text: [Themes: modern, action, anti-hero]
  
  Sterling City. There's no place quite like it. Sure, she's a bit emotional at times, but her sweet lovin' makes it all worth it. It's not uncommon for someone, some tough motherfucker to stroll in and think he's above the law. Shit. He's not wrong. Only, the law is a merciless bitch. If you don't pay her attention, if you don't treat her right, she'll leave, abandoning you for someone who will treat her the way she wants to be treated.
  
  All these immature gangsters, the mere boys who think themselves men, don't get it. They don't understand Sterling the way I do. They take advantage of her and act surprised when she lashes back. There are few certainties in this miserable life, and one of 'em has to do with a woman scorned.
  
  There she dances on the stage. Friday night in this dump holds the shining jewel of the city. Red hair more precious than any ruby, her smile is innocent; it reminds me of when I was a boy in Ms. Charlotte's class. Oh yes, there was no sweeter woman than my twenty-something year old 1st grade teacher. She was a woman, barely, and treated us like we had potential, like we weren't meant to all be fuck-ups. Ms. Charlotte, she always wore the cutest sundresses. Ms. Charlotte, compassionate till the end. God knows she knew I struggled.
  
  Academia was never my strong suit unless you count gym class. My report card was full of Ds, maybe the occasional C, but gym class? I was goddamn Einstein when it came to physical activity. Still am. You know what they say about knuckle draggers like myself. "Muscle for brains." Shit. They're not wrong.
  
  [Author's Note: She offers everything a man could want. Sterling City, an unsteady lover, but a lover nonetheless, filled with gunfire, liberal women, and elevator dings! One day her embrace is warm, and the next, it's the cold shoulder and couch for you, baby. Best to get out while the going's good. Author's Note: Contest entry for IWT 13: The Resurrection.]
  
  > order a drink
  I turn and raise my hand to wave down the waitress, but she's already there, anticipating my movement. Her blonde curls hang down mid-belly length, highlighting the bright color opposed to her black short skirt and matching crop top. From her neck, hangs a cigarette tray, and I spy a few miniature bottles of whiskey. Not nearly enough, but they'll do in a pinch.
  
  "A drink and a smoke, miss," I say, politely. My voice sounds haggard, a bit affected by the previous drinks and smokes.
  
  "Whatever you want, honey," she says, using the typical response. Not two minutes earlier, I heard the exact same thing come from another waitress' mouth. Maybe the other men in this joint fall for it, but I certainly don't. It's all business or me. I need a goddamn drink and smoke.
  
  As she reaches for the small bottle, she throws a pack of smokes on the table in front of me. The white pack, covered in thin plastic, lightlessly lands on the scratched-up table. While she pours my whiskey, I tear the plastic off and flip the pack of smokes open. Briefly, the bust from her top draws my attention. There's a small mole near the top of her right breast. The small dot only makes the entire mound it sits on seem larger, though a little too synthetically tanned for my taste. Give me the real thing, or nothing at all.
  
  "That'll be twenty-three fifty, honey," the waitress says. I give her forty even and watch her stuff the excess into the crevice of her crop top. No wonder why the mole looks so small. My attention draws back to the stage. To her, the only reason I come to this place. Her natural red hair is on the verge of being too long, like the youthful length of a late teen's. If someone told you her age, you wouldn't believe it. "She can't be past thirty," you'd say. I know better, and it makes her only more attractive in my opinion.
  
  A familiar feeling jams into my lower back. What is that? A revolver?
  
  "No sudden moves, asshole. Come with us."
  
  "The song's almost over," I comment, taking a drag from my cigarette.
  
  The feeling intensifies, emphasizing their point— and the warning intended. I rise, sliding my chair back with a squeal. No one seems to notice, or care, the fact that two men are leading me outside by gunpoint. Smoke at the corner of my mouth, I allow them to lead me out the back door.
  
  > Back door
  Why do all alleys look the same? These wannabe mobsters, these boys acting like men have no idea what they are getting themselves into. They always lead you to an alley, like there's something intimidating about two walls and a narrow path. Hey, I get it. To the average citizen, it'd symbolize a lack of hope. There's one way outta this, mister, and we're holding the guns! Fucking amateurs. You don't take someone to an alley to kill them; you take them to an alley to get--
  
  --killed! I turn, too quickly for them to react and throw a meaty fist into the nearest one. His tan fedora flies into the air, followed quickly by a red burst from his nose. He grabs at it to stop the bleeding. Bad idea. Your hands are better served blocking me, or better yet, the bullets from your partner.
  
  Pop, pop, pop, pop, pop, pop! Six shots fire almost as one. Turns out I was right about the revolver. I also know they only hold six shots, six shots which have turned into six red spots in his partner. I toss the body aside, the shield serving its purpose, and make my way towards the man with the empty revolver.
  
