Thursday, November 12, 2015

London Kill

Alexander Crown Trilogy

Believe me when I tell you that I mean you no harm. No harm will come from me, except, when conditions arise when you want to inflict me with harm.

 On a mission last week in London the weather was overcast, drizzly, slightly wet like Isabella my contact in Zagreb. Only Isabella offered up more than drizzly weather. Two months ago I was entangled in her arms and between her legs for fifteen minutes in the lift to her apartment. This morning I had ten minutes until my contact meeting at this sidewalk café in London.

My morning coffee hot and black slithered down my throat like mud. If the horde of customers didn't camouflage me as one of them I'd stand out like a sore thumb. However much I tried to look like a tourist or even a local, at 6'2", shoulder length hair, big hands, loose jeans, intense brown eyes, and then there's my 220 pound muscularity not much could stop, always pinpointed me as a ruffian wherever I was.

He arrived. I caught his presence with peripheral vision. He stood at the edge of the sidewalk trying to tag me. Average height, average weight, average looking, the man was supposed to be German but he was a Brit. Wet black hair, nervous eye twitch, head cocked to the left. He was also an assassin, but first we had to exchange goods. I possessed a midnight supply diamond necklace worth one million. He had fifty thousand US currency in a large black leather fanny pack. If luck is on my side I'll leave with the money and head to my orphanage in Cape Town and splurge buying laptops for the children.

He sat at my table. I stood. He pulled up his fanny pack, unzipped it, opened the top and fingered the cash. Nobody watched us so I pulled the necklace from my jacket pocket and dangled it in front of his eyes. He panicked and pulled a handgun from nowhere. I threw the necklace overhead. He reached for it. I snapped the gun from his hand just as he caught the necklace.

Customers scattered. I popped him one on top of his wet head. He plopped off the chair and hit the cement. I snatched the necklace from his hand and the fanny pack off the ground just as a brunette in spiked heels tried to knee me in the groin. I kicked her legs and she toppled on her ass. She pulled a gun from nowhere and I kicked it from her hand. Sirens shrieked far off. I put the necklace back in my jacket pocket. Three waiters came at me, and as I stood and stretched out, holding two handguns they back away with arms up in submission. I stepped forward and kicked the brunette in the ribs. She doubled up and I kicked her again. How could I not because she not only tried to shoot me, she's the Spanish woman in Madrid who tried to kill me.

"Qué deseas?" What do you want I asked her.
"Para matar a usted, porque usted mató a mi padre."
"I didn't kill your father," I said in English. "I haven't killed anyone for over two years."
"You killed my father three years ago."
"What's his name?"
"Iktar Stanktar."
"You're fucking kidding me," I yelled, the sirens were getting closer.
"You're just a piece of shit. I'm Irena Stanktar and I'm going to kill you."
Her voice was a buzz of subtext in my brain.
"Your father tried to cut my heart out, see." I pulled open my shirt and showed her the large X scar across my heart. "Your father slaughtered innocent people, killing women and children and men of substance for money and power."
"You still killed my father and I'm going to kill you, asshole."
"Your father was Iranian."
"My mother was Spanish."
"Your father killed your mother."
"Because she had an affair with you."
I stalled, unable to recall having an affair with a Spanish woman. Many women have crossed my bed but not a Spanish woman.
"It takes two to have an affair and that's not a good reason to kill your spouse."
"You're a dream stealer, Mr. Crown and soon to be a dead mercenary because I'm the one who is going to kill you."
"I'm not a mercenary."
"Call off your assassins, Ms. Stanktar. If you don't I'll come after you and kill your entire family."
"I'm all that's left of my family."
"Then I'll kill you."

I backed away carrying the two handguns with the necklace safely in my pocket, the fanny pack over my shoulder and an attitude that the children in my orphanage were worth more than all the assassins in the world, and one brunette woman, Ms. Stanktar seeking revenge. Best of all, I was fifty thousand dollars wealthier.

If you can't walk away with respect then you can't respect anything.

Alexander Crown Trilogy*Version*=1&*entries*=0

Tuesday, November 10, 2015

Rome Kill

Alexander Crown Trilogy

On a mission a few weeks ago in Rome the weather wasn't cooperating and all went wrong. Whether I was sitting at a small, round table at a sidewalk café or if I was sitting in the stands at a demolition derby some where in Tennessee, I couldn't decipher. Street traffic was grid-locked bumper-to-bumper. Exhaust was debilitating. Tourists and locals were hordes yet insignificant. Pitch blue was the sky yet I smelled moisture in the air.

