be damned! He wanted Ora Quinn-Ross to be humiliated, killed in a ridiculous fashion, and her literary legacy reduced to the value of a urinal puck. Pierson agreed, albeit with less passion. He explained that they owned enough police officers, federal agents, news stations, and judges to ignore such minor details as conspiracy to commit murder.
Mitchell scratched his chin and pondered the situation.
There were some rather “exotic” kill packages that his firm offered. But only certified lunatics used them (a fact that the death vendor decided to keep to himself). With the press of a button, the holocamera in Mitchell’s briefcase kicked in. The death vendor walked them through the exotic packages, each summarized by detailed holograms of past victims:
#1 The Giddie-Yap: The victim is tied to a horse, via lasso, and then dragged along a gravel road until dead. Broken glass and lemon juice can be added to said gravel road for a slightly-additional charge.
McIntyre was a bit interested in it and verbally logged it as a “maybe.” Pierson shook his head and mumbled something about it being “so 2180’s!”
#2 The Birthday Suit: Nanites are injected directly into the victim, which would slowly eat all of her internal organs and bones, leaving only her skin and hair behind. This package comes with free taxidermy service.
McIntyre and Pierson exchanged interested glances.
#3 Live Organ Shuffle: The victim is placed on life support and her organs would then be surgically relocated to randomly-selected parts of her body. For example, her brain could end up in her stomach and her heart within her left buttock. The surgery would be filmed. Naturally, she would be kept conscious for every shrieking moment. And whenever they got bored with her torment, they could just cut off the life support and watch her die within a few minutes.
McIntyre mumbled something about needing to do that to his fifth ex-wife. Pierson shook his head.
#4 Sing-a-long Boom Boom: The victim has a bomb clamped around her neck and is forced to sing. Should she stop singing for more than five continuous seconds, the bomb will take out anyone and anything within 600 feet. This package comes with free holo-filming and optional blast bunker rental (at half-price).
Pierson and McIntyre shook their heads. Mitchell wasn’t surprised. He had been lobbying to get this one removed from the Exotic Kills menu. It just wasn’t extreme enough.
#5 The Death Row Shuffle: The victim’s mind is illegally psi-swapped with that of a homeless man who hadn’t yet been singled out for the annual Kill-A-Wino Hunt: preferably one with a history of mental illness (so no one will believe her story). After a few well-placed bribes, she could then be rounded up for the hunt and killed by an angry mob – some of whom might be her own fans.
Pierson and McIntyre exchanged devilish grins and nodded.
Mitchell figured they’d bite on this one. After all, with the crazy wino’s mind in Quinn-Ross’ body, they could sabotage all thirteen books and cost Hughes/Cly/Tushubki billions. Mitchell barely managed to keep his expression neutral as he had his briefcase print up a contract. Seeing as this contract cost nine times that of a standard kill, Mitchell could either accept that guaranteed promotion or just retire right now.
Either way, that island chain of his was easily affordable.
But then the doors to the room opened and in stepped four men, wearing expensively-tailored black suits, black bow ties, and white shirts. Mitchell’s jaw dropped with recognition. One was a four-time MMA Death Cage champion, who had just recently retired. The other was a former marine and two-time Medal of Honor winner. After one combat tour too many, he was dishonorably discharged and ended up on death row for shooting up ghettos in Martha’s Vineyard. While Mitchell didn’t recognize the other two men, they looked equally menacing.
McIntrye fired up a cigar, blew out a smoke ring, and introduced these four minions as his legal team. They would “assist” in the contract review process. Pierson expressed an interest in reviewing said document as well. They assured the death vendor that it should only take a few minutes. And, once (or if) Mitchell added his own name on the contract, the deal would be closed. Mitchell held back a few choice profanities as the “lawyers” loosened their ties and slipped into fighting stances. While he was tired and outnumbered, the death vendor would not be denied.
Mitchell gave the killers an irritated sigh, unbuttoned his suit jacket, and slipped into a defensive stance. The death vendor knew that, if he lost, they’d surely kill him. Worse, they might stick with Butchery-To-Go: labor troubles or no.
The thought made him scowl.
Nobody would ruin his planned rendezvous with sunny beaches and tropical drinks. While his company’s good name was worth fighting for, his dreams were worth killing for. With that, Mitchell decided to do them all. Rent-A-Killers, as a courtesy, tried not to kill their clients’ staff. But some of their high-end clients were just utter bastards in need of watching death and mayhem. He’d lose five percent of his commission - and probably some teeth.
But that was the cost of doing business.
With a confident sneer, the death vendor signaled them to attack.
‘TIL HELL DO US PART
Spencer Coverland stepped over the “old woman’s” bruised and bullet-riddled form, while holding a blood-covered rolling pin in his calloused right hand. The former diesel mechanic was thirty-seven, lean, and sweaty. He had a small nose, far-sighted brown eyes, and his right ear was mostly gone: chewed upon many years past during a vicious bar fight. Deep in thought, he paused to catch his breath as he wiped some strands of graying brown hair from in front of his narrow, cautious face.
He tossed the rolling pin aside and knelt down by his fallen adversary, who went by the alias of Cara Tempschal. In her apparent sixties, the stout old bitch looked harmless enough. She wore a flour-covered purple dress, red slippers, a half-askew gray wig, and a broken pair of wire-rimmed glasses draped across her splintered nose.
Spencer’s work boots and blue jeans were covered with flour and splattered with his victim’s blood. His gray-and-black plaid shirt had been slashed once by her fingernails during the fight. Her lucky scratch had sliced clean down his left torso and cut him open a bit. While it stung like hell, Spencer knew it wasn’t that serious.
He took in a few more gulps of air before he picked up his empty Ruger.
During their brief altercation, Spencer shot her a number of times with the .40 handgun. Four of his shots caught her in the face and neck. He was lucky in that the rest of his shots punched through her lungs and heart. The accumulated shock and damage left her staggered enough for him to subdue her with a mere bakery implement. When sixteen well-aimed shots merely dazed her, Spencer grabbed the rolling pin and smacked her in the face about twenty more times before she finally stopped moving.
Her wrinkled eyes closed, Tempschal looked dead. Still, Spencer wanted to be certain. Thus, he reloaded the handgun. Then he pressed the barrel against her throat with his trembling right hand. With his left, he gently put two fingers along the right side of her neck. Some part of him wasn’t surprised to feel a weak pulse along her jugular. On a typical day, Cara Tempschal – all 5’4”, 130 pounds of her – could’ve ripped him apart like paper with her bare hands. Spencer stood up and then pulled the trigger. His gun barked as he put a triple-tap into her forehead,
