Twin

“Cyanide...TNT...High Voltage: done dirt cheap”

~Ac/Dc

It costs 5000 dollars to kill somebody Mrs. Hull. Now, give a crack-head five dollars and there’s a chance the job is done, but only if the person you want gone is also a crack-head. Otherwise…No.

The man speaking shook his head and smiled. He looked past her, out towards the vast green lawn and the Bryant Park Grill. It was 5:30 on a steamy New York Friday and the BPG was full to overflowing with newly monied wall-streeters and anorexic trollops. Snatches of conversation and laughter kept drifting over. Three of them sitting in a circle. Green lawn chairs all huddled close like the meeting was important. Rachel Hull-Lloyd: the woman wronged. Pissed off, cheated-on. Sam and Felix Twinze: assassins for hire. Sam kicking the elevator pitch:

What I’m trying to say, Rachel, is that…

Felix, identically dressed and featured, took an unintended hand-off. His voice a duplicate of the one he’d interrupted:

…You can’t hire just anybody to disappear a guy. What happens if the job gets fucked up? You go to the police? Tell ’em: “I paid a guy five grand to pop my husband and my husband remains un-popped“? You’d be famous! Back of the fucking Post! At least with us…

And Sam took over again

…At least with us, you know Rachel.

Felix giving a mock smolder:

…At least with us you know.

The Twinze twins had an ad somewhere in the murkier backwaters of Craigslist. Rachel had called on a whim and Sam picked up. Within three charming minutes the Bryant Park meeting was arranged. Before she had a chance to reconsider, she was in Bryant Park looking for identical twins in matching green track suits. Two complete strangers who wanted to kill her asshole husband for a fee. She whispered, trying to move her lips as little as possible and wondering why:

you’d mentioned on the phone about payment. Something about half…

Sam Said:

Half now…

Felix said:

Half when the job’s done.

But how would I know that it was, um, done.

Sam told her.

***

Jamie Tuttle had been fucking Marc Lloyd for some time now and all of the couplings had been in the lap of luxury. Lloyd had banged her in the presidential suite at the Hard-Rock and handcuffed her at the Gordon Liddy Penthouse in the Watergate. He’d vibrated her at the JFK room at Seal Rock, and they’d 69’d in the rotunda at the W-LA. She’d blessed him with a reverse-cowgirl in the Dubai Hilton. He’d given her a ZeeJay in Paris. The pleasure and sordidness of their union rose in direct proportion to the cash commitment. Jamie was intellectually crippled but hot beyond hot. Lloyd was 52 and rich and no big fan of conversation or intelligence.

Today’s episode was taking place at the Sheraton, Times Square. They’d had shrimp cocktail for lunch, and had sex three times: two Split-Lip Jesus’s and an Irish Pork Chop. They’d been laying still in a salty mess and watching CSI Miami when Mark got a brainstorm:

You ever tried an Egyptian Fire-Pillar?

No, but I have a feeling I’m about to!

Great, gimme the phone! We’re gonna need some stuff…

She handed, he dialed.

Hey is this room service? OK this is, what? Oh ok. We need a few things. I want you to send up six Grey Goose martinis and a bottle of Red Hot. Oh, and some unleavened bread. Got it? How long? Great, thanks.

Forty Five minutes.

He winked like a douchebag as he spoke and then fell back on the bed. Asleep in 36 seconds.

***

Exactly 30 minutes later there was a knock at the door. Lloyd peering through sleep squints to get a glimpse of Jamie’s otherworldly hindquarters as she crawled off he bed and went to get the door. He heard her fiddle with the lock and grabbed for a robe. Bad form to receive room service uncovered.

But when Jamie came back, still very naked and followed by a dude who was definitely NOT room service, all sorts of bells and whistles started going off inside him. He began to move for his jacket and the .38 inside it.

No Marc.