As I sipped my coffee and took a bite from my croissant, watching the dozen or so other diners this afternoon, and feeling the crunches of traffic in Rome, cold metal touched the backside of my neck. If another silly woman spy or a small group of terrorists thought they had the advantage, they were wrong.

A tiny voice that had childhood intonations spoke to me from behind. "Non guardare e zitto. Dammi i cinquantamila dollari che hai rubato dal datore di lavoro a Istanbul e io non ti ucciderò.

"Let me get this straight," I said, not turning to see who was trying to rob me. "If I shut up and return some money you think I stole from your Istanbul employer, you won't kill me?"

""E ' giusto, quindi zitto e mi danno i soldi."

I didn't believe the tiny, threatening voice would actually kill me in front of witnesses, so I turned around. He didn't shoot his tiny pistol, but the midget jumped back from me out of reach.

"How about I give you the fifty dollars in my pocket and we'll call the debt even," I said.

"Asshole," he said in English. "Fifty dollars for fifty thousand is a monstrous steal. My employer would kill me if I accept."

"You know what," I said, "your employer will kill you with or without the return of the money he thinks I'd stolen from him."

"What makes you think my employer is a man?"

"Okay then, we're getting down to business. I stole fifty thousand dollars from a woman?

"Che testa di cazzo. Lei ha rubato cinquantamila e lei chiede di pagare indietro con gli interessi."

"So now I'm a fuck-head, and she wants me to pay her back with interest?"

He looked toward the street where several cars honked their horns. I snapped the small gun from his hand and jumped back again, slowly taking tiny steps away from the café.

Waist height, heavy on the black hair dangling on his shoulders, undoubtedly a wig, wearing a jean jacket over stretch jeans and Nike's, the little man was not a threat to me. He was a threat to himself.

"Look," I said, "if your employer wants fifty thousand dollars from me, of which I didn't steal from her, tell her to come get it herself.

He nodded toward my table. I turned and a woman no older than thirty was sitting there, facing me. She wasn't anything like a Turkish woman. She resembled an English Lindsay Lohan. Wow, I was astonished, not because she was a movie star look-a-like, but that she was accusing me of stealing her money.

The midget turned and ran. I sat down across from the woman and we eyeballed each other. If she wanted money she didn't show it. Her red lips pursed at me. I'd accept her kiss under other circumstances and if we were in a hotel bedroom.

"Non ho rubato i soldi da voi ," I said in Italian, "se l'ho fatto sarebbe stato per un ottimo motivo."
"What excellent cause would that be if you stole the money from me?" she asked in English.
"The cause would be to help support my orphanage where thirty children live. Their ages are six to sixteen, and they need clothing and food and shelter and friendship and educations."
She leaned forward across the table. Her small purse touching her fingertips and the Chanel No5 she wore surrounded us.
"I'll forgive the fifty thousand dollars you stole from my jewelry store if you take me to your orphanage and introduce me to the thirty impoverished children."
"If I did that then I'd be a hypocrite," I smiled. "They are children of the world and not monkeys in a zoo."
"Well then," she whispered, "I don't want to rattle their cages. But you never know they might want to meet me."
"Over my dead body," I laughed.
"Then that's what it will be," she said, stood up and sashayed her nice, compact tooch across the busy street between cars and exhaust. Just as she stepped up on the curb on the other side she pulled a handgun from her purse, aimed it overhead and shot.
Nobody heard the blast because pedestrian noise was way too loud, not considering screeching tires, honking horns and a thousand tourists mingling within a three hundred square foot area. I stood up, put a twenty on my table and tried to get lost in the crowd.

She followed me down the block. I dashed around a corner, grabbed her arm and pulled her to me. I kissed her red lips. She bit mine. I slapped her face. She slapped mine. I grabbed her touch and pulled her against my groin. At first she resisted then relaxed. She kissed me and put her handgun against my neck.

"What now?" I asked.

She whispered while fifty or so pedestrians drifted past. "We have sex. You fuck me and I fuck you."

