Killing Dead Men - Chapter 5 (Excerpt)

Here is an excerpt of my third novel "Killing Dead Men", a tale of violence, bloodshed and heartbreak. It is the story of a man unfortunate enough to survive death; now, as long as he remains alive, the streets of Frontier City will see carnage.


‘Franco’s not here. Joey’s not here.’ thought Junior Borja a couple of minutes before, back when his scared self was so slow to understand that they were driving him to the site of his execution in the desert. Moments after Marty Rizzo had finished driving several miles towards nowhere, Junior was on his knees in a big hole dug in the mantles of sand, begging for the mercy of two men who couldn’t help but look down on him. Marty kept his poker face and Parco continued having that perpetual mask of melancholy and boredom.

“Really! You don’t have to do this! I can pay you! I can.. I can..--I can kill that asshole myself, if you want! Honest!” implored Junior, his face reddened and his voice weakened due to his panic. He screamed at the top of his lungs when Parco drew an automatic handgun from his belt.

“No, Junior. No --Oh, god damn it. Stop crying already. Give it a rest. You're a big boy now!” said Parco, his emotion that of someone who has just gone through a marathon of boredom.

The bookmaker squealed every time the sights of the Beretta drifted over his body, creating further annoyance for Parco; he hadn’t even bothered to take the safety off. The bespectacled hitman sighed and started to scratch the side of his head --with his gun, no less.

“What do you want then? Do you want Marty to come down to that hole and beat you to a pulp, genius?” Parco crossed his arms in exasperation. “I think he carries a bat in the trunk. You do, right?”

Marty didn’t take his eyes off good old Junior. He simply nodded.

Junior cried again, this time imagining how horrible that fate would be instead; nonetheless, Parco’s absolute lack of moral thought and incapability to express anything human scared him much more than his gun, or the prospect of Marty’s baseball bat spattering his brains all over the sand. He understood then why everyone kept saying guns didn’t kill people. That was the job of monsters like Parco Viletti.

“Okay, Junior." Parco rolled his eyes. "I’m running this by you one last time, so listen good: Do you want the bat or do you want a bullet?” He glanced at his partner, motioning at him with the gun. “I don’t know you so well, and I’m not really a fan of telling folks what to do, you know? But the cold hard truth is that you didn’t do one damned bit to get on Marty’s good side. I’d suggest the bullet, only because you’re going to keep us here until its dark otherwise. We know how to take our time with these things, buddy.”

“--The bullet! The bullet! Oh God!” interrupted Junior. It was clear that he’d rather not take any of these two choices, but there was no other alternative. Neither of them could compare to what would happen to him should he try to escape or put up a fight; they’d make a greater example out of him, and that would entail things best left untold.

Satisfied with his role as silent spectator, Marty concluded his part and pretended to wash his hands. He went to back to the car, leaning against it whilst looking at the horizon perhaps to keep watch, or perhaps simply to distract himself. Parco saw him walk away and aimed his gun right at Junior’s face.

The bookmaker stopped crying, but instead hissed in eternal expectation of the kisses of lead that would relieve him of his life. Somehow, the hitman felt obligated to speak up.

“Don’t take it personal, Junior.” he said, rubbing at his lip with his free hand. “The truth is that I think all of us are equal in the sense that we exist… or something. But in life, and most of all in family business, you play ball. You got rules and you got to play by those rules; if you break ‘em, or even if you’re suspected of breaking ‘em, they send people like me to put you out of the game for good. You got that? So pick some better friends next time, alright?”

Eloquent as he was, Junior was in no position to bow and appreciate it. Parco understood.

“Close your eyes. Come on.”

And just when Junior Borja’s eyelids began to meet, a bullet lodged into his skull, making him fall flat on his back. Three more shots were fired at his chest, just so things would not be left to chance. In one ordinary second, without song, celebration or cry, he was dead.

Parco flicked the safety back on and sheathed the weapon, tucking it in his belt as usual. Then he pulled out a handkerchief and used it to dry off some of the sweat accumulating on his face. Meanwhile, Marty rummaged through the trunk of his car, finding not a bat, but a shovel that he dumped on top of the bookie’s body.

This wasn’t just for show, and certainly neither of the two cared much for its poetic value. This was a warning to anyone who dared enter the world of the Masserias, a last word of caution to any other young, ambitious and dumb fool who tried to hustle his way out of the streets: incompetence will not be tolerated, and so it shall be punished.

Having done their job and living up to the expectations of the higher powers in the family, Parco and Marty returned to the gray Grand Marquis and drove straight toward home, their memories of the murder tangling up with so many other jobs performed, all turning into a large gray mass of stories that drifted away much like the tumbleweeds in the desert around them.