The stranger, talking to him. Looking at him with big, sleepy eyes. The guy was dressed in a blue stripped suit, the kind Marc’s mom had called a “warm-up”. Jamie’s spellbinding nakedness was parked directly between them but warm-up suit didn’t seem to notice. He said:

Sit down next to your boyfriend Marc.

She did. And when she did Marc could see that she was crying, her bottom lip a-quiver, dampening eyes. It all started to run red for Marc Lloyd then, seeming so wrong. The guy in the warm-up was only little. Had him by 100 pounds easy. This time when he went to rise it was with a forceful purpose. He would jump on this unarmed quarter-wit and get some answers Godfuckit!

Marc…

That’s all the dude said. And - again - Marc Lloyd took a seat. His face reddened and his eyes narrowed, he felt as if he may have been drugged. He turned to Jamie:

What the fuck you little whore. Who the fuck is this? You gonna’ rob me that’s what this is about?

She turned to face him.

Marc please. He made me open the door.

That hit him weird.

“Made?"

I don’t give a shit what he did , he’s fuckin’ dead.

He pointed toward the guy.

You’re fuckin’ dead dude, you hear me? Dead! I know people that would eat your fucking fingers for a snack fucker. I know…

Stop talking Marc.

And he did, although he hadn‘t intended to. Marc realized: he must be dreaming. “One two many day-time belts of brown liquor old son” he thought, and laid down smiling, expecting to wake any minute to six awesome drinks and the Pillar-of-fire supply-wagon.

He didn’t wake though, and the warm-up suit was speaking:

Marc and Jamie. Marc sit back up here where I can see you, come on…

Marc didn’t want to and tried not to. In seconds, however, he was sitting.

Marc and Jamie. I’ve heard so much about you and now we finally meet.

He gave the terrified pair a three minute eye-fuck, up and down and up and down, slow.

Well, where to begin. Introductions! How rude of me. I’m Felix Twinze.

He reached out, and handshakes were tentatively-received.

I’m hear because Marc’s wife has caught Marc cheating…

Felix mimed a shame-face, then dropped:

…With you Jamie!

Beaming now, Felix leaning in and grinning up a storm.

Isn’t that crazy Marc? That your wife, who you’ve been treating like slave-labor for 20 years, finally got up the gumption to face her suspicions? She is a very impressive woman Marc. You’d have done well to keep that one. But what’s done is done, can’t change the past and all that. Anywho, so she found you out, and then she asked around and she contacted me. “Please” she asked me “Make it Painful."

Oh Jesus is that what this is about?

Marc feigned surprise and then annoyance. What did that little shit tell you? What that I’m, I’m abusive? I’m cheating? Huh!? Listen amigo, that…That little fucking twat isn’t worth your trouble. What’s she paying you? I’ll double it.

He left it at that, again moving the jacket. He made it across the room this time.

Marc

Marc stopped.

Hey what..?

And turned around to face the bed and the dude.

What the fuck are you, and then he walked back…

Jamie I’m fuckin…What the fuck! What’d you do to me!?

He sat. The bed shook and bounced Jamie up.

What the fuck was that man?

It came out a whimper, Lloyd’s eyes confused, desperate.

Now you’re getting it man. We understanding each other yeah ? ’S good. Look at me, both of you.

Their heads snapped up and peered at him.

This is going to end only one way. Test me and that will be a long fucking long. Go easy and you’ll…We'll…Go easy.

They both started to whimper then, but Twinze allowed the sobs for only scant seconds. He spent that time removing a small cloth bundle from inside the suits inside-right pocket. He grabbed a chair from the desk, positioning it between himself and the fornicators, unrolling the cloth and carefully placing the contents on the chair seat.

A hammer, A scalpel, 3 gigantic wood nails, a silver dinner fork, and two big railroad spikes that looked rusty and ancient. The nails were each about six inches long and - Lloyd noted - were the kind used for keeping the roof-structure of large houses moored down. Both he and the girl began again to pant and weep and apologize and pray.

