The City Was Dark In The Night
When Johnny is sent by the Boss to hunt down Fuchs, he uncovers a greater mystery, all the while trying to hide his own personal secret.
Written by Melodie Rivers; first draft published April 8 2019
Written by Melodie Rivers; first draft published April 8 2019
My target was running. I could hear his footsteps hitting hard upon the asphalt in the silence of the night, expertly making his way through the city's streets. I was chasing him. Why did they always have to run? My knees threatened to buckle, and my heart was beating so hard I could swear my eardrums would explode... I hate being so out of shape.
My target on the other hand didn't seem to tire at all. Of course not. He probably was an ex-marathon runner, or maybe a circus clown, I don't know. Maybe he had experience escaping the taxman. All I know is that he was really, annoyingly fast.
Suddenly he took the Twenty-Second Street. That was a mistake... unlike most of the city's street, this one was a dead end. Finally. I just might stop running and begin breathing again.
I turned around the corner and there he was, stuck between three brick walls. I unholstered my pistol and aimed at him, carefully walking closer to get a better shot in case he'd try anything. I had to be careful with the man. There was a chance he knew of techniques to disarm an opponent with a gun. Those were rare but you can never be too careful. I just wasn't sure how much time he had practiced those techniques, alongside his Olympic marathon runs.
"They told me you'd probably come," the man suddenly said. "So I brought something."
Oh no. Not a grenade. Or maybe it was a gun. A bigger gun than mine. Why am I comparing gun sizes? The fact is, I still have mine, aiming straight at him...
He brought out a clear flask. It had a little LED inside it, so to illuminate the content. Was it a virus? Oh. I can't see viruses, dummy. Way too small. Then I realized what was in there. It was an ant. A poor, innocent ant. I could see it groom itself, unaware of the drama outside of the flask.
"Don't shoot, or I'll squish the ant!" he said, with puzzlement in his voice.
I had to think fast. If I shot, he'd drop the flask, and the ant could be severely damaged by the shock or by the debris. Maybe I could dash and grab the flask before it'd shatter on the ground... No, I was too far away.
"Don't you dare!" I growled, with my most menacing face possible.
The man's face switched from puzzlement to surprise. Yeah, is it so hard to believe? I don't like people killing animals. I mean, I am okay with hunting, as long as there's respect involved, but just killing in cold blood, that I have a problem with.
"Let me go, or I'll smash the thing to smithereens," he threatened again.
The "thing"!? You're a "thing". It's called an ant, you know. Check the dictionary sometimes, in-between your intensive jogs schedules.
I sighed. I looked at the ant one last time. I had no choice... I had to do it.
My target on the other hand didn't seem to tire at all. Of course not. He probably was an ex-marathon runner, or maybe a circus clown, I don't know. Maybe he had experience escaping the taxman. All I know is that he was really, annoyingly fast.
Suddenly he took the Twenty-Second Street. That was a mistake... unlike most of the city's street, this one was a dead end. Finally. I just might stop running and begin breathing again.
I turned around the corner and there he was, stuck between three brick walls. I unholstered my pistol and aimed at him, carefully walking closer to get a better shot in case he'd try anything. I had to be careful with the man. There was a chance he knew of techniques to disarm an opponent with a gun. Those were rare but you can never be too careful. I just wasn't sure how much time he had practiced those techniques, alongside his Olympic marathon runs.
"They told me you'd probably come," the man suddenly said. "So I brought something."
Oh no. Not a grenade. Or maybe it was a gun. A bigger gun than mine. Why am I comparing gun sizes? The fact is, I still have mine, aiming straight at him...
He brought out a clear flask. It had a little LED inside it, so to illuminate the content. Was it a virus? Oh. I can't see viruses, dummy. Way too small. Then I realized what was in there. It was an ant. A poor, innocent ant. I could see it groom itself, unaware of the drama outside of the flask.
"Don't shoot, or I'll squish the ant!" he said, with puzzlement in his voice.
I had to think fast. If I shot, he'd drop the flask, and the ant could be severely damaged by the shock or by the debris. Maybe I could dash and grab the flask before it'd shatter on the ground... No, I was too far away.
