Resident Hitman: Ricky D. Darns

"I only kill scumbags like you people. I don't kill women, and I don't kill children. I kill thieves, liars, and murderers. The irony is that I'm all three."-Ricky D.

Prologue: Call me Ricky D.

"My name's Ricky D. Darns but you can call me Ricky D. Not Mr. Ricky, not Mr. D, just Ricky D. I ain't old yet, and I hate my deadbeat daddy, and when he was around, they used to call him Mr. D. So unless you want to get the piss beat out of you, you'll call me Ricky D."

"Really? Do you really think you're in the position to be saying something like that to someone like me Mr. Darns."

The man tied to the chair groaned and rolled his neck. "As a matter of fact I think I do," he said, staring at his captors. His captors, three arrogant thugs who thought they could rob a card game with major players from the Russian Mob and some of the local gangbangers they had just brokered a peace treaty with. But now that the game was hit, the gangbangers are blaming the Russians, and the Russians are blaming the gangbangers, which has led to a very bloody turf war between them.

The fat thug stuck the barrel of his shotgun into Ricky's face. Ricky could feel the cold steel, and in a sadistic way, he almost relished it. "I say we kill the bastard right now," he said, scratching his scrubby short beard with his free hand. His partners both nodded, but the leaner one with the slicked back blond hair and scar on his face pushed the shotgun away.

"Let's do this with some class Gary, Jesus," he said, cocking his 9mm Glock and pointing at Ricky. "You can't blow the crap out somebody with a goddamn shotgun. We'd have brains and sh*t all over us if we did that."

Gary shrugged, and swung the shotgun over his shoulder, smiling. The last of his companions, who was slightly darker than the rest, was bald with a tattoo of a sword and shield on the shoulder of his exposed forearms. He took a step back, and observed Ricky.

"Doesn't this guy look different to you? Like you know, different from the other guys they send to do stuff like this?" he asked, and then motioned for Gary to step back too. Gary and the blonde one looked at him.

"Whaddya mean?"

"I mean look at him. He's lighter than me but darker than you. He doesn't sound like he's from the East Coast, not fully anyway, and he doesn't sound like one of us, and he sure as hell doesn't sound like some damn Ruski."

The blonde one kept his gun on Ricky, but looked at his companions and frowned. He nodded, "Yeah you're kinda right DJ. You're kinda right…doesn't seem to be one of us does he?"

DJ shook his head, and Gary stroked his beard again. Only Ricky began to twitch in his seat a little. He rolled his eyes and shook his head. "Does it f*ckin matter what I look like? Are you going to kill me or not?"

The blonde flinched at Ricky's biting tone. There was something about this man-something none of the thugs and Ruski's they robbed had. He had a-a presence to him. Something oddly unsettling. It was like a cold fury, a terrible sense of self-loathing, and great hate for everything seem to emit from him, through his words, and his eyes, which were like gaping holes into eternity. His voice alone, which was a whispery monotone that occasionally rose to match his anger, was even slightly off. Suddenly, he didn't know if he wanted to shoot him anymore.

The three of them looked at him. Ricky groaned at their incompetence. He frowned and stared at each of them through his cut eyelids.

"Now listen to me. You all got two options. You can let me go. Or you can kill me. Now I'm not asking you to do one or the other; at this point, whatever the f*ck you dimwitted punk ass sons-of-bitches want to do is up to you. I'm not a Ruski, and I ain't a gangbanger. I'm a private contractor that they hired to get you. But keep in mind, they're going to find out that some dumb ass thugs with barely any street rep were the ones who ripped them off sooner or later. Eventually they'll catch you, and you're gonna have to pay, regardless of what happens here today. But whatever you're going to do, just please hurry the f*ck up."

The three of them looked dumbfounded again. Then the blonde shook himself out of his stupor and cocked his Glock and pointed directly at Ricky.

"F*CK THIS! Let's kill him! Let's do it!" He said maniacally, nodding at his two partners. His partners joined in, and Gary yelled "F*CK YEAH LET'S DO IT!"

"Bout time," Ricky said, staring at the blonde in the face. He noted his gray eyes and slightly crooked nose. Ricky smiled, and closed his eyes. The blonde took two giant gulps of air, and his chest heaved up and down in his white t-shirt as his heart beat faster. His fingered tightened on the trigger, and he focused on the center of Ricky's tan forehead.

The blonde exhaled, and Ricky suddenly popped his eyes open and winked.

"Sure you got the balls to do that buddy?" The blonde jumped at the comment, shocked at his spontaneity.

