Heartless Profession

Waste Management: Chapter One From The Novel Heartless Profession

         


         Aubrey…Aubrey! The whispers of the past erupt from somewhere unknown. I had found myself drifting off again to a place buried in the shadows of a century long pass. A mystery…a forgotten tragedy; one that I had yet to uncover in its entirety: the mystery of my birth, or rather my death. I…but I suppose such a captive audience would like to know who this “I” actually is. Well “I”, as much as I can be considered an “I”, considering its inedible association with those of the human variety, am Aubrey. Yes my name is Aubrey, just…Aubrey. See I can’t remember my last name, nor can I remember who my mortal parents were.
         Mortal parents you say? Well as much as I hate to tackle this subject at the onset of such an endeavoring I must inform you that I am a vampire. A vampire with no coven, no master…no family. Because the beast that turned me had no regard for the order of things! Thus, I don’t remember my mortal parents because that beast that turned me killed them, and I don’t remember him ether…my immortal father; the one that I have spent eternity in search of. The fiend that will draw his last immortal breath at my hands! But alas before I can do any such thing I must gather myself for the task at hand, research.
         See I have a business that some would consider…well, immoral. But, what use do I have for morals; one who is immortal, and thus does not lie within the moral mortal realm? I have none, the usefulness of morals serves to get me killed, and that’s something I do not wish to do until my foe is dead! My occupation is in what I like to call waste management. For those of a despicable nature, I dispose of problems that my employers believe would inhibit business. Of course my employers do not know of my true nature. And men who are in need of my skills do not typically ask many questions of a personal nature. However lucrative, the real reason for this work is to find him, the demon with no name, my foe; this is the research I endeavor in.
         Tonight’s employer wished to meet me in a public place, something that is not uncommon for this cowardly lot. For all the differences and variety that arises in the human race criminals do not vary much from place to place, time to time, nor race to race. They are all self-centered, greedy, and with the propensity to access some emotional switch that can be flipped without hesitation or maybe that has always been in the negative position.
         Nichelo Ustav was his name, a man of a most unpleasant nature. He belonged to Chicago’s branch of the Russian mob. His résumé included money laundering, burglary, corporate espionage, and assassinations. He was a massive figure; a beard of lush black-grey hair encapsulated his face which was just as massive as the rest of him. From beneath his bushy uni-brow pierced his unnatural green eyes; something that I could not place maybe he was Scottish or Irish as well. He was my contact for the upcoming job, because of his experience in waste management Nichelo was the, pardon my cliché, go-to-guy for the Russian mob for the removal of undesirables. 
         “My friend!” Nichelo’s voice pierced the dull empty void of the bar which he adamantly wished to meet me at. It was a dusty, sticky mess of alcohol called Mother Russia. The center of the building slopped towards the south forming an uneven lump of cement that ran down the middle of the cold establishment, the carpenter was obviously a fan of Stoli or possible the owner himself, in which case the former would still hold true. The dirty walls supported patriotic images of the motherland; a poster of the Kremlin here, an image of an obscure Russian actress there, and other random vistas of mother Russia’s marvelous wilderness.
         “Mr. Nichelo, always a pleasure.” I said, with as much a civil tone as I could. I did not like this guy. As much as my existence relied on preying on the unsuspecting, he was the type to prey on the innocent. He was a pedophile. I had been following him for some time, as I often did of prospective employers. One of his tasks within his organization was assassinations, so to get a better idea of who I was dealing with I followed him from his flat as he headed to “take out the garbage” for his employer. The victim was a cop, a David Kofft, who was making too much noise about certain individuals who seemed to be getting special treatment by his superiors. It seemed that David’s colleagues gave Nichelo’s boss the go ahead to dispose of the whistle blower before someone thought to pay attention. So the massive Nichelo waddled to his BMW 380i, a .40 Rugger revolver flashed from beneath is tailored Armani blazer jacket as he flopped down in the tan leather seat. I watched every move from four parking spots down sitting in my beaten down 1971 C110 GTR. We headed north from his flat on Stony Isl. Avenue, from midtown Chicago.