"Don't you dare!" I growled, with my most menacing face possible.
The man's face switched from puzzlement to surprise. Yeah, is it so hard to believe? I don't like people killing animals. I mean, I am okay with hunting, as long as there's respect involved, but just killing in cold blood, that I have a problem with.
"Let me go, or I'll smash the thing to smithereens," he threatened again.
The "thing"!? You're a "thing". It's called an ant, you know. Check the dictionary sometimes, in-between your intensive jogs schedules.
I sighed. I looked at the ant one last time. I had no choice... I had to do it.
**********************
I walked into the Boss's room. The Boss was sitting behind his desk, but even then his strength and heigth was overwhelming, as if the room was too small for him. I am a pretty intensive guy myself, but even I knew he'd kick my rear in a second flat if he wanted to. Age wasn't a obstacle or a guarantee against his temper. I didn't know his real name, everyone just called him the Boss. He was bald, and his face was as expressionless as usual behind his sunglasses.
"Johnny," he impassively said, joining his massive hands underneath his chin, as if playing chess.
"Hey," I tried to lighten up the mood.
"So, you've caught Fuchs."
I frowned. I had submitted my report a week ago, he should have read it. Couldn't he read?
"Yeah," I said. "Cold as ice, eighteen feet under a frozen lake."
He kept looking straight at me.
"Fuchs has attacked one of ours, two hours ago," he simply stated.
Oh boy. I felt my heart skip a beat. Now I really hated Fuchs. Why couldn't targets just seize a second chance and become a doctor for poors people in a faraway third world country, or something? Why do they have to make you regret about being compassionate?
"I... I am sorry," I could only say. "I tried to catch him, but he was way too well equipped. I suspect he was armed by a foreign intelligence. He had this high caliber semi-automatic, you know, the AK-48, I think it's called. I knew I couldn't stand a chance, I actually barely avoided a bullet... he actually shot at me."
The Boss turned a screen towards me. It was a security camera footage. In it, you could see me at the center of pieces of a broken flask, and crying heavily, with a dead ant in my right hand. I hate security cameras.
"Well," I tried to convince him. "You see..."
"... he basically brought an ant to a gunfight, and he won," the Boss concluded.
I didn't know what to say. He didn't understood the value of life as I did, I knew that.
The Boss stood up. I instinctively stepped back, a bit, but the room was so stupidly small.
"Why did I send a broken guy to do that job..." he mumbled to himself. "Sure, Johnny, you've shown promise in the audition rounds back in the day." He sighed. "But then, there's the fact you're 50 and still thinks that you're an unicorn."
"No, not an unicorn. I actually do recognize that my body is currently human, but in addition, I believe my soul to be draconic in nature," I explained. "Which must not be confused with forms of lycanthropy, in which the individual fails to recognize that..."
"Whatever," cut the Boss, waving his hand dismissively as he reached for his bottle of whiskey. "I don't care which mental health troubles you've got, I just know you've got one."
I let out a grunt of frustration, and shut my mouth. There was no point arguing. How could he ever understand this sacred, inner fire I had in my soul? This longing for flying? This feeling that my current body is but a vehicle to my actual self? How could he understand that we are many to share common feelings, memories and even a culture? That we must keep silent about those feelings, that we must hide our ancient mythical nature, a nature that is today only remembered by humans as the villain that must be slain in every children books and legends?
"Your job is to catch Fuchs," the Boss said after swallowing a gulp of whiskey. "A day, two days max. You messed up, you clean it up. If you don't, you'll have the consequences. Simple as that."
I knew what he meant. I nodded, and hurried out.
"Johnny," he impassively said, joining his massive hands underneath his chin, as if playing chess.
"Hey," I tried to lighten up the mood.
"So, you've caught Fuchs."
I frowned. I had submitted my report a week ago, he should have read it. Couldn't he read?
"Yeah," I said. "Cold as ice, eighteen feet under a frozen lake."
He kept looking straight at me.
"Fuchs has attacked one of ours, two hours ago," he simply stated.
