AllFreeNovel
Share Us
trid?
“Not winning!” Dillon said with angry emphasis. “Not losing, but not winning, either.”
One of his Cheerios had driven him back to the Triunfo in a shot-up Nissan Altima with two flat tires.
Not exactly a snow-white charger, he thought. And then, Why is it always a snow-white charger? Is that racist? Can there be horse racism?
He pulled out his notebook and scribbled, horse racism?
Dillon’s surviving army of voice slaves had been sent running down Flamingo Road, then turned north on Frank Sinatra Drive, which fed into Sammy Davis Jr Drive.
Only in Vegas would directions include Frank Sinatra and Sammy Davis Jr. That could be a bit.
In the heat of the day, his instruction to run the whole way would probably have left 10 percent of his mob passed out or dead from heart attacks, but the night was cooling rapidly.
The enemy would of course translate the running mob as panic. They would follow, but they wouldn’t want to stop them running . . . until they realized they were all going the same place.
I’m not winning, but I’m really pretty good at this.
“I think I’m getting good at this general thing,” he said aloud.
To which Kate said, “Yes,” and glared fear and hatred at him.
This next bit would be sketchy, hard to manage, Dillon knew. As the Cheerio had driven him to the Triunfo, he’d put his mind to assembling a list of demands. He would voluntarily leave the city and the whole country, for that matter, if they gave him what he wanted. Taking over the world had become much less of a priority since the army had rolled into town; it was starting to look as if survival was the main goal.
Taking over the world to mere survival in what, a day?
He would need a helicopter, of course. Then a jet, a big one that could go a long way, fueled up and ready at the airport. And a hundred million dollars. That shouldn’t be a problem in a place like Vegas, which was awash with cash.
Destination?
That was complicated. His power rested on being heard and understood, so ideally he wanted an English-speaking country. But Canada was well tied in to the US media, and they’d be more than ready by the time he reached . . . what was a Canadian city? Was Seattle in Canada? And England was such a long flight, they’d be even more ready. Might even shoot him down over the Atlantic.
Dillon had an image of himself in an inflatable raft yelling orders to passing whales. It was not reassuring or funny. Not really.
His mind passed wistfully over the idea of some remote Pacific island, but islands were traps.
Mexico. He would fly to Mexico. There he would make contact with a drug gang, take it over, and build a real army, an army of millions. Hah! Assuming enough people there spoke English.
He reached the Triunfo seconds ahead of the first runners, sauntered in projecting all the arrogant control he could manage, spotted a Triunfo cocktail waitress, and yelled, “Get me a margarita. Extra salt!”
It would be his fourth drink, but stress and excitement—he would not allow the word “fear”—had kept him feeling all too sober. He opened a map app, typed in “Mexico,” and tried to decide the best place to go. Wasn’t Machu Picchu in Mexico? He Googled it: no. After some more Googling he came up with Culiacán, in Sinaloa, where the most notorious gang hung out.
Yeah, that’ll work.
He pictured himself landing in his jet. Local dignitaries might meet him. Or Mexican cops. But even if they had ear coverings on, he’d be able to show them millions of dollars, and wasn’t Mexico super corrupt? Eventually he’d be able to speak, and he would order them to take him to the drug gang’s headquarters.
As more and more of his minions arrived, gasping and wheezing to form up in front of Triunfo, he got to work thumbing in an email.
Dear Former Powers That Be:
I am the Charmer. You’ve seen a small part of what I can do.
He paused to Google a scene from the movie Tropic Thunder, in which Tom Cruise screams threats into a phone.
So, if I were you, I’d take a big step back and literally f-ck your own face!
He wondered if he should include attribution. It was fatal to any comedy career to be called out for stealing a joke. Dillon had few morals—fewer with each passing hour—but he did not want to be accused of joke stealing. So he retyped:
