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Max
Most of ourdirtier jobs go down outside of the city, at Capel Grove - Jimmy's abattoir. But Mickie happened to be at the wrong place at the wrong time and we needed to get the deed done before he left the District. Or worse.
Which is why I'm in downtown Connolly, freezing my balls off in the walk-in freezer at Sergio's Meat Market. I cross my arms over my chest. My breath marks the air around me with grey clouds of vapour. The freezer fan above me creates a drone - a kind of white noise.
Our cleaner, Armad, moves to the metal table in the corner, a bounce to his every step. He is a slender man who walks with a peculiar gracefulness. Outside, in the real world, he could easily be mistaken as an easy target – gullible. A fool's mistake.
I watch him as he hums a soft tune and rolls his tool sheath open, displaying its sharp, shiny contents. Carefully, he selects the implements needed to complete tonight's job and then places them gently on display. He take a moment to caress the polished blades one by one. A ritual I've seen many times. He told me once that it's like greeting a colleague.
He's fucked in the head.
Glancing to my side, I notice Bronson is watching Armad, his blue eyes sparkling, his fingers stroking his palms. But it's not our job to cut. As much as he may enjoy getting his hands bloodied, I frown at him, reminding him he's not a soldier.
Armad and his two boys sling Michael's bound feet to the hook hanging from the ceiling. There is a big, viscera-encrusted grate directly below him on the cold cement floor, so when he finally wakes it'll be a chilling sight to behold. A hint at what's to come.
Bronson moves in beside me, chomping at the bit to get his hands dirty. He'll watch every moment of this, reaping satisfaction from Michael's pain. I look down at his feet as they shuffle with a kind of anxiety. A kind of anticipation. All I feel is bored.
Michael now hangs from his feet like a carcass ready to be divided into muscle groups. Armad steps back as one of his boys throws a cold bucket of water onto Michael's head. The water drips from his face and hair and then slides down the drain.
As Michael comes to, the rhythmic hum of the freezer fan is interrupted by his panicked whimpers. Fast gasps follow snivels follow stutters of words that make no sense. Then his body gyrates as his adrenaline spikes. As his body tells him something is wrong. He grunts with exertion while he attempts to dislodge himself from the hook. His own weight and small muscles prevent much success. And with his shirt hanging partially over his chin, he can't see our faces. Not that it matters. He knows who we are.
As he continues to flip around on the hook like an overfed goldfish, I sneer. What a sack of shit. What a weak useless waste of space. I've known a lot of dirty bastards in my twenty-four years of life - that's part of being a Butcher - but a man can be nasty and crooked and still have honourable qualities. Their integrity. Their pride. Often, they even have traits to admire. Strength. Loyalty.
This piece of shit is as empty as his pockets.
He lets out a guttural, incoherent groan. "Oh God, please. Please don't do this."
When he's met with further silence, he shudders. My heart beats steady and rhythmic, but when he starts to cry, I cringe. There is no place for tears in my world. Fight us for fucksake. Threaten us. But don't whimper like a little bitch.
"What is this?" he cries. "Where am I?"
"We ran out of pigs," Bronson states simply. "I promised my family a spit roast. You like spit roasts, don't you?"
Michael whines. I roll my eyes at my brother's wide, soft smile. Taking a step closer to our hanging friend, I only stop when his eyes lock on to my shoes. "Where's Jimmy's truck" –I tap my foot– "and where are our diamonds?"
He tries to jolt his body around, attempting to catch our eyes or a glimpse of our expressions. "I don't know. I told you. I was-"
"See, we know you're lying," I drawl, rubbing my forehead and temple with my index finger and thumb. Dropping my hand to my side, I sigh roughly. "Would you like to know how?"
"I swear it. Max. Bronson. I swear-"
Bronson's boot nails Michael in the face. His head snaps backwards. Eyes closed. Mouth agape. And now he's unconscious and swaying on the hook as if he's already dead.
"Fucksake, Bronson," I mutter.
"I don’t like it when they say our names," he states plainly, grabbing another bucket of icy water and splashing its contents over Michael.
I completely agree. Hearing anyone say my brother's names or Butch's or -especially- Cassidy's, pisses me right off.
As Michael stirs again, I signal Armad. He moves in, slicing him with quick trained precision, parting his flesh from bicep to wrist. It's a relatively shallow incision. Blood trickles down, painting the grate, but it’s not enough to bleed him dry. Michael's eyes snap open. As blood and pressure builds within his cranium, he spits and drools and reddens.
He lets out a long, half-incoherent moan. "Fuck."
"Do you know how the butcherbird got its name?" Bronson asks with a smooth and steady voice.
Fucksake, not this butcherbird crap again.
"Once they spear their prey with their massive knife-like beaks, they then impale them on thorns, fences, any place they will hang, leaving them with their guts exposed to rot in the sun."