Oh boy. I felt my heart skip a beat. Now I really hated Fuchs. Why couldn't targets just seize a second chance and become a doctor for poors people in a faraway third world country, or something? Why do they have to make you regret about being compassionate?
"I... I am sorry," I could only say. "I tried to catch him, but he was way too well equipped. I suspect he was armed by a foreign intelligence. He had this high caliber semi-automatic, you know, the AK-48, I think it's called. I knew I couldn't stand a chance, I actually barely avoided a bullet... he actually shot at me."
The Boss turned a screen towards me. It was a security camera footage. In it, you could see me at the center of pieces of a broken flask, and crying heavily, with a dead ant in my right hand. I hate security cameras.
"Well," I tried to convince him. "You see..."
"... he basically brought an ant to a gunfight, and he won," the Boss concluded.
I didn't know what to say. He didn't understood the value of life as I did, I knew that.
The Boss stood up. I instinctively stepped back, a bit, but the room was so stupidly small.
"Why did I send a broken guy to do that job..." he mumbled to himself. "Sure, Johnny, you've shown promise in the audition rounds back in the day." He sighed. "But then, there's the fact you're 50 and still thinks that you're an unicorn."
"No, not an unicorn. I actually do recognize that my body is currently human, but in addition, I believe my soul to be draconic in nature," I explained. "Which must not be confused with forms of lycanthropy, in which the individual fails to recognize that..."
"Whatever," cut the Boss, waving his hand dismissively as he reached for his bottle of whiskey. "I don't care which mental health troubles you've got, I just know you've got one."
I let out a grunt of frustration, and shut my mouth. There was no point arguing. How could he ever understand this sacred, inner fire I had in my soul? This longing for flying? This feeling that my current body is but a vehicle to my actual self? How could he understand that we are many to share common feelings, memories and even a culture? That we must keep silent about those feelings, that we must hide our ancient mythical nature, a nature that is today only remembered by humans as the villain that must be slain in every children books and legends?
"Your job is to catch Fuchs," the Boss said after swallowing a gulp of whiskey. "A day, two days max. You messed up, you clean it up. If you don't, you'll have the consequences. Simple as that."
I knew what he meant. I nodded, and hurried out.
**********************
I walked into my apartment. I carefully closed the door behind me, and locked it. I threw my door keys, my trench coat and my hat onto the table, and I sat behind my desk. I unlocked the first drawer. In it were information on a past target. I was looking for information on Fuchs, there was none in here. I moved to the second drawer, unlocked it. I checked documents after documents. Still nothing. I sighed. I looked behind me, making sure the windows shutters were closed. I unlocked the third drawer, and opened it up.
It was empty.
"Where is my egg?!!" I panicked.
I had a beautiful dragon egg, made of bronze, its surface covered in smooth metal scales. I had bought it for myself for my last birthday. Each evening I would bring it to bed, and I would fall asleep cuddled around it. It made me feel like a mother dragon protecting her nest, it's a beautiful feeling most humans never experience.
But now it was gone. Someone stole my egg! Now I was really pissed off. I had a feeling this Fuchs had something to do with it. I couldn't believe it; I mean, you can't just steal somebody's egg. There are limits, boundaries that even criminals shouldn't cross. Stealing an egg was the dirtiest of low blows.
Oh, I was so angry. Someone had just made a big mistake. I slipped my coat back on, and stormed out of the apartment.
It was empty.
"Where is my egg?!!" I panicked.
I had a beautiful dragon egg, made of bronze, its surface covered in smooth metal scales. I had bought it for myself for my last birthday. Each evening I would bring it to bed, and I would fall asleep cuddled around it. It made me feel like a mother dragon protecting her nest, it's a beautiful feeling most humans never experience.
But now it was gone. Someone stole my egg! Now I was really pissed off. I had a feeling this Fuchs had something to do with it. I couldn't believe it; I mean, you can't just steal somebody's egg. There are limits, boundaries that even criminals shouldn't cross. Stealing an egg was the dirtiest of low blows.
Oh, I was so angry. Someone had just made a big mistake. I slipped my coat back on, and stormed out of the apartment.
