“Hey man.”
“Hey.”
“You ready to see Chicago?” His voice is shaky, no doubt from the eager anticipation of a new place seen and the nervousness of the task ahead of us.
“Yeah.”
“Okay, I’ll be there in ten.”
“See ya.”
I put the phone back on its cradle and grab my CD. Time to do the devil’s work…right?
* * * * *
Devon picks me up right on time. He’s on his second clove cigarette (the first one is on arising; fucking addict), and has kindly gotten me a Coffee Colada to keep me awake. We take off for Boston and I slip in DMX’s “…And Then There Was X” CD. I love this album. So many great songs; “Fame”, “One More Road to Cross”, “The Professional”…yeah. I remember this one open mic I read the lyrics to that song at. It’s about a paid killer talking about his daily routine and all the ways he offs people. At the end, he drops his cool and admits he knows he’s doing wrong, but knows that if he quits, his life is forfeit. I read that at a scene, and everyone went dead quiet. I think it’s stuff like that that got me where I am today… in this situation… trouble. Whatever.
* * * * *
Devon and I had been kicking around the open mic scene for over two years, performing our poems anywhere we could find in southern New England; every bar, café, coffee house, wherever the fuck they would have us. I think we would’a done bowling alleys if they’d of had an open mic night! Getting our names out, making contacts, trying to grab the elusive paid gig, working day (or night) jobs that never seemed to last; all waiting for our ship to come in… assuming there IS a ship to come in, if you are a poet, performing poet or not. Sometimes you get so fed up… And sometimes, Fate drop it in your lap.
How does the call come? Maybe, like us, you do a lot of angry poems. Maybe you start calling yourself something like “The Warrior Poets”. You get seen onstage, someone sees you can get passionate, confrontational. Maybe you have a poem or two about… murder. Word gets around, you get viewed a few times, then there’s a small conversation where he finds out you are sick of being poor and want so badly for a change in your life… a chance.
Now, he makes you an offer.
Now, you’re a hit man.
* * * * *
Oh, but we don’t just kill ANYBODY!
Political leaders, mob bosses, corporate heads…that’s done by the BIG guys. We handle just the small stuff: just one little niche of society:
Artists and entertainers.
Let me put this in simple terms: some people, some very POWERFUL people, aren’t very happy with the state of the entertainment industry today. Lotta untalented people getting famous. Lotta people making it big by doing whatever a record company or publicist tells them to do. And that makes our country look BAD. So, people started to die. Chances are, if you hear of a musician dying of an “overdose” or a “suicide” it was one of us. Come on! You didn’t think it was at ALL strange how many rock musicians died in the 90s??? Most of them were done by someone deciding to “thin the herd” a little. Weed out some competition for a contract.
But Devon and I don’t handle musicians. They have specialists for that. The ultra-famous are so hard to get at; much easier to bag them before they get under the glare of the public eye. No, Devon and I handle artists: painters, writers, performance artists (always plenty of THEM around!) and, as of today…
“Good morning boys.”
J.B’s voice crackling out of our CB brings me back to the land of the living. He’s our boss, if you will. He’s the guy we report to, and although he claims to be very low in the organization, I’ve only met one person above him, and that was only ONCE. Secrecy.
“Hello boss,” we chorus back.
“I trust you had a good night’s sleep. Ready for work?”
“Yes boss.” J.B. is all about business.
“You’ll especially like this assignment, boys. It’s something very close to your heart.”
“Yeah? What’s that?”
“You are to kill ‘The World’s Greatest Poet’.”
* * * * *
“The World’s Greatest Poet”. The sarcasm was heavy in J.B.’s voice when he said it. He used to be a poet himself, a very good one, and didn’t take well to that title being given out to the total SCHMUCK it was bestowed upon. I know the cat well; I had been to a few of his “performances”… unfortunately. He was less the “World’s Greatest” than the “Most Famous Poet”… which meant that no one had ever heard of him. The only time the average citizen ever hears about a poet is when he does something stupid, like says the Jews were responsible for 9/11, or telling the First Lady, after she generously invites him to the White House for National Poetry Month, that when he comes, he is just going to do poems trashing her husband. No, only poets and wanna-bes know who the other poets are… and even then, not often. So, what to say about the #1?
His name was Socrates Smith. Actually, his first name was Joshua…his parents were the kind of people who would give their kid whatever name was popular that year. He chose Socrates for himself; he thought it made him sound wise. Now his name followed a popular pattern: an unusual first name, to make himself sound exotic and unique, and a common, “All-American” last name, so he wouldn’t seem TOO foreign, and thus unrelatable to his audience.