         We traveled for some time, passing the scenic beauty of Lake Shore Drive, until we reached a middle class neighborhood with modest one and some two story homes. Suddenly Nichelo stopped a few houses down from the house of his target, a quint one story house with an open brick and mortar garage. The place had to have been designed in the sixties with the simple red brick surrounding green shutters, and no porch just a couple steps and a small landing with an awning of green painted wood leading to a glass door that opened to another heavy oak door; nothing special, yet inviting, and warm. Nichelo just sat there he was parked about three houses down from the target and I three houses down from Nichelo, but since my unnatural sight afforded me an advantage I could see everything going on even better than Nichelo himself.
         The young officer, he had to be no older than twenty-eight, dressed for work kissed his wife good bye, and headed for his car, a silver Ford Taurus, he was exceptionally beautiful his hair a curly brunet, eyes amber and innocent. He was a bit scrawny but I could tell that most of his weight was muscle. David came up to the door fumbling with his keys for a second then finally got in his car and started the engine. Suddenly the glass door flung open and out bounced an ecstatic eight year-old, with pigtails that seemed excessively long, waving her hands in the air as if signaling defeat. She had nearly let her father go to work without his tie clip that she had no doubt been playing with. David kissed his daughter on the forehead and robed his nose on her cheek as he whispered something in her ear; “I love you, be good sweetie” the normal things that a father whispers to a daughter. As David’s car slowly backed out of the drive the young girl and her mother, who shared the beauty of her husband, with her blond hair that was obviously once brunet, and blue eyes waved goodbye to David.
         Nichelo was composed and still watching the house no doubt contemplating the dark acts he was about to commit. He slowly opened his door getting out of his nice BMW, visibly relieving the strained joints of the 380i. His gun no longer stuffed in the back of his pants. The weapon now hugged his hip in an eerily official manner. By this time the two had already gone inside, so he knocked on the door in a slow three knock fashion that seemed to cause the hairs on my neck to rise, as if heralding the coming of the grim reaper. KNOCK…KNOCK…KNOCK.
         I knew what was going on. I knew that this was the last day that this family would spend together, however I couldn’t stop it, and I don’t think that I would have wanted to. The end of life is the end of suffering. No more pain, no more bull shit; the end of life is the singular purpose to which we all serve. There is no reason, no why, you just live (in pain for the most part) and then you die (the cessation of that pain). To live forever is a curse. Besides, Nichelo was an important piece in the puzzle I was working to solve, unfortunately without Nichelo’s trust and subsequently his bosses I would be giving up an important break in my investigation into the one who created me and caused my family so much misery.
         What I had found was that the Russian mob may be working with other vampires in the mother country. That some of these individuals may be very old, and they could lead me to my foe. See it’s very hard to find other vampires, especially the older ones; the ones who have had centuries upon centuries of experience in hiding in the shadows. Then there is the issue of me not having a coven. In the world of vampires if you don’t belong to a coven then you are a mistake, you have no father; no one who will vouch for you. No rank. You have no one who has taught you the secret histories of the covens, and the rights and rituals that the older ones cling to. So my mission was in actuality to obtain the trust of Nichelo, so he might offer me a job eventually in the mother country where I could meet his superiors and find out more about these supposed vampire connections. So you see they could not be saved even if I thought it was worth it.
         She came to the door with a pleasant smile. A green sundress dangled about her with a touch of femininity that was classy and down to earth at the same time. Her face was smooth and absent of any imperfections, as if she was once a model or actress that surrendered to the fate of a home maker. They greeted each other pleasantly as if they knew each other. When I focused in on the conversation with my unnatural hearing I could hear that he had introduced himself as a detective Dommico Koshiv.
         “Well David is out at the moment, he just headed to work,” she said with a cool smile that swept across the vista of her well-kept lawn.
