Dead Daisies

 

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Dedication

No matter what happens, you will always own the last in-tact shred of my heart.

 

Just an FYI i'm winging this and not editing until November is over. If there are horrible mistakes and parts where it seems dull, just hang on for me i'll get around to fixing it.

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Chapter 1

    

    A common belief about hired guns is that we get paid to fight. They believe that the people holding our paychecks are decked out in fur coats, with gold pinky rings, watching us clean house, and take care of business. False. We are exterminators. The person holding my paycheck is the homeowner, and the people I murder are the roaches.  A common belief about hired guns is that it takes a special kind of man to do it. That assessment I've found is entirely true.

 I find myself growing more sociopathic in my old age. I was always the kid that was unable to feel any form of remorse, but my teenage years were still filled with bouts of emotion. Now I feel nothing. If I took a break, I wouldn’t even feel an impulse to kill. I don’t know who I am. At the age of 35 I’m astounded that I’m still alive. It's also worth mentioning that I'm astounded Giardino still stands and hasn't been lit ablaze yet. I suppose good things happen to bad people, and bad things happen to good people. I should know, I've killed my share of both.

It smells in Giardino. It's a rotten, burning stench. Like someone left something charred, crumbly and black on the bottom of an oven. The first day I had left, I could finally smell again. I went from city to city, taking in each scent. There was always the smell of exhaust out in the world, but each place had it's own delicious taste to it. Downtown anywhere lavished its air with fried foods or something with sugar. The more expensive the city, the more likely I was to catch a perfume or cologne. It was habitable. But Giardino? It just burned. Giardino was living and killing itself and its residents were smelling the rotting flesh of the infrastructure. It hit me like a semi when I crossed back into it. They said you couldn't re-enter the city after the lock down. They also don't know me or the ways I have.

The west side was an infected limb that needed to be cut off. I had wound up in central Giardino to get a grip on how bad things had become. I could see the west side spreading. Central buildings were beginning to decay as if watching a fast video of a dying rose. I hadn't gone west yet, but I began to imagine it mummified in its piss poor state. The way it was when I had originally left it. The very center of the city had open shops and cars. On each chalkboard, where they would normally list special sales, they had other depressing notifications. I stepped into a place called Shelton's, a small diner joint I used to spend my nights at whenever I managed to sneak into central without attractive attention. The glass windows were smudged, and the vinyl sticker which used to read "24/7" had been pulled off leaving only a sticky residue behind. People were shoulder to shoulder, multiple families sharing tables, mothers surrounded by hungry mouthed children while they clutched cups of black coffee and listened to their kids fight over the last of the scrambled eggs. I hated noise like that. It's like static from a television. 

A plate of three strips of bacon and one egg used to cost three dollars. Shelton's had changed it to nine dollars and they were the cheapest in central. I scanned the room trying to take in everyone. Most mouths were talking. When gums start flapping, usuall you can hear just about anything come out of them. Except the ominous thing seemed to be no tall notes of laughter coming from any corner of the room. People were not discussing their weekend plans. I was surrounded by the absolute desperate who would do anything to survive.

The establishments next to Shelton's were padlocked shut with the signs "Stock Gone" posted on both of them. I would bet money that the owners killed themselves or made a run for it. I kept picturing the type of person who would own a vegan smoothie shop, how absolutely particular her ingredients needed to be, giving up and finally serving people food with animal products. Would she slave over her decision? Would she kill herself when it wouldn't work anymore? I knew one thing was for certain: no one was surviving any of this shit. No one.

Mr. Shelton had been in the industry for thirty years and was repaid by losing just about everything thanks to the actions of the government. When I strolled in, I held my wallet where he could see it. He responded by shooing some poor patrons off a filthy table. With no staff he could pay for, there was no time to be neat and clean. The last bit of energy he had was used on cooking. I was forced to sit in front of a wet spot that looked like watered down orange juice. Just Mr. Shelton and his tired eyes watching me expectantly. He was going to be run down until his feet were nothing but nubs. 

"Sorry," he said, his voice like a dying firecracker, "you have to pay first."

"I'm aware," I said as I waved my wallet at him. Holding my leather wallet under the table, I rifled through it looking for a solo twenty between all the hundreds. When I found one, I shut it smoothly like I had nothing else in there.

"Here," I said, "I'm expecting someone. So keep the change."

"A girlfriend?" he said. My anger began pawing at the ground, heated at his pretend stupidity.

"Just make sure he can get through this cluster fuck," I shot at him. It was more abrupt than I would have liked to be, and he responded by avoiding my gaze and disappearing to go cook. All of a sudden I had missed the old Mr. Shelton who let me escape the west side from time to time. He was the only business owner that didn't shoo us out. He refilled my coffee for me, sat down for a chat about sports, and did his job. I didn't even like sports, but no one ever wanted to waste time having an intelligent conversation with me. 

