text: [Themes: modern, action]
  
  Gray, dark gray, and plastic plants lie in front of me. Truly, the designer outdid themselves with the addition of fake plants. At least they aren't gray plants. Do they even have those? They have everything nowadays, just ask Bud Light Seltzer. Hell, if watered down beer makes seltzer water, there's got to be a gray plant. What will they think of next? Non-alcoholic beer? Shit, Heineken...
  
  I'm met with proper security now. 'Bout time. Dark navy uniforms, helmets with shaded visors, submachine guns... Yeah, that's proper security all right. Not three steps out of the elevator they spray bullets into the narrow hallway. I barely manage to take cover back in the elevator unscathed, well, with only a few grazes. That's unscathed in this line of work. Thanks to the hitmen earlier in the night, I'm armed with a beautiful revolver. Time to sing, baby. Sing them straight to sleep.
  
  A slight pause in gunfire, and that's my cue. I trade the safety of my cover for a clear line of vision. The revolver rumbles deep, powerfully as I hold it steady, despite its tendency to buck. I tame it. I soothe it with each shot landing true. The gun is a magnificent beast, and it deserves an owner who will treat her right. As my final opponent falls, I eye the mess. So much for keeping the carpet clean. The empty chamber of my beloved gets filled with six more tokens of my love. I'm not a selfish man. Time to share my love with others. The Senator is especially in need of some.
  
  The first thing I see are a pair of black polished dress shoes crossed neatly on a mahogany desk. A big ol' cigar sits in the corner of the Senator's mouth. Cuban, by the smell. That's some good shit. I should search his desk for more after I'm done with him. He doesn't even take the stogie from his mouth as he breaks the silence.
  
  "Took you long enough. I was starting to wonder if your skills were the result of embellishment."
  
  "I'm willing to be this isn't a place men simply wander into."
  
  "It's not."
  
  "And yet I did. Is that embellishment?"
  
  The Senator chuckles, not born of joy, not the result of even amusement. The chuckle is more along the lines of a kid standing over an anthill on a sunny day with a magnifying glass. "I've got a job for you. You are quite the 'interviewee.'"
  
  "Come on, don't act like you're pulling the strings here. You put a hit on me. Do you deny that?" I ask.
  
  "I did. And it brought you straight to me. I can't go about meeting with...questionable characters. I do have a reputation to maintain," the Senator answers with a puff of smoke. "Do this for me and I'll make sure you're well taken care of. Job security is a rare thing in this town."
  
  "What's the job?"
  
  "I want you to kill my son. I want you to kill Dan."
  
  > turn down the offer
  I haven't held too many jobs for long. I've heard there's a way to politely turn down an offer with brevity and respect. It's something along the lines of a formal letter or call. Unfortunately, all I have with me is a loaded revolver. I empty its contents into the Senator's chest and hope he understands the meaning behind. If not, no harm, no foul...well, maybe there's a bit of harm.
  
  His black polished shoes fly straight up as his body flies backward in an expensive-looking chair. At the very least, I've brought a bit of color to the gray building, a bit of boldness if I should say so myself. Red is always a bold color. It's attention grabbing, automatically drawing eyes in its direction. I think it's ok in this case, the case being multiple guns fired and a pile of bodies in my trail.
  
  The phone rings just as I'm leaving, curious timing indeed. I admit I'm a bit interested, but I don't dare answer. It goes to voicemail, and a muffled voice rings into the air.
  
  "Thanks for not killing me. It means a lot, it really does."
  
  I reply with, "Are you Dan?"
  
  "You do know this isn't an actual phone call, right? You have to pick up the phone if you want to talk to me. My lip reading can only go so far. And yes, this is Dan-- well, Danny. Pick up the phone, sport. And also yes, I can see you. Wave to the camera, big fella."
  
  I look around the room and find a red blinking light next to a lens in the corner of the room. Guys like me aren't comfortable being recorded. I offer a slight palm towards the camera, my version of a wave, and pick up the landline.
  
  "Senator's office."
  
  "My, you're funny. I didn't expect that," the voice answers back. "You look more along the type that laughs at a good curb stomp rather than Dave Chapelle, even more so if you're doing the stomping.
  
  "Not all of us can have pretty parents."
  
  "We're in the same boat then, at least if we're talking personality-wise. Daddy here is an ugly son-of-a-bitch on the inside, but at least he passed along his thick black hair. Can't complain there."
  
  "What is the meaning of this call?" I ask.
  