         “Yes, I know. However, the person whom I really wish to speak is you.” The cunning Nichelo retorted inching past the threshold of the heavy oak door. “I wanted to inform you about our Officers and Family initiative.”
         “Oh really well that sounds nice!” She said as she closed the door behind her.
         “Yes. Well it is we want the family of officers to feel as though you have a second one with the department.”
         “Well that’s very nice of you and the department detective…”
         “Koshiv, Dommico Koshiv.” He replied in a deviously cold maner.
Suddenly a shrill so shocking that I almost jumped roared from the inside of that inviting little home, beyond the warmth of that heavy oak door. Then the sound of finger nails peeling at the lovely wood of that beautiful dead specimen of nature, and the quick shuffle of little feet came to me all at once.
         “Shut the fuck up bitch!” Nichelo roared at her heaving her against the door. Then the sobs of a confused child came to my unnatural ears.
         “Mo-mmy!” A clash followed the cries of the little eight-year-old, as if a lamp had been hurled at her or vice versa. Then silence.
         “Get up you fucking cunt!” Nichelo said with a ghastly amount of personal animosity as if she had somehow harmed him.
         “So, here is what’s going to happen, both of you bitches are going to die, and there is nothing you can do about it.” I could hear him smiling as he made this comment. He was wholly enjoying the power of his position the fact that he had complete control and authority.
         “Why are you doing this?” David’s wife whimpered uncontrollably.
         “Why-why-why, must there be a why? I just want you to suffer bitch!” A stiff piercing slap filled the air. Then another sound, as if he was putting on gloves or something.
         “Please God, please! Don’t do this!” She vainly pleaded.
         “Mommy!” The daughter awoke at the sound of her mother’s pleas.
         “It’s OK baby, it’ll be OK.” She must have kissed her on the fore head to subside her daughter’s tears. “I love you. Everything will be OK sweetie,” she halfheartedly assured the frightened little girl.
         “Bitch shut the fuck up with the talking!” At this point, the young mother loss her composure as if Nichelo threatened her with another pummeling.
         “Please…Please don’t hurt my…daughter. She is only eight!” She spoke in broken English, each pause punctuated, and yet at the same time saturated with tears and sobs.
         “Hurt her? Oh I won’t hurt her. We’re going to have a bit of fun first.”
         The sounds that came from that pleasant little oasis with its simple red brick, and beautiful heavy oak door dripping red with a Pollock like smear of warm blood that contrasted the light orange red of its canvas were horrific. Three hours after the screams subsided Nichelo walked out of the front door, crimson streaks and smears of blood all about him. He entered his car again straining the joints of his luxury vehicle and slowly drove off.
         When Nichelo was long gone I decided to investigate, if only to see what type of person I was dealing with. As I walked towards the house its aura seemed to change. The low roof of the house seemed to somehow loom overhead like something ominous out of a Stephen King novel. I could still sense the fear that saturated the air, as if death had come here personally. I finally came to the door not knowing exactly what to expect, secretly hoping that I imagined some of the horrid sounds that my unnatural ears deciphered and pieced together in my mind’s eye. I slowly turned the knob preparing myself for what was to come, but nothing could have prepared me for what I did see.
         As I crossed the threshold I saw what must have been a wonderfully charming house before the chaos that Nichelo brought. When I looked to my right there was a quint white couch, and across from that a love seat of the same color. Looking directly at the flat panel television across from it, and enclosing a glass coffee table into what must have been the living room, was a recliner a shade darker than any of the other furniture. I traced the rambled mess of the end table that was upturned and the broken lamp to a streak of blood that led to the hall to my left. I looked back at the beautiful door that witnessed this massacre and stared at the crimson blotch of blood on the door. Pollock.
         Down the hall the trail continued a long sputtering slash of terrifying art work. Here and there a random depression would appear in the walls accentuated by a deep red. Then suddenly I came upon a blaze of bright pink towards my right; it was the young girl’s room. I paused for a while, why I don’t know. A blur of pink then white glazed over me, or rather my mind’s eye. I love you…Aubrey, I love you! Again I hear the whispers, so terrifying that they clinch at the heart of the damned. But I had never seen images before, what’s going on? I thought to myself.
