Contacts, Conspirators, and Cash-filled Cases

The valets, flushed crimson once more, stare at the retreating sports car, which is soon shrouded in the smoke from burning rubber.

The Ray-bans were back, and through their darkened lenses Penelope was stealing glances at the briefcase in the passenger seat beside her. She had picked it up at the concierge desk on the way down; the concierge himself was still unconscious on the floor of the lobby. Inside the briefcase was some grand sum of bills, and possibly a surprise from its owner. Besides being served cold, revenge is a dish best shared.

Watch a girl roll, now you know I roll big

That said, Penelope was hungry for a larger piece. A much larger piece.

You sit around and plan how to put girl in fridge,
Remember when you dig a hole it’s two you gon’ dig

Loki had been a good contact, but that was all he was: a contact. And an arms dealer, and a womanizer, and the host of many an elite event, but still just a contact. The gathering that Penelope was speeding away from was one of the events, and was attended by only the most powerful in the circle of immortals. Her co-conspirator had been there, of course, sitting and sipping at the edge of the crowd with a sly smile.

Certain little boys I just stop dealin’ with

Penelope smiled now, too, her shaded eyes falling back on the road ahead of her. The ebony vehicle sped onwards, fingers of sunlight echoing off the polished chassis. Penelope’s hair seemed to absorb the bright light, shining a brilliant white-gold in the wind.

She was a modern-day cowboy, mechanical horse carrying her victoriously into the sun-soaked horizon.

The End

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