**********************
I headed to the bar; I liked to start a job with a full belly. I needed some whiskey, I think it's the second most important food group behind proteins, if I remember correctly. I'm no expert; I just remember doctors saying that one glass per day was good for the heart. I could never drink a full glass, though. But I would try to come as close to it, anyway.
I entered the bar. The atmosphere was actually kind of cozy. I sat at the counter, and asked for whiskey on rocks.
"Hey," the barman said. "How're you doing?"
"Hey Rob, I'm good. Just need a shot before I head to work."
"You're allowed to be drunk while you wire?" Rob asked, puzzled.
Right. I forgot. I had convinced Rob I was an electrician. It was the only way I could explain my unusually high pays and therefore my ability to buy rather expensive whiskey.
"Sure," I lied. "I am pretty good at my job."
"Hmm," Rob snorted unconvincingly. "So, whiskey, as usual?"
"Yeah," I confirmed. "I try to get to drink a full glass per day. Just a bit here and there, across the day, until it adds up to a full glass. It's good for the heart."
Rob raised his eyebrows:
"That's for wine, mate. There's antioxidants in wine. Whiskey doesn't have any."
Oh, poop. I hate when that happens. You try to sound all smart and boom, turns out you've been doing the wrong thing for five months now.
"How long have you been doing this?" Rob asked, concern on his face.
"Oh, just a day, or two," I lied.
Rob gave me my whiskey. Maybe if I tipped him generously, he would stop thinking I'm a senile idiot. Well, I am an idiot. Hmm. Maybe he'll think I'm an idiot, but at least I'm generous. Yeah, that's the best plan right now.
I was still pondering on my plan to repair my self-image when I heard the door open, and footsteps come in my general direction. I hate conflicts, so I made sure not to check. I have learned to avoid eye contact with other people. I always get the feeling people get all defensive if I am staring into their eyes, especially with my kind of stern-looking face that one gets after more than 20 years of trash jobs. I don't want people to feel intimidated, so I usually shy away.
I heard the new person sit right besides me at the counter, and sigh from a stressful day. It was a man's sigh. I could relate to him sighing from a stressful day.
"The usual, please," the man said with a second sigh.
It was Rob's turn to sigh, and from the corner of my eye, I saw him slide to the man a shot of whiskey and a banana.
"Look buddy, I can't keep ordering bananas just for you. You're the only one who eats that around here. Go get them at your grocery, like any normal people do."
"It's not the same," the man mumbled.
Rob snorted and turned back to his bartending duties. Silence returned, with only the sound of the new customer chewing his banana, and I realized I couldn't just avoid looking at him for a full hour. So I formulated a plan. First I was going to turn around, smile agreeably, and say, "How do you do?". He would no doubt answer, "Good." to which I would answer "Stressful day?" and therefore appear caring even though I would be looking at him in the eyes from time to time.
I turned around, and said to the man:
"How do you do?"
I discovered it was Fuchs.
My enemy was just resting his head in his hands, his face bored, the banana peel in the empty whiskey glass. I noticed a tattoo. Oh no. You did not dare. It was a dragon tattoo. Why do people feel the need to tattoo dragons on themselves? I don't go around tattooing YOUR face on my left buttocks.
Fuchs simply turned his head towards me, obviously not realizing it was me. When he did realize it was me, however, I saw his face change from boredom to a mix of fear and anger.
"Your tattoo!" I blurted out the first thing that came to my mind.
I couldn't get my feelings into the proper words, so instead I grabbed my drink, gobbled up the whiskey... and suddenly hurled the empty glass towards his face. Fuchs blocked the glass with his arm, and quickly switched to a "the best defense is an offense" approach. He reached for the stool I was sitting on, and pushed, making me fall into the ground.
Ha! Fool. He hadn't realized my mouth was still full of whiskey. I pulled out my lighter, and stood up. I had developed a special skill of spitting fire. Most humans are dead afraid of flames. They think that they will somehow magically become walking torches at the slight touch of a flame. Which would be true if you were made of 98% gasoline with traces of dynamite. But in reality human skin can actually sustain the heat of a flame for about a second or so, in my experience. Nonetheless, most humans don't know that, and flee flames like plague.
