A Neon Rattrap - Part 5
There’s no telling how much time I have before someone comes snooping to see how Rocco is getting along with me. I’d only heard stories about Rocco and these sides of The Pimp’s house slash office, normally I am treated to the front portions with the civilized people.
There are no windows here, and the only obvious way out is the door that led me into this pit. Other than the sloppy dripping sounds, the room is dead silent – a real contrast to the previous ten minutes. A cursory look around the room and one more check of the dyings’ vital signs, turn up the State Penn Bar Codes tattooed on these asshole’s forearms. This is turning out to be my lucky day. I can turn these codes in for a reward if they’re dead. The skinny thug that was bleeding out finally finished one task to completion, he was gone. And Rocco, a few feet away was damn near close to being judged himself.
I grab a utility knife from the workbench littered with sex paraphernalia, and begin to cut. To be accepted by the state and tendered your reward you need either the dead carcass of the con you snuffed out, or the bar code and the surrounding flesh – to the bone. This is cake on the heavier of the two thugs, whereas I resort to wrenching the shoulder socket free of the second. I always have a hard time dissecting these skinny little bastards. I don’t have the energy or the time to haul this guy in, in one piece, so I opt for the arm only.
Slinging the appendage over my shoulder and cramming the steak from the other schmuck’s arm into my pocket, I face the door and decide my exit strategy. If there were anyone on the other side of the door I would have to make it past them to even gain sight of the revolving door. I take my chances and on the downbeat I let the door swing open. The metal latches scrape against the frame of the door but attract no one’s attention. The brief hallway I am in is empty with stucco walls leading to a frosted glass pained door straight ahead. The silhouette of the mono-spaced letters decorating the door’s window read PRIVATE. That room hadn’t seen maid service in a long time, the sign works pretty well.
My creeping to the door is interrupted by the approach of footsteps from the other side. It’s more than one person coming, and they don’t sound like a welcoming committee.
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