Enter the Dragoons
The sky was a sloppy Picasso. Skeleton clouds posed above Ray Clint and Willy. They were hit men. R.C. hated Willy. Each time they knocked somebody off, rather than making a quick getaway, Willy incessantly went into loot mode.
“You aren’t stealing anything this time,” R.C. scorned. “Boss said this job came from his boss – something about international cabal.”
“I gotta pay the bills,” Willy said throwing his hands up.
“We’re getting ten grand a piece for this job!” R.C. piped. “What kind of bills do you have?”
“I have expensive taste. I gotta enterprise man.”
They had a crisp view through the window. Their timing was perfect as she undressed. She was a pants first girl. Levi Strauss chino pants hit the ground as R.C. smacked the back of Willy’s head.
“Ouch – you son of a bitch, my retainer cut my lip.”
“You look stupid as hell with that thing on.”
“My orthodontist said it’s worth it.”
“What are you, twelve?”
“Shut up. We didn’t have money to fix ‘em when I was twelve.”
“Let’s go make this hit – I’m hungry. Oh, and it’s my turn.”
“Bullshit – you killed that dude over in shanty town Thursday!”
“Oh yeah - the Chinaman, you’re right,” Ray Clint said nodding. “Alright, give me the camera. Boss said he needs pictures to be paid. I’ll be the god damned photographer.”
“I’ll let you kill her if I can take a few things,” Willy offered.
“You have your backpack?”
The promise of murder and mayhem...the night is looking up!