The Last Mishap of Slick Nage
by Alek Miller
illustration by Veronica Carr
Rain drizzled onto the barely opaque windows. Thunder grumbled, but no lightning could be seen. Not in this city. Not in dangerous Bangkok.
The wooden door opened with a generous creaking sound. In walked a short man, ensconced in shadow, and a wide-brimmed hat. He stood across from a sitting figure at a desk, his feet crossed on top of it. His face lay in complete darkness, a ghost riding upon the night.
“Are you the one I’m lookin’ for?” the intruder asked.
The man at the desk didn’t answer.
“Are you the Indian Runner, the Stone Killer, the Mechanic? The one they call… Slick Nage?”
This got the man’s attention. His figure leaned forward an inch. And a half. “Never on Tuesday,” he replied.
The intruder’s head rotated a hair. And a half. “Well good news,” he said. “It’s the weekend.”
“What’s so special about the weekend, pal? Does it mean ya got time to kill?”
“No… But I do got a message.”
“You’re a messenger, eh?”
In an instant, the intruder brought up a sawed-off shotgun. “Of death.”
BLAM!
Parchment flew as buckshot shredded paperwork to pieces. The intruder fired again. And again. And again. Four blasts from his twin barrels. None of them reaching his intended target. “You can’t win ‘em all, Slick!” he shouted.
“If you don’t get me now,” Slick Nage said from below his desk. He rose slowly up, now unafraid of the intruder’s emptied weapon. “I’ll be gone in sixty seconds.”
Throwing his gun to the floor, the intruder reached for a pair of knives. One sharp blade he threw at Slick’s retreating figure as it hurdled out the now-opened window. Rain poured in from the cloudy sky. Running over, the intruder saw Slick land nimbly on the ground, running on foot away from the three-story building and into the crowded city streets of Thailand.
He put a hand to his ear. “Target Zero on the move, in pursuit,” he said, then ran for the stairs.
Slick Nage was raised in Arizona, and if anyone knows anything about Arizona, it’s that no one lives in Arizona. Not nearly this densely, anyways. Phoenix had the population of New York City, but well over sixty times lower population density. So all of this jostling and bustling through the populated streets of Bangkok wasn’t exactly Slick’s favorite activity. It was like leaving Las Vegas before the Friday of a major holiday weekend, practically trapped in paradise.
He needed a distraction. He flagged down the nearest police officer, asking the boy in blue to redirect his pursuer from following him, paying a handsome bribe to solidify the deal. He made his way down an alleyway, his alleyway, punched the code 2-1-1, and pulled out his secret stash of weapons from behind a brick wall. It was time to kill.
The intruder did eventually make it back to Slick’s alleyway. It took him several more minutes than he would have otherwise, so Slick had plenty of time to prepare his own kiss of death. Sauntering down the alley, the intruder kept his eyes peeled on Slick Nage. This would be an assassination. Cold sweat beaded down Slick’s brow. “Sonny,” he told his pursuer, “this ain’t your fight. It ain’t worth it. You’re gonna get left behind, seeking justice like this. Keep this up, you’ll find yourself six feet under the frozen ground.”
The intruder just smiled. It was a wry smile, somehow knowing, somehow containing true intention. “When hell broke loose, you just sat back and let it happen, didn’t you?” he taunted. “To be real with you, friend, this gang war was an accident. Never so few have created such death and devastation. Those boys you put away… They were a magnificent seven, they were. But their suffering ends today,” he continued. “You think you’re untouchable, but there’s no great escape for you here. I only deal in love and bullets, and I’m all outta love.” He spread his cloak to reveal twin pistols on his hips. “This one’s for Chino. Farewell, friend.”
In a flurry, he whipped out the two six-shooters and fired all twenty bullets. None of them hit. Because the moment he moved, the clouds parted and Slick stood, moonstruck, thus protecting him from the silver-coated slugs of his opponent. Slick Nage, the lord of war, the army of one, returned fire with his own arsenal. A torrent of bullets flew from Slick’s guns, each of them barrelling into the bounty hunter and out the other side, needlessly shedding the blood of bystanders in the street behind him. The Humanity Bureau wouldn’t be very happy about this, but Slick didn’t care. Slick only had rage now, pure and unadulterated rage, and he would pay this ghost his due.
At last, the horizontal hailstorm of lead subsided. The intruder fell backwards with what body remained on him. Slick walked up to him, standing over what was left. “What’s your name, pal?”
A cough. “Barles Chronson.”
“Well, Barles, in a few minutes you should be running with the devil himself.”
He shook his head. “The devil’s the one I work for. The Millionaire. He rides the White Buffalo ‘round these parts, that big oversized piece of junk convertible he calls a car. Man’s got a death wish drivin’ around in that thing, but now… Now he’s gonna come for you. And it’s gonna be personal.”
Slick shook his head. “What are you talking about?”
“The evil that men do? He’s done it. He’s done all of it. And he’s about to do it to you too.”
A boot from out of nowhere stomped on the mustached face of Barles Chronson, forever silencing him. The boot belonged on the foot of a tall, thin man with a thousand mile stare. All the good, and bad, and ugly of humanity expressed itself on the man’s rugged face.
“Who are you?!” Slick asked, wide-eyed with exasperation.
The man took a long draw on his cigarette before answering. “Lint Keestwood, punk.”