Kill the King (7 page)

The speech was
interrupted by a violent fit of coughing from someone inside the
office, then resumed.

“My brothers,
let it be known that we will not sit idly by and allow our enemies
to destroy all that we’ve worked so hard to accomplish in our
righteous war against the degenerate races. The—”

More coughing,
followed by some frustrated profanity.

“The niggers,
who plague our society with their criminality and vulgar culture.
They are incorrigibly violent, lecherous, and indolent. The
parasitic Orientals who come over in endless droves and steal our
livelihoods, and spread diseases originating from their
uncivilized, impoverished cesspools. The race traitors who defile
themselves and bring shame on us all for copulating with fetid
beasts. These unions between the races are an abomination, and yet
every day our white brothers and sisters are being coerced into
tainting the bloodlines even further! To what extent shall we
continue turning a blind eye and allow our brethren to vanish into
extinction, I ask you? And let’s—”

More coughing,
as well as some spitting and more profanity.

“And let’s not
forget the greasy Mediterranean hordes and their shameful Moorish
heritage. The wetbacks and all their filthy progenies who reek of
miscegenation. The blaspheming camel-fucking terrorists who kill
our soldiers overseas, and then have the audacity to move here
afterwards and desecrate all the white Christian values that we
hold so dear. I say, let those savages go back to their huts in the
desert! We have no use for them! And what about the cock-sucking
faggots and cunt-punching dykes, who insult God with their
fornication? If we allow them to live with impunity, they will
someday prey on our
children!
And let’s not forget the
fucking
Jews,
the lowliest vermin of all, who must be
eradicated to cleanse our world! Arise, my brothers! We must—”

The tirade was
interrupted by Tyler’s gentle rapping at the office door. Some
shuffling of papers could be heard, as well as more coughing.

“It’s not
locked, Tyler. You can come in.”

Tyler entered
the office. Metzger was seen with his back turned, muttering as he
tried to pry open one of the windows.

“How’d you know
it was me?”

“I was notified
as soon as you and Khaled pulled in.”

His back was
turned away as he was still occupied with opening the window. The
latches looked rusty.

“Plus, I can
tell you’re still smoking those goddamn clove cigarettes. I can
smell you from a mile away. You can put the briefcase on my desk,
by the way.”

Tyler did as
asked, and Metzger managed to finally crack the window open a bit
before sitting down at his desk. Metzger’s face was shiny from
perspiration, and his thin white t-shirt was visibly stained with
sweat around his collar and armpits. He opened the briefcase
halfway and inspected its contents for a few seconds before closing
and locking it, then dabbed at his face with a moist cloth.

“Tyler, can you
please confirm with me whether this briefcase has been tampered
with or not? I can’t help but feel that something is a bit. .
.
off,
let’s say. If something happened to this briefcase or
its contents that I’m not aware of, this is the time to tell
me.”

“Mr. Boreta had
it delivered to my home this morning, and I’ve held on to it for
all this time until now. The only other person who carried it here
was Khaled. We don’t know the combination anyways.”

Metzger
breathed a sigh of relief and stored the briefcase away in a nearby
closet. With that out of the way, he pulled out a bottle of German
liqueur out of a mini fridge and poured two large shots into
frosted glasses.

“It’s been a
long time, Tyler. Prison life seems to have treated you better than
I thought it would. Care for a drink?”

Tyler nodded
politely and pulled out from his shirt pocket a fresh pack of
cigarettes, though not his own brand that would have offended his
host. They quietly shared a few shots and cigarettes, their silence
only broken by Metzger’s sporadic coughing.

“You comin’
down with something, Frank?”

Metzger spat a
glob of phlegm into a handkerchief and gulped another shot before
answering the question.

“Yeah, just a
cold or something like that I guess. Nothing serious. Don’t worry,
the glasses are clean.”

Some cold. .
.

He wasn’t sure
if it was from not having seen him in so many years, but Frank
seemed pale and emaciated. The stubble on his face and head looked
gray and soft, and despite the room’s cooler climate he was still
sweating.

“Nice speech,
by the way. Very moving.”

