Odyssey of Violence

I always hated coming to Santo Domingo. It was a dirty place, hot and humid, and the people were carnivorous. I could feel the sweat sticking my black shirt to my back. I wiped my hand across my forehead and felt the sweat drip down into my eyes. Just a few more minutes and then I could make my way inside of the bar. My mark tonight, or the man I was supposed to kill, was Daryl Sanchez. He ran several nightclubs just outside of Santo Domingo. Seedy joints, each one of them filled with the kind of trash that liked too much cocaine and too much pussy. But not Daryl. He liked kids; young boys, to be exact. And my job was to kill that sonofabitch. So I waited, sweat dripping down my entire body, and watched as the last patrons stumbled out of his club. I had been following him for two nights, watching his moves and seeing if he could be predictable. And like most scumbags, he didn’t disappoint. My intel from back home had been thorough. My boss, the man who gave me the jobs, had always been good at intel. And Daryl Sanchez was someone we had been looking for almost three years. We found him, or should I say my boss, Manolo, found him. I got the phone call and hopped on the first flight to Santo Domingo. I saw the one lone bodyguard, stumbling around near the back door. The man was fumbling with his pants, apparently trying to take a leak. I moved quickly and silently behind him and smashed his head in with my pistol. The man crumbled to the ground and an arc of piss splashed onto my arm as he rolled over. I kicked him in his ribs and he rolled against the wall, his urine splashing against the ground for only a second more. And then it was silent. I looked around to see if anyone had spotted me. Everything looked safe. I moved into the back door of the club and closed the door behind me. The music was still thumping, but the house lights were up and it was too bright. I would have to stay in the shadows in case anyone else was here. And even though I was pretty sure that Daryl and I were alone in his club, I also knew you could take nothing for granted. I wasn’t one for surprises. So I stayed silent for a moment, tucked tightly against the back wall of the club. In front of me were two large round bars, both empty. Above and to the right was a spiral staircase that ascended into a large dance floor above me. The music was loud still, too loud. But the bright lights would reveal anyone still hanging around. And right now, the place was empty. I liked that. I liked when a job went smooth. And most of all, when I finished with Daryl Sanchez and his sick kiddie ring, I had a feeling I would bow out of this business. I had had enough. My name is Paul Yaris. I’m forty-nine years old and probably in the best shape of my life. I eat all the right foods and exercise constantly. I learned a long time ago that eating right and staying active were truly the secrets to keeping your body happy. But that’s not to say that I don’t have a vice or two. Up until recently I was drinking too much Jack Daniels. Too much alcohol by any standard, but I always felt like I needed it to help me sleep. In my business, I don’t often leave with a clear conscience. Nowadays I only drink beer, unless something particularly nasty comes along. A vicious fight with the bad guys can sometimes turn ugly. And when I have to rip a man’s jaw off just to get him off of me, it can be hard to get rest. I also smoked for a while. Cigarettes mostly, but also the occasional cigar from a good friend named Coro. Coro’s dead now. Most of my friends are dead, and I didn’t have that many to start with. Friend’s are hard to come by in my business. Women too. I usually lie to women. Telling a beautiful brunette that I kill people for a living is generally not a great conversation starter. So I lie, and say that I’m in construction. I show them my calloused hands and they usually believe me. A few drinks later and I’m in bed with them. By the morning I’m gone, on to the next spot. The next job. The next kill. I waited only a moment longer before making my way behind one of the round bars. The floor was sticky with spilled liquor and bar mixes. I spied a bottle of Jack Daniels and pulled it from the rail. A quick sniff told me it was the real deal and I took a swallow and quietly slid it back into the rail. It tasted warm going down my throat, but it felt real. And right now, on the verge of murder, I needed it. I moved out of the bar and crouched down. I heard someone cough loudly. It was probably Daryl. He was close, but I wasn’t sure where. It sounded like he was upstairs, near the dance floor. I moved to the base of the stairs and silently crept up. The music stopped when I was halfway up and I stopped immediately, startled by the sudden silence. Above me, Daryl Sanchez stumbled by and moved off into a room on the far side of the dance floor. I knew he hadn’t seen me. And judging by his condition, I thought he might not have noticed anything. I waited only a second longer and then I took the remaining steps to the top. I surveyed the dance floor, seeing only trash on the ground and a coat hanging over the back of a tacky red couch. I moved quickly against the wall, watching the doorway that Daryl had disappeared into only moments before. Everything was still quiet. Almost too quiet. And then I took the doorway in a crouch and moved into a darkly lit hallway that smelled horrible. Somewhere in front of me, a florescent light flickered. I moved cautiously, sliding along the wall and coming out in a filthy bathroom. There were three mirrors above dirty sinks to my right and six stalls along the opposite wall. From where I was crouching, I could see shoes in one of the stalls. I knew it was my mark. Daryl Sanchez was the job tonight, and he would be killed on the toilet. How fitting.