         I forced myself passed her room and continued to follow the eerie trail of artwork that was just beginning to dry on the berber carpet. The trail continued to what must have been the master bedroom. A little sick feeling came to me from the bottom of my gut when I saw what this twisted Pollock copycat had created. Sprawled, spread eagle, and without any clothes on was the mother her tongue cutout and stuffed in her own twat. Her eyes had been removed, and put in her mouth. Next to her ravaged body was that of the young daughter, in the same fashion. I looked down at the sight, purely horrified, and regretting for the first time that I didn’t interfere.
         “Momm-y!” Suddenly the blood filled vowels sounded off one at a time slowly and somehow more frightening than the scene presented before me. The young girl was still alive! I quickly remove the eyes from her mouth and sat on the bed with her head in my lap. Again she moaned “Momm-y,” which sounded more like Uh-eee.
         “Your mother is gone but you will be joining her soon.” I said as tenderly as I could. I caressed her blood stained pigtails. “You are dying, don’t fight it. It will be over soon.”
         “Daddy?” She replied with her blood soaked vowels, each missed pronounced syllable invoking a fit of coughs. “Daddy?”
         “…Yes, daddy is here.” And with that I broke her pretty little neck.   

         We have shocking new developments in the Kofft case. It seems that David Kofft’s body was discovered, after he went missing for almost a week following the shocking discovery of his family who had been dismembered, tortured, and raped to death. His body was found after dragging Lake Michigan due to an unrelated case. Officers have not commented on the state of the body…whether this loving father was mutilated in the same fashion as his wife and child is, as of yet, unknown; Kelly Jones reporting CMN. I found myself drifting back to the confines of that heavy oak door, as the news headline blurred in the back ground filling the bar with a sick atmosphere. 
         The fate of David was no mistake Nichelo wanted David to see what had become of his family before his own end. This was the type of person I was dealing with, a monster like myself. He disgusted me he was like a reflecting pool of the beast I had become. Showing me who, no what, I had really become. I was just as much responsible for what had happened as Nichelo. I could have stopped him, if my motives could ever be pure, but they are not. My motives are dark, as dark as the night I was begotten in. You know why most writers say that vampires can’t look into mirrors? It’s not because we can’t be seen in them it’s because we can’t stand to look at what we’ve become; an animal, a beast, something inhuman that can no longer feel or care. We become instinct, we become evolution, and we’ve become the reason why this world needed people like Oppenheimer and Bhor to purge this world of a mistake. We are the reason for the fifth extinction, the coming fire!
         “Would you like to know if his body was mutilated?” A dark smirk traversed the massive expanse of Nichelo’s face; I wanted to rip his throat out.
         “…And how would you know that?” I answered rhetorically with the same dark smile. “Shall we get to business?” I said as if to shoo away his distasteful comment.
         “Yes of course business comrade, but first drinks!” Nichelo roared so that if there were many ears to hear they would.          “What will you have, comrade!”
         “I’ll take a Stoli Boy.”
         “Yes, a very good choice, the finest!” Nichelo bellowed again, as if we we’re at a celebration. “Micho dva Stoli Mal’chik!” At this command the bartender, Micho, who was almost as big as Nichelo (shit they could have been brothers), with the same ugly face made our two drinks. And, we knocked back drink after drink until Nichelo must have been getting a little drunk because he suggested that we begin what I had come there three hours ago to do; again bellowing out in a massive exhalation of masculinity only this time in Italian: “Facciamo attività parlare in italiano!”
         “Compagno di corso” I replied, accepting his invitation to discuss the finer details of my job in Italian.

         “So who is the target?” I finally found myself asking after Nichelo went through an odyssey of explaining the “molto importante” of keeping to the plan.
         “Her name, well her alias, is Shinda Sakura.”
