The entire view was synthetic, like trying to eat a piece of plastic, radiating sensational vibes that couldn't stop this slick environment. But was the view synthetic? No! The view was natural; diamonds and emeralds set into an exquisite setting of gold and silver and don't forget the platinum sidebar on the entire necklace that was designed and made by Michelangelo over 500 years ago.
I possessed it but it wasn't mine, it belonged to the Italian Historical Society that I had given the necklace to. They tried to bury it, hide it beneath a mountain of paperwork and prejudice and politics, so I took it back, stole it right from under their crazy eyes without them realizing it. Did they know that I had taken it back? I didn't give a fuck whether they did or not. I needed the gorgeous, priceless necklace to produce monetary results.
This meeting I arranged was a fistful of rumors, whispers and myths, but my intel gathering moved with purpose, proving that with purpose and lots of ambition and energy I did convince the new group of jewelry buyers that Michelangelo's necklace was priceless, that it is for sale by me, but not revealing my real purpose for shoving it into the hands of creepy power money mongers.
I'm in Cannes, France, during the Cannes Film Festival where drugs, drinks and dimwits converge, corrupting and smothering all competition. But that is another story for some other time.
With clean movement of my muscles and the warmth of my legs I savored the passing moments waiting at the sidewalk café in Cannes, France. Busy street, busy café, busy walkways, full restaurants and tourists galore filled this small seaside resort, home of the Cannes Film Festival, and the Festival is about to begin, a place I'd rather not be, the place where I had originally stolen the necklace from a security guard at the Film Festival three years ago. I now convince buyers it's for sale, don't give them the merchandise but take their money anyway, by force most times, and then give the cash to support my orphanage in Cape Town, South Africa. That's what living is all about, sharing and giving, as well as taking away from those who can afford it.
The group of two brown suited bald men and one underdeveloped woman in a short white dress, Nike running shoes, big red hair and strong hands with which one carried a small paper bag, were walking toward my table. The bag was my rule of carrying the cash they would give me. I rolled my shoulders, shucked my gloves and dropped them on the table beside the black felt bag that contained the necklace. I pushed myself straight up and stood to greet my buyers.
They stopped at my table but were unable to surround it due to the wall behind me. The smaller man drew his hand across the table to shake my hand. His senses were sharp, his breath came easy. I felt power in his handshake like I was shackled in irons. He was free and alive much like me but I was more alive.
Three Berettas were drawn from some unknown place and targeted me, one in each of their hands. The one who shook my hand was left handed and that was a huge mistake, I saw his gun traversing from his backside as we shook hands. He made a little squeak when I ripped his Beretta from his palm. The other man and woman where like dead trees with week branches ready to break. They dropped their guns on the ground when I pointed my newly acquired gun at them.
I snatched the paper bag from the woman's hand and peeked inside it. Fresh American bills in twenties totaling ten thousand dollars. The woman's face dropped like a dead week. The two men were as still as crickets. Of course my escape depended on the large crowds meandering about, the auto traffic down the road, nearby alleyways, high rise buildings and Cannes, the most advertised city aside from Paris and New York as the city to visit.
I held the gun low and in two hands, my finger resting gently on the trigger. It felt good. The gun was molded for my hands. I started breathing heavily thinking I was preparing myself to run, but I felt a little dizzy. With their eyes locked on mine without trying to overtake me I realized what had happened. The little man's handshake stung like I was stuck with a pin. I was stuck with a pin that carried something either lethal or paralyzing so I needed to work fast. But perhaps working fast made the shot work faster. I didn't care.
Stepping forward like I was working in slow motion I slammed the Beretta upside the left handed guy's head. He fell like a sack of onions. The café crowd went berserk, jumping from their seats, screaming and scrambling and bumping into the other man and woman confronting me. I hands were show but I slammed the gun into the woman's head and followed through by slamming it to the second man's head. They slumped on top of each other at my feet. Stepping over them was a struggle among people scattering like cattle in a stampede.
Staggering and then tripping I maintained an upright position as I drifted down the street holding my gloves, the berretta and the paper bag containing the ten thousand dollars. Wouldn't want to forget any of those items.
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