"You have already fucked me over," I said, and twisted the gun from her grip. "I didn't steal fifty thousand from me, instead, you lent it to me and now you want it back. If I let you fuck me will you forgive my debt?"

Her smile turned into a deep kiss on my lips and she bit me again. "Only if you let me fuck you, fuck you five times, one time each for ten thousand dollars."

I stuffed her handgun inside my belt behind me underneath my leather jacket, took her hand and led her away by her arm to my hotel two blocks away.

Alexander Crown Trilogy*Version*=1&*entries*=0

Friday, November 6, 2015

Rio Kill

"Vitruvian Man"

Keeping tabs on all the women I have slept with around the world used to be easy. You see, when in China I slept with Chinese women. When in Germany I slept with German women. When in Greece I slept with Greek women and when in France I slept with French women. Do you now understand how easy it was for me to keep tabs? I have a count of all the women I had slept with from each country. I mean, it's not a Holy Jesus thing that I can recall all the women I've slept with, but I certainly give that a halleluiah.

But now, women are international, infused into the work force, employed in varied careers,  living in different countries from the ones they were born in, even living in multiple countries since adulthood give me trouble keeping track of who lives where and when. The best part is that women still want to sleep and have sex with me. I'm no Jason Bourne or James Bond, but the worst part is that many women want to either hurt or kill me after they sexually use me. Mostly, they're after my priceless Michelangelo diamond and emerald necklace.

Whatever the necessity of anybody wanting to possess the necklace, it all feels frivolous to me. The artisan designed and constructed the jeweled enclosed gold necklace over 500 years ago, and that's enough to admire his creativity and craftsmanship, to admire and respect how he crafted such a gorgeous piece of jewelry with crude tools and inferior materials, but to possess, understanding that you might get killed for it while possessing it? It all rudimentary stupidiand receipt.

I don't possess Michelangelo's necklace, I use it for bait, to make wealthy buyers salivate thinking they own it without repercussions. Sometimes I feel the necklace is ill-fated, or is hexed, or that there are secret inscription etched into the stones or gold. This necklace isn't a Da Vinci Code genius mystery story, rich in puzzles or conspiracies. it's just an aged necklace whereby historians and historical buffs want to fell the necklace is more than common. They want to elevate the jewelry above all theories that it possibly reveals a riveting story, establishing richer and more fascinating details about Michelangelo.

For me there is no historical secret about the necklace. There is no ancient or current secret society whose members included Botticelli, Hugo or Da Vinci, and there is no truth concealed or encrypted within it that has been veiled through inscriptions.

And yet, here I am in bed with a woman of unusual ethnicity; perhaps she Indian or Iranian, Egyptian or Serbian with a little Spanish thrown in, but I do know she will attempt to kill me to get the priceless necklace after we've engaged in sex, showered, and eaten breakfast in this fabulous hotel in Rio de Janeiro looking up at Christ the Redeemer

Thursday, November 5, 2015

Sunrise Kill

Alexander Crown Trilogy

Killing is easy if you don't think about it. Like the new James Bond 007, every day I kill something. But my everyday killing is of little value; like a piece of paper I tear in half, or a burnt-out light bulb I crush and recycle.

Killing people is something else. People are valuable, unless they lack specific ethics, the moral codes of humanity. If they ignore or manipulate those codes with either indifference or violence then they are valueless and useless.

But you know what? Killing is one great way for achieving population control. If we kill all the bad people; the criminals, rapists, murderers, the genocide leaders in control of their dynasties, then humanity could achieve greatness.

The sunrise this morning was spectacular over Marin County. What better place to be in the world than near San Francisco and Sausalito, California? My contact was stuffed in a nook inside a fabulous breakfast restaurant in Marin, the home of Robin Williams. Can you imagine eating at an establishment Robin Williams frequented? There my contact sitting at a table for two, looking exactly like the famous Robin Williams. The comedian is dead so I knew his look-a-like was just that, a replica with dyed hair, a fake nose and chin and a big head.

A disguise, and yet a twin of the once famous comedian. Immediate distrust slapped me in the face. How could I trust a man or woman looking like the dead comedian? I couldn't, and now my trust was distrust, and I'd take appropriate precautions by pretending I didn't have an aggressive A personality, and that I was most desperate to sell my Michelangelo diamond and emerald necklace. The priceless necklace I had in the felt bag I carried in my leather jacket pocket was a duplicate, a fake, just like the juxtaposed Robin Williams waiting for me.