  Six empty clicks of the trigger ring into the alley as I draw closer. His matching fedora hangs loosely on his head, and he adjusts the hat. It's too big for him in my opinion, like a boy wearing hand-me-downs. In one swift motion, my hand meets his cheek and subsequently, his head hits the brick wall. In as many movements, his body collapses in the alley.
  
  These are who they send after me? What a fucking joke. Don't they know who I am? A quick search of their pockets gives me the answer. They certainly do. I find a picture, creased up and folded, not in a neat manner. It's me alright. No one could confuse this mug with someone else's. Hair's a little longer now, but there's no mistaking the thick jaw and Neanderthal forehead. Hugh. Bounty: $6,000. Dead or alive. Shit. I'm worth at least ten.
  
  > Elsewhere
  The wind draws his hair behind him as if a flag in the wind. The Challenger, speeding down the highway at a cool 89, weaves in-between a slow semi and an even slower mini-van. A streak of black American muscle takes the highway by storm. The driver's window rolled down, sends a consistent womph of air streaming into the cabin. It's necessary, though. Danny needs to feel the wind. His arm outside the window makes small waves, carried higher by the intense pulse of speed-brought wind.
  
  Ah, Sterling City: the place of opportunity...if you could survive her mood swings. Highway 49 zooms by as Danny presses on the gas pedal harder. Another slow truck, utility vehicle, and souped-up Honda, later, there's nothing but open road. Nothing but black asphalt leading down the stretch into Sterling.
  
  Road signs showing mileage to other cities are disregarded, as if anyone would leave the loving arms of Sterling. The motor of the Challenger roars as Danny makes the cool 89 an increasing 100. A few exits later, and he finds his. Danny runs a hand through his wavy hair, feeling the small comfort it brings. Life is about the little things, you know? Like driving fast and feeling your hair in the wind.
  
  With a screech, the Challenger slides, literally, into the only empty space outside the building. An endless, rising number of blank windows reach towards the clouds above. Danny exits the Challenger with the soft beeping of the security system and adjusts his black shaded Aviators. Hell, if he wasn't going to arrive in style. Sterling is about showmanship, Sterling is about bravado. Danny has both in mind. Popping a bubble from his bubblegum, he enters the lifeless building, swinging the revolving glass door open and allowing it to swallow him inside.
  
  > Inside
  It's like a glass prison. The floor, a shiny dyed gray marble, reflects light from massive rectangular windows. Danny's footsteps echo throughout the room as it's silent but for each step he takes. A woman greets him, dressed in a tight gray business suit? On top it looks like a suit, but the matching short skirt feels anything other than business, unless you count the let's get down to business variety. Whatever it is, there's a certain air of superiority around the woman, whether that's by career success or sexual domination is up for interpretation. Danny assumes a bit of both.
  
  "The Senator will see you now," she speaks from behind the glass counter. Her arms motion to the elevator, and two meat-headed security guards step aside, allowing room for Danny to enter.
  
  "Thanks, doll," Danny says with a smack of his gum. Filling the room again with the sound of his steps, Danny heads for the elevator. The two security guards follow him inside, standing in front of Danny, and the door, giving him nothing but a view of their bull-like shoulders.
  
  "Gentlemen. Can you hit the button for floor 76?" Danny asks. He's met with a grunt from the left one, but Danny hears the soft clicking of the elevator button after. "Thank you, sir. Thank you kindly," Danny speaks to no one, at least no one who's listening.
  
  > make conversation
  "Listen, lads. I've always wondered how they make suits that big. Tell me, do you have them custom made or do you shop at Goons R Us?"
  
  Danny waits, patiently, for a response. He's met with the cold stare of a pair of backs.
  
  "It's nothing personal. I'm just concerned for a material shortage. Those are nice suits, by the way. Fine quality. Fine workmanship. I just imagine something of that size takes a whole lotta thread to make. I was thinking about getting one of my own. Hopefully there's enough thread left over to make one in my size, though if I'm desperate I suppose I can tear a sleeve of yours and use that as a jacket."
  
  No response. The one of the right does turn his head slightly though. A reaction, finally.
  
  "You know, I've never noticed there's no music in this elevator. I thought all elevators had music. It's always awful, but it's there, like it's part of the experience. It feels a little bland without sound in the background, the elevator ride I mean. It's missing something, an integral part. Funny how you don't really notice things until they're absent, huh?"
  
  The elevator dings! and the doors slide open. The two men exit first, quick for men of their size. Danny thinks he heard a sigh of relief from one of them.
  