         “Wait this isn’t a Russian job! I thought you said the job was going to be in Russia?”
         “Si Compagno, but things have changed. She completed her mission in Russia, but she skip town without being paid, if you know what I mean.” Nichelo gave me a little wink as if he said something clever, but I ignored the pawn, and let him continue.
         “However, I believe that once you pull this mission off the boss will have no choice but to send for you. Why are you so vested in Russia anyway?” Nichelo’s eyes peered at me with that familiar, yet altogether strange glare of genetic poetry that his eyes always present when you looked hard enough.
         I looked at Nichelo square in the eyes and said with no hesitation, “Why else? Denʹgi, opyt, svyazi i starye biznes…”
         “Money, experience, and connections I understand, but old business? Ha, there is only one kind of business in Russia comrade! And, if that’s the case then you do that on your own time! Because my boss hates when tragedies like the Kffot’s occur. It’s very bad for attività, but make no mistake when the time comes the trash is always collected!” His tone was like a subtle rage, the calm before the storm, filled with all the little terrors that creep in the dark little corners of the world, filled with the things that only demons can understand. A secret language of devils, I knew this language called up from the depths of what I still have yet to understand, after centuries of witnessing the rotten fruit that those depths bring into being.

         The night was waning as I headed back to my flat in New York. Yes, New York was the place that I called home for some time now; or at least the pass thirty years. Because vampires aged very slowly I have always been at a disadvantage when finding places to live for a long time. I stayed in one place for as long as I thought I could maintain the “I age gracefully” excuse until I had to move on to a new place. I’ve lived in almost every country in the five long centuries that I have been cursed with this “thing”, from America to Zambia. But for now my home, or rather my place of residence is New York City. The moon was slowly diminishing across the sky; I was beginning to worry; I was still at JFK! However, my worry was not of a mortal one, see the stories of the artist of the past and present, as you no doubt have guessed by now, are not as accurate as you might think. Vampires do not turn into pillars of dust, salt, or whatever at the sight of the sun. The sun to me is no more than an irritant. I can walk in the daylight rather comfortably if I wore enough layers, but I can’t stand wearing medicated shades, as this is the only way I can see anything because the light burns my eyes so much that I can scarcely see anything at all. I might as well get this straight now too while I’m at it; vampires do not fear the cross, or any other religious symbols. And that thing about garlic is utter nonsense; in fact I rather enjoy my gyros with garlic mayo. Let’s just say that there are many things about vampires that are false and few that are actually true. However, the one thing that all of your artist have gotten right is the strength. I am very strong; however how strong is an unfulfilled question. I’ve never tested myself, never jumped of a ridiculously high building or tried to see how much force it would take to break my bones or anything like that. Just know that I am much stronger than any human, and that I heal much faster as well, even if I still feel pain, and trust me I do! So many things you are not, so many things that are not as they are supposed to be, what really makes you a vampire then? Could you not be something else, could you not just be the oldest and strongest human alive? You might ask. Well truthfully and for a while I did wonder this, at least for a while, that is until I became older and older without aging, and the first time I attacked another human, on pure instinct, and drink their blood to keep from dyeing. See the drinking of blood is not for sustenance, what it does is somehow keeps us young, and able to heal with acceleration, it is what makes us strong it is the essence of the vampire.
         I flagged down a cab eagerly hoping to get home before the sun came up.
“Hi there mister where to?” The cabby greeted me with a welcoming and somehow tiresome tone.
         “You sound beat. 4th Avenue please sir.”
         “Yep. No prob. Yeah man I am worn out!” The cabby rolled his eyes as he pulled off almost flooring the pedal.
         “What’s your name buddy?” The cabby tried to initiate a conversation after a long awkward silence that was so loud that it was almost beginning to make even me uncomfortable.
         “Frank Sullivan.” I said instinctively, I never gave my real name to anyone. Nichelo knew me by Mikiel Nyanski. It’s just easier that way no one alive today knows my real name not even me, ironically.