This was an exchange of money for the necklace, not a kill or be killed situation whereby henchmen were waiting for me, stationed inside and outside the restaurant. The handoff would be wordless. The black felt bag with the fake necklace inside it for a paper bag with ten thousand dollars inside it.

Robin Williams waved me to his table with both hands. He stood and we shook hands. He started talking nonstop like an exasperated fiend.

"Mr. Alexander Crown it's so good to meet you sit down and have a coffee I come here often and the coffee is fabulous." He sat and threw both arms overhead like a maniac. "Oh my god you don't speak English and I do and I can't stop making your ears throb with English consonants and vowels what I have for you in this bag will enlighten your life if what you have in your bag is the legitimate thing you know the necklace I want to give to my wife because she's five hundred years old just like the artisan of the necklace."

He stopped talking and I jumped in. "Why Robin Williams?" I asked.

He was stumped, like he knew he was the real thing, the comedian with a hundred faces and a thousand personalities, a man and a child, buoyant, rubber-faced, an endless gusher of comedic invention.

"What do you mean?" he said. "I am Robin Williams."

I threw the black felt bag on the table in front of him and laughed. He pushed the paper bag across the table at me. We picked up the bags simultaneously and peered inside them. Satisfied with the contents, Mr. Williams stoop and trampled his way through the restaurant, stopped, turned around and gave me two thumbs up. I just hoped he didn't have any henchmen stationed outside to sequester me and take the ten thousand dollars.

I sprang through the door with the bag stuffed inside my jacket, jumped on my Kawasaki, started it, jammed it into first gear and accelerated into traffic. Not looking back was my way of saying thank you Mr. Robin Williams for sharing.*Version*=1&*entries*=0

Alexander Crown Trilogy

Tuesday, October 27, 2015

San Francisco Kill

Alexander Crown Trilogy

I was so excited about the new San Francisco Bag Bridge span it wasn't appropriate for me to throw my contact over the side after we completed our transaction, so I scheduled our meeting on the Golden Gate Bridge. With so many suicide jumps off that bridge (an estimated 1,600 bodies were recovered of people who have jumped from the Golden Gate), what does it matter if I help one more join the crowd.

She was probably thirty, waiting for me among the shuffling hordes of people walking, and jogging and bicycling across the bridge under the chilled afternoon sunlight. The bustle of cars and trucks and motorcycles and more cars was a much appreciated addition of confusion, making my job easier.

Approaching her, I admired her slow breaking smile, long-fingered hands, the simple arch of her nose, softness of her skin, and the coolness of her blue eyes, well, they're not as cool as they are arresting. Her pink jogging suit, Asics runners and brunette pony tail added action to her persona, and she carried the paper bag I demanded, of which I hoped the ten thousand dollars was inside of it.

I ached to hold her close to me so we could communicate, but knowing not to. Reaching for her was the same as pushing her away, so we exchanged smiles and body language stating the fact that this was a business meeting. We stepped to the railing. I looked over. The chilly ocean below demanded a body etch into hyperthermia before killing it, but forceful plunge into the bag was an assured killer itself.

At that moment I wondered what things become when you no longer needed them, but I needed my Michelangelo diamond and emerald necklace. I needed it as collateral to sell to the highest bidder to help finance my orphanage in Cape Town, South Africa. What's another necklace compared to thirty to forty hungry children that needed shelter and education? A knifepoint between elation and terror spiked my emotions.

We stepped close to the side railing, away from the maddening crowds of unconcerned citizens and tourists. I didn't see any security guards or bridge employees nearby. She handed me the paper bag. I looked inside. Thousands of dollars faced me. I handed her the little black velvet bag. She looked inside and smiled. The exchange was made, and then I felt a small sting in my right side.

Her killer smile was menacing. With the small paper bag in my left hand, I grabbed the 2 1/2 inch blade of the Kershaw knife when she pulled it out of my side and tried to stab me again. Shouting at her tunneled into my anxious disposition, but yelling wouldn't stop her aggression.

Her skillset rang through my mind like poetry. If she could stab me for a simple exchange, she'd kill me if I tried to kiss her, and kissing her was way out in left field. However, I loved the sheer awesomeness of this situation. My side ached and my brain suddenly clicked, this gal, probably Polish or maybe German, was the type of woman who owned every condition, and with her arresting smile, everyone who made contact, she put them on notice. She just put me on notice with that knife blade.

