Page 5 of Don't Trust Him

I laugh. “I could always shove it up your ass,” I retort.

“Don’t tease a girl,” Kristen says, and walks away. She had a look of bemused disappointment.

She still thought I might fuck her after this meet.

Kristen is hard-up for some cock because none of the other players in this game have been badass enough for her.

She’s had a thing for Zario forever. He’s the boss, I get it. But when Kristen realized I was the only guy in Bonita Muerte that wasn’t clamoring to fuck her, well, it made her a little crazy.

Not nearly as crazy as she is for Zario, who barely pays her more than five seconds of attention after they inevitably fuck one night after a big victory.

But the truth is, my dick doesn’t see much action nowadays because pointless sex with random bitches does fuck all for me. I’m old-fashioned. I want something deeper.

And I know that I can’t have it.

Three

Grayson

The last picture really shows off his dick hanging through his throat, and that pleases Zario greatly.

I took of the rat from the dossier Kristen delivered. Sliced, carved, and drained of all his blood.

He’s dead.

The message is sent.

Fuck with the cartel and think you can win, and you’re goddamn wrong. You’ll lose everything and your family will find you.

I’m sitting across from the head of the Bonita Muerte cartel and he’s definitely approving of another job I’ve taken care of.

He glances over every last photograph with great care, inspecting angles, smiling, commenting, laughing. It delights Zario to see anyone who betrays him get carved up and put on display as a warning. You skim money? Your family is going to starve to death because no one in town will feed them and no doctor will see them. They find your body and then the horror doesn’t stop from there.

Zario sees the promise of that in these photographs. Sure enough, this traitor’s family found him. His family will die for what he’s done. He didn’t do it in the name of taking care of his family. He got greedy. Now they suffer.

Each picture shares the horror that is to come, every angle displaying graphically just what awaits anyone else who betrays Bonita Muerte cartel.

The pictures weren’t even taken by me—these are the cop shots. My boss takes great delight in the horrors I do for him, staging bodies, being photographed by police, and I acquire those. He even likes to call the vice cops his photographers and janitors. They clean up whatever he wants them to, after all.

Zario Dantes isn’t into dicks unless they’re the kind in this picture, hanging out of a weasel’s throat because that’s what we do to those who fucking cross us.

Zario points, and I kill.

Vicious little Kristen is probably filing this away for his files as we speak. He likes to review them. No shit, at the end of the year when he’s basically giving out his annual report, we watch a slideshow of all of these pictures with his favorite shots in there.

Narcotrafficking cocaine cartels.

At the end of the day, we’re just like you. You have an office. I have mine. You deal with the broken copy machine. I deal with bitches. We even have a Christmas party. I’m a big hit when I’m not cutting a dude’s dick off and stuffing it down his throat.

If your cozy office job is anything like ours, it comes with cocaine and strippers too.

Something tells me that even if you have some of our cocaine, your office Christmas party is a little different.

Who knows, though. I could be wrong.

My thoughts wander to crazy shit like this because it isn’t like every job means I need to hand deliver the proof and shit. Sure, sometimes he just likes to see and give me a fatherlike hug and pat on the back. But Zario didn’t just call me in to praise his preferred upgrade to the Columbian Necktie. No, he’s got another job for me.

“There’s a miracle drug out there, and gringo fucking business bitches gonna shit in their Gucci to get a piece of it, and we gotta get to it first,” Zario tells me, sliding a folder over to me. “Coke squared has no comedown,” he waves his hands for flair.

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