The Baron's Thriller Novel : Part 4

Dulles International Airport, Dullestown, 11:37am.

It was a bitterly cold morning in some shithole winter month. The airport was crowded. So crowded that a person could easily fade into the background with minimal effort...well, maybe not if their dick was out, but you get the picture.

At the magazine rack stood a dark man, with a dark heart and a dark purpose.......hold on a sec that's from Aladdin isn't it? Hmm, let me rephrase:

At the magazine rack stood a dark man, disgusted by the markups for popular titles and name brand snack items. Also he was wearing a fish hat, like that one the little shithead wears in the sandlot.

The man watched as a beautiful latasian woman presented her boarding pass and strode purposefully down the jetway. Her butt jiggled and sprang from side to side like two legless cats fighting in a tight satin bag.

"Where do you think you're going?" The man perhaps thought, perhaps mumbled.

No response.

"The game is afoot and you're running away without any explanation? How very rude my sensuous Ms. Rivera."

The man was holding a twinkie for some reason, he squeezed it and created a disgusting symbol which would be shown in extreme closeup if this were a movie.

**************

Roy awoke with a gasp.

He was sprawled across an unfamiliar bed in some dank flop house in what he could only assume was Zurich. The sheets had been pulled akimbo and lay at an odd angle so that Roy's lower legs were completely uncovered.

The room stank of cheap hooch, cheap hookers and hand sanitizer. Roy groaned as wave after wave of intense hangover swept through his wrecked body.

"What the fuck was I thinking?" He croaked.

Roy rolled onto his side with considerable effort. As his eyes adjusted to the morning glare he beheld a sight so horrifying that he nearly pooped. Filling entirely one half of the bed surface was the largest pile of vomit Roy had ever seen. It looked like some oaf had dumped an entire wheelbarrow full of old beef stroganoff onto the comforter and then smoothed it out with a trowel.

Bile came to Roy's mouth and he nearly vomited again, although judging by the size of the reeking pile, there would be very little left in his stomach.

"Oh....ohh fuck."

The night's activities suddenly flooded back into Roy's head and he groaned with displeasure. He had taken his father's death rather harder than expected.

The family doctor had been rushed to the compound after Roy alerted security to his grisly find. It was in the best interests of Roy and indeed the entire bra 'n' tamps industry to keep Robert's death under wraps. That Gimbel corp was now without its venerated president could send shock waves through the global financial markets as commodities traders rushed to dump unsold bales of tampons and bushels of hooter slings.

In all respects his father appeared to have suffered a violent end. The bloody foam was everywhere and his body was contracted into an awful reverse facing crescent shape. Roy had been in shock, just standing there next to his father's desk tearing at a small slip of paper he had found in his pocket. Roy didn't even acknowledge when a security man handed him a stiff glass of cognac.

When Doctor Siegler had finally shown up he was aghast at the state of his patient's body.

"My god....." he had exclaimed, clutching the chest of his white coat.

Roy finally snapped out of it and demanded answers, gesticulating so wildly that his drink flew free of its glass and stained the rug beneath their feet. His father had always been healthy as a horse. Why had he now been felled by some mystery ailment in the golden years of his life? It didn't make sense, wasn't fair.

Dr. Siegler had tried to reassure him, but his words were mere platitudes.

"Son....these things happen....it appears that your father developed a clotting disorder, had a seizure and died from hemorrhage..." Dr. Siegler began ..."Now I don't want to distress you but Robert's death must have been unbearable, an orgy of blood and trashing about on the carpet like a fish in a boat. It's truly a miracle that he didn't shit his pants."

"Doctor, I know my father respected you for your frankness, but for fuck's sake!"

"I understand Roy. Everyone grieves differently. Some people get roundly plastered and cry into a hooker's rack, some people keep popping pills until their legs don't work anymore and some people just snap and murder a random fish-monger on the shores of the Caspian Sea during the summer of 1957....."

Dr. Siegler trailed off, continuing to stare Roy full in the face for an uncomfortably long amount of time.

"Um, thanks...?"

"You're welcome my boy now let's get this stiff bagged up and trucked over to my offices for autopsy."

Roy had remained long after the corpse was removed just staring at the huge maroon stain where his father's body had lain. The sword cane remained on the spot it had fallen as the doctor roughly shoved Robert's corpse into a heavy black bag. Roy reached down and grasped the weapon by its hilt, tossed it from hand to hand, examining its impressive heft.

The old man carried this cane wherever he went to "keep those damnable tramps from finking my goddamn wallet" but Roy had never seen it unsheathed before. Like a dog's red rocket, it glistened in the dimming light. No doubt Robert had kept it well oiled to prevent tarnishing. He had always been a persnickety neat freak.

"I don't like disorder in my life, or in the world in general." He told Roy when he was 13. "That's why I started this business. I can't stand by idly while a huge pair of flappy j's jangles all over the damned place any more than I can tolerate a sink full of dirty dishes."

Dr. Siegler thought it likely that the old man had ripped the blade from its scabbard during his convulsions as the other half had been flung nearly across the room.

Roy reassembled the cane and left it leaning up against the mantle on the far wall. He grabbed a large decanter of some godawful gut rot liquor from his father's desk and had swilled nearly half the contents by the time he reached the garage level.

Roy had staggered from bar to bar all that night lusting after any woman who so much as farted within earshot. Eventually he settled on a hooker of some kind.

Now, you would think that a Zurich hooker would be a very well organized, somewhat conservative looking woman, and you'd be right. But Roy didn't pick a tight wad 1000 euro a night Zurichian.

Rather, he stumbled across a huge moon-faced mess of a woman who could have easily been 50 years old. He wasn't even sure she was a hooker, but that had a lot to do with the copious quantity of brandy Roy had downed at the last bar of the evening.

Sitting in the vomit soaked bed, Roy remembered grimly, and clumsily plowing that sow before passing out, and evidently producing 40lbs of yak.

He slowly rose to his feet, but it was no use. A massive bolus of blood rushed to his brain and a headache of biblical proportions began to rasp at the inside of his skull.

Roy's stomach turned and he staggered to the bathroom, reaching the sink just in time to divest himself of another few liters of stomach juice.

He wiped his mouth, spit out some chunks of what tasted like beef and glanced up to examine his face in the mirror.

Roy let out an involuntary yelp as he realized there was a person in the bathtub behind him. He spun on his heel and beheld with rising horror the pale, bloated corpse of the enormous whale he had pile-driven during the night. Her lifeless body filled nearly the entire tub. A nylon cord was wound tightly around her bruised neck.

"Fucking shit!" Roy hissed

How in the fuck had this happened? What the fuck was he supposed to do? How long did he have to figure it out?

As if to answer his questions loud banging sounded from the entryway. With an angry splintering sound, the door flew from its frame and landed flat on the carpet. There was a considerable commotion of footfalls as if a large group of people were fighting to get to the center of the room. Then conspicuous silence.

Roy peeked carefully out of the bathroom and saw four Swiss Poliz Commandos rapidly securing the room. The lead member caught sight of Roy, raised his ridiculous looking European machine gun and shouted..

"Get down on the floor now!" In some sort of trashy accent.

If Roy hadn't already puked up his whole dinner he would have shit his pants, instead he meekly complied.