I aimed, lit up my lighter, and spit out an impressive arch of flames that curved down right in front of his feet.
He wasn't that afraid. In fact, he simply stood there, almost bored by my cheap circus trick. I tried to support my action with trash talk.
"You stole my egg! And now you don't have any ant hostages!"
I only noticed it sounded silly after I had said it. But it was too late. I carefully avoided Rob's puzzled stare. More importantly, Fuchs was actually looking down, as if depressed. He sat back down on his stool.
"I miss that egg," he simply said.
I realized Fuchs had abandoned the fight. Instead, he seemed as if about to cry. I could tell he was feeling some kind of regret. I sat beside him, hiding my wince at my sore buttocks; luckily this bar still found carpets fashionable.
"What do you mean?" I asked.
He looked at me sheepishly. When he wasn't angry, he actually looked like a good buddy.
"I had to sell it. My boss... he's got dirt on me. I had to pay for a clean slate. But that thing was so beautiful..."
This guy... could it be? I looked at his tattoo again... it suddenly made sense... I asked:
"Your tattoo, is it your soul form?"
He smiled (Fuchs, not the tattoo), and stroked his neck.
"Yeah," he confessed. "I'm surprised you guessed as much. Most people don't know."
"I am a bit more slender, with wings separate from the arms," I could not help but share.
"Oh? Weather affinity?"
"Yeah, actually," I confirmed; this guy was the real thing. "Not super strong, but a bit there nonetheless."
"And you got one? he asked, showing his index, its fingernail carefully trimmed to look like a small claw. I nodded, and showed mine. It is one of those little codes people like us have to go by.
Fuchs looked at my empty glass, still lying on the floor. He picked it up, and he signaled Rob to pour two new glasses of whiskey.
"Need help to find that egg back?" he proposed. "It was pretty nice. And it's the least I could do, after stealing it from you."
That was not a bad idea, actually. Two dragons would be better than one.
"Heck yeah," I said.
We swallowed our whiskeys, then Fuchs paid the bill; and, finally, we made our way to his boss.
I entered the bar. The atmosphere was actually kind of cozy. I sat at the counter, and asked for whiskey on rocks.
"Hey," the barman said. "How're you doing?"
"Hey Rob, I'm good. Just need a shot before I head to work."
"You're allowed to be drunk while you wire?" Rob asked, puzzled.
Right. I forgot. I had convinced Rob I was an electrician. It was the only way I could explain my unusually high pays and therefore my ability to buy rather expensive whiskey.
"Sure," I lied. "I am pretty good at my job."
"Hmm," Rob snorted unconvincingly. "So, whiskey, as usual?"
"Yeah," I confirmed. "I try to get to drink a full glass per day. Just a bit here and there, across the day, until it adds up to a full glass. It's good for the heart."
Rob raised his eyebrows:
"That's for wine, mate. There's antioxidants in wine. Whiskey doesn't have any."
Oh, poop. I hate when that happens. You try to sound all smart and boom, turns out you've been doing the wrong thing for five months now.
"How long have you been doing this?" Rob asked, concern on his face.
"Oh, just a day, or two," I lied.
Rob gave me my whiskey. Maybe if I tipped him generously, he would stop thinking I'm a senile idiot. Well, I am an idiot. Hmm. Maybe he'll think I'm an idiot, but at least I'm generous. Yeah, that's the best plan right now.
I was still pondering on my plan to repair my self-image when I heard the door open, and footsteps come in my general direction. I hate conflicts, so I made sure not to check. I have learned to avoid eye contact with other people. I always get the feeling people get all defensive if I am staring into their eyes, especially with my kind of stern-looking face that one gets after more than 20 years of trash jobs. I don't want people to feel intimidated, so I usually shy away.
I heard the new person sit right besides me at the counter, and sigh from a stressful day. It was a man's sigh. I could relate to him sighing from a stressful day.
"The usual, please," the man said with a second sigh.
It was Rob's turn to sigh, and from the corner of my eye, I saw him slide to the man a shot of whiskey and a banana.