  > 76th Floor
  A long, narrow office hallway greets Danny. Gray carpet, a darker shade of gray walls, and a few poorly placed, in Danny's opinion, fake plants line the walls. The gap between each plastic plant is too much and only accents the drab environment they "grow" in. Makes maintenance easy, though. Security background checks are a bitch, especially for a high turnover role such as "Plant Waterer." Two oxen, leading the way in suits, guide Danny to the Senator's office.
  
  The first thing Danny sees is a pair of well-polished dress shoes on a shiny mahogany desk. Which begs the question, do the shoes or desk get shined more often? Probably are equally as absurd. Something like a morning, mid-morning, lunchtime, and afternoon shine. Don't forget the shine right before bed. Can't let the dust sleep! The pair of dress shoes uncross and plant firmly underneath the leg room of the desk. Smoke rising from the corner of his mouth, the Senator waves Danny forward.
  
  Slamming down his landline, the Senator speaks. "Dan, my son. It's been far too long. How's it been, sport?"
  
  Danny hooks a visitor's chair with his ankle, pulling it from it's stored position, and sits down in it. "I dunno. Last thing I recall is driving off with Mom. Apparently she didn't drive fast enough. That sound about right?"
  
  The Senator clears his throat, almost uncomfortably, though Danny knows there's not much to make the Senator uncomfortable, besides a close election maybe.
  
  "Whatever tales you tell yourself to get you through the day, Dan. Bet you're wondering why I brought you here to Sterling, huh? That's a nice ride I hooked you up with. I always knew you had a taste for good American muscle."
  
  "A man knows his son's favorite car. Give this man father of the year," Danny says, clapping his hands together, mockingly in the Senator's direction.
  
  "Quit that, Dan. This is serious business that brought you here. There's someone after me. Can you believe it? I'm in danger, Dan. Me— and everyone I'm close to."
  
  "Good. That means I'm safe then."
  
  "Not exactly. People are turning up dead, Dan. I have a short list of people I care about, and you're high on it."
  
  "How high?" Danny questions.
  
  Another throat clear. "Doesn't matter. I need you here. Safe. Can you do that for me, son?"
  
  > Sure thing, Pop
  "Golly, gee. I'd love to stay here in your mansion, mister!" Danny exclaims.
  
  "Dan, you know the rules against lying. No matter, you'll learn in time. Turbo, Bear. Show my son to his new living quarters."
  
  The two thick-necked security guards motion for Danny to stand up. Danny follows them out of the office, back into the gray hallway.
  
  "Living quarters are on the 82th floor," Turbo says, his bald head looking like it's going to burst out of the tight neck hole of his dress shirt.
  
  "...no sudden moves," Bear adds, a little out of context, but a well prepared statement nonetheless.
  
  Danny follows their lead back down the hallway, fingertips touching the plastic leaves on the way. Through his black Aviators, he understands the situation he's in. This isn't a matter of deciding to stay in the building; either way he would have been here. No mistaking that fact. Bear and Turbo allow him to pass in-between them, apparently their signature move. As far as prisons go, this one ain't so bad. There are far worse places to be trapped in.
  
  > Continue
  I beat my way through one alley and the next. That's the thing about hitmen, goons, and bouncers, they might as well be punching bags with an ugly face. You never quite feel remorse bashing their brains in. Of course, it's only fair since they'd do the same thing to you. Unfortunately, the ones I've run into tonight are all bark, no bite. You know the type. "Strength in numbers." Yeah, that's because they aren't strong enough to stand on their own two feet.
  
  It's becoming a routine. I ask nicely. I have manners, you know. In return, I receive a middle finger and a fat loogie to the face. So far, only one man gave me the information I wanted up-front, most likely because his buddies were busy bleeding out on the floor. Some people can't empathize with the need of others, but if you demonstrate an ability to break bones, they'll learn it quickly. They learn it real quick.
  
  I'm given a name. Well, not so much a name, but a title. The Senator. There's only one of note in this town, and I'm inviting myself over for dinner tonight. There are far worse characters in this city than me, so I don't know exactly why the Senator put a hit on me. Probably has something to do with my line of profession. You work your way up the corporate ladder and you're bound to piss off a few people on the way up. A man's gotta get paid somehow, and I'm too young to retire. Too poor, too.
  
  Seemingly endless windows stretch up towards the sky. There's a black Challenger parked out front. Nice car. I might as well search for the keys while I'm inside. The Chevy I picked up on the way is a little cramped in the front seat. One way or another, I shouldn't keep my dinner guest waiting.
  
  > take the front door
  I've never been a planner. It's always the most straightforward option that I take. Helps when you've got a thick head. After admiring my reflection in the Challenger, I swing open the front door. It's like a glass prison inside, neglected by any sort of designer. The thing is, there probably was a designer who made absurd amounts designing the gray with slightly darker gray scheme. I could do that too. Shit, I picked the wrong profession.
  