Ricky bolted forward faster than the three could comprehend, and, with his free hands, snatched the gun away from the blonde. He quickly turned the gun on Gary, and shot him twice in the chest. Then, smiling as Gary's blood splattered all over him, Ricky dispatched DJ with two to the chest and one more to the head.

The blonde, still shocked and now covered in blood, screamed and pushed his way out of the construction trailer, shouting and stumbling out into the dirt-filled plot of land. Ricky simply looked at him as he ran. Then he raised the Glock and fired one shot into his leg. He watched the blood spray quickly onto the dirt hill he was next to, and listened to the blonde kid scream in agony.

Ricky looked around the trailer and sighed. At first, he was reluctant to take the job; he didn't like killing the new guys in the business, because typically they were just guy fresh out of their teens who didn't know any better. But once the Russians had promised an extra ten grand to solve their problem, he reluctantly agreed.

Ricky watched the blonde start to crawl behind the colossal mound of dirt, whimpering and clutching his leg. He sighed again and pulled out his black gloves from the pocket in his black blazer. His red dress shirt was ruined, and so were his black jeans. He pulled on the gloves, and then picked up Gary's shotgun. It was a black pump action 12-gauge, just how he liked it.

After a little digging, Ricky had found out who held up the game. His contacts on the street told him that three had been bragging about a heist, and that they also weren't the most "savory" of characters either. DJ beat his girl and didn't pay child support for his five other kids, and apparently had been part of a drive-by shooting which killed two female high school students, clipped a five year old boy, and a poor Korean business owner who was closing up shop early on his daughter's birthday. Gary was a littler older, and a lot sicker, than the other two. He was a holdover biker, he sold meth and heroine to kids, apparently had sexually assaulted two other women in Nevada and Oregon, and after getting away with that, came back to California to rape some girl, and try to blame it on her. He had just gotten out on bail, because some liberal judge had believed his piece of crap sob story.

Christopher Haddington the III was the worst though. He had been "questioned or involved with" the sexual assaults of over 13 teenage girls, and apparently gotten off with the rape and murder for some bright volleyball player in San Diego. All because of daddy's money.

Ricky stepped outside and whipped out his silver Navy glasses. Then he stared at Chris and smiled. He slung the shotgun over his right shoulder and, with the Glock in his left hand, began to stride toward the man behind the dirt pile. His blazer rippled lightly about him in the wind, and his trademark smirking frown embodied his disgust for the man he was about to kill.

Apparently, the murder of the girl was enough. Daddy was tired of taking Chris's crap, and he cut him off from the money, throwing him out their plush Malibu mansion and telling him "25 is old enough for him to get his own money." Now that Chris was broke, he was doing stupid stuff like this.

Ricky arrived at the dirt pile and casually stepped behind it to see Chris, still whimpering, apparently still trying to crawl away. Ricky tilted his head standing over him. Chris yelped in fear and tried to crawl away faster, crying out for help now. Ricky watched him for a little bit, and began to talk and walk with him.

"Now you see," he began, watching Chris squeal in agony each time he inched forward, "I know you three stole the Ruski's and the gangbanger's money. That's why they hired me. They wanted to find out the who," Ricky stopped and pointed the Glock at Chris, and fired a shot into the toe of his other foot. Chris screamed again, and stopped crawling. He clutched his left foot, sobbing.

"And the where," Ricky shot him again, in his arm this time. Chris collapsed, bleeding heavily and squealing in pain. He looked up at Ricky, the man who he had almost killed only a few minutes before.

Ricky D.'s presence had finally consumed Chris. He looked up into the cold, silver sunglasses that he knew Ricky's cold, black eyes were burning into his own.

"Please," Chris said, holding up his hands. "I can pay you!" Ricky shook his head and smiled ever so slightly.

"You can't even match what the guys who hired me pay. And I know they'll pay me in full." He raised the pistol again.

"WAIT! WAIT! Please Jesus! Please! Ok, the money from the heist! We got 250 grand from that! I can show you where it is!"

Ricky lowered the pistol. "You can?"

"YES! Just please Jesus, please get me to a hospital!"

Ricky scratched his head with the pistol. "And you'll tell me where it is?"

"YES!"

"Hmm…give me an address and I might think about it," he said, lowering his pistol to his side again. Chris breathed, and tried to remember the safe house. He was starting to feel faint from loss of blood.

Ricky tapped his black boot on the ground. Chris shook his hands and said, "Hold on, lemme think!"