"Look buddy, I can't keep ordering bananas just for you. You're the only one who eats that around here. Go get them at your grocery, like any normal people do."
"It's not the same," the man mumbled.
Rob snorted and turned back to his bartending duties. Silence returned, with only the sound of the new customer chewing his banana, and I realized I couldn't just avoid looking at him for a full hour. So I formulated a plan. First I was going to turn around, smile agreeably, and say, "How do you do?". He would no doubt answer, "Good." to which I would answer "Stressful day?" and therefore appear caring even though I would be looking at him in the eyes from time to time.
I turned around, and said to the man:
"How do you do?"
I discovered it was Fuchs.
My enemy was just resting his head in his hands, his face bored, the banana peel in the empty whiskey glass. I noticed a tattoo. Oh no. You did not dare. It was a dragon tattoo. Why do people feel the need to tattoo dragons on themselves? I don't go around tattooing YOUR face on my left buttocks.
Fuchs simply turned his head towards me, obviously not realizing it was me. When he did realize it was me, however, I saw his face change from boredom to a mix of fear and anger.
"Your tattoo!" I blurted out the first thing that came to my mind.
I couldn't get my feelings into the proper words, so instead I grabbed my drink, gobbled up the whiskey... and suddenly hurled the empty glass towards his face. Fuchs blocked the glass with his arm, and quickly switched to a "the best defense is an offense" approach. He reached for the stool I was sitting on, and pushed, making me fall into the ground.
Ha! Fool. He hadn't realized my mouth was still full of whiskey. I pulled out my lighter, and stood up. I had developed a special skill of spitting fire. Most humans are dead afraid of flames. They think that they will somehow magically become walking torches at the slight touch of a flame. Which would be true if you were made of 98% gasoline with traces of dynamite. But in reality human skin can actually sustain the heat of a flame for about a second or so, in my experience. Nonetheless, most humans don't know that, and flee flames like plague.
I aimed, lit up my lighter, and spit out an impressive arch of flames that curved down right in front of his feet.
He wasn't that afraid. In fact, he simply stood there, almost bored by my cheap circus trick. I tried to support my action with trash talk.
"You stole my egg! And now you don't have any ant hostages!"
I only noticed it sounded silly after I had said it. But it was too late. I carefully avoided Rob's puzzled stare. More importantly, Fuchs was actually looking down, as if depressed. He sat back down on his stool.
"I miss that egg," he simply said.
I realized Fuchs had abandoned the fight. Instead, he seemed as if about to cry. I could tell he was feeling some kind of regret. I sat beside him, hiding my wince at my sore buttocks; luckily this bar still found carpets fashionable.
"What do you mean?" I asked.
He looked at me sheepishly. When he wasn't angry, he actually looked like a good buddy.
"I had to sell it. My boss... he's got dirt on me. I had to pay for a clean slate. But that thing was so beautiful..."
This guy... could it be? I looked at his tattoo again... it suddenly made sense... I asked:
"Your tattoo, is it your soul form?"
He smiled (Fuchs, not the tattoo), and stroked his neck.
"Yeah," he confessed. "I'm surprised you guessed as much. Most people don't know."
"I am a bit more slender, with wings separate from the arms," I could not help but share.
"Oh? Weather affinity?"
"Yeah, actually," I confirmed; this guy was the real thing. "Not super strong, but a bit there nonetheless."
"And you got one? he asked, showing his index, its fingernail carefully trimmed to look like a small claw. I nodded, and showed mine. It is one of those little codes people like us have to go by.
Fuchs looked at my empty glass, still lying on the floor. He picked it up, and he signaled Rob to pour two new glasses of whiskey.
"Need help to find that egg back?" he proposed. "It was pretty nice. And it's the least I could do, after stealing it from you."
That was not a bad idea, actually. Two dragons would be better than one.
"Heck yeah," I said.
We swallowed our whiskeys, then Fuchs paid the bill; and, finally, we made our way to his boss.
**********************
We walked in the dark city, it was night again. I was tailing Fuchs as he made several turns to make sure no cop was following.
Finally, we reached a decaying brick building.
"This is where my boss keeps the egg and the dirt on me," Fuchs said.
