Trapped in his End Game (Series)

I arrive at the deli near the back entrance in Jersey. I could have brought him to my house to butcher him, but I really don’t like bringing my business home.

The sun shines brightly as I step outside my car. Beautiful day. I probably got here just in time. He’s only been dead for a couple hours, but soon he’ll start to smell. Two of my soldiers meet me outside and I point towards my trunk.

“Jesus,” one of them says as he looks inside.

“Brian, let’s go. Get him inside, now.”

I follow them into the back, where the giant saws are. Perfect for cutting large chunks of meat. Or people. They remove his clothes quickly while I watch, placing them in a thick, bowling bag. Then they shove his body on the table with the electric saw. Officer Cramar lies naked on the table, his penis small and shriveled in a bed of dark hair. Dark hair covers his chest and his eyes stare forward, his mouth slightly parted.

The electric saw turns on, the screaming noise somehow makes Brian gag. They position the head next to the saw, and it slices through the officer’s neck as if it was made of butter. Dark blood gushes from the stump of the neck and I laugh when Brian presses his arm to his face, his stomach heaving. Even Johnny, the more seasoned soldier, grimaces when he grabs the head by its hair and drops it in the bowling bag.

“Haven’t you pussies seen a dead body by now? It’s just meat.”

Without the head, the corpse spills blackish blood from its stump all over the table and Brian throws up on the floor.

“Fuck!” Some of it almost splashes on my shoes. “Get a grip and clean that shit up!”

The body is pale now, so pale it doesn’t look remotely human anymore.

Fuck’s sake, I’ll just do it myself.

I stick his hands through the saw, marveling at how easily it cuts through sinew and bone. Then I dump those in the bowling bag and zip it up. Perfect.

I’m always amazed at how much blood the body contains, especially near the head. When the head comes off, it’s like a burst of liquid. Gallons and gallons. Then I turn around the corpse and slice off the legs. No blood at all. I don’t need his legs cut off, it just makes it easier to fit in a bag.

By the time I’m finished, he barely looks like anything at all.

Life is meaningless when it can be taken away so easily. Within minutes I can transform a human being into chunks of meat. What’s the difference between this and the pig carcasses hanging in the freezer? I dump the corpse into a garbage bag and shove it in Brian’s arms. He looks like he might throw up again.

“Take it to Meadowlands. I’ll take care of the rest.”

Meadowlands, New Jersey. The mob’s favorite place to dump bodies. The murky swamps are perfect for hiding a recent kill.

“And hurry the fuck up about it,” I say to his back as he carries the bag in his hand, holding it far away from his body.

Taking the black bowling bag containing the head, hands, and clothes, I walk outside and breathe in the fresh air. I see them hosing off the table when I leave. Good.

A long drive to a farm on Long Island takes a couple hours, and I have a date tonight with Adriana. That angel. Excitement burns through my veins when I think about her. She’s the perfect girl, really. Great body. Italian. Smart. Even better looking than her mother.Content from NôvelDr(a)ma.Org.

Taking the shovel, I stab the soft earth and dig a nice, big hole. They’ll never find poor Officer Cramar. Without his head and hands, it’ll be impossible to identify the corpse in Meadowlands without a DNA test. No dental records. No fingerprints.

Christ, I’m tired. The dirt flies in the air in a shower of brown chunks as I work tirelessly. Finally, when it’s big enough, I drop the bowling bag inside.

“So long.”

I give the bag a merry salute before I cover it back up with earth. Then I scatter the earth around it, placing the grass on top so that it doesn’t look disturbed. I look down at the small mound for a moment. One minute, you’re a walking, talking person and the next your head’s chopped off, buried under feet of dirt in a leather bowling bag.

People die all the time and there’s nothing you can do about it. We’re all a bunch of savages barely constrained by rules, laws, and religion. Fuck it all.

I kill because I have to. Because I need it. Because it keeps me strong.

My ma beat me, starved me, and rained her weapons on my back until I completely broke. She kept me in a cage. She called me a demon. Sometimes, I still cry over it. I cry like a little bitch and I hate myself for being so weak and I punch a hole in the fucking wall.

Do you know what it’s like being so fucking scared all the time any reminder of her makes you vomit in your mouth? The sight of her still makes me flinch. Bullied at school. I was the weird kid who burst into tears for no reason. Then I was the violent kid. Detention. Emotional issues. Dropped out of school and got a job robbing homes for a low-level soldier in the Rizzo family. From there, I worked my way up.

Thinking about all this shit makes my head ache. I throw my shovel in the car and slam the hood, wishing there was someone else around who I could destroy. It’s funny. Everyone in the family looks at me as the calm, cool, and collected guy. Mature. Strong.

I’m not. I’m fucking nuts. I know that. I’m trying to heal the sickness inside me. The endless, white-hot rage that calls for blood. The only way I feel good about myself is if I kill, maim, and hurt. I’ve restrained myself a lot lately. Using guns instead of knives, or my own bare hands. It’s progress.

I want to be better.

Especially for her.