"OK! OK! 3456, Beech. It's the Brown House on the left side of the street. But you have to take me to show exactly where it is there though," he added hurriedly.

Ricky sighed. Then he scooted the sole of his shoe into the dirt and shook his head.

"Don't you mean 4545 Kittyhawk, in that house you all were renting?"

Chris looked at him in shock. Ricky nodded. "Yup. That one. The one where I broke into to distract yall from splitting the three hundred thousand dollars, because I knew that's where it was?"

Chris simply stared at Ricky.

"Yes, Chris. I know where the money is. See the people who hired me wanted me to find out who, why, and where-and I did. I'm what you call a problem-solver in this underworld we all operate in; I don't just bring you the guys who did it, I give you why they did it, and I give you how they did it, who they did it for, and whatever money they took from you."

Ricky slowly leveled the pistol at Chris's forehead. Chris tried, once more, to reason with him.

"Then why don't you just take the money from the heist and run! You don't have to kill me! Just take the money and run!"

Ricky tilted his head again. "Now see I could do that. I could take the money and run. But then, the guys who hired me would eventually figure out that I did that. And then I'd have to kill all of them, or be killed doing it. Considering the way the Ruski's roll, probably be killed.

I can take all of that. I don't care whether I live or die, just how I live and the way I die. I like what I do; killing scumbags like you is sheer catharsis to a hypocritical son-of-bitch like me. Dying is bad for business, and I'll make more money in the long run once the Russian find out I found their money for them, and killed all three of you."

"But why? Why kill us? You don't know m-"

Ricky rapidly fired a shot next to Chris's ear. "Shut the hell up. I know you. I know you very well Chris. I've been doing this job for a while, and I never go after the wrong guys. I ran you all once I found out. I know what you did to those girls Chris. Your daddy may have enough money to make everyone else look the other way, but the evidence fits, and your dad isn't here to pay me off. This isn't a courtroom you can charm your way out of, or some A-list defense attorney you can sweet talk. You're about to get what you deserve."

Chris began to breathe rapidly again. "Please…please," he said weakly.

Ricky fired another round, closer to Chris's head this time. "You all wanted to know what I really did. Well I kill people, people who deserve, people who have it coming. Like you."

"Fuck you Mr. D.! Fuck you! Those girls deserved it! They were all whores!" he spat blood at him. "You probably don't have the balls to kill me anyway!" At this, Ricky popped another bullet into Chris's body, this time in the stomach. Chris spat up blood and began to cry again, and the blood dribbled down his chin and added to the slow-growing crimson pool on the ground.

"Got the name wrong again Chris. My name's Ricky D., and I got the balls to kill you."

"I'm your resident hit man."

Ricky stepped back a foot from Chris. He flipped the shotgun from his shoulder and aimed it at Chris. Chris gasped and spat up more blood, and soon began to moan again.

"Now which way you want it? Soft," he shook the pistol slightly, "Or hard?" he waved the shotgun gently. Chris looked at him, and experienced an epiphany. He remembered all the girls he'd brutalized, and the girl he killed because she turned him down. He remembered all the fights, the drug deals, the bullying.

And he smiled.

"Fuck you Ricky D. I want it soft."

Ricky shrugged and squeezed the trigger on the Glock. He was rewarded a hollow click. Chris screamed and began swearing at the hit man again.

"You rot in hell you son-of-a-bitch! Fuck you Ricky! Fuck you Mr.D!"

Ricky smiled and tossed the Glock onto the ground next to him. He cocked the shotgun and held it over Chris's head. Chris was still swearing, spitting up blood and shaking as much as his battered body could.

"Hard it is then," He smiled and squeezed the trigger. The shotgun split Chris's head into two with a BANG, sending gore and brain matter everywhere. Chris's dead body plopped back onto the soil, wet with his blood.

Ricky stared at the corpse for a minute. He reached into coat again and took out a pack of cigarettes. He placed one long, slender death stick into his mouth and fumbled around for his lighter, a shiny black cartridge embossed with a white skull. He lit his cig, took a drag, and rested the shotgun back over his shoulder. Then he picked up the Glock and walked back to the trailer.

He was a sight to see. A lean, average man in black striding across the desolate construction site, with a nonchalance one could only see from someone who's been doing things like this for a long time. His cigarette smoke trailed behind him, and his shadow was ten feet long as it ran from the sun, which was descending into the evening sky.

And that was who he was. A Resident Hit man.

"Now how do you want it? Soft, or hard?"