Everything about his appearance was well thought out, calculated. Not since Madonna had the world seen an entertainer so talented at manipulating his image. He knew he had to do SOMETHING to disguise his paltry amount of poetic talent.
He was 5’8” and quite skinny. His hair was a mop of dark brown curls, a hairdo that cried out “I’m a sensitive guy! I CARE.” His large brown eyes were hidden behind the glasses he didn’t need. Oval glasses, with pointed ends: the popular choice among young people proud of their nerdiness. He tended to wear white, striped, button-down shirts untucked, with gray or khaki pants. Together with canvas shoes, which made all the elderly people think he was a wild child. He spoke softly, and smoked a pipe. He was straight, but when he thought it would help his popularity in certain crowds, he let it be whispered that he was “bisexual”. He dabbled in Wicca and Democrat politics, and talked vehemently about the legalization of pot. He chatted with teens about Nu Metal music, and the Grateful Dead with their parents. If ever the conversation turned to heavier subjects, such as race relations or the rights of native peoples, he would simply say “why can’t we all just get along?” and walk away. He avoided controversy like the plague, and, when pressed for an opinion, either claimed he was getting a migraine (a trick he had learned from his mother), or said something deliberately vague and non-committal.
He had always had an interest in poetry, since he heard it was simple and anyone could write it. After all, wasn’t it just stringing together rhymes? His mother always spoke so proudly to her friends about “her son the poet”, while his father just referred to him as “lazy”. He had some trouble creating new pieces, until he learned that poems didn’t HAVE to rhyme, and then the floodgates opened up! He had trouble expressing his deepest emotions, but he found that the more vague his metaphors were, the more people were impressed. They seemed to enjoy not knowing what he was talking about, and thus, he enjoyed not knowing what he was talking about, too.
Socrates always referred to himself as being from a "working-class" family, although his mother worked as a lawyer, and his father as an investment banker. As it was, then, he grew up the only child in an upper-middle class neighborhood in Cambridge, Massachusetts. His mommy (as he secretly still called her) decided by the time he had graduated high school that the world needed to know of her baby's poetic genius, and devised a plan to make him famous.
Twenty-five years ago, Socrates' father had graduated Magna Cum Laude from Harvard. He always loved his "Alma Mater", and attended all alumni functions. When he became sufficiently wealthy enough (or "financially secure", as he called it), he even became a patron. His wife realized the amount of pull it gave him with the school, and decided that THIS was the right place for her little "Joshie" to make his debut. She harassed the faculty at fundraisers for months until they relented and agreed to have Socrates perform for them for a half-hour on the quietest night of the week. To a half-filled auditorium of relatives and friends harangued into coming, Socrates gave his first-ever public performance. Though he was visibly shy and uncomfortable, lacked poise and enthusiasm, the audience applauded anyway, dutifully polite. The extent of his audience interaction was him introducing every poem by saying "This one doesn't have a name". Eyes always on the page, his monotone stuttered on. After half an hour, when his thin voice stopped, the audience awoke and applauded. His hand was shaken by all, and he was called "sincere" and "unpretentious". A writer from the Boston Globe was there, eager to find out what hot new artistic talent managed to catch the attention of the elusive Harvard. She was puzzled by his seeming lack of talent, but decided to write an article anyway, trusting in the taste of the prestigious university. A short and stilted interview was carried out (with Mrs. Smith supplying most of the answers!), and the article, complete with pictures, appeared in the Sunday edition.
After that, things just kind of exploded... at least, in the eyes of Socrates. Everyone wanted to book a poet who had caught the eye of Harvard, and had been in a major newspaper, as well. In came gig after gig, with his mother managing him and doing public relations. Socrates had always wanted to be a star, but had no real idea how to become one, with no discernable talent. Now he was getting praise and attention, and he had no desire to see it stop. So, he used his one gift: image-crafting. He noticed the people who attended his performances, the ones the most excited about his poetry, and took on their dress, their thoughts, and their mannerisms. Socrates Smith was: the World's Greatest Poseur.
* * * * *
A wide grin sprung to my face and quickly spread across it at this news. Well, well, well... someone decided that Socrates' horrible prose was a threat to our artistic culture, and wanted him gone. The pleasure was all mine. I turn and wink at Devon. "We have been waiting for this day for a long time, J.B," He radios back.
J.B. laughs heartily. "I knew you were, boys, so I let my boss know you'd want to do the job yourselves! Congratulations!"
"Thanks!"
"Got your airline tickets ready?"
"Sure do."
