SurvivorZ

2

Not much for brains, either, he figured. Otherwise, they wouldn't be out here in this freezing damp shithole in Bumfuckle, Massachusetts, trying to put this embezzling mound of blubber down like a wild dog.

Massey grunted and staggered backwards from the impact, still obstinately refusing to keel over. His head lolled on his neck as if attached by a broken spring. His throat hissed from the trapped gases escaping his overstretched guts. His idiot eyes registered no comprehension of his mortality. He swayed precariously on outstretched legs made of rubber. By all accounts, he appeared to be toying with the notion of falling over dead, but still far from sold on the idea.

"No way," Tommy muttered in awe.

The fat man in his gore and mud-caked Armani bared his teeth in a hoarse howl and plodded across the fog-laden ground after them again. Graves blinked in amazement at the bastard's tenacity.

"The fuck?"

Graves studied the new bullet hole he added to Massey's wardrobe. It was a clean shot through the heart. If Death changed the rules of the game all of a sudden, he at least expected a heads-up out of professional courtesy.

"See? I told you."

"Shut the hell up, Tommy."

As Massey's bullet-riddled remains slogged towards them, his dirty hands clawed the air for his killer's throat. The vein on Graves' forehead throbbed as rage stirred from the pit of his stomach. No way was this balding prick getting the better of him. His Colt Anaconda .44 Magnum could put down a bear. It didn't matter how many layers of fat undulated below the fabric of Massey's designer suit. The fucker wasn't bulletproof.

Massey dully moaned at him. Graves spat and eyed him with venom. "Yeah, screw you too."

The crisp morning air resounded with a barrage of gunfire as he added three more rounds to his chest, auguring gaps in his suit deep enough to see through. Dark blood merely trickled down Massey's pinstripes, staining the fabric black. Not surprising, considering how the organ that pumped his body's precious fluid now decorated the bushes behind him in dozens of bloody chunks.

The slugs drove Massey to his knees. Graves took a step back in shock. Even the complete absence of his most vital organ couldn't end him. The wretchedly obese sack of meat rocked on his kneecaps, groaning incoherently, while his insides spilled from the yawning hole carved into his chest and oozed down his expensive suit.

Tommy freaked. "Have you ever seen anything like this?"

Graves hadn't, of course, but he'd take a bullet himself before admitting that out loud.

Massey reacted to the sound of his voice. Eyes upturned, now faded as pale as his clammy skin. He exposed a set of bloody dentures in the sneer of a hungry predator, before attempting to climb to his feet once more.

"Aw, screw this," the mob enforcer growled. The contract specifically said no headshots. The boss was very particular about that detail. He wanted Massey buried up to his neck, leaving his head for the crows and the cops. Regardless, Graves took aim at Massey's ugly pug. The vultures could have what was left of him. He was sick of freezing his ass off out here.

Boom! A bullet to the brain and this hellish job was finally over, just in time for breakfast. Massey bounced backwards on his tree trunk legs, before slumping sideways and staying down permanently. Graves popped him a second time in his caved skull, lest matters between them remained anything short of crystal.

"Goddamn," Tommy screamed, his girlish squeals probably carrying to his family's estate in Boston. "I mean... Goddamn! Have you ever seen such a thing?"

Shaking his head, more at the kid's foolishness than in answer to his query, Graves knelt alongside the body and felt a thick wrist. No heart, no pulse. At least the accountant got his math right on that score.

"It's not always like this, is it?"

"What do you think?" he grumbled. The cold and dampness popped his knees as he regained his feet. If there was anything worse than growing old, he probably already shot it.

"Goddamn," Tommy cried again, as juiced up on adrenaline as a base jumper. "It's like they said, right? You never forget your first one. Do you still remember yours?"

"Kid, I don't remember who I laid last night," he groused.

Graves slipped his gun back into its holster. He did so slowly, hoping to keep his hand concealed under his coat until he had sufficient opportunity to bleed off its trembling. Tommy didn't need to see how spun he was by this development. He was supposed to be a goddamn professional, for Christ's sake.

As such, he figured somebody owed him an explanation for that fucked up Voodoo witchcraft they just faced. If Saint Peter was suddenly turning away business at the Pearly Gates, it was going to seriously mess with his livelihood.

"Is he really dead?" Tommy wondered, kicking Massey in his oversized Oxford for good measure.

"Come on," Graves said. "Give me a hand getting the shovels out of the car. Let's put this asshole in the ground before he decides to stand up again and do the Macarena."