Author: Guede Mazaka
El Rey was nice. Little coastal town, sea as blue as the spangled bikinis that were only too ready to look twice at the suited men lounging over the martinis in the shade. The drinks were truly spectacular and not only when a guy was smashed six ways to Sunday, and the whole life was just a lazy tropical buffet with maybe the occasional spot of government corruption to mar the deal. But as long as there was the money to scrape that grease away, there wasn’t a problem, sir. Very sorry to distract you, sir. May I offer you a tip on a girl, she is so big and she has this mouth like a Screwdriver only sweeter—shit. Seth wasn’t even on the same continent as El Rey now.
He would have to restock the med kit pretty soon, he noted. Between the high dives and the explosions, Mig went through bandages faster than an unlicensed boxer. And they were completely out of antibiotic ointment, so Mig, wriggly little bastard, would just have to put up with good old Tennessee cure-all.
Actually Scottish, but for all that it still tasted like homemade so Seth felt somewhat at home. As long as he concentrated on opening up the whiskey and didn’t look around the room; the silk and lace and silent staff was nice, in a rich-man kind of way, but it was also fucking creepy. Got in the way of too many lines of sight.
“Are you done yet?” Wriggly bastard, had Seth said? Understatement. Mig couldn’t hold still if he was shot up with the equivalent of a coma—Seth had tried out of sheer exasperation once and the fucker had bounced into death and had bounced right back out to glom onto Seth’s neck and shoulders, complain about fucking long spells while nibbling like an ADD squirrel.
“Have I even fucking laid a hand on you yet? Hold still, goddamn it.” Seth pinned Mig at the neck so at least he wouldn’t have to chase Mig around the oversized candybox of a bed. He took another draft of whiskey, prayed for patience, and spat it at the first long scrape.
The booze went out in a long thin stream that struck dead-on and made Mig wriggle and hiss, snap at Seth’s leg. He arched, dick starting to rub itself hard against Seth’s knee, but it wasn’t clear yet whether he was enjoying it or just getting really pissed off. He got off on either one. “Shit.”
Cute little accent, yeah. It was what people called fuckable, and so was the little between-the-teeth sigh Mig let out when Seth leaned over and licked up the extra whiskey. Blood and alcohol, one oddly sweet and the other a stinging haze. The one drink you couldn’t get in El Rey—back there they were very strict about not making trouble. Even went through the trouble of driving half an hour into the desert to deliver a beat-down.
Seth leaned back and sluiced the whiskey down Mig’s back, hand pressing hard into the knobby bumps of Mig’s neck bones. He could feel them shift beneath his thumb as Mig twisted his head. “Jesus Christ, you’re nearly raw. What did I tell you about getting into pissing contests with other assassins?”
The other man looked up at Seth, eyes sparkling the way only black ones could. Dark and dangerous and more than half-mad behind the diamond razor edges. “I know better, yes. But they don’t.”
“Yeah, they started it. They always start it—bullshit, you little fuck. How indestructible do you think you are? Fucking hard to put together a million little bits of you.” More alcohol, and fuck Mig’s grimacing because Seth was just a tiny bit annoyed and wanted it known. He smacked down the other man’s ass when Mig started to rise. “Not yet. I still have to tape gauze over everything, unless you want to bleed all over your damn suits. Shit. I don’t even like puzzles.”
In El Rey about the most exciting thing going on were the board games. Would Pedro, wrinkled little stick of a reigning champ, continue his streak of two weeks or would he finally succumb to senility? Was the upstart Luis, two years younger like that mattered at eighty, about to beat his ass with little badly-carved knights? Did Seth give a shit?
No. But he would’ve figured that the booze and the girls and the beach alone could’ve kept him going forever. Should’ve looked a little closer at those old men and their routines that were the canes they gripped most desperately if Seth had really wanted to know how to settle into retirement. Except he hadn’t.
“You like me,” Mig murred, low and throaty as a soap opera star. And he was lithe and pretty as one, with whore’s hands that traced smooth arabesques over Seth’s thighs as he pushed himself up, pushed himself into Seth’s hands. Mouth edging a little teeth along Seth’s throat. “You’d put me back together.”
He was a confident little shit, whore for the bullets and the fucking. Seth could fuck him with the whiskey bottle and he’d like it, fuck him with his own gun and he’d like it, fuck him with anything and he’d like it as long as he got to chew on little bits of Seth later. God fucking knew what had gone into the making of this kind of insanity, and He was probably laughing his head off at throwing it into Seth’s lap.
Retirement had been the biggest commitment Seth had ever made in his life. Even bigger than vowing at the tender ignorant age of ten to always take care of little bro Richie, because he’d even been throwing Richie aside in hopes of finally living the good, lowkey, boring life. But now it was nothing more than another broken promise and here he was with its replacement, psychosis personified. “Yeah?”
“Yes.” Mig wasn’t wriggling now, but doing a slow hard grind that proved once and for all that insanity didn’t equal stupidity. Though it would’ve been a stretch to call him intelligent, or even smart—he was a genius the way wolves were geniuses, trotting through the nightmares of men all over the world.
You didn’t make a commitment to insanity. It made a commitment to you. And maybe, maybe that was why Seth swore and tossed off the last swallow of whiskey, man-wolf clawing impatiently at his throat, and put the fucker back together. Every goddamned time. Blood and booze, old-time madness in a shiny modern world.
Fuck. At least he didn’t have to worry about it leaving.