Musing

Two gentlemen walk into a club. They are immediately assailed by a barge of women of the street who begin to engage in teasing lewd acts with the duo. The younger, bold, stout, bald and always wearing a wickedly grin, glances over at the bartender and at the same time shoos the women away who now hone in their attention on the elderly jacket wearing companion. He salivates, brings out a clean Cuban from his pocket, extends it towards one of the ladies and makes the cigar slither across her back for a short while before making an abrupt stop and extending it to his mate. A metalic cutter is produced from the inner jacket and the butt of the cigar is cut off with a silver coated lighter pumped to emit a ball of air suspended fire which produced a wisp of smoke.
The older man keeps flirting with three of the best which the inn had to offer, tugging at their brasseries and at the same time trying to slid his hand further deeper into their loosely fitted gowns. A shot rings out and blood mixed with brain matter splatters across the entire length of the bar which is made of fine acacia wood. The bartender lunges to hug the bare cold floor; a shock-induced reactionary move already perfected from years of evading death from stray bullets ejected from blood thirsty metallic AK, otherwise christened 'street-sweepers' by the OGs who caressed them more than they did their women.
The women in muffled screams scramble into different hideouts already carved out from years of evading murder from gunslingers who have had above the limit alcohol in their system, crazed clients whose beastial appetites had been whet to an overflowing extent but did not have the complete cash to re-enact their crazy fantasies, Pimping dope dealers who usually came looking for their bitches who had mistakenly snuffed the product they were supposed to deliver along with the carnal algebraic lessons they were supposed to teach the clients, and the usual band of drunk college students who occasionally decided to pick on innocently looking Marines which resulted in a free for all brawl where the students would be stretched away with broken limbs, disjointed jaws and a string of slurring curse words still being hurled.
The killer, the younger man, sits with ease and continues taking shots of the fiery scotch to quench the rising fear of the retaliatory war which was bound to break out in the city when the capones see the bloody sprawled body of their leader. With the air of a skilled mortician, he calmly prodded the head of once adored Mafioso who had once, when stark naked in his magnificent suite, declared himself to be more secured than God and more connected than the Pentagon. Tongue projecting loosely from the mouth and the familiar repugnant scent of piss mixed with shit which was plastered to his pants, the older man was truly dead. A confirmation that calmed the younger man who reclined back on the stool and poured himself a fresh round of whisky on the rocks.
A smile.
Calm spread across his shoulders.
Two murders avenged.
Two restless spirits placated.
A good night in all.

okonta kosi