Slide

Five

Slide was getting his shit together. He had his kidnap victim, Angela, tied up in bed, and now he needed some-what did the brothers call it? Oh, yeah, mo…ti…vation. Get that Harlem laid-back emphasis going on.

Angela had told him about the guy in the River Inn, calling her a hooker, dissing her. Thing was, Slide hadn’t offed anyone for, like, eons. What had it been, a week? And he especially hadn’t done somebody for, you know, fun. He’d done the last schmucks for cash, but when had he done one for the sheer heat, the rush, that fucking adrenaline gig? That was what he was talking about, brother.

He got his carpet cutter out, honed the edge. The Guards stopped you, you went, “Hey man, I’m a carpet layer, tools of the trade.” That he’d never laid anything but broads was beside the point.

He left a note for Angie, after handcuffing her to the bed. Went:

Babe

T.C.B.

El.

In the car, the thought struck him, Would she know that El was the King and that T.C.B. was, like, his mantra?

Sure, for fook’s sake. She was a Yank, had to know all that shit.

He got to the River Inn and sure enough, a punk at the counter, sneer in place.

Slide asked, “Got a room, mate?” Using his English accent.

Slide knew if you wanted to make them record books, you better have a shiteload of talents, mimicry for one. The Brit was simple, just act like you had a lump of coal in yer mouth and act like a complete prick. Piece of cake, or rather, piece of crumpet. Jolly fooking hockey sticks.

That Slide was shite at accents never occurred to him.

The counter guy stared at him, as if thinking, What’s with this wanker? Asked with a smirk, “You got twenty Euro?”

Slide was delighted. The guy was even better than he hoped-he was giving mouth.

Deciding to fuck with him, Slide adopted a timid voice, went, “Why?”

The guy, not hiding his disdain at all now, said, “You got twenty Euro, I might have a room.”

Slide took a quick look around. Coast was clear and, best, no CTTV. What’d you expect, the place was a kip.

He plopped a wad of crumpled notes onto the counter, mumbled, “Is that enough for ya?”

The guy sighed-he could have sighed for Ireland-and leaned down to sort the notes.

Slide grabbed the mother by his lanky hair, going, “Jeez, you ever hear of shampoo?” and then slit his throat from left to right. He stepped back, there was always a geyser. Sure enough, here it came-fucking fountain of the red stuff, whoosh, there she blew. Slide never ceased to be struck with admiration by the pure power of the splurt.

The guy was gargling, emitting strangled moans, and Slide said, “Was gonna let it slide, know what I mean? Running yer mouth there, mate. Well, let’s fix that. You think?”

He took off the guy’s lips. It took a while-harder than you’d think to slice evenly. Sometimes you got gum-not chewing gum, the other kind. Though sometimes you got chewing gum too.

Slide took the fuck’s wallet. It had, like, fifteen Euro and a photo of a dark-haired woman. Slide kept that. Figured he’d show it to some chick sometime, say the girl in the photo was his childhood sweetheart who broke his heart. Always good for a pity fuck, right?

He was outa there, the lips in his jacket. For a moment, he imagined the lips talking, giving it large. He had such a hard-on, couldn’t wait to ride Angela with the handcuffs. Then, mid-orgasm, hers, he’d kiss her with the guy’s lips, go, “No lip from you now.”

She’d get a kick outa that.