Page 20 of Scorpion

It’s rather disappointing, needing to look away from the note to the buzzcut lumberjack-wannabe strapped to a chair in the middle of the soundproof room. Crimson beads along his full beard and drips down to his bare chest, and blotches of black and blue color his tattooed torso like watercolor. He’s a subjectively bad piece of art.

I glance back at the note to get one last fill before placing it on the table, between the saw and mallet.

He throws his head to the side and spits on the shoes of my resident butcher, and the slightest cling against the leg of the desk makes me tip my head to the side.

A tooth. How lovely.

Here I was thinking we had pulled them all out already.

I sigh, clasping my hands in front of me, then pause right before I lean against the table. Internally rolling my eyes, I step closer toward the goon, changing my mind about soiling my clothes. Perhaps my cashmere coat wasn’t the most ideal choice of clothing today. It’d be such a waste to taint it with the blood of a vermin.

One nod at Greg, and my butcher stalks forward to do whatever it is he’s decided to do to Ofsoski. The asshole cries out, thrashing and cursing while Greg does something to his hands.

That reminds me, actually. I haven’t thanked his wife, Linda, for the begonias she left for me last week. She’s a delightful woman. I just don’t trust her cooking. Nothing personal, but I don’t have much confidence biting into minced meat when I know the Butcher. I’m not sure how the rest of my men can stomach going to his place for a barbeque.

I peer at the pliers in Greg’s hand when he steps back. Oh, he took Ofsoski’s nails. No wonder the man is slumped over like Satan’s paid him a visit.

Sometimes nothing beats the basics.

I still remember the first time I liberated someone of their fingernails. There’s a real technique involved when they have short nails. I, for one, don’t particularly like it. The whole ordeal is far too messy.

“My patience is wearing thin.” I check my watch and purse my lips at the time. We’ll have to wrap this up if I want to make it home in time for dinner. “Tell me where you’re producing the counterfeits, and I’ll let you go.”

“No,” Ofsoski grunts, blood pouring from his gums.

“Now, now. No need to play hardball.” I grin. “I just want to have a chat with your boss.”

And take over Goldchild’s business.

And make him regret not killing himself when he had the chance.

All those things are ironic since he’s been trying to kill me and take over my business since my father killed one of his sons. Eye for an eye, and all that. Except I don’t even know the name of his offspring.

For the past century, my family has taken care of the fake green that comes in and out of the state—a treasury, if you will. It’s how we earned our place among the Exodus, the secret society I’ve lived and breathed since the second I was born.

Since my parents died, that job has fallen into my capable hands. Well, the society would argue that I’ve been doing an absolutely horrific job at it since Goldchild has been a pain in my ass since the day I took over. The man is what would happen if a cockroach morphed with a leech.

I’d prefer if Goldchild moves shops and annoys the secret society in the East Coast instead. Or better yet, has a heart attack and takes his operation down with him—he’ll leave his factory to me, of course. I wouldn’t want such machinery to go to waste.

It’d put the Halenbeeks back in the Exodus’s good graces. And I’d preferably like all of that to happen before the day of the Reckoning. It’d be rather unfortunate if I waste such a depraved night on politics.

“Fuck you. I ain’t sayin’ shit.” He spits.

Again.

Men these days are disgusting.

“Surely you knew this was bound to happen eventually.” I shoot his kneecap and he screams. “You and your merry band of idiots come to my territory.” Other kneecap. More screaming. “Interfere with my business.” Left ankle. “Kill my men.” Right. “And you thought I would just let you do it?”

He wails. They always do. The sound is getting quite boring, honestly. Sometimes they have a higher cadence that tickles my eardrums unpleasantly. I prefer it when we can slap some duct tape over their mouths.

“All counterfeits are to be printed and approved by me, and any person wanting to try their hand at the craft asks for my permission, then gives me a cut. It’s simple, really.” I place my hand over my chest. “I like to think of myself as rather approachable. So you can imagine how offended I was when your boss decided to set up shop without consultation.”

Ofsoski stares at me, breathing hard, hatred burning from each of his pores. The muscles are always harder to break.

“It seems my question is too difficult to answer. Then tell me this; does Goldchild have anything up his sleeves for our meeting tomorrow?” I give him an innocent smile. “I’ll make your death quick,” I promise.

Silence.

---