A murdering bastard

Nothing more sad than a reformed licentious girl. All the ink, piercings, and mannerisms of her former proclivity still very present. Hair, platinum and purple, a great combo at the rave, not so much at this local watering hole. A pale blue, thrift store, granny sweater, buttoned only at the top, effectively disguises the cleavage otherwise revealed by her tube top.

Clyde and I observe this not so young lass as she enters the bar at our destination this evening, Harrisburg Pennsylvania, US America.

A brunette, we ascertain from her roots, giving the sheila’s hair a total of three colours. Sexy, from the chest up at least, she takes a stool at the bar. In exchange for a bag of candy, and obviously candy of another sort, gets free food, cigarettes, and all the craft beer she can handle from the oddly suave bartender. Chicks that can down pint after pint and still be attractive still amaze me. Mandy could drink me under the table, but only the hard stuff, she could barely finish a single pint, but a fifth of vodka, no problem.

Clyde’s been engaged in research on his laptop nearly constantly on the drive from West Virginia, U.S. America. “I found her!” Clyde announces triumphantly at the bar. After an exhausting search of the internet turned up nothing. Clyde turned to the dark web. I cannot wait to see what viruses will screw up my satellite phone that Clyde has been using to telnet through. Utilising contacts and connections, I don’t exactly want to be privy to, Clyde manages to track down Nelly.

“Gertrude did a job for Nelly a month ago. Said she’s been working at a Gentleman’s club in the foothills of the Berkshires in Connecticut, U.S. America. Where’s that?” Clyde asks, continuing, “She wouldn’t give up the name of the town, Assassin/client privilege she declared. I didn’t have enough ecoin to change her mind.”

Here, I can utilise some of my extensive experience to assist my friend in his quest. “Pull up an internet search browser”, I advise Clyde. He reaches for my satellite phone to make the connection. “Whoa, enough of that”, my bill is going to be extraordinary this month as it is. “There’s wi-fi here, connect with that”, I coach. I instruct Clyde to search “TUSCL”. “Wow!”, exclaims Clyde, “how do you know this?” It does get lonely on the road, and sometimes a mans needs, um, recreation. Anyway, we decide to concentrate on a fifty kilometre radius from Waterbury, Connecticut, U.S. America. That search reveals about twenty clubs. I advise Clyde that by checking the reviews of each club, he might find one for Nelly.

Returning from the loo, I notice tri-colour hair girl is now behind the bar, on her knees. Clyde is staring intently at the laptop’s monitor. His face a cold determined stone as he reads review after review. Clyde’s lips are moving, but he’s not mouthing the words on the page, rather he’s mouthing the words “I’m going to kill that bitch” over and over. Ah, the penalty for breaking the heart of a murdering bastard.


About HybridHitman

Contract killer for hire.
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