A Night in Venice

A Night in Venice

1.

'There it is, then.' He splashed more scotch into a glass, and carefully placed his revolver on the table. He picked up the glass, and strolled over to the window. Undoing the catch and pulling the lower window upwards, he then perched on the sill and looked at me. He was quite tall, with cold eyes. A very handsome face, though not quite canny. Scar running from his left brow to his cheek. Those eyes. He was a little warped - always focussed on the job. Always had tools about his person. Unknowable; an infectious laugh - That man could laugh. We were friends, I think - I was the closest thing he had to a friend. He did not love me, but perhaps he liked me for that. I liked him; at times I saw more to him than he suspected. He thought little of himself, but knew his capabilities. Quick, softly-spoken. Polite, not quite like me. That was Raul. The early morning light began to filter in through the tall buildings on the opposite side of the street. The slow rise and fall of the water lapped at the brickwork on the canals. Down there, even at this hour there must have been people - Real people. Silence. He drank up and grunted, eyes shut. He opened them, to continue looking at me.
'What?'
He continued to look. I grew uneasy, and rose from my chair. He threw the bottle, which I caught. After refilling our glasses, I sat back down in the ripped leather armchair.
'She doesn't love you, you know.'
His eyes hardened. I took another pull at my scotch, then ran a hand through my hair.
'It's not easy. But she doesn't want someone like us. She's a...' I paused. '... Home-grown girl. Traditional, wants a family. Not - someone like us. It's not easy. But that's it.'
He continued to look. I sighed and shifted uncomfortably. A twinge in my left hip; I gasp and remove the slim knife strapped to it. The blade glides out, slowly at first - Early morning sunlight is mirrored on its pale flank. I turn it slowly to catch the light; my companion still staring at me. After a few seconds I hang the hilt from my thumb and forefinger; then let it drop, point-down. It enters the wooden floorboards and there it stays, shivering -

2.

His cold eyes the previous night. About an hour before midnight, we proceed through dark alleys, making for the rendezvous. First rule: Precise timekeeping will save your life. Sentries and look-outs will fuck you. We duck into a shaded doorway and he lights up a slim cigarette.
'Where now?'
'Now we wait' is his response.
Footsteps, not too distant. I cock my ear. How far? Perhaps a hundred yards, give or take twenty. I look around for my companion, but he has gone - Where has he gone? I steal a glance out into the street, nothing.
Nothing that is - save for a deep patch of shadow moving silently up the street. How is he that fast? He moves his right hand towards his jacket, and a long knife appears - the blade blacked with dull boot polish. A man appears at the other end of the alley, quite stocky. Probably heeled, but - my companion moves on. This man is dangerous; potentially fatal to our current mission.
Anyone muffled in drab clothes and walking these streets will most certainly be up to something interesting; or so the police and our other enemies would believe.
I reach down and pick up a glass bottle from the alley floor. Weighing it in my hand, I take one last look at the man, and then throw it in the opposite direction. Moments later it smashes further up the alley. A muffled gasp. Shortly after he stalks silently back towards me, wiping the point of his knife on a red handkerchief.
'What happened?'
'Pricked his throat for him.'
'Clean.'
He nods, and folds the handkerchief, placing it in his back pocket. 'Let's go.' -

3.

A week earlier. Glancing out of a window on the aeroplane. English summer drizzle, combined with the perpetual dreariness of Englishmen. Funny. English men and women die but its people remain disappointed. My hip-flask comes out. The man next to me glances over disapprovingly. I'm irritable.
'What?'
Pause. 'Should you be doing that?'
'Who gives a shit? Fuck off.'
He starts violently, then stares at the headrest of the seat he's sitting behind. Hushed voices. I can't move around to look properly. Ignoring them, I look once more out of the window. Business class and there's still no fucking room. More scotch. My outraged neighbor looks on with knitted brows. What would be the point in talking to him further? It would be useless. Perhaps I'd get angry and taunt him. He'd probably ignore me. Useless.
Venice Airport - Should not take long to get there. Hopefully quicker with this cheery fellow sitting next to me. Raul has our accommodation ready. Our equipment has been smuggled onto the continental mainland; from there it'll taken to a safe-house a few miles out from our destination.
The refreshment trolley rumbles past. I wave a hand at the pretty flight attendant.
'What can I get you sir?'
Stroking my stubble I ask for a double scotch. She passes one over. My neighbor harrumphs. I suddenly feel quite playful.
'And one for this chap, if you would be so kind' I add. She passes a decent measure of scotch to the father of temperance, who goggles at it. I raise my glass and toast him.
'Your health, sir.'
He scowls at me, and raises his in return. It's quite good scotch. I resume staring out of the window -

4.