The gaunt
skinhead smirked in amusement, then let out a few more coughs
before pulling out another cigarette from Tyler’s pack and lighting
up.

“Well, we’ve
lost two brothers just last night. The boys downstairs would think
much less of me if I didn’t provide a eulogy for our new martyrs.
Race and politics and war all go hand in hand, Tyler. Truth be
told, it seems an odd coincidence that we lost two men on a night
hunt, and you of all people just so happen to pop into town at the
same time. That’s a bit strange, don’t you think?”

Tyler shrugged.
“We live in strange times, Frank.”

Frank knocked
back another shot. “Well anyways, I’m sure you have more pressing
business to tend to so I won’t keep you here any longer than
needed. Tell Mr. Boreta that I’ll send someone over first thing
tomorrow morning to return the briefcase.”

Tyler finished
his drink and made his way out the door. Less than halfway down the
corridor, Frank popped his head out from the office door and
whistled at Tyler.

“No one opened
the briefcase, right?”

“No one.”

****

Khaled was
eating a large burger with one hand while holding a drink (and the
steering wheel) in the other. He often ate when he was
agitated.

“That was a
fucking
long
delivery, my friend. What took you so long? I
don’t like hanging out with those assholes.”

“We talked.
That’s all. Frank looks ill.”

“Oh yeah? Huh,
that’s news to me. I haven’t seen him in a few months. Most people
don’t see him these days. Mackay’s been taking over most of the
boss work. I hate him, Tyler. I fucking
hate
him.”

“Yeah, well, no
one likes Ron MacKay. That doesn’t make you special. He’s a very
dangerous man. You don’t do three tours of duty in one of the
darkest places on Earth and come back soft. Did you see how they
all behaved around him? The way they forced themselves to laugh at
his jokes? The way they cheered his every word? They don’t like him
and they don’t respect him. They’re
afraid
of him. Each and
every one of them, Khaled. Fear makes weak men obedient. If I
hadn’t stopped you from getting your hands on him, we’d both be
fucking dead and buried by now. We can’t have people getting mad
over dumb shit like that. That’s how wars get started; wars that
are easy to start but never really end. We don’t need that shit
hangin’ over our heads. . .you got me?”

Khaled finished
his burger without talking.

“You know what,
Khaled? Just drop me off here. It’s just a few blocks away and I’ll
walk home. I need a bit of air.”

Khaled pulled
over as instructed.

“Are you sure?
It’s getting a cold outside, my friend. Your jacket’s a bit thin
for this kind of weather.”

Tyler walked
around the car to speak with Khaled outside the driver’s side
window.

“I’ll be fine.
I just need to clear my head a bit. You can spend the night at
Gloria’s house if she’s up for it. Tell her that I have some work
to do and I’ll see her tomorrow, will ya?”

Khaled looked
puzzled and stammered “You, uh. . .you sure about that?”

“If she’s
up
for it,
I’ll look the other way for tonight. I want her to be
safe. Just get it through your head that this won’t be a regular
thing, and this doesn’t change things between you and me. Got
it?”

Khaled rolled
up the window and drove away.

****

Tyler lied. His
place wasn’t a few blocks away. Khaled was getting too nosy and he
didn’t want him to stay over at his apartment for the evening. He
had a briefcase to steal and a mentor to kill.

Tyler pulled
out his flask and took a swig of vodka. His muscles still ached
from the previous day’s incidents and the walk helped alleviate
some of the spasms he had been silently enduring all day. The vodka
helped him forget that Khaled was right—his jacket
was
too
thin for this kind of weather. He had forgotten how much colder it
got by sundown.

Tyler walked
onwards as he contemplated his situation. It had been almost
twenty-four hours since his arrival, and still no concrete plan had
been fleshed out. Marko needed to die, but now the mysteries
surrounding the contents of the briefcase complicated matters more.
Whatever was inside, it must have been something valuable.

So I guess it
wasn’t a bomb after all. What could it be, then? Dope? Money? Guns?
An important message? If it was nothing important, then why did
Frank care so much if someone looked inside? Why did Marko insist
that I hand it to him?