I had a cup of coffee in my hands that tasted like powder and hot water. There were a handful of coffee shops across the country that I had grown accustomed to, defective Giardino black sludge was close to drinking piss. But I had to keep myself preoccupied. I was hearing bits of every conversation, what they were going to do, how to get past the guards, whether or not they should put the kids out of their misery. And I am a horrible, no good, terrible, disgusting person, because I had thought for a moment that they might be needing me in the future. I am a nasty, worthless man because I am the only one of us that will kill women when asked. But I am not the lowest of the low because I will not kill children. If I fall to the point of performing hits on twelve year olds then it might be time to turn the gun on myself.

A gust of air brought forth that too familiar smell of burning crumbs, and it fireballed into the cafe. I turned to face the door. There used to be a bell. I remembered that much because it would annoy the shit out of me. There were a few nail holes where it used to be. I trickled my sight down from the top of the door down to the man that had just walked in.

The person I came here for. Bingo. Unfortunately, he was not as happy to see me.

When someone is shocked upon seeing another, I always notice that they act like deer in headlights. He however, acted like a cat in a bath tub. He only noticed me for a few seconds before he turned and attempted to crash through the door. His fingers were scratching up and down the glass in an attempt to leave. A normal person would stand up and tell him to sit down, but I just sat there drinking my coffee knowing that if he decided to run I could easily fucking find him. Thankfully for his sake, he knew better. So I gave him a minute to collect his thoughts, get halfway out the door before turning around and coming back inside to join me. It was with defeat and a heavy sigh that he plopped down in front of me. I just drank my coffee and glued my pupils on him. 

"I was told there was an anonymous donor here," he said. His hair was greasy. I could almost see body odor scented smoke rising from his clothes and skin. He was balding from the back to the front but failed to cut his hair. The top of his head looked like a donut.

"There is," I took another drink.

"Nothing about you is anonymous!" He quaked and began chewing on his thumb nail. I tried smiling. I wound up looking like a serial killer though. If the shoe fits... "But by all means, welcome home."

"Home," I said with a scoff, "never thought i'd return in better shape than you."

"What do you want?" Finally. We caught eye contact and it lasted a few seconds. He was at least going to give me the respect that I would eventually demand if he kept denying it. "I thought you were gone for good."

"Dont you wish," I said, "all those rumors flying around about how I killed myself. That I hung myself in my studio apartment. Or my favorite, I crashed my car into a tree. None of those scenarios sound like me. I thought you people would be less creative and more realistic with the tripe coming out of your mouth."

"I never started those rumors," he laughed, it was so nervous that it almost shook the table, "I thought the realization of everything finally pushed you underground. So I believed it."

"I invite you out to breakfast and you're upset I never killed myself," I said. "How rude."

Mr. Shelton came back with two plates of food. They looked like prison rations. Two strips of bacon each, one egg, no cheese or any seasonings on it. Twenty dollars. What a dump.

Despite the unappealing look of it, he began scarfing it down.

"Go slow," I said, "we have things to talk about. I don't want you spitting shit all over me."

He paused, yellow masticated egg lying in his maw. I began to zone everyone else out of the picture focusing only on him. The same way I zoom in on a target so that even from a mile away I can hear his heart beat and see the vein pump through his neck. He swallowed and I heard the contents drag across his throat before splashing into his stomach. He had my focus. No one in this world should ever want my focus.

"How?" he said. "Fucking how. It's impossible."

"I have my ways," I said.

"If you can get across, then you owe it to the people here to show them how," he said. My being there unharmed, successfully crossing a military barricade was injecting poison into his mind. I wondered what was ticking in his brain. If he was picturing what I had done to get inside. Or even more, picturing how little I gave a shit.

"Be honest," I said, "do you really want to know how I got in?"

"No," he whispered, "I dont want to know what else you've done."

"Then we can get to business," when I saw his plate was empty, I set mine down on top of his and motioned for him to eat it. This time not nearly as voracious, he poked at it looking for a bomb or something venomous.  "You are in debt to me, Sly."

"No," he whispered again, "no I'm not."

"Yes," I said, "In fact, it's quite the debt. Well, I'm here to cash it."

"I have no money," he said, "I have nothing. In case you haven't been able to put the dots together, this place is going to starve. We all have nothing. They're trying to kill us-"

"Good thing I am a flexible man," I said as I slapped the table in jest, startling him and the other people around me, "I am willing to forego what you owe me."

He spooned some more food into his mouth. People were watching him fork each piece. I could practically feel the saliva dripping off their tongues. 

"What do I have to do?" he said.

"Less what can you do, more what can you give," I set my empty white mug down and pushed it away. I leaned forward, elbows on the table, and begged him to act brave towards me. I wanted to see him flinch, feel my own power. He would do no such thing, unfortunately he knew much better.

I pulled a folded piece of paper out of my pocket with an address on it. Upon unfolding it, some of the ink was smudged but you could still read it. Sweaty in my pocket after my long perilous walk. 

Sly unfolded it, stared down into the page, and looked up at me with his eyebrow raised.

"This is...?"

"Mm hmm," I said. I rested my chin on my fist. 

"No," he said as he slid it across the table at me, "I need that. I cant give it to you."