"Call me when you arrive in Chi-town, boys."
"Out."
I tilt my car seat back and put my sunglasses on, closing my eyes. I got a lot of thinking to do.
* * * * *
We arrive in Chicago right on time. Stephan is starving. We pass through security with them none-the-wiser and hoof it down Terminal One. This is our first time in Chi-town, having done all our “work” on the east coast, with the occasional trip to La-la land. I should’ve brought some Chi-lites, to celebrate.
“Look”, Devon says, excitedly, “there’s a bar called ‘Artist and Writer!’”
“Easy there, alkie. We are going to the Billy Goat Grill.”
“Yeah, that sounds appetizing.”
“Shut up. It is supposedly the place that inspired the old Saturday Night Live ‘Greek Restaurant’ skit.”
“Oh?”
“Yeah. I am gonna order a ‘cheeburger, cheeburger, cheeburger’”.
“‘No Pepsi, Coke!’”
We walk through the “voted best airport in North America, eight years in a row”, ignoring the sweet sugar-smell on the double Cinnabons. I have to watch my figure, blah. Who would respect a fat assassin, really?
After lunch we jump on the ATS and get monorailed (is that a word?) to Lot E, looking for our ride. Damn, the wind blows at you off Lake Michigan. I am beginning to miss New England winters.
Our contact is a GIANT, yo. Six-foot, seven inches and 350 lbs. I'd hate to piss him off. He introduces himself as "Scott", and we pile into this 2003 Escalade. Ah, the lap of luxury. We are all well taken care of in this line of work. I recall reading that in the Bible where it says "the worker is worthy of his wages". Of course, the Lord doesn't approve of how we earn our living.
I'm watching the scenery fly by as Devon strikes up a convo with our driver.
"So, are you a poet?"
"Yeah, most of my life. I write short stories, too."
"Cool. Is there a big poetry scene here?"
"Chicago is the birthplace of slam."
Devon grins. "I'm sorry to hear that."
Scott laughs. "Don't be. The inventor of slam, Marc Smith, is really talented. No, no relation to Socrates. He's worked with jazz artists recently. His followers, however..."
"Not as talented?"
"Let's just say they’re excited about meeting the 'World's Greatest Poet'".
I make a face. "If there IS a 'World's Greatest Poet', he's probably crossing a street in the inner-city right now, praying he doesn't get caught in a drive-by shooting," I say wryly. "And he's probably not THIS pampered little mama's boy."
They both laugh and agree. Scott drops us off, with a promise from us that we will be ready at 8. We give our word and head into the hotel. Today, we check in as Andre Benjamin and Antwon Patton. Last time, it was Andrew Eldritch and Ian Astbury.
* * * * *
The next eight hours pass by quickly: lunch at a local Indian restaurant, back to the hotel to talk business, and then we both attempt to write new poems. Around four, I take a nap and Devon practices his Reiki. I want to be fresh tonight. Right at eight, Scott knocks our door. Devon answers it while I pack up my bag, the same blue bag I’ve had since 8th grade.
"Hi. Ready to go?"
"Yeah, just about."
Devon grabs his coat and I get mine. It's off to the DePaul University, where Mr. Smith will be making, unbeknownst to him, his farewell appearance. I hope I can get an autograph.
* * * * *
We have already decided we are going to kill him by drowning. Since he has Jeff Buckley's hairdo, he can have his death, too. No, no one killed Jeff; the man really did drown by himself. Poor guy; so much talent.
Drowning is one of the easiest ways to do someone in. Just knock them out, stick their head under the water, and Voila! One fresh corpse. Of course, sometimes they wake up and struggle, so you need to be strong and hold them down. It's a rewarding feeling, though I prefer strangulation. Ah, the feel of your fingers around a throat, of life-force draining away in your grasp. Usually, we like to sing "murder is easy, murder is fun; it's better than sex because I always cum!" Devon is always squeamish about killing, at least until he hears some bad rhyming couplets from the victim. But I digress. Strangulation is the best, as long as it doesn't leave a mark. That's what rubber hoses are for.
* * * * *
We have our tickets for tonight's performance, and we take our seats in the packed De Paul Concert Hall (I hate rhyming names). The audience is pretty much settled in as Socrates takes the stage to enthusiastically polite applause. In urban areas like this, he always chooses a black poet to open for him. I'd prefer he had a local rapper, but I guess that would be too controversial (or interesting) for Socrates. Certainly too TALENTED. Socrates' introduction for his opener is composed of all the black slang he knows, in an attempt to sound "with it". Tonight, his introduction is: "and now, this righteous brother will lay some jiggy poems on us. Dig it!" If there WERE any cool people in here, the black ones would look embarrassed for him, while the whites would have an expression in their eyes that would seem to say "Please, we're not all like him. We try so hard..." As it is, only Devon and I register any noticeable discomfort at all. Socrates exits stage left and the black guy enters stage right.
