Fight.

You fight for your right to be free. Yes?

Then why are you still here?

Is not everything that has happened to you, your lot in life, your responsibility?

Then when are you going to do something about it? 


Soon. Very soon.

Enjoy.



CHAPTER 2

"Wakey wakey..."

Stefan groaned. He tried to lift his head but a pounding artery on the right side of his temple assured him firmly that movement was not such a good idea. He tried to remember how he ended up on the floor. His eyelids flickered open. Stars sparkled faintly on the ceiling.

"If you can stop feeling sorry for yourself and get the hell up here, that would be marvellous."

"Huh? Who? What?"

"Over here."

Stefan turned his head and saw a man sitting at his desk, feet propped up on the table. The collars of his trench coat was turned up high, hiding his features. A broad hat sat on his head and it was pulled low, throwing a dark, nearly imperceptible shadow over his face. Only the smouldering embers of his cigar briefly lit up his face when he took a puff. The wisps of smoke drifted lazily towards the ceiling as the stranger tapped the cigar on the table top, scattering ashes on the carpet.

"Better make sure you don't set my apartment on fire...ugh." Stefan grabbed his head as it continued to pound. The stranger waved his hand as though he was shooing a fly.

"Not that it matters, right? You're looking to disappear, anyway."

"How did you know?"

"All written out here, big guy." A nod of the head towards the sheet of paper on his desk. "And I'm here to help you out."

The pounding only grew worse as Stefan stood up and grabbed the kitchen counter to try and keep himself balanced on his two feet. "Why would you want to help me? I don't even know who you are."

"Name's Marty. Marty Rock." He extended a firm hand, two fingers clasping the cigar.

Stefan staggered over and grabbed his hand.

"I need some whisky," he muttered as he opened up his study drawer.

Pulling out a bottle, he twisted off the cap and drank it neat. The alcoholic burn contorted his features but at least it eased the incessant hammering behind his eyes. He gulped and extended the bottle to Marty.

"Want a drink?"

Marty shook his head slowly, a hint of a smile on his lips. "I'm fine, thank you. I'm here to talk to you about how I'm going to give you a hand to disappear."

Stefan leaned back against the desk and massaged the back of his head. "Yeah...about that. How do you suppose that's going to happen?"

With a swiftness of movement that Stefan did not expect, Marty whipped his legs off the table, swung forward in the chair with a loud squeak, pulled out a briefcase from under the table and slammed it down on the table. Stefan winced as his head grumbled from the noise but two crisp clicks from the briefcase locks and Marty lifted the lid and spun the suitcase around.

The neat rows of 500 euro bills made Stefan start and he wondered if he'd already had a bit too much to drink. All he could do was stand and gaze at the money. He slowly put the whisky on the table and brushed his fingertips over the cash. It was real. All of it. None of it fake.

Marty stood behind the briefcase, hands on the desk, watching Stefan's reaction.

"All yours, man. Not only am I helping you disappear, I'm going to pay you to disappear."

Stefan stood up, wobbly on his feet. His head still ached but it was a distant memory. What on earth was going on?

"All right. I give up. Where's the camera? Am I on TV? Is this meant to be funny?" demanded Stefan.

"There's none. The cash is real," replied Marty calmly.

"You can't be serious. Why would you do this for me?" asked Stefan again. Talk about windfalls but then again, there's usually some kind of string attached. No one gives money for free.

"Because my boss wants me to. My boss wants you to disappear. This is his money and I'm just the messenger."

"And who's your boss?"

"Remember Anna?"

"That bitch? What the fuck does she want with me now?"

"She wants you to disappear." A smile tugged at the corner of Marty's lips.

"So she told you everything, huh? Well, you can tell her to take this money and stuff it back up her - "

It is amazing, Stefan thought, how hard it is to talk with the barrel of a revolver in one's mouth. It has been a while since he tasted the cold hard steel of a Smith and Wesson. The last time he had that same wondrous experience, he had been bound and gagged and held ransom for a quarter of a million dollars. Too bad his family did not think he was worth saving. Only the curiosity of a homeless man saved his drenched ass when he found Stefan thrashing, still bound and gagged in the nearby river when the baddies decided to get rid of hm when the attempt to get some form of compensation failed.

Stefan thought he had breathed his last while he gulped in mouthful after mouthful of coarse, thick water. The hobo, whilst having saved his life, did not know CPR and handily broke 3 ribs because his idea of resuscitation involved stomping on Stefan's chest as hard as possible. Good times, he thought, as he felt the still slightly crooked ribs which never healed fully.

But back to the present, he thought, still trying to wrap his teeth without drooling around the steel barrel. Lifting his hands up in surrender, he mumbled, "All right, all right. I'll shut up and go."

"Sorry, bud. But she knew you'd say that and because she's paying me a tidy sum, I'm going to do as she ordered." Marty tucked the gun back into his jacket pocket and placed his hands back on the briefcase. "So you'll do it?"

"But why? Why would she even think of paying me to get lost and disappear from sight?"

"Well..." Marty again smiled coyly as he gently shut the briefcase lid and flipped the locks into place. "Lets just say a bit of information is a dangerous thing. And some people are willing to pay big bucks to own it."

"Oh!" Stefan bursts into laughter as he opened the fridge and grabbed a pack of frozen peas. "So THAT'S what she's afraid of! And she thinks that just paying me will get rid of the problem? What if I decide to go ahead and spill the beans?" He patted the back of his head and sighed in content as the cold seeped through and he plonked himself down on the sofa.

"In the event that you decide to take that course of action, mate...Anna has asked me to kill you. Before you spill the beans, of course. And then I'm supposed to drain all the blood out of you, hack you into as many little pieces as is possible and then dissolve you in acid. When the cops arrive, they won't even find a strand of DNA of you to identify you."

Stefan gulped. Marty picked up the whisky. "Don't mind, do ya?" Stefan shook his head. Marty took a long guzzle from it.

"That's also another way you can disappear. Hacking you to bits? My suggestion. Its a bit more permanent. Paying you off? That was hers." He leveled his gaze at Stefan again. "Seems like Anna's got a bit of a soft spot for you, hm?"

"We, uh, dated." Stefan shifted uncomfortably in his chair. "So...Marty. How did you get involved in all of this?"

Marty shrugged casually as he pulled another cigar out of an inner jacket pocket and clipped the tip.

"She got a bit worried about this bit of information that you know and so she hired the best of the best. I'm ex military, mercenary, private eye, and one of the most beautiful sounds in the world is the gurgle that a man makes as a KA-BAR slices his windpipe open. You can run but I can guarantee you I will find you and I will hunt you down. Well, for the right price, anyway." He chuckled. "Unless you can pay me more?"

Stefan blew a raspberry as he sat back on the sofa. "Huh? Me? Pay more than whatever she's banked in your account? You have GOT to be kidding me."

Tidying up his collar and pulling his hat low, Marty took another puff of his cigar and sipped the whisky bottle again. One more for the road.

"Anyway. I'll be off, Sir. I've got a dinner appointment to go to. I'll leave the money here for you to think over a little. We'll meet again soon, I'm sure."

And just like that, Marty Rock, Mr Private Eye and Potential Murderer of Stefan Ong, walked out the door. 10 minutes after that, Stefan was not even sure if it really happened apart from the whiff of cigar smoke, the whisky on the table, and the briefcase laden with more banknotes than he had ever seen in his life.