I’ll triple it. I’ll fucking…TEN TIMES that I’ll give you! Please! It’s her anyway she’s a fucking slut!

He turned on Jamie now and started in.

You fucking dirty skunk! You hooker motherfucker! I shoulda‘…

And Jamie full on weeping. Caterwauling to wake the entire floor.

Fuck you. Please don’t…Pleeeeeeeeaasse!!

Warm Up Suit having none of it:

You two are pathetic and I‘m pressed for time. We need to get started. Jamie, I want you to take a shit on the floor. Right there…

He pointed to a spot on the carpet between them and reached down, tapped with his hand and looking Jamie’s way.

Right here. Now.

What? Fuck I can’t. I can’t. Please. I’ll do anything…

Ok. Then do that. Go to the bathroom on the floor (tap tap) right here between us.

Auuhgggg…(sob-inhale…sob-inhale).

And she got up.

Wait…what are you?… Marc please don‘t let him.

She was struggled and resisted against her own muscles.

I’m not doing this! I‘m not fucking doing this! (sob) MARC!

And she squatted, and did as she had been told. Marc watched her with something like fascination. She cried and farted for three or four minutes. When she was done a sizeable pile was left on the floor.

Good. Good girl. Now Marc…

He picked up the fork and handed it over to Lloyd.

You know what to do. ½ for you, ½ for the twat.

Dude no. Fuckin’ shoot me. I’m not fuckin‘…Hey. Hey no wait….What the fuck??

His arm reached out and his hand grabbed the fork. His body dove for the floor and he began to do as he’d been told. His eyes tearful and red, he dry-heaved and then really puked. He kept on though, force-feeding himself and gagging at the result.

Good boy. Now feed Jamie.

At the end they were both crying out of puke and shit-encrusted mouths. There was a knock at the door. Everything stopped and a small glint of something like hope crossed the mind and face of Marc Lloyd.

Warm-up suit:

Ah that’s your booze and the shit for the fire-pillar. Both of you walk to the door and open it.

They got up - too busy being revolted to resist - and obeyed.

The door swung open to reveal…Felix. Same dude: Same warm-up suit. Same hair, same eyes. Same fucking dude. He was pushing a roller atop which, Jamie could see, were six sizeable martinis and the rest of the fire-pillar gear. She fell to the floor and began to fall apart physically. A mucus-y sound like growling escaped her every now and then but for the most part she just writhed. All three men looked down on her and the new guy said:

Dude, you did my shit idea? That’s fuckin’ gross…It smells in here.

Yeah I know, but it was a great idea…Look:

He pointed at Jamie’s shitty rictus

Ewwwwwww. Dude. Sick.

Thanks.

No thank you!

Awright!

They bumped fists and made a little explode-y motion.

Awright let’s do this thing so we’re on time for Rachel. She’s gonna’ be psyched.

They took their time. They put the nails to use. There were excisions and explorations. Important internal things were laid open. Mark lost an eye to a roofing nail. Jamie drank the liquid hand soap from the hotel bathroom. Lloyd brandished a scalpel, severed both nipples and a thumb. They wept shame-facedly throughout the whole thing. Jamie hammered a railroad spike up her own ass.

Felix tapped her shoulder, mimed a hammering motion and gestured Marc-ward saying:

You know what to do Jaime. Marc, No hands duder. You gotta’ take this man-style.

The other guy was drinking one of he martinis. He said:

Yeah. Man-style, you fuckin’ douche!

It took seven minutes and 23 seconds. When it was over, and Sam handed Jamie her deceased lover’s .38, Jamie’s eyes grew large with understanding. She seemed relieved, almost grateful.

The two identical men were just heading for the door when Felix said:

Whoop. Forgot the proof.

He pawed through his pockets and came up with a pair of wire-cutter pliers.

It took another 45 seconds. Then the Twinze bros were back on the street. Heading for a promised 3:30 meet-up with another satisfied customer.