"You have two options. You willingly give it to me for as long as I need it, or I just go, take it, then call you on your debt," I shrugged and leaned back in my chair, "make your decision Sly."

"The fuck is wrong with you Austen?" He said. "You have no business even being here. That's the last thing we need is to hallucinate seeing your face in the crowd."

"Make your decision. A. or B." 

"What do you even need it for?"

"A or B Sly."

I could see him chewing the inside of his cheek. His appetite all gone. I snatched the plate from him and dropped it on the table behind me to watch everyone lunge forward and start beating one another up. It exploded behind us. Someone slapped it out of a child's hand, they were reaching in with their fingers shoveling the eggs into their mouths. 

"Five seconds," I said over all the chaos. I stared down at my watch. "Five... four... three..."

"Fine!" he said. He reached into his pocket and pulled a key ring out. "How long are you taking my only assets from me?"

"I'll let you know," I said.

"What do you need it for anyway?" he slid a silver key with purple tape over the back at me. I fingered it beneath my thumb and contemplated what to say to him. He was chewing even harder on his cheek. I had the phantom taste of blood in my mouth from watching him.

"You'll thank me eventually," I said as I stood up. "You're off the hook for your debt."

He grumbled something and I heard it over the reigning noise, people shouting at one another, squirting the last small bits of ketchup in their mouths. It was going to get ugly in a moment so I started towards the door. I stopped and tossed my head back at him.

"Sly?" I said.

"What?"

"Make sure Adam knows i'm back," I said. His eyelids fluttered open, but he took a shallow breath to hide it. "Let him know I look forward to seeing him."

"He's not looking forward to seeing you."

"The only people in this world that look forward to seeing me are either extremely intelligent or extremely stupid."

I left.

    

    

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Chapter 2

I am a child of disillusionment who gained clarity at the worst possible time. I grew up in a safe home with a mother who always did my laundry and a father who always paid the electric bill. I grew up in a place where everyone turned their noses up at each other and no one got offended by it. We were all snobs. We were all privileged northerners. North Giardino had the best of everything. The restaurants were no less than four stars, the schools were all private, the roads were always smooth, and every hotel had valet. 

As a young girl, I was told spooky stories by my father about West Giardino. These were stories that always kept me up at night with a flashlight under my covers. He spoke of a girl who lived in sin, walked in it, bathed in it, waking up in a murderers apartment. Letting herself get raped every day, which he said rape was worse than murder. He told me stories about the men that inhabit the west side. Everyone has a gun. Everyone has a drug of choice. Everyone has AIDs. God has abandoned the west side the way the government did so long ago. Then after scaring me, giving me nightmares, making me motionless in fear, my father would reassure me that I would always be safe. The only way I could wind up on the west side is if I lost my virginity before marriage or lost my faith in God.

The conclusion to my father's scary stories are as thus: the west side became my home shortly before I turned 17. I was homeless for two days until I found Meadow's Home for Girls. I was wading through the sludge of this city. At first I thought maybe my family exaggerated until I saw my first overdosed corpse outside a boarded apartment building. She looked like she was my age. I couldn't get her face out of my mind. Like a little doll, a button nose, mouse brown hair that curled at the very end, but her skin was blue and eyes stuck open. I had never seen a dead body before, but I now know there's a difference between looking in the eyes of someone alive and dead. The soul is real.

Meadow took me in with a sullen face. She carried an invisible weight of a thousand crushed dreams on her shoulders. When I arrived at the home, it was small and there were fourteen other girls there. I had to sleep on the couch. The cushions left marks in my skin and I'd wake up scratchy. At first I stalled upon seeing what looked like a period stain on one of them, but soon realized that this was the best I could get.

 The first night I was there, a fifteen year old was sleeping on a cot beside me. I woke up to loud voices in the middle of the night. In my haze, I heard her giving dull groans while Meadow and one other girl hoisted her up. She had gone into labor. I didn't even know she was pregnant. What was worse is I never saw her after the women escorted her out. I asked Meadow about it, she slapped me and called me a spoiled northern girl. Ever since then, I've seen all kinds of questionable things but never spoke up about it. That slap was extremely painful. Thinking of it reminds me of how weak I am. I'm on the west side, where just about everyone gets hurt every day, and a slap from a tiny woman left me aching for hours.

I read in the newspaper that the average life expectancy for a Giardino citizen was only 35. The national average was 75. In the paper they had all kinds of nasty pictures. One time I had seen one of a dead little girl under a sheet, but those words proclaiming the health status of the city I was born and raised in left me beyond cautious. I was looking over my shoulder, avoiding falling asleep too soon, checking my pulse at odd hours of the day. All because I had turned 18 and they only expected me to live until I was 35.

It would be sooner though. Once I had turned 18 I was an adult. Meadow had called me into her bedroom to speak with me. Somewhere in the back of my mind I knew what was happening but continued to ban all thought. 

It was like I always knew, but her face told me that I was fucked.

 

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Chapter 25- NEED EDITING BAD

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