         “And you? Who do I have the pleasure of entrusting my life with tonight?”
         “Jacob. And it’s morning sir.”   
         “Ah, you’re a Yankee or Mets fan Mr. Sullivan?” He asked eagerly, obviously hoping for a good argument about sports.
         “I don’t follow. I never got into sports really.” I said trying to force myself to seem like I was interested. There was only one sport that I involved myself in since my death, and I doubt he would have been such a pleasant conversationalist after hearing about them.
         “You know sports tell us a lot about ourselves, this is true even for the spectator.” Jacob said in a profoundly philosophical manner.
         “Oh really?” I said becoming more interested now.
         “Well yeah of course. It takes a special type of person to, at one moment, develop such an intensity of feeling…to want to win so bad that nothing else exist, and then at another moment, forgive the other team for winning if they do. To not want to kill them, or at least hurt them.” He said this very quickly in the typical New York fashion each syllable blurring into the other not knowing where one began or end forming a new dialect of rush hour madness, crowded sidewalks, and massive buildings.
         “I guess that could be true. But no, what about people who compete in business, or some other field they are doing essentially the same thing right? This makes what you speak of a lot less rare than you think.” I said with a clearer diction than he, but with a mudded unclear dialect; not old English, but not quiet American English either, something in between.
         “You would think that. But, think about it this way. People on our scale perform for ourselves, our family, and our friends and enemies. That’s it. It’s not the same kind of pressure. What I’m talking about is the pressure; this enormous amount of pressure to succeed. How could someone live with that and fail, likely more than they would succeed, and be able to live with that without going completely insane.” This time Jacob’s pronunciation was slower and clearer for some reason, as if each syllable was important to him.
         “I guess I never thought of it that way. I suppose most athletes have spent plenty of time losing so they become immune. The first times got to suck though!” I said truly stun by the emotion this random cabby was sharing with me in a place that rarely shared anything but misfortune.
         “Yeah. Ha, I’m sorry my team loss last night. I’m still pissed.” As he said this it sound as if he might have been crying, but I couldn’t tell.   
         “I’m sorry it is this place just up ahead.” He nearly drove right pass the address. He must have been really out-of-sorts.
         “Thank you sir. I hope you rest well.” I hopped out of the cap taking in the last bit of moonlight as the sun began to rise heralding the beginning of another day for the mortals about me, and the end of another painful night for immortals like me.

         Home was a flat on 4th Avenue just outside the city in a small borough called China Town. It was right above a Chen Wok that I despised mostly because the manager was a complete ass hole. It was a simple place, a kitchen separated by an island counter top, my bedroom and living room melding into a single space with no walls separating them. The walls were painted black, a little touch that I added, however not for fashion; even though black is my favorite color, but more for functionality. When I sleep, which is not in a coffin, that would just be weird, there is the possibility that sun light might creep in from the black curtains about my one window, and give me a wicked sunburn or wake me up, so I painted the walls black to keep the glare of the sun down. In the wide space of the living/bed room there were mountains of novels, biographies, text books, poetry books, and any other type of book that you could possible name. Surrounded in a sea of books was a small T.V. /D.V.D combo set; the kind that was small enough to sit in a folding chair which was exactly what mine was doing at the moment. Just to the right of the one window that I had in my loft, which conveniently looked out to a brick building, was a bulletin board with the hierarchy of the Russian mob in Chicago. I had climbed the ladder all the way to the point just before the very tip top; Mikiel Gorshinski the head of the Russian mob in Russia, and the liaison to the Russian mob for America. Just below Mikiel was that bastard Nichelo. I had to make arrangements for a flight to Japan and arrange for a weapons cache among other things. Shida was her name, Shida Sakura; dead cherry blossoms. She just did not know how fitting her name actually was. I would be the last thing she would ever see, and she would never know why, an assassin never knows why, with so many they have trespassed, they…we could never know why we are going to die, only that we will. Because no matter what the garbage is always collected.