Walter Wallace - Chapter 11

Boss Citadel was enjoying himself for the first time that night when he was rudely interrupted by a phone call. “What is it?” he growled into his handset.

“Hey Simommph! How you gomph?” chirped Mark in a muffled voice. “Sorry, mm just eating a pizza,” he managed, followed by a short silence as he apparently tried to swallow. Another muffled voice struggled to be heard only a few steps away. It was Not Citadel, The Boss’s lookalike. Not was currently feeling the sensation of having his eyes slowly squeezed from their socket; his cries of despair barely escaping Talk’s elbow pit. Boss smiled. “Simommphn…How you gomph?” Mark had apparently taken another bite of his pizza. Boss hung up the phone.

“OK let him breath a little,” he instructed. Talk dropped the limp body to the ground like a ragdoll. Boss walked over casually. “You think you’re still the funny guy? The cool guy? Well you’re not, Not!” Boss had been planning that line for the last two hours but it suddenly felt empty, especially since the only person around to appreciate was too dumb to acknowledge it. Maybe he should have kept Tank lingering a little longer in the house before suggesting he leave.


“Wh- What did I do?” pleaded Not. Slowly finding the strength to lift himself on all fours.

“Took my wife out, didn’t you? Made her laugh and be happy. Everyone in the fucking world saw it. You looked like you were in love with her.”

“But I’m meant to be your double. I’m just trying to copy you.”

“You think I love that whoring bitch? Talk finish the job.” He sat back and tried to enjoy the beating. Not’s blood staining the carpet. Give Sally something to clean, he thought. But he still felt so empty. He used to get off on killing but now it was just pointless. Maybe he needed to be part of the process. Yeah that could be it.

“Stop,” he ordered, strolling even more casually to the half dead body. He circled it looking down at it with disgust. He took his time; savoured the moment, waiting for Not to look up at him. But the idiot wouldn’t look up. How was he supposed to generate a sense of dread over that first strike if the victim wouldn’t look up at him and fear him first. “Look at me you piece of shit!” Not simply lay, shaking rather violently from time to time. “Fuck,” he muttered, “there’s no one here to even appreciate this anyway,” he said, sounding like a child. This reinvigorated his anger and he lashed out, kicking Not.

“SIMON! What are you doing?!” Mrs Citadel had just recently entered the suite and looked terrified at the state of her escort.

Boss lit up. Finally he had an audience. He pretended not to notice his wife. Circling his subject once more he struck him. “You still want to fuck this idiot, do you?” Boss was finally getting off like he imagined those gangsters of old would. This is what he had been craving his whole life, ever since he first bullied Timmy Two Eyes – a boy with one eye due to a birth defect who wore glasses. The whole class had laughed at that, and when the teacher tried to punish him but he simply mentioned his father and she shut right up. He realised, as he kicked the suffering body at his feet, that what he needed was more action. He needed to-

-Boss’s thoughts and Mrs Citadel’s screams were cut short by his phone ringing. “Oh for fuck’s-” he took out his phone, screaming into the receiver, “WHAT!”

“It’s me sir,” spoke a calm deep voice.

It bothered Boss to hear someone so controlled after he was just creating fear. “Chips, talk to-”

“It’s Whisky.”

“Right, Whisker. Tell me-”

“Whisky, sir. Call me Whisky.” Boss was in an abyss of fury. He tried to speak, to scream at this idiot. But his face was rigid, his frustration restricting every muscle in his body; he could neither find the words to use to berate him or the voice to yell. Whisky continued, “I’ve rendezvoused with Chips. The mark,” – at this Boss thought of his moronic brother and tightened further – “is about to leave the station. Eyes are everywhere. He won’t be alone for a long time. We are awaiting instruction.” Boss could barely breathe now. 30 seconds ago he had been in his element, about to kill a man for doing his job too well with his wife watching. He only just then noticed his wife at the thought of her. She was instructing Talk to carry the pathetic disfigurement of Not Citadel out the door.

“WHERE THE FUCK DO YOU THINK Y-”

“Boss.”

“WWWHAAAT!” he screamed, barely avoiding breaking out into falsetto.

Whisky was unfazed, “We are awaiting instruction,” he repeated.

Boss was almost hyperventilating. He felt like a ballsack loaded to the brink but forbidden to unload by some mystical force. “FOLLOW HIM,” he shouted with plateaued anger, where else could he go from here? “CALL-” he was about to say ‘Call Talk and ask him but he didn’t want to give him the pleasure, pretentious little fuck “CALL ME IN AN HOUR AND DON’T CALL MARK!”

“I have to call him, sir.”

“I SAID DON’T!” Somehow his anger found more momentum, the pressure increasing unbearably.

“But it was Myrtle’s wish,” Whisky stated without emotion.

Boss didn’t know why, but the fact that Whisky said her name made it even worse. “I SAID DON’T CALL HIM. IF YOU CALL HIM I WILL PERSONALLY SEE TO IT THAT YOU ARE BEATEN TO A PULP! AND WHEN I SAY PERSONALLY I MEAN I WILL DO IT MYSELF. PERSONALLY. DO YOU UNDERSTAND?!!”

“Yes Boss,” Whisky replied with the same lack of emotion. Boss had relieved some tension with his rant so decided to go for another round.

“AND ANOTHER TH-” as the dial tone sounded from his handset Boss let out a scream of rage and threw it at the TV screen just as Walter’s goofy face showed up on the late edition of the news.