  "Meaning? Oh, I just wanted to speak with the man who killed my father and refused the offer to be employed by one of the most powerful men in Sterling. You must be more than a big ol' dumb brute. No offense."
  
  "...none taken."
  
  "I figure I can take over the family business now. Might as well put my lineage to good use. It's been nothing but a target on my back ever since birth. My first act as king is to reward you. So, what will it be, sport?
  
  "That's a nice Challenger parked out front," I say. "Any idea where the keys are?"
  
  "You damn bastard. Fine. There's a set inside the desk. Take it easy on gear three. She's a touchy one."
  
  Sure enough, there's a key with a Dodge symbol on it inside the mahogany desk.
  
  "Hey Danny," I speak into the phone. "You might want to buff up security a bit."
  
  "I was thinkin' the exact same thing. You don't be a stranger now, you hear?"
  
  I slam the phone down, jingling the keys in my other hand. Sterling can be a strange place, mysterious if you don't understand her. Sometimes you just gotta make the most out of a bad situation and take what you can get. She's as unforgiving as the sea, but one thing's for certain: she's one hell of a ride if you don't crash onto the shore. I've got a date with a red-haired dancer. There are certain things you can't muscle your way through.
  
  The journey back takes me past Sterling Suites. I viewed the inside, once, early on in my career. If there was ever a place that shows the heart and soul of this city, it's the 'Suites. The wealthy thrive, and the lower class, well, the lower class is barred from entry. Hell, even good ol' American middle won't get you in. You gotta be top tier, baby, top shelf whiskey, none of that name brand shit. You gotta be so top shelf, most people don't even know your whiskey brand, let alone tasted it. The bottles don't sit in the open, waiting for just anyone to place their grubby hands on them; they sit behind lock and key, behind a glass wall like a treasured artifact. I'm the glass wall, baby.
  
  > Sterling Suites
  It was a night like any other. Guests file in the hotel, excited to arrive and explore the building. They filter through the automatic glass double doors like marathoners beginning a race, though at a slightly slower pace. Rachel watches them pour in, dressed in their finest gowns and tuxes. It was a night like any other; there were rarely gaps in the famed Sterling Suites' events.
  
  She stands behind a computer monitor, offering smiles towards the few guests that glance in her direction. Here, she's merely nothing more than a backdrop, a service to be used and disposed at the guests' direction. Out there... Rachel turns her head to view at the city outside... Out there, she's certainly not a glorified vending machine.
  
  Rachel tucks a strand of auburn hair behind her ear and adjusts her black-rimmed glasses. To her, it's auburn. Charlie likes to call it copper, most likely because he knows it annoys her. If they don't get under your skin, it's not the real thing, her mother used to say. Whatever gets you through the day, Ma'. She'd probably still be dancing on the stage well into the 90s if the lung cancer didn't get her first. A pack a day eventually catches up to you.
  
  The monitor to the hotel's computer goes black for a moment as it "thinks." You'd think Sterling Suites would have decent computers behind the desk by the amount of wealthy guests it draws. Guess some things are the same whether you work at a dead-end business or fancy hotel: company computers suck ass.
  
  "You manage to get everyone checked in ok?" the voice of Marjorie croaks behind Rachel.
  
  "Yes, Marge," Rachel says, managing to hold back a sigh. The old bag hardly knew how to turn on the damn computer, let alone check anyone in. Still, Marge had been around since the hotel's founding, and apparently, that's carrying her through the latter half of her career: her usefulness certainly wasn't.
  
  "There is a special guest tonight. I hope that you will show him more courtesy than you show me," Marjorie says.
  
  "Oh yes, Mr. Crestwood has been all over me about it," Rachel answers. "I prepared the Presidential Suite to the utmost detail. I had facilities take out the normal chandelier that hangs in the entryway. You know, the crystalline willow one? It's gone now and replaced with the 'regal' one. Same thing for all the candlesticks and booshwa bottles of alcohol. Everything in the suite is the finest Sterling has to offer, including the, uh, company provided."
  
  "Hmmpt. That's Doctor Crestwood. Don't you forget it, honey," Marjorie corrects as she leaves the front desk, most likely making for casino at the northern end of the hotel's campus. Marge sure loves her bingo. Some stereotypes hold true.
  
  Rachel releases her sigh that had been building up since hearing Marge's first words. As far as jobs go, it wasn't a bad gig. Some of the guests tipped well, and it was hardly ever boring. How could it be? Through those glass double doors enter strangers from around the world, with stories from all over.
  
