttering in a song like voice.
“Stupid old man. Hangs up on his wife! I shouldn’t even be here. The only reason he hired me is because I have a nice rack.”
In her mild ranting she completely missed the man standing on the other side of the counter, and completely froze when she heard the man clearing his throat. Her hair faded into her bright red face as she looked up to find that the man was a ruggedly handsome man only a few years older than she was.
Usually she doesn’t like men in suits, from working in an office, but for this man she was more than willing to make an exception.
“Um, *clears throat, cutely* how… may I help you sir?”
The man smiles a smile that makes her go even more red.
“Hi there. My names john smith. I was wondering if I could have a word with your boss?”


“Tell George he isn’t ever seeing his fucking shipment!”
Richard paced back to his chair and took a seat.
“I don’t think he’s going to like that.”
“I don’t care what you think, or what he wants! I want you out of my fucking sight now!” I’ve got more than enough people lined up for this position.”
He slumped back into his seat and watched as the group headed to the door.
“You haven’t seen the last of us Dick.”
Richard immediately opened up the top draw and pulled out his favourite business partner.
A silenced pistol. *note: research pistol types*
“I warned you once you fucker!”
He lined up, and shot the smartass twice in the calf muscle. The big guy fell on the floor in both pain and unbelief, tomorrow he’ll be thinking about changing professions.





The screams of agony were somewhat muffled by the glass walls, but the secretary and the rugged man had an idea of what just took place.
“Sounds like he’s in an important meeting.” The man remarked.
“Usually is.”
“Uh, is your boss the sort of person that eats dinner?”
The woman looked up and smiled at him.
“If the devil eats food, then yes he is.”
“Ok then, could you please tell him to meet me at Green Eleven at around about seven to discuss some property issues.”
The man smiled at the secretary and started to make his way to the elevator.
“Hey excuse me! John?”
The secretary was leaning over her table; she quickly shifted her eyes up to his.
He walked back over to her. She quickly scribbled down something on a post-it note.
“If you want to have dinner with a real person sometime.”  She handed him her number.
“Don’t worry about which restaurant. I don’t eat that much.”



…