Nuclear Jellyfish

HOMESTEAD

Forty miles south of Miami, a clapboard hacienda sat on the outskirts of the outskirts, hidden behind a thriving palm tree farm. Inside, a robbery crew lieutenant ate breakfast with his assistant. Over-easy eggs, cheese grits, Canadian bacon, white grapefruit juice and vodka.

A white van screeched up in a cloud of arid dust. The Eel and three goons jumped out and stormed up steps.

A door crashed open. “What the fuck’s the story about this goddamn phone call?”

The pair jumped up and quivered. “Eel,” said the lieutenant. “The guy called me out of the blue. I just passed along what he said.”

The goons surrounded them. Anxious eyes darted. The Eel advanced on the lieutenant, nose to nose. “And how the hell did he get your number?”

“S-s-said it was in Steve’s cell phone-“

“You worthless piece of shit!” yelled the Eel. “Another thing. How’d you let our best informant get killed?”

“I-I-I … Steve- … I don’t know …”

The Eel nodded toward one of the goons in the background. The lieutenant spun to see a steel strangulation ligature stretched between beefy hands.

“Noooooooo!!!!!!”

The goon suddenly lunged sideways, wrapping the wire around the neck of the lieutenant’s assistant. Twitching feet left the floor. The goon used a wooden dowel to twist the cord tighter. Thirty seconds of silent horror. Then it was over with a lifeless thud on the pine floor.

The lieutenant’s eyes whipped back toward the Eel. “Jesus Christ! What’dyou do that for?”

“Because we’re going to give this new informant of yours named ‘Serge’ a trial run.” The Eel headed for the door. “And that was to reinforce what will happen if anything goes wrong.”

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