The Machiavellian

Stanley Marlowe

Goddamn, but it had been a long time since he'd smelled the air outside of a jail cell.

He'd been out of prison for a while now, though. Thinking back on it all, he was lucky to even make it out alive. Not just from the prison or the cops, but also the fact that he had made it past his involvement with Joe and the others.

Now was the time to lay low and get out of California. He couldn't stay in California; there was no more profit for him there. His escape from jail would mark him out for a long time. It was time to get out and head for somewhere more remote and keep his head down.

He looked at the sunset behind him as he drove along in a stolen car. He'd once learned to hotwire a car when he'd lived in San Francisco with his brothers. The fingers never forgot the skills.

He wondered what he was going to do now. He couldn't go to Nevada; the cops hunting him would go there first, and they would know who he was based on his last name. Koons. That was his name. Mitchell Koons. Nephew of renowned fucking war hero Captain Andrew Koons. Jesus the bastard was a royal pain in the ass, and he would likely have killed his nephew if he found out just how far he was embroiled in crime.

Even as Mitchell turned his car in direction that would get him out of the state, he felt a pang of sadness. California had been his home. He'd lived here most of his life, except for that brief time he'd lived with his dad's brother the Captain. California had been good to him, even if it had exposed him to a man like Joe Cabot and his zany plans. The old guy was fucked in the head near the end; Mitchell knew a time when Joe had been ruthless and very clever in his judgements. He would never have paired up a smart guy like Mitchell with that fucking wimp Mr. Orange, the psychotic Mr. Blonde, or that really annoying Mr. Brown. None of them had been professionals, Mr. White the worst of all. Only Mr. Blue had seemed a real tough guy, but too old.

Mr. Blue. Man, what had he meant in that cafe just before the robbery? Did he see through the bull shit about not tipping? Did he know about his cover up? Fuck. It was a good thing that the guy was dead.

Mitchell scratched at the beard he had. He'd worn fake facial hair that day at the robbery. He'd always done that for a hit. It was better to hide behind something you could easily throw away. That was the truth he'd learned from some good friends of his. He ought to go see those guys again.

Even as he thought this, Mitchell wondered what he should do this moment. It was all nice and hunky-dory talking about going to give his old buddies and mentors a call, but who said the cops hadn't gotten to them first? He'd have to wait a while. In the meantime, he'd have to get out of here.

And then there was his name. He had to get another cover-up name. They knew his name, and he'd have to come up with something else.

Mitchell wondered what to do. Suddenly he had an urge to smoke. Pulling a cigarette out of his pocket, he looked in the glove compartment for any matches or a lighter.

Instead, a small book fell out of the crammed glove compartment. Mitchell was suddenly curious, and picked it up. It said "The Prince" by Niccolo Machiavelli.

Niccolo. Mitchell couldn't help but like that name. Niccolo. He'd never heard of that name before. Nicholas, yeah. But Niccolo? There was a sinister sound to it.

Mitchell suddenly smiled. He had found himself a new first name.

What was this book about anyway? The Prince? Some kind of a fucking fairy tale or something? Flipping it open to a random page, he looked at the first words on the page.

Why the Italian princes have lost their States

Mitchell frowned. This was no fairy tale to be sure. This was a manual on how to be a proper prince or something like that. Hm, he thought, why not?

He read further;

If he carefully observes the rules I have given above, a new prince will appear to have been long established and will quickly become more safe and secure in his governments than if he had been ruling his state for a long time. The actions of a new prince attract much more attention than those of a hereditary ruler; and when these actions are marked by prowess they, far more than royal blood, win men over and capture their allegiance.

Mitchell smiled. Joe might have read this book. But what were these rules? What the fuck had he talked about?

Suddenly a car horn pierced the silence. Mitchell's driving skills alone saved him from panicking and driving off the road. He steadied his nerves by swearing his head off at the offender.

He looked back at the book. This was interesting for Mitchell. He never liked books before, and only read them when they had something of value to him. Maybe this was something of value? He could use some words of advice anyway. Why not?

Meanwhile, though, he knew that he had to get himself a name. He liked the name Niccolo. That would work out for him just fine. He was Italian anyway, on his mother's side at least. Her name had been Irene Donati before changing it to Koons. Mitchell hadn't really gotten to know his mother very well, but he would know her name any time.

Just like the book, the thoughts of his mom suddenly made him get more inspiration. He'd use his mother's maiden name. Why the fuck not? Italians were all over this goddamn country, and nobody would expect him to do something that close to home. Not that they knew about his mother's surname.

So that was it then. Goodbye to Mr. Pink (God that name had been awful), and hello to Niccolo Donati. He took the liberty of taking a swig from the Sprite that he'd swiped from a store just before hitting the highway.

The newly christened Niccolo Donati smiled to himself as he turned onto the nearest highway that headed for the California/Arizona border.

Author's Note= I make no claims to owning any of Tarantino's work, nor do I own the rights to Niccolo Machiavelli's fine words