WARNINGS: Violence, blood & death

Characters:

-America / Hitman Jones (Belongs to Aluox/Ask-Hitman-Jones)

-Prussia / Gilbert Beilschmidt

~Time's Up~

Club Thorax. As the name suggested, the interior resembled being inside the hollowed out chest of a beast, with the long since decayed heart continuing to beat for the pleasure of its defilers. A constant pulse shook the walls and deafening music kept the crazed mob dancing into oblivion. The scene was tinged with alternating crimson, indigo, and acid green, punctuated by convulsing strobe lights that turned fluid movement into dizzying snapshots. It was a chaotic saturnalia for the senses, with everything from the cloying smell of human exertion to the overwhelming oppressive heat of so many bodies in one place. Even the heavy taste of alcohol and more illicit poisons in the air was intoxicating, though such things never reached the upper balcony.

Here, things were all business.

Men in suits passed a security guard into a sound proof corridor, leading to an office lined with bulletproof glass overlooking the sea of depravity. At a conference table sat some of the most powerful, up and coming men in the city's underground; all upper crust entrepreneurs by day and keepers of the needles pushing poison into the veins of the metropolis at night. It was rare for all heads of the operation to meet in one place, but desperate times called for desperate measures. The mafia was onto their setup and not happy about having its territory being encroached upon. This morning, each man at the table had received a letter at his place of business, home, or church…

'Time's up.'

While some felt a creeping sense of dread and found shadows more unsettling these days, most didn't take the message too seriously. They were all highly esteemed members of the city's elite, all of them CEOs, philanthropists, and even a few government officials. They had connections the mafia wouldn't dare entangle themselves in, as it would bring far too much attention. These men felt invincible and had gotten away with murder too many times to see an ancient system of organized crime as a threat. The age of the dons was over and the rise of white-collar syndicates running the underworld was the wave of the future.

"Enough of this drivel," the man at the head of the table began, crushing his letter in hand and tossing it away. "This is our establishment and we're in control of things here, so I'll hear no more about bogeymen of a bygone era. Someone bring in the drinks and entertainment!"

Rounds of laughter and cheers dissolved the tense ambiance, as a guard opened the door and staff members of the club quickly and dutifully set up a pole and drinks on the table. The lights were dimmed, save for a spotlight on the pole, and a blond woman in a red dress entered.

All eyes were on her, as she crossed the floor in polished red stilettos. Her dress hung from a strap around her neck and clung like a second skin to her lightly tanned body. The rich fabric practically painted her young, androgynous form, then flared out in a high-slit skirt that exposed enough to tantalize the imagination. She rolled her hips as she moved and approached the table with a commanding presence, summoning a hand to help her step onto the stage with only a look. While her audience couldn't stop devouring her image, she observed them with her own predatory smile and narrowed blue eyes.

"Ready for the show?" she purred and the howls that followed made the group of professionals look like a bunch of fraternity recruits.

She glanced at the guard and he cued the music, then saluted and locked the door behind him as he exited.

Showtime.

The throbbing beat and sexual undertones were infectious, making the act of dancing and sliding her body along the pole for the audience's viewing pleasure more fun. The heat in the room was increasing and so were the number of empty shot glasses being tossed to the side, but that was alright – that was the idea. Arching her back against the pole as she slid to her knees, the excitement increased when she began to crawl to the man at the head of the table and took the untouched drink from his hand. He grinned as she downed it and winked at him, then grabbed his tie and yanked him into a sudden kiss.

It made the best distraction for when she pressed the gun beneath his chin and blew his brains out.

Without missing a beat, she turned on her knees with pistol in hand and planted a bullet in each fool too slow to take cover. Screams erupted from the gaggle of inebriated survivors but no one could hear them. Round after round found its home in the pathetic sacks of flesh falling out of their chairs and trying to hide or flee. They all cried for help, but even when she decorated the window with the innards of a man begging for mercy no one cared. Why would they? The environment of loud music, drugs, and abandonment downstairs was far more exciting then what management was doing above.

The irony was just so amusing.

These so-called criminal masterminds of the future were nothing more than bored, rich brats dabbling in dark ventures they could never hope understand. They felt so powerful dictating commands from leather-backed chairs, keeping their posh suits spotless of the blood others spilled in the name of their money. That's not how this business was conducted, but there was no patience in the boss's to teach them…

Only make an example of them for anyone else looking to cross the line.

It had been short work and, in the humble killer's opinion, largely boring. It was a sad truth that some jobs just weren't as exciting as others. Initially, there had been a most spectacular plan involving bombs, widespread carnage, and a cacophony of gunfire to take out the unfortunate living stragglers, but the higher ups had vetoed it for something more discrete. It was always so annoying when people spoiled the fun in the name of 'keeping it simple and low key'…

Oh well.

"Wow, you're actually gonna make the clean up easy? I'm impressed!"

"Careful, dear. You're tempting me to take out my knife and start making pretty murals with dismembered body parts."

The security guard, who was really his handler - Gilbert, held up his hands and looked a little worried at the thought. "Woah, relax, we're on a time limit, remember?" he reminded, as he dropped his bag on the table and started pulling out the evidence he'd been ordered to plant (might as well use a murder to cover up a few other things). "Uh, you can take off the get-up now. The crew is expecting me to be escorting a guy down to the van."

A pretty pout preceded a lusty smile and the warm body in red pressed suggestively against the German from behind. "Are you sure you want me to change so soon? Mmm…won't you be a peach and help me, tiger?"

Gilbert frowned, "That better not be a boner I'm feeling."

The blond threw his head back and laughed, draping his arms playfully over his associate's shoulders, "Be thankful it's not. My cock's a lot bigger than my knife."

Wanting to get this job over with, Gilbert batted his associate away, "Just hurry up before the shift change happens and we get a flood of guards in here."

With a bored sigh, the artfully styled wig was removed and the golden mop beneath was revealed. His manicured hands braced him on the table, as he hopped up to sit on it, crossing his legs and casually reloading his pistol. Gilbert seemed annoyed that he wasn't focusing on changing out of his dress and the body shapers for the spare clothes in the bag; but instead removing the automatic rifle and chambering the first round.

"Dude, seriously, we only have like five minutes – "

"Thirty seconds," the hitman coolly replied and looked at him with a smirk. "You might want to arm yourself before they get here...I timed the alarm perfectly."

Gilbert's eyes widened and panic set in. This maniac! Nothing could ever be simple with him; nothing could ever be in-and-out or discrete. It wasn't good enough that he just killed eight of the most influential men in the city or that there were at least fifty bodyguards on their way into this cramped room.

"This was not part of the plan!" Gilbert frantically hissed before the sounds of banging and shouting from the other side of the door forced him to hastily scatter the remaining evidence and grab the pistol the hitman had left him.

"That's the point, dear," the blond replied, his eyes fixated on the door and a hungry smile lighting his face. "Anarchy can never follow a plan."

~Fin~

Notes from the Author:

:) This short was written as a request/birthday present for Aluox, the creator of Hitman Jones and admin of the so-named Ask Blog. I gotta say, Hitman is a really challenging character to write but still a lot of fun! It's great to push the limits of comfort and write things you've never done before, it grows you as a writer. I'm glad you liked it, Ally! BEST TO YA!

Sincerely,

Kelbora/G.K.G.