My palm sliced open from the sharp blade and blood spilled to the concrete. I twisted the knife from her grip. She winced when I slammed her wrist on the metal railing. Her knee came toward my package. I shifted sideway, grabbed her neck and slammed her shoulder against the railing. She whimpered but wasn't finished with me. I snatched the felt bag from her hand. People stopping but most continued on their journey. I put the felt bag containing the necklace into the paper bag full of money, and wrapped it around my injured hand.

She came for me, fists stretched out in front of her, feet and legs at the ready to do damage. I was done with her, starting to turn and jog away. She grabbed the back of my leather jacket, yanking me as if I was her child running in to the street. I turned. Two fists briefly tagged my jog like a boxer's jabs. I stabbed her shoulder. The small blade struck a bone. She screamed. I threw the knife over the side of the bridge. Her right foot was in my face. I grabbed her shoe. She hopped like a jackhammer. I twisted off her shoe and threw it over the railing.

My side ached. I pressed hard against it with my hand. My running posture had me fifty feet away from her or so I thought until two arms wrapped around my shoulders and dumped me to the pavement. Joggers jumped over us, walkers stepped around us, bicyclists panicked and flew around us. I rose up, this woman in my hands. I lifted her overhead, and with gusto threw her over the railing of the Golden Gate Bridge. Lookers were shocked, but not so shocked, so they looked over the side while her scream was absorbed by the wind.  I was shocked, everybody was shocked to the point of inaction.

Twenty feet down she lay upon the netting, flipping me off with both hands. At least thirty people were looking over the edge with me for a few seconds when I decided to make my exit. Two men tried to tackle me, but their faces got in my way. Reaching the Marin side of the bridge, my bloody side continued to ache, but I was relieved to find my Kawasaki waiting for me. My escape was imminent and thrifty, driving the speed limit toward Santa Rosa, with ten thousand dollars and the necklace in the paper bag stuffed inside my jacket.

Alexander Crown Trilogy

Friday, October 9, 2015

Ljubljana Kill

Alexander Crown "Vitruvian Man"

Not killing anyone lately makes me bloodthirsty. The word bloodthirsty in turn means thirsting for blood. That's not me. I don't thirst for blood, I thirst for correcting violent actions against humanity, especially when violence is directed toward children. And also, I thirst for non-violent activities like, sky-diving, wind-surfing, bungee-jumping, and sometimes throwing knives.

I also thirst for money to help finance my children's orphanage, and money is the foundation of everything in every culture and society throughout the world.

My meeting today is with a supposed financial expert who hails from Switzerland but lives in Sweden, and conducts business concerns out of Slovenia, where she's in contact with Russian officials, who conduct business Saudi Arabia and China, who are on the verge of conducting more business with Australia, Japan, Venezuela and Mexico.

A sweet and innocent sidewalk café in Ljubljana, Slovenia, early evening is the meeting place. Pleasant customers, easy weather, friendly employees, and one gorgeous financial expert dressed in an orange hoodie waited for my at a table on the far side of the sidewalk. Sitting and staring at her reminded me of when I shared a knife fighting encounter with a female contact in Florence, Italy, but that's another story. This person, whose name was too difficult for me to pronounce, was stunning in offbeat ways; no makeup, blue eyes, thin eyebrows etched over greasy skin, teeth as white as chalk, hands as edgy as razorblades. This financial expert is as sharp as a pencil and as determined as an eagle.

"What can I do for you, Mr. Crown?" Her voice was screechy as a warden's whistle.
Pleasing her with my smile would be like pulling abscessed teeth. "The question is," I rallied, "what can I do for you?"
"You don't get to question me," Mr. Crown. "Let's exchange. Ten thousand for you, one diamond, emerald Michelangelo necklace for me."
Pleasing her with my snicker, a wink of my left eye and a cocking of my head to the right was my choice of seducing her. "You don't get to question me either, Ms. Jane. Calling you Ms. Jane isn't offensive is it? Because if it is my price for the necklace goes up. As for now, one diamond, emerald Michelangelo necklace for you and fifty thousand for me. That was our deal, and my deal doesn't change, not for you, not for anyone."
"You have to negotiate, Mr. Crown." She twisted in her chair. Anxiety set in. Her pasty lips twisted. Her eyes jerked. Her hand hit a key on her cellphone sitting between her hands. Something was up.
"Please, call me Alexander," I said, "it's more personable. I never negotiate, especially when it comes to my 50 children. They need clothing, food, housing and educators. Fifty thousand is reasonable for the subject since it's a esteemed relic, and mostly because it's priceless."
"I was told to only give you ten thousand," she said, without calling me Alexander.