Tyler let his
eyes wander around as he continued his stroll, too pensively
engrossed with the possibilities. He hoped he’d maybe see something
pretty to lighten his mood, but everything around him looked so
grim. So many shops and eateries had been boarded up and their
brick walls slathered with illiterate graffiti. The street’s
potholes had gotten bigger and deeper, and only one of every three
streetlights seemed to be in working condition. A faint aroma of
sewage and diesel fuel lingered in the air. Few people seemed to be
walking or driving as soon as dusk hit, save for disreputable
people such as him. Tyler wasn’t sure whether the neighbourhood had
turned for the worse while he was gone or if it had always looked
this way and he just hadn’t noticed it before.

Tyler sat on a
nearby park bench to give his sore feet a quick break. He was no
longer used to walking such long distances. He pulled out his flask
for another quaff. The burn in his empty stomach felt oddly
comforting.

“Hey man, got a
smoke?”

Tyler looked to
his left and saw a solid-looking hoodlum approaching. He looked to
be in his late twenties and wore a dirty bomber jacket and torn
jeans. His nose was swollen and he consequently spoke in a nasal
voice. Right away, Tyler noticed him as one of the two punks that
Ron had beaten up.

“Go ahead. I
won’t bite.”

Tyler handed
him a kretek, which the skinhead lit with his own zippo. He puffed
a few drags and coughed violently before spitting. His saliva was
slightly reddish in hue.

“Goddamn! What
the fuck’s in these black cigarettes?
Motor oil?
This shit’s
gonna kill you, man.”

Tyler had
another drink before lighting one up for himself. “I don’t know.
Ron will probably get you before the smoking does.”

The hooligan
groaned and spit out more phlegm. “You saw that, huh? Yeah. . .this
ain’t my day. Anyways, I’m glad I’ve found you. I gotta ask you
something.”

Tyler didn’t
like where this conversation was going but remained seated. He
didn’t want to provoke him.

“What’s
that?”

“Well. . .” He
paused to butt out the cigarette with his Doc Martens. “I need to
know the combination for that briefcase.”

He reached into
his pockets and pulled out a pair of gloves, and lurched a bit
closer to Tyler’s side of the park bench.

“Nice try, kid.
I don’t know it. . .even if I did, I still wouldn’t tell you.”

The hooligan
put on his black leather gloves, which looked oddly heavy. “Yeah,
well. . .that’s what I was afraid you’d say.”

A fist crashed
into Tyler’s left ear. The sucker punch was so fast and hard it
knocked him off the bench. Tyler scrambled to get back to his feet,
still dazed from the shot. Another fist crashed into his sternum,
leaving Tyler gasping for air.

“I don’t have
time for this shit,
Tyler Kwan.
I know who you are, and I
know what you did last night.
You’re
the one who killed
Pruitt and Glenny. Tell me the fucking combination, and I’ll keep
your secret to myself. You hear me, motherfucker? Huh? You hear
me?”

The hooligan
picked Tyler up by the collar and slammed him into a brick wall,
his hands moving towards his throat after the first slam. His grip
was tight enough to nearly black him out. Tyler managed to pull out
his flask and smash it into his assailant’s jaw hard enough to
break the hold. The second strike landed on his swollen nose,
loosening a torrent of blood. The third strike landed on the top of
the hooligan’s shaved skull and left him flat on his back.

Tyler put the
flask back in his pocket and reached for his gun. He clicked the
safety off and pointed the gun at his downed foe, still panting
heavily from the fight. When his vision stopped blurring, he
noticed that the skinhead had a gun of his own and was ready to
return the favour.

The skinhead
carefully got back to his feet, his hand shaky but the gun still
pointing in Tyler’s direction. His nose continued to seep
blood.

“Last time,
Kwan. Tell me the fucking combination. So help me God, I’ll take
your ass down with me if you don’t give it up.”

Tyler slowly
tucked his gun back into his belt and pulled out his flask for
another drink. The skinhead seethed with anger.

“Cocky
motherfucker! You think this is a joke? Give me the goddamn
combination!”

“Tell you what,
kid. I’ll make you a deal if you put the gun down. You don’t tell
anyone you
may
have seen someone that looks like me last
night. . .and I won’t tell Metzger that
you’re a fucking
cop.”