  Along with a thick wallet comes stories, hardly ever needing embellishment because with money anything's possible. This isn't Sterling High, where Rachel went to high school, public school by the way, where people needed to enhance their boring, uninteresting stories. This is where real money is spent. Anything's possible if you had the cash to pay for it. The guests of Sterling Suites definitely have it. And more.
  
  A man's knuckles rap on the polished wood of the front desk. Glistening white teeth meet Rachel, housed within a thick jaw, though not too thick as to question his intelligence. Just thick enough in Rachel's estimation. The sudden noise, plus the man's looks, causes Rachel to jump.
  
  "Sorry, miss. Didn't mean to startle you. Name's Holt. James Holt, but I prefer Holt. James is my father's name, and well...you probably don't want to hear my life story," Holt says, keeping the smile. "I have a reservation."
  
  "Yes. Of course you do," Rachel says, recovering, and putting on her professional demeanor. The silence between the two is filled with the clacking of the hotel keyboard, a few frantic hits of the Backspace button every few seconds or so. You know how it is. You get in the groove, and then, a mistype happens. Instead of clicking on the error and correcting, you have to delete the entire line.
  
  "I'm sorry. I don't see a reservation under your name," Rachel says.
  
  "My apologies, miss. It must be under my employer's name. Joseph Branch."
  
  For the second time, Rachel startles, less this time time around, at the man's name: the guest of honor, Joseph Branch. She enters the name into the system and finds only a single reservation, the one for the Presidential Suite.
  
  Not wanting to upset the man or his employer, she says, "I'm sorry, we're still working on your accommodations." She hands him a keycard. "This will get you into the hotel's amenities. Please accept this token as an apology for the room delay. Don't lose it. That card gives access to everything the hotel has to offer. On us, of course."
  
  Holt flicks the card between his thumb and middle finger, sending it into the sleeves of his jet black tuxedo. "Thank you kindly, miss...?"
  
  "Rachel."
  
  "Thank you kindly, Miss Rachel. This will be a night to remember. That's for sure."
  
  As Holt turns to leave, Rachel adds on. "Mr. Holt, sir? I wouldn't try those fancy tricks at the casino. There's cameras everywhere, and there are no exceptions for cheaters. No matter who they work for."
  
  "I'll be careful, Miss Rachel," Holt answers, revealing the keycard from his other sleeve.
  
  > Out there
  Silent, unassuming, the alley looks like any other, one of many spaced evenly apart on the street, not that anyone would ever willingly wander down one at this time of night. Rachel is an exception. A lone streetlamp stands a few feet from its entrance, offering a beacon, a false lighthouse for travelers of the night. Bugs swarming the light, the dark mouth of the cave-like alley, Rachel takes a deep breath and strides inside. Stepping into the alley sends a wave of cold over Rachel's body, whether by the lack of warm breeze in the confined space or entirely psychological, is up for debate. She makes for a metal door, one with a slider at eye level instead of a peephole.
  
  With a groan of metal against metal, a pair of eyes greet her. "What do you want," the voice echoes the greeting with a hint of a Russian accent.
  
  "Those under spite must take justice into their own hands."
  
  The door swings open, allowing a soft glow of oil lamps to briefly shine into the alley. Immediately, the door slams behind Rachel and she's face to face with Alexei Arlovsky, otherwise known as Brickbreaker.
  
  "Good of you to join us, Red Hurricane," he says.
  
  Rachel clasps his hand and asks, "Where are the others?"
  
  "In here," another voice speaks. Rachel follows the direction of the voice and finds two others huddled around a computer monitor. This one, however, is state-of-the-art, nothing like the shit monitors back at the hotel. Displayed on the monitor is their target, one Trevor Harrigan, a piece of shit dealer who's been caught peddling his poison to minors.
  
  "We know where the fucker is," Lightstealer says, casually picking a rogue piece of thread from his black bodysuit.
  
  "We're taking him down tonight," Charlie, The Evil Angel, confirms. "Rachel, doll, are you with us?"
  
  "I'm with you, Angel," Rachel, The Red Hurricane, says.
  
  "Excellent! Wheels up in thirty. You might want to put on your uniform, doll," Charlie answers.
  
  Rachel finds a separate room to change in. The light in the room isn't much brighter than the main one. That's the thing with finding abandoned spaces to hold secret meetings; there's never any electricity, something you ordinarily take for granted. Rachel eyes the stained, streaked-up mirror and undresses, removing her black rimmed glasses first, then she removes the tie around her auburn hair.
  