  A woman at the front desk greets me. She's not unattractive, but I imagine living with her would end up in disaster. I bet her man turns into a cucked-up puppet, or one day he'll be found with a rope tied to the rafters and fallen chair next to his hanging body. Some people have a knack, no, a god-given talent to annoy others, to push them over the edge. This lady surely is one of them. I don't know, maybe I'm just bitter and a little drunk, definitely a little drunk.
  
  "Can I help you, sir?" she asks, aware that I'm out of place and there's no one else on the ground floor.
  
  "I'm here to see the Senator," I answer.
  
  "I'm sorry. It's a little late, and I doubt you have an appointment."
  
  Her reply is met with the back of my hand. Straightforward, as always. As she collapses, unconscious. I hurdle the desk to search for a key card. She'll wake with one hell of a headache, but she'll wake. That's more that can be said for the others that stepped in my path tonight. A man's gotta have standards, and I don't hurt women, as long as they're not pointing a gun in my face. I find a directory, which guides my destination to the 76th floor. Good evening, Senator. Your guest has arrived.
  
  > On the way up...
  Already bored, Danny finds himself in exploration mode. His two appointed guardians, Bear and Turbo, were easy enough to shake. Funny, and all he had to do was toss a pebble in the opposite direction as a distraction, metaphorically speaking. On a more literal note, Danny hired a hooker named Jessica to take their eyes off guarding the door. It's a man's vice, thinking with his "pebbles."
  
  A few unlocked doors here, snatching a custodian's key there, and Danny arrives at the security room, which is where his bloodline came in handy. Nothin' quite like being the boss' son, especially if the boss is a prominent political leader. Notice how he's the Senator, as if the others don't matter. They don't, by the way.
  
  Surrounded by monitors, Danny watches through the many cameras posted strategically through the building. If there's nothing interesting happening, there's always another channel. Danny leans back in the leather chair, placing his black boots on the desk, crossed and nonchalant. His hands find a supportive grip behind his head as he blows some impressive gum bubbles.
  
  What's this? Seems we have a visitor past normal visiting hours. The way this guy looks, he's not here to chat. You know the kind, someone who probably knocks on front doors with his forehead and eats nails for breakfast, someone who doesn't use umbrellas in the pouring rain and doesn't scrape the splinters from his disposable chopsticks.
  
  Looks like he's on the way upstairs. Finally, Danny finds a show worth watching.
  
  > Upstairs
  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."
  
  > take the job
  "I didn't know you had children, Senator," I say.
  
  "None that are legitimate."
  
  "Suppose I were to take this job. I'm not a bounty hunter. Where's his last location?"
  
  The Senator smiles with one corner of his mouth. "He's in the building, sport."
  
  "Why do you need me then?" I ask.
  
  "Simple. It can't be one of my boys otherwise the trail leads back to me. But you, someone who murdered their way through my building. Now, that's a story the people want to hear. Of course you'll be a wanted man, but with the payout I'm giving, you'll never have to work again. You can buy as many red-haired lap dances as you want. That's what you like, isn't it? Red hair?"
  
  "How much we talking here?"
  
  "3 hundy kay a year, plus the Challenger parked out front."
  
  "Make it an even forty and you have a deal," I say, shaking his hand and taking the stogie from his mouth.
  
  The Senator gives another corner-lipped smile. "82th floor. Don't take too long."
  
  As I turn to leave, an explosion of pain rings through my body. I look down to see a hole in my chest, the result of shotgun if I had to guess. My legs are unresponsive, and I collapse to the floor, just managing to twist my head to view the desk behind me. The Senator walks from behind, holding a sawed-off. Damn. And things were just looking up, too. Faintly, I hear the sound of squealing tires before my hearing, and vision, fades from existence.
  
  He heard enough of the conversation to know it wasn't going to end well. Things don't typically do for those in opposition to the Senator. You don't reach the top of the food chain without taking out a few cats along the way, and this cat is in the wind. The security office gave Danny full audio and visual into the meeting in his father's office. He didn't care if it was a ploy or not. He much prefers the open road to a quarantined room.
  
  Street signs zoom past Danny, blurring into one streak of green. Window rolled down, Danny feels the air sweep into the Challenger. His fingers hit the radio, sending Metallica's "Bleeding Me" into the cab. I'm diggin' my way. Danny's foot slams down on the clutch as his hand sends the stick shift up. I'm diggin' my way to somethin'. One hand on the wheel, Danny pops open the glove box and fumbles inside, finding a stick of bubblegum. He pops it into his mouth and blows a big, pink bubble rivaling Harley Quinn herself. The open road before him, Sterling City behind, Danny takes in a breath of fresh air from the rushing open window. I'm diggin' my way to somethin' better.