I looked at the building. That was my Boss's building. Fuchs and I had the same boss.
That's why he wanted me to neutralize Fuchs. The Boss had dirt on Fuchs, Fuchs couldn't pay. So, the Boss needed someone to dispose of Fuchs. That someone was me. In all that dance, Fuchs actually finds a way to somewhat pay the Boss. But the price is something we both happen to be sentimentally attached to. And now this unlikely common point had united both of us against the Boss.
"He told me I was the only trash cleaner," I said.
"He told me the same thing," Fuchs snorted with newfound disdain.
"He's not in there that late," I told my friend. "Let's do this."
I was good with picking locks. You need two sturdy wires. One wire you hook it in the slit so to encourage the thing to turn counterclockwise. The other wire you use it to gently stroke the bearings inside the slit, as if petting a dog. They'll eventually slide down, and once all bearings are pushed down, the lock unlocks.
It took me a few minutes but I eventually got it done. We got in. We immediately saw our egg, standing in a mess of papers and dirt on all kind of people. Everyday people, even an old lady. I couldn't believe it. That guy was a real rearhole.
"Wouldn't it be great to burn it all?" Fuchs suddenly said, a twinkle in his eyes.
"Nah," I said. "It doesn't help our reputation."
I suddenly thought of something:
"However, why not leave the choice to the Boss?"
After an hour or two we were done. We had gathered all the blackmail material as a bundle, held in the air by the legs of a chair lying on its back. Right underneath there was a pyramid of dry wooden pencils we had found all around the place. Finally, right beneath, there was a hygienic paper completely soaked in lighter fluid, connected to the spark box from my own lighter. The whole thing was rigged up so that opening the front door would press on the spark box, and light up the whole thing on fire.
We grabbed the beautiful egg, and carefully slipped out of the window. It was completely the Boss's decision; if he decided to open the door for more than a foot, he would trigger the destruction of his dirt documents, himself. He could always decide to open the door much less wider.
But then... the Boss was a very big man.
Finally, we reached a decaying brick building.
"This is where my boss keeps the egg and the dirt on me," Fuchs said.
I looked at the building. That was my Boss's building. Fuchs and I had the same boss.
That's why he wanted me to neutralize Fuchs. The Boss had dirt on Fuchs, Fuchs couldn't pay. So, the Boss needed someone to dispose of Fuchs. That someone was me. In all that dance, Fuchs actually finds a way to somewhat pay the Boss. But the price is something we both happen to be sentimentally attached to. And now this unlikely common point had united both of us against the Boss.
"He told me I was the only trash cleaner," I said.
"He told me the same thing," Fuchs snorted with newfound disdain.
"He's not in there that late," I told my friend. "Let's do this."
I was good with picking locks. You need two sturdy wires. One wire you hook it in the slit so to encourage the thing to turn counterclockwise. The other wire you use it to gently stroke the bearings inside the slit, as if petting a dog. They'll eventually slide down, and once all bearings are pushed down, the lock unlocks.
It took me a few minutes but I eventually got it done. We got in. We immediately saw our egg, standing in a mess of papers and dirt on all kind of people. Everyday people, even an old lady. I couldn't believe it. That guy was a real rearhole.
"Wouldn't it be great to burn it all?" Fuchs suddenly said, a twinkle in his eyes.
"Nah," I said. "It doesn't help our reputation."
I suddenly thought of something:
"However, why not leave the choice to the Boss?"
After an hour or two we were done. We had gathered all the blackmail material as a bundle, held in the air by the legs of a chair lying on its back. Right underneath there was a pyramid of dry wooden pencils we had found all around the place. Finally, right beneath, there was a hygienic paper completely soaked in lighter fluid, connected to the spark box from my own lighter. The whole thing was rigged up so that opening the front door would press on the spark box, and light up the whole thing on fire.
We grabbed the beautiful egg, and carefully slipped out of the window. It was completely the Boss's decision; if he decided to open the door for more than a foot, he would trigger the destruction of his dirt documents, himself. He could always decide to open the door much less wider.
But then... the Boss was a very big man.