  Rachel pulls out a crimson bodysuit from within her duffel bag and slips into it. Just then, a pair of hands land at her waist, a body closely follows and presses against her backside. Warm breath from the man lands on Rachel's neck. "You know we might not return alive. It'd be tragic to go out without a good fuck."
  
  Rachel turns to meet Charlie's gaze, a small grin appearing at her lips. "Good fucking will be waiting for us when we return."
  
  "You drive a hard bargain, doll," Evil Angel says, the disappointment obvious in his tone. "Put on the rest of your things." Charlie leaves Rachel to finish, but not before giving her a playfully firm slap on the rear.
  
  It wasn't a bad night for Trevor Harrigan. His pockets are more full than they usually are. Apparently, there's a giant party tonight. There's one nearly every night in Sterling, but this is different. This kind only happens once a year. This is a graduation party. Way different. It's a night for spoiled brats to let loose, to reward themselves for all their "hard work." In reality, their teachers are probably paid off by the students' rich parents.
  
  Only reason Trevor made it through high school was due to smarts. Not book smarts, mind you. Street smarts, baby. What's common sense to Trevor, is a skill neglected by the students partying tonight. Hell, they paid double for his stuff, not even questioning it. They can afford it, sure, but their inexperience was clear. You don't ever accept the first price offered. Idiots. Once that money well runs dry, they'll be alone, parched, and trampled by those willing to get dirty, to dig their own well, to find a pool of cash.
  
  He walks down the street, counting his dollars -- normally a big no-no in Sterling, but this is his block. The people here know him. They're paid well to protect and look the other way when business comes knockin'. You need to treat your hired help well, otherwise they'll be seeking the first chance they get to stab you in the back. Trevor likes his back un-stabbed and pays well to keep it that way.
  
  Suddenly, a blacked-out van screeches to a halt mere feet away from Trevor. Three bodies jump from the rear double-doors, so quickly, the doors smash against the van's side with a dull thud.
  
  "What the in fuck..." Trevor begins before trailing off. His assailants look as if they just returned from a comic book convention. Each dressed in a different colored bodysuit, masks, and hold non-lethal weapons. Surprise at their attire freezes him for a moment: just enough time for a man with fake wings attached to his back to smash his leg with a police baton.
  
  Trevor manages to pull his glock from its resting place at his waistband and brings it to aim at the gay angel in front of him. A blow to the gut stops him before firing as a second man, this one dressed in all black, pummels him with a quick combination reinforced with brass knuckles. Though to be more accurate, covered in a layer of spray paint, they're more like "black knuckles."
  
  The third assailant, a woman in red, hangs back seemingly frozen in place by the violence. Both men continue beating Trevor with their blunt weapons. Here, on his own goddam block.
  
  "Red Hurricane! Snap out of it!" the man with the wings shouts. The woman, Red Hurricane, shakes her head to clear the thoughts immobilizing her. She charges forward with her staff raised overhead. Dark eyeshadow outlines her eyes, allowing only the white of her eyes to appear from beneath the mask. Her lipstick, the same color as her bodysuit, glistens in the night as if red wine pouring into a spotless, shimmering wine glass.
  
  The others beat him with an air of professionalism, a duty that needed to be done. The woman, however, possesses a maniacal smile, the enjoyment of beating a man half to death apparent on her face. Each blow of the staff simultaneously allows her smile to grow wider. With each blow, another white tooth is exposed. While she hung back initially, this cat is out of the fucking bag.
  
  As promised, the fuck was good after returning back to the abandoned building. Fueled by adrenaline, Red Hurricane and Evil Angel made good on the promise, even allowing Lightstealer to join in on the fun. There's something about beating a man to the brink of death that just turns you on, you know? They left Trevor alive, if you could call it that. They're the good guys, after all. Good guys don't kill people. They beat people into a bloody pulp and then fuck each other, consentually, of course. Trevor may never walk again, but at least he's "alive."
  
  Rachel's back at Sterling Suites, behind a computer monitor, hair tied and glasses resting on her nose. That's the thing about Sterling: what you see on the surface is never the entire story. A few hotel guests pass by Rachel, the majority not even acknowledging her. She's a service to be used when they need it. Overstep, motherfucker. I fucking dare you, Rachel casually thinks, offering kind smiles to the hotel's guests. Quiet, unassuming like the alley, she politely helps each member who approaches the front desk with an air of meekness. They have no idea who she really is. They better pray they don't find out.