C16: A Maniac's Pot of Gold
"Brrr Brr. Brr Brr. Brr Brr" the landline rang on and on, the caller waiting impatiently for the receiver to pick up. "Where the fuck is he? That son of a bitch" he cussed as the call automatically hung up. "He fucking played me" he hastily stood up from his office chair, walking around and playing with his hair to hide his obvious nervousness. "That's alright. I'll fuck him up." He made his way to the door of his carefully arranged and impressively furnished office. "Nobody plays me"
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"Sir" a calm and hefty looking figure said, almost bumping into his boss from the opposite side of the door.
"Jesus man, are you trying to give me a heart attack?" He said feigning calmness.
"Apologies."
"So what? What is it?"
"He's here."
At the mention of those words, he stood still, his hands fidgeting on his suit's collar. "What?"
"Jacob Sir. He's here. And he doesn't look happy."
"Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck" he repeated in audible frustration. "He asked for me ayy?"
"Well I told him you were…"
"Christopher!" A voice barked from way behind the two conversating figures, like as if it was coming from some other room. "You've got, five fucking seconds to get here before I start shooting stuff. Five."
"Fuckkk. He's mad", the fidgeting character said still visibly shaking, but making his way out of his office and down the hallways in the process
"Four. Three. Two…"
"I'm here!" Christopher said bursting into the living room, sweating and panting for what was a mere four to five second dash. You couldn't blame him though, he wasn't exactly the most fit or best-looking person in the room filled with shady characters. Rough, patchy and scattered brown hair, a suit that did no justice to his obese or at least obese-getting stature if I'm being the slightest bit nice about it. He had puffy cheeks, and wreaked of five out of ten quality, if we were judging his personal hygiene. Poor fashion sense too. Who the fuck wears shorts under a suit and 'compliments' with a set of hairy legs dipped in formal shoes and knee-high socks? He looked like a thirty-five-year-old William Shakespeare that had gone through 3 divorces, and was paying off a debt with the Coca Cola corporation. All in all, he wasn't exactly the stand out character in the room. Which made absolutely no sense for a revered and feared kingpin in Exasthen. He was kinda new though, wouldn't blame him that much.
"I'm here" he said still trying to catch his breath. "I'm here. Fuck. I… I tried calling you like an hour ago but it didn't go through and I was…"
"Don't even start with me fatso" Jacob said unremorseful. "Where the fuck is my product. I paid you a million for that shit, and all I get is a deadbeat rifle?" He immediately reached for a gun supported by his belt buckle and instantly aimed it at Chris. Every single henchman in the room did the same. Jacob's 5 drawing out pistols and Christopher's 10 drawing out weapons of their own.
"I'm not sure that's a good idea pretty boy" Chris said, finally calming down and adjusting himself for what looked like a negotiation. "You don't walk into Manz house and expect to have the upper hand, now do you?" He smiled lightly.
Jacob's face now wreaked of intense rage and without flinching for a single second, he sent a bullet straight for Christopher's leg, sending him plummeting to the ground with a thud, writhing in pain.
"Ah fuck" he shouted. "Shit. You shot me. You fucking shot me."
"No shit." Jacob placed the gun back in his pants and walked towards Chris.
"No no no no no…" he said trying to crawl away, until Jacob stepped on the bullet wound with an aura of nonchalance. "Ahhhhhh. Okay okay. I'll get it for you. Fuck. Get off me."
"That's better". Jacob stepped off and now assumed a calmer posture, his broad chest stretching out a little in relief.
"Ferron. Go get the box" Christopher said to one of his henchmen who gladly made his way out of the sticky situation in a thrice.
After a couple seconds of silence between the entire group, Jacob finally spoke up. "So, are y'all going to shoot me or what?" He said, smiling at every single henchman of Chris's that he could possibly eyeball. "Yeah" he chuckled. "That's exactly what I thought." Looking back down at Christopher still gradually losing blood on the floor, he said, "I guess I do have the upper hand ayy Chris?" He kicked him a little.
"Ahh"
"Oh, quiet down sourpuss."
Just then, Ferron slowly walked into the room with a shoebox looking thing in his hand, drawing in some attention he probably would be been better without.
"Yessss" Jacob said, smiling and grinning like a baby about to be given a lollipop. "Come on. Give it to Daddy" he continued as Ferron gently made his way to the middle of the massive living room where he was standing and dropped the box in his hands.
Not taking his eyes of the box for a single second, Jacob gradually made his way to a table that was carefully placed at the right wing of the room, almost invisible till that very moment. As both sets of henchmen carefully lowered their weapons, Jacob carelessly cleared the drugs and pills scattered on the table, not minding what they were or who the hell was on them. He placed the shoebox on the wooden table and cracked his knuckles, preparing for a treat.
"New Mexico" Christopher echoed, still losing minimal blood from his wound. "Expensive as fuck too, black market shit, and the only one in stock. Those foreigners ask way too many questions and doing business with people outside the Ninth is pretty hard. Everyone wants to know about your every move. Shit is pretty risky. You should know that. You can't even imagine the number of people I had to pay off."
"Zip it leprechaun" Jacob barked from the end of the room. He dramatically reached for the lid covering the box and after raising it as slowly as he could, he saw something that was straight out his wildest dreams. "What in the world war 2 is…"