Damned Straight to Heaven

NickMy dad was a real piece of work. He was also a legend, gave me a clear in to the upper ranks of this life – torching troublesome businesses and providing ‘protection’ for the church’s proper, tithing citizens. Dying on the job seems to have made him into even more of a hero in the eyes of my crew. They’re always gushing stories of the glory days, talking about the stunts he pulled, how brave he was and shit. The da I remember, the one we got at home? Sure, he towered – like an overgrown child, throwing temper tantrums over nothing with a gut full of beer and his glory days long behind him. I didn’t cry at his funeral, not because I was putting on a brave face. It’s cause I didn’t feel nothing but relief. Any guilt I had… It was for how hard ma was crying, acting like she weren’t at all relieved to be rid of him. Still, I ain’t sorry for what I did, not in that case, but the guys got no clue about that.They’re lounging low in their usual booth, shoved right in the corner of Cicer

NickChristian has me pinned, and I fucking know I should head-butt him, break his nose for daring get right up in my face like this, with his breath hot upon my lips and his crotch grinding down upon my own completely wrong-wired member.I swallow. “You know you’re fucked.”“Not yet,” he laughs. “But it seems we’re building towards a most satisfying climax to this fight.”“Shut your filthy mouth. You know what I meant,” I snarl, straining against those stupidly strong hands encircled around my forearms with just enough pressure… to not be bruising in the slightest. It’s a firm but... somehow tender grip. And I need to stop being so aware of those fingers and that body. I need to just fucking… focus! “There is an army of exorcists and enforcers who are gonna come here after me, and they will fucking obliterate you.”“I’m not scared of the church,” he retorts, eyes wide and wild. “I’m not scared of you enforcers. They should all be scared of me,” he hisses, eyes burning bright red. “Bu

NickThe drug’s wearing off, and the kick of the booze is turning from warming buzz to headache inducing pressure. What’s even worse… My balls feel heavy and tight, still aching with desire as I think about Christian, bent over beneath me… “I’m fucking damned,” I mutter. “I’m a fucking idiot. I need to fucking…” I wipe a hand over my face. I must look like crap. I’m about to fall over. I stumble past the newsstand on my street corner without intending to stop or even wave. This seems to make Junior (the stall runner) nervous, but I’m in no mood for niceties. Even the rich, refreshing scent of the complimentary coffee he hastily pours and holds out toward my face… It don’t seem to be helping much.“Long night?” he pries.I accept the proffered drink, grumbling something incoherent and gulping it down so quick I scald my tongue. I hardly care. It’s a welcome distraction from that ache in other places, that pit deep in my stomach…“Rare to see you out here alone, Nick. Usually you got Mik

NickThe circle of schmoozers crowding around Alessia are completely blocking the doorway leading into the house where the boss himself is waiting for me. I ain’t gonna go entering that densely packed crowd and squeezing past those hoop skirts, and I’m pretty sure it ain’t classy to command a lady ‘Hey, step aside, would ya?’ as was my initial impulse. I stop a full fifty meters back from that crowd instead and cast my gaze to the side of the house, thinking of circling around back and slipping in that way--“Nicky?” Alessia caught sight of me, following the stares of a few of her friend circle. She hands off her drink to the guy beside her without even looking at him, hiking up her skirt and rushing up to greet me like she is still that carefree, hyper eight year old. I guess she’s not much like her prim and uptight mother after all.That’s a good sign. Still, the way she’s calling me ‘Nicky’ and greeting me with a full on hug is a little too… familiar. Like ma said, I hardly know th

NickI don’t call up Mikey or Jim. I don’t take anyone along with me for this newest, brutal job. I just grab up my gun, and my Louisville Slugger… The second that thing is back in my hands I start shaking, and cursing myself, feeling I’m about to toss my fucking cookies.I tuck it back in the closet and decide to blow the guy’s brains out instead. One shot, quick and painless. The boss will never know it happened that way. He wants the body disappeared in the river anyhow, no witnesses, no photos, and no evidence. I don’t need to be cruel. I am not my old man. I punish only people who deserve it, no more drawn out suffering, and no more collateral.Instead of loading the revolver with regular slugs, I dip back into my case of cross-carved consecrated bullets. It’s kind of like a blessing for this poor guy I know nothing about, to send off his soul with a touch of holiness that can maybe serve the same as giving him proper last rites. It’s also a bit of insurance, just in case I run i