[--------------------------------------------------------------------------] ooooo ooooo .oooooo. oooooooooooo HOE E'ZINE RELEASE #736 `888' `888' d8P' `Y8b `888' `8 "The Biggest, Largest, Most 888 888 888 888 888 Exciting Heist of All Time 888ooooo888 888 888 888oooo8 Chapter 3: The Wrath of Gods" 888 888 888 888 888 " by Nybar 888 888 `88b d88' 888 o 7/16/99 o888o o888o `Y8bood8P' o888ooooood8 [--------------------------------------------------------------------------] About an hour and 15 minutes before Mogel was shot, a telephone awakened Mark Thoreau. Mark always slept with one eye open, just in case of such a call. They came often. His wife went on slumbering... she had been conditioned the opposite way, to ignore phone calls at night. "Hello, Mark Thoreau speaking, who is this?" "This is Grivinsky. They're getting close" Mark yawned. Someone was always 'getting close'. They never got there though. He had quite a profitable niche going making sure they didn't. "So what do you want me to do about it?" "What we discussed." "And the money?" "Look in your mailbox, Mr. Thoreau. The rest will find it's way to you after the successful completion of the... business... we discussed." "Okay. Where are they?" "At 'The Gemini Diamond', 35'th and second." A click and silence. "Bye then... call again some time, we'll talk sports." Mark said to the now-silent voice. He had had literally hundreds of customers, and each of them seemed to be waiting in line to end their conversations like rudely, but then again, cordiality isn't quite a staple of the murder for hire business. Not yet anyway. But he was always pushing his clients. Well, in the one minute and thirty seconds before they hung up, anyway. Maybe one day a priest that wanted a nun knocked off would stumble upon him; the conversation might then run like this: "Hello sir, how are you doing today?" "Quite alright. You?" "Oh beautiful. So, I'd like you to kill Sister Francine, as we discussed." "Splendid. May I inquire about my money?" "Certainly. The money will arrive promptly. Pray make sure that bitch doesn't live." "Certainly. Good-bye, sir." "Good-bye, and may the lord keep you." "Oh, thank you, though my prospects with the lord seem rather dim with at the moment." "Comes with the profession, I suppose" the priest would say while chuckling "well, cya 'round then." And only then would come the once-dreaded click. This was a pipe-dream of Mark's, at least. Back to reality, though: Mark got up, put his clothes on, kissed his wife, grabbed his briefcase and he was off. First he took a manilla envelope out of his mail-box and (after inspecting the contents) put it into his house. Then he hit the streets... his destination was a short enough distance away that he could walk it. A casual observer, seeing him walking casually to what he made seem like nowhere in particular at 4 in the morning, would probably think he was a drunkard. He was certainly unkempt enough, dressed in fading jeans and a lumberjack shirt. His red eyes (from countless nights of interrupted sleep) added to the observers evidence. The clincher was the carefree but self-conscious way he walked, a true drunken shuffle. And if a casual observer should see him and think this, he would be highly pleased. No one remembers a drunk at this hour of day, he reasoned, but one does remember a sharply dressed man in a tuxedo carrying a briefcase, which is supposedly the uniform of those in his profession. His attire never came into play though; he strolled the whole distance without seeing a soul. As he approached the diner, he looked at two pictures. They were Nybar's and Mogel's. Inside the diner, he casually glanced in their direction. Nybar was making a scene. Mark took a seat and ordered a slice of pie and coffee. He hoped he'd have a chance to have them. He didn't. Too soon, Nybar and Mogel were out the door. He gave the waitress a twenty and cautiously followed them. They climbed in a van, so he had to use the 'company car', so to speak. It was parked in the back of the diner, as promised, a shitty looking Buick. He eventually followed them to an all-night hardware store, Tony's. He decided this was the place he should strike. He parked the Buick behind a building, then climbed a fire-escape to the roof of the same building. Here he set up his rifle and scope. This was always the hardest part of the job, trying to stay alert while waiting for what could be hours for one shot. But he was a veteran... eventually they stepped out. He took aim and fired. Mogel went down. He prepared to fire again... but where was the other one? Must've ducked under the van or something. He waited for a shot. Twenty minutes of utter concentration passed. Then he heard a 'shing' noise. The sound of a knife being unsheathed. This was the last sound he'd ever hear. [--------------------------------------------------------------------------] [ (c) !LA HOE REVOLUCION PRESS! HOE #736 - WRITTEN BY: NYBAR - 7/16/99 ]