Evening came at an agonizing crawl for Jack Thompson. He was hidden in the dense shadows of New York. The Big Apple... where he was after one of the biggest maggots of them all; Stanley Santiago. Stanley was a yuppie of sorts; the fancy restaurants and the top label suits. He and his friends were carbon copies of each other, as they had dropped out of Patrick Bateman’s world. They all wore their dark hair slicked back even as many of those hairlines were receding cruelly. They were the sort to go into Central Park and find a beggar to circle jerk over and mop themselves with $50 bills.
Jack, who had changed into his dark overalls, was busy zipping up his inside pocket of his leather jacket. Several dollar bills had attempted to escape during his run across the vast New York roads. In the dim spotlight of the streets, he saw his hands were still a faint pink; the blood had not completely been washed off. Periodically, he would sniff hands and inhale the bitter fragrance of Charles’s blood. To him, that smell was heavenly; like, in his own words ‘that new car smell... even that new pussy smell’. Soon he would be able to bathe his hands in claret again and watch the feeble begging of Stanley Santiago as he would fumble within his pockets for loose bills. He wasn’t going to be bought; not again.
Jack was stood adjacent to the Ruby Hessle restaurant; a sushi bar where like clockwork, Stanley was known to lavish with his $100 dollar tips every Friday. He knew he would be a while, so he began to think of the last time he saw him. Back in Detroit; ten years ago. It made Jack laugh that even after a decade, Stanley would always go back to the Ruby Hessle like a spineless man going back to his wife even after she cheated on him. It was true for nine of those years it had gone under new management and Stanley would go to assorted restaurants instead, but like a creature of habit, he would return as though nothing had happened. It was before the new management had took over, that Stanley had invited him over for a little business. Business to Stanley was murder, which Jack would usually ask ‘Why can’t you do it yourself you spineless fuck?’ On that occasion, he had asked that to which Stanley smiled, albeit a false smile. He was scared of Jack and he had every reason to.
“Because I need an alibi; this deal could earn me quite a bit of money and I have no need for that waste of space” He spoke through mouthfuls of mu shu pork, like a child without manners. “I want in on the deal then” Jack said, his words cutting through the atmosphere. No one had turned around which was fine. They had their own adultery and tax evasion to worry about.
“30K” He replied through another mouthful.
“That’s more than I can give you”
“Cut the crap. I’m way behind on my rent and Jillian keeps treating me like a goddamn ATM. You give me 80K or I walk.”
Stanley swallowed hard and set down his knife and fork. Jack eyed the knife with interest; pretty dull but it could do the job. Perhaps seeing this, Stanley gave in. “80K then. But you better do him in good”
“Whose this asshole I have to whack then?”
Stanley hushed him, as one of his clones had walked past without so much as a glance. To Stanley, he must have been the FBI.
“Seymour Jones” He handed Jack a piece of paper. “Everything you need to know is on there”
Jack scanned the photo on the sheet; he also had dark hair slicked back with something that looked like gasoline.
“Something wrong?” He asked somewhat condescendingly.
Jack smiled. “He looks just like you!”
The rest of the night had flown by then. Jack was meant to find this guy and cut his throat so he wouldn’t blab about Stanley. Jack knew instinctively it wasn’t business; Seymour probably had dirt on the bastard. Stanley held interest far darker than the XXX shops littered around New York like so many cess pools. Rumours detailed he liked to strangle prostitutes as that was what got his dick hard. His wife didn’t give too fucks; she was giving head to the star baseball team of the week.
Jack dealt with Seymour in an effective manner; an involuntary seppuku. As the blood was still drying on his hands, he called Stanley and told him the good news. He said everything was swell. Swell. Stanley only ever used that word when he was lying but Jack thought nothing of it; he needed the 80K. Stanley told him that the money would be waiting for him at his apartment. But what was waiting for him was the NYPD; each in bullet-proof vests and AK 47’s. He went quietly, though inside he was burning with rage. It turned out Stanley didn’t want to cough up the dough and of course, the old Mr Popular trick, he didn’t want to be seen with him in public anymore as he didn’t not earn a monstrous salary like he did. All was not lost however, as the current Mayor had New York so far up its own asshole, that they could not afford to keep him in prison for longer than ten years. This was bad news for Stanley, as Jack had not planned to kill him. He was going to make him suffer.