This guy is cut from the "hack" cloth. He strides to the mic, an angry expression on his face. He shouts out some propaganda that makes me think he's the son that Louis Farrakhan always wanted. He starts off his first poem, and it is HORRIBLE. What the hell are these words he is using?!?! It's not cool urban slang; it's not the colorful expressions from a culture that grew out of the South. It's the nonsense-speak that sounds like how the American slaves spoke because they weren't educated. This guy is every stereotype of a hack black poet come to life! Simplistic rants against a white-dominated society, without any shocking facts revealed, no brilliantly on-target wakeup calls. Never a heartfelt call for equality and justice, no plea for us all to look past superficial differences and unite as one people. I bet Frederick Douglass and Langston Hughes are turning over in their graves right now. Gil Scott-Heron too... well, if he was dead, I mean. This guy has enough meaningless talk about race to qualify him as a future Democrat leader. Oh well. In a way, it's a good thing. For someone like me, who hopes someday all races become a united family, it's encouraging to see that untalented people do come in all colors.
* * * * *
As Socrates' twin-in-talent leaves the stage, he ambles up to the podium. Oh God, is he now using a CANE??? Could he GET any more contrived? I want to kill him... Oh, wait; that's for later. It's a comforting thought.
Socrates drones on for an hour. I repeatedly have to "get some air", because I have a powerful allergy to people who suck. Then, it is over; the applause dies down and Socrates graciously accepts to meet his fans. No doubt to steal fashion tips and pop philosophies. He quickly gets surrounded by a group of young girls. They are a mixed bag of the mixed UP. Many have several fashion statements going on at once, and none of them have managed to look GOOD. They’re an army of wanna-bes, most of them unsure WHAT group they want to be a part of. I head outside as Devon patiently makes his way toward Socrates. He adjusts his tie and smiles as Mr. Smith's attention is attracted.
It works like a charm. Devon, posing as a book publisher, gets Socrates to meet with him for drinks and to discuss a potential book deal. Socrates' greedy little eyes light up and he heartily agrees. Everything is going according to plan; time to let J.B know...
"Ayyo, J.B.?"
"Hello, Stephan."
"Evening goals attained."
"Excellent."
"J.B.? Can I off his opening act?"
"No, Stephan."
"Please?"
"No, Stephan."
"I'll bag him for half price!"
"No, Stephan. He is useful to us... for now."
"Oh, aight. Talk to you when it's over."
"Over and out."
* * * * *
Hours later, my pager goes off. I go into the restaurant, casually telling the hostess that I’m meeting a friend. I spot Scott (that's not hard to do), and sit at his table. He slides me Socrates' hotel room key. I don't ask whether he got it from a contact inside the hotel, or if he just stole it. Sometimes it's better not to know too much about this organization. I don't ask questions I don't need to know the answers to.
"How's it going, big man?"
"All smoothly. Devon is getting him quite tipsy."
I laugh. "These writers just can't refuse another drink, now can they?"
Now Scott laughs. "I know I can't!"
I smile and get up from the table. "See you later?"
"I'll have the car ready when you come runnin'."
I leave and walk unhurriedly toward the hotel. Of course, I would NEVER come running. That would attract too much attention.
* * * * *
I let myself into the hotel room silently and quickly move into the bathroom, where I fill the tub with water; soon it will be the site of Socrates Smith's demise. Looking around the room, I spot the bed. Oh God. He has a copy of Jim Morrison's "An American Poet". It would be impossible for me to be LESS surprised. After making one last sweep of the room, I check out the closet I will be hiding in. I turn off the tap in the bathroom, make sure I have eliminated all traces of my presence, and get in the closet, waiting for Socrates to get his drunk ass here. The waiting is the hardest part.
An hour goes by, then two. Then another. What IS the goddamn holdup? If Devon can't stop talking to an assignment AGAIN, I will bitchslap him! He always does this! Maybe if HE had to wait around...
My celly starts to vibrate. What the fuck? Who??
"What?! I'm in the middle of a hit!"
"Stephan, it's Devon. Socrates won't be going back to the hotel."
"What! Why not?"
"He's been shot."
I gasp and drop my phone. Shit. I knew this day would come.
WE GOT COMPETITION IN THA BIZ!!!