We turn into a side-street and take stock of the cafes and bars. I look like more of a tourist than Raul, who pretty much blends in everywhere. His easy swagger just doesn't draw attention. We walk on, and decide on a fairly average looking bar-cum-cafe; 'The Colosseum'. Ten minutes later we walk outside for a smoke. I pass him a cigarette and we both light up. Leaning over the railings on the waterfront, we peer into the liquid murk. We hadn't talked about the job all the while we'd been in Venice; Raul had demonstrated that all would 'become clear in time'. I was sick of his deliberately mystifying the subject, though, and decided to tackle him about it. I wasn't walking into a deathtrap for the sake of his vanity. No way.
I blew out a ring of smoke, with a sharp grunt. 'Give me the details.'
He stopped pulling on the cigarette to show a puzzled frown. 'For what?'
I gave him a hard stare. 'The details. I want them.'
He resumed smoking and looking at the water, saying nothing.
'Well?'
He looked at me. 'Well what?'
This made me angry. 'Well fucking what? Give me the fucking details.'
He wasn't fazed. I toss my cigarette into the depths, extend the middle and index fingers of my right hand, then begin to bang them on the wooden barrier. He sees this and knows what it signifies - He finally capitulates.
'Our target's a local gang-boss; a rival of our employer. Guarded - not too heavily,' he sounds almost disappointed, 'but enough to keep us busy with.'
'Eyes?' I ask.
'A few.' He dashes the fag-butt at a passing gondolier.
'Let's talk inside.'
We both stretch and walk back into the bar. -

5.

Early morning in Venice. We spent the previous afternoon prepping up; there wasn't much else to do. With that out of the way, we could pretty much do what we wanted for the next few days. We'd need to reconnoiter, quite heavily really - Neither of us had been had ever been to Venice; and all we had was a map written in Spanish - which neither of us could read - and a rough set of directions that Raul had been given by our current employer. It wasn't enough, and we couldn't be poring over tour-guides and local maps with the Polizia out in force. It couldn't be done; we'd be hauled in and banged up if not killed. I remembered Raul the previous day, polishing his revolver with meticulate care and shuddered. Why do we do this? We are killers. Neither of us have moral scruples; they just get in the way of business. But still - Why? This is us, and us entire: None really know us; we barely know each other. If we are what we do, then our identity consists in eliminating particular streams of consciousness. There was something; now there is nothing - But this is us; this is what we do. One can pontificate over it for the rest of one's life; perhaps one will never come closer to an answer. Or perhaps one isn't what one does. One doesn't 'identify oneself' with anything. If identity obtains, then one cannot arbitrate between one's defining characteristics. Who am I? Perhaps I can answer this question better than anyone else. I am what I am; I am not what I am not - I am not that which I desire to be; and that which I do not desire to be, I am. One is essentially partly that which is, and partly that which is not. -

It's time for one of those entirely fictional and thoroughly emotional poem-rap thing lala's.

Roll up roll up for the great weed hold-up,
Holed-up with Jimmy Split as the crow tolls
Plastic, fast chicks bullets and brag;
The only snag
Two men with shooters, one's a cowboy one's a Rufus
Bullets sprayed, one's winged one's back is blown
Forever to be, an incapacity, it don't have to be
Like this son, Billy the Kid with his verterbrae split
Son you're a soldier, and here's my salute
Snatch your wallet, snatch your phone, snatch your loot,
Take aim and shoot, at your head, you're dead
Lying on the pavement with your brains running through
Your skull where the hole, whole bullet blowed
Dope flow, home-grown, No-Go Zone to my foes
Causality will also be the death of me
Kinetic forces, light travels faster than sound
But my super-solar-sonic rhymes will smash you to the ground,
Uh.

From Philosophy to Poetry

When I turned to philosophy, I secretly sought expression. Since this hope has been all but frustrated, I must turn to the 'stuttering' of poets.

I get the poetic mood quite frequently so expect lots of it. It's more poetry-rap, I guess. I write them to instrumentals so ;] I am still finding a style, so watch this space.

Wrote this last night:

Sitting, spitting in my sister's kitchen
With thoughts of this girl, bewitching
My brain, doctor's stamp: 'Insane'
Three joints later I'ma get a pen and paper
Write this, rhyme this, stash some for later
Alligator, potato catch you later,
Smash instrumentals, charge up my cell-phone
No credit left, free texts ring her from my home
Blaze up another cone just to her her moan
'Cause I'm on a kind of absurd quest
Tryin' to prove to this girl that I'm better than the rest
With zest, and lemon, a fireproof serum
Into your vein, the aim to enflame the fire left in 'em

I will give you hearts, I will give you stones
I will give you bread, I will give you bones.

-----

Loneliness, and its redemption

Why I am this clod of earth which dreams -
To fly among the starlit streams and summer greeens
Where couples entwine in heavenly serene -
And I look on

Why am I this single pain, which sees -
To behold scorched earth and withered trees
Where love's first fragrance no longer breathes -
And I look on

Why am I this river-bed -
Stained with scarlet tears and bleeding fears that I shall bleed no more;
Where silence weeps and sadness keeps
My fettered wings to earthly things.
To see others fly makes me cry -
But I look on

But in the distance at once I see
A bleeding little heart like me;
Nursing its angel-wing.
Perhaps you and I would learn to fly
As two stars, on solar springs

tbc