A waiter interrupted us.
"Yes," I said, "we'll both have a glass of house white and a glass of water, please."
He nodded and left.

Ms. Jane pushed a paper bag across the table toward me. "This is ten thousand. Take it, and give me the necklace."
"I'll take it." I stood up and straightened my 6' 2" frame and flexed my 240 pounds of muscle under my clothes. I did a 360 of the surroundings, faced Ms. Jane, leaned down and put my fists on the table top. "I'm bloodthirsty," I menacingly said, "but I only kill when necessary, and after I inflict some influential pain."
Ms. Jane flinched and looked around like she expected an interruption, like her bodyguards to step into their own massacre.
"If I don't get the rest of the forty thousand I'll come after you, your backers and all your families. I'll kill all of you, one by one, stab you in the heart with my trusty Tac-Force 6 inch knife. But, before I kill each one of you, I'll probably strip you naked and make you dip into an ice bath, like the cold-hearted people you are."

To Ms. Jane's eyes, I put the paper bag inside my black leather jacket, walked across the street, hopped onto my Honda crotch-rocket, and rocketed down the block, my face full of laughter and disgust for the global market.

Alexander Crown "Vitruvian Man"

Wednesday, October 7, 2015

Rijeka KIll

Alexander Crown Trilogy

He staged his razor-sharp EMT Tac-Force 3 inch knife blade over my heart, yet cosmologyy factors were in my favor.

My ears bled from his fierce laugh. The  tip of the blade pierced my skin. The wooden desk was warm under my naked torso. I jerked the tight plastic ties that were around my wrists and ankles and tagged to the legs of the desk.

He started carving a large heart around where my living heart two inches below pumped life-sustain blood to the rest of my body. I assumed he wanted me to scream and kick and threaten to kill him. I'd assumed a lot during my lifetime. This time that's exactly want he wanted me to do. Instead, I cringed, tears filled my eyes and I watched while he carved a childish heart into my skin as if drawing with an ink pen. He wasn't an artist that's for sure.

Iktar and his two muscled cronies took me hostage, or rather captured me. With a paper bag over my head they stuffed me inside a Mercedes SUV, drove for fifteen minutes and tucked me away inside a type of warehouse in Rijeka, Croatia.

He was after my priceless Michelangelo diamond and emerald necklace. Carving me up or killing me for it weren't issues. He wanted the necklace to establish self-esteem and promote his exploits to whomever. Luckily I had neither the real necklace nor a replica  on me. Unfortunately Iktar, the infamous thief, child molester, rapist and killer was beginning his unique torture on me.

The blade went deeper into my skin. The large heart was taking shape. Warm blood pooled around my solar lexis, and then trickled down the left side of my chest. Iktar soaked up my blood with a white hankie. His bodyguards grimaced at me as if they sympathized with my pain.

A guard's cellphone rang. He answered and listened. He touched Iktar shoulder and whispered in his ear. All action stopped. Iktar wiped his knife, folded and pocketed it.

"You're one lucky mother-fucker, Alexander Crown," Iktar said, his voice a whisper of hatred. He put a blossoming, fresh cut red rose on my stomach.

They left me plastic tied to the desk, bleeding and aching but not crying. My extreme anger prevented me from crying. I positioned the small pocket knife I had in my hand, flicking it open with the assisted switch and cut the plastic wrap on my right wrist. The escape was easy. Stopping the bleeding was difficult. I took Iktar's hankie he'd left on my stomach beside the rose and pressed it against my new exterior heart.

Thirty minutes later with the rose between my lips at the Klinički bolnički centar Rijeka, with thirty stitches enclosing my wound I left the medical center and headed for the airport. Iktar the thief, child molester, rapist and killer wasn't going to escape my fury, not now, not ever.

Alexander Crown Trilogy