Del Rio, Episode 2

Marco Rubio is one who believes he lives the life. He is not the sort of person who looks at things from a negative perspective, but rather a positive one – I guess you could call him an optimistic guy. So when he found himself with his close friend and partner Diego, who was knocking furiously on the door of some poor college student in something far worse than school debt, and while Marco Rubio himself held a massive machete in his hand, he took it was simply a business call.

“I swear to god, you lousy waste of life,” Diego yelled at the door, “if you don't come out here I'm going to set the whole fucking place on fire.”

With this, the voice from behind the door spoke. “I swear man! Just give me a few days, I promise!”

Diego, clearly unsatisfied with the answer, looked to Marco for suggestion. Marco nodded, which lead Diego to take the opportunity to kick the door out so hard it fell off half its hinges.

The scene before them was disappointing, at the least. A mid-20s white kid, packing up his things, quickly turned around and stepped back.

“I swear, I swear... Just please, just please don't kill me.”

Diego wasn't paying attention to the kid, however. Instead, he eyed a guitar laying on the bed, prepared to be packed and shipped away.

“A guitar? Is that what you spent Caszo's money on? Trying to further your music career?”

The kid babbled to himself, with a tear slowly running down one eye. It disgusted the loansharks.

“Listen, chico – no one makes it in the entertainment industry, especially here in fucking Florida. You should have spent your money wiser.”

“No, no, NO!” The kid tried to fight, but by the time he even realized what was going to happen Marco had handed Diego the machete and pinned the kid down so he had little chance to do anything else.

“I'm going to give you this one more chance, chico,” Diego looked straight into the kids eyes and it set a shock of fear through him, “Tell us where the rest of your money is, and we'll let you off. It doesn't even matter if its the same amount Caszo loaned you – it just needs to be every last penny, comprendes?”

Despite Diego's best attempts to get the kid not to throw his life away, he still insisted he had no money left. Diego gave a long sigh, and then proceeded to hack at the kids right leg five times until eventually it came off. In the light of the kid's bloodcurdling scream, Diego simply looked at the leg and smiled.

“Well, this is interesting. Maybe I should make this leg my new lamp, just like that one Christmas movie. Home Alone, right?” Diego looked at Marco for confirmation, but Marco shook his head.

“No, its A Christmas Story.”

“Oh, yes, yes. Right. A classic.” While trying to have a conversation about heartwarming christmas movies with his pal, however, Diego was angered by the fact that the kid continued to scream and cry.

“Alright, listen you stupid mother fucker. Unless you want me to chop off your other leg, stop crying and tell-”

This time Diego didn't even have to finish.

“It's i-i-in the c-c-loset. M-my room – over there, please don't-”

Diego nodded to Marco, as he got up and went to check the room. Sure enough in the corner of the empty closet there was a safe, but the safe had a keycode. Marco considered going back to interrogate the kid for the code, but he decided to try at least one thing before he did.

In a flurry, he went straight down the keypad from 2 to 0. Without a moments hesitation the safe showed up green and the safe opened to reveal the cash inside of it. Marco sighed and whispered to himself “White people,” as he got out the money and returned to Diego.

Diego smiled upon looking at it, seeing that it was all the money and a little more. The kid however was pale, near fainting, and mumbling something to himself. Diego put the money in his pocket and looked at the kid.

“I would leave you, but we don't tend to leave witnesses, especially after we give them a chance that they refused to take.”

With one sweep of the machete, it was a permanent lights out for the kid.


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OEACOV

Part 1, Part 2

Short, Hat, and the Leader sat on a bench overlooking the bay. Autumn at this point had taken its full form and transformed the bay into a serene notion of both the warmth of summer and the cold of winter. Short ate out of a potato chip bag, while the rest calmly watched the tide of the bay rise and fall.

“So, who are we supposed to meet up with again?” Hat finally blurted out. As the question was naturally directed to the Leader, the Leader took a sigh before answering Hat's question.

“Some Russian guy. Blonde hair, sunglasses. He'll be wearing some stripped blue t-shirt.”

“We're in California, there's going to be a fuck-ton of people wearing stripped shirts.” Short muttered out between his chip munching.

“If that's true than answer me how we've been here for about two hours now, and STILL haven't seen anyone.” Hat naturally took the defensive on Short while the Leader drowned out the arguing of the two lackeys to focus on what he spied in the distance.

Down the hill from where they sat, right next to the bay, was a coffee shop, and that coffee shop had a very noticeable outdoor seating area. This seating area was mostly filled with kids who had just got out of college and were just now starting their life, and up until now the Leader only wished he was over there; with the combined scents of sea breeze and mocha filling his nostrils as the wind hit at his back. But while he focused on this pleasant wasted space he saw Waldo sticking his head out among the crowd.

Yes – a young blond man wearing a stripped blue t-shirt, casually sitting and drinking a coffee by the many who, at a distance, seemed just like him. From here it seemed impossible that the man was a trained killer, yet the Leader knew very well that looks are deceit and grinned to himself as his attention focused back to the two colleagues with him.

“Found him.”


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Del Rio, Episode 1

John Walters sat in a therapist chair overlooking the morning skyline of Del Rio. He sure as hell never thought he'd find himself here, yet here he was.

The events of the past few weeks had taken a toll on him, so his wife recommended he go to a therapist, though only for “a week or so”. He went, since it was likely not his decision for him to go to therapy anyway.

His psychiatrist was an older man who clearly tried to stay hip. He was in his forties, but had his hair waved back and a perfectly trimmed mustache. He had a silver vest on, and looked at John like he actually had some sort of concern for him.

“I just don't know, Doc,” John continued his rant, that the man in the main chair was likely listening to half-heartedly, “No matter what, it seems to all crumble down on me. All the bad luck in the fucking world is right in the palm of my hand.”

“John, how about we come back to the source of your problems. You said his name was... Daniel Schaeffer, correct?”

Walters hit the table next to him with such force that it swung the lamp on top of it so greatly it almost fell. He was clearly enraged.

“That asshole? Oh ho ho, I swear to fuck if I see that dickwad of an 'associate' again I'm going to forcefully take his head off and staple it to my resume!” John was in a flurry of fury, but tried his best to control his emotions noting his environment. Doc, however, seemed fine with it.

“Good, let out your anger. Letting it all out is the first step to finding yourself.”

“That company, that dream... that was my fucking dream! I had it!” The raging bull pushed over the table that he had hit previously, throwing the lamp at the window as it reverberated back and smashed into the ground, shedding glass everywhere, “I'll fucking kill the two-bit, smug ass son of a bitch! I'll fucking kill him!”

The raging bull turned itself into a tornado, which began destroying everything in sight. Once it had made it's way to Doc's beautiful imported potted plant, however, it was time to stop.

“Alright, John,” Doc told him, trying to get him out the door, “This concludes today's section. Come back next week.”

Once the Doc had finally kicked him out, John Walters found himself once again on the sun-soaked streets that were of the city of Del Rio, city of the kings. He got out a cigarette out of his suit pocket, lit it up, and smoked – making his way across the boardwalk to the next step in his life.


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