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//Author’s Notes: I wrote this in 2005, inspired to “just write” by a friend who was on track for med school and still made time to let that creative outlet flow. It led to a much longer collaboration, but that is quite literally a story for another time. This was and is, however, the first story I made available to an audience beyond some immediate friends, and the response encouraged me to keep at my little hobby, which sparked a passion that I’ve kept burning my entire adult life. I also took a line from this story to title another work I wrote nearly a decade later.
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You can call me G.

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It was raining outside. It was mid July, 2019. I was in a little hip-hop club in Atlanta. Perhaps little is inaccurate; the place used to be a warehouse for storing computer parts for a corporation called NST before the company’s collapse in 2014… but that is neither here nor there. The concrete floor was covered with cigarette butts and spilled alcohol. There was a mixed population of drunken businessmen and kids hoping to see some rap superstar in the VIP room. The music was loud, some genre that was called ‘trip hop’, which seemed to consist of a shoddy sample set to repeat itself with an occasional fake vinyl scratch. The only light came from spotlights directed onto a disco ball that hung from one of the rafters.

None of this concerned me.

What did concern me was a man who was sitting at a table about twenty feet from the stage. He was wearing a dark green suit with subtle gold stripes. He slouched back in the leather living chair that looked brand new despite probably existing in the same spot for the last year. He was approximately 6 feet tall, and had brown hair, cut short and highlighted with faux blonde tips. He had his hair slicked back, and seemed to be staring off into nothing behind his expensive sunglasses. The drink that he cradled between his lap looked like a tequila sunrise – his favorite. His legs were crossed, and his head was tilted back from drunkenness, either from alcohol or power. I knew the man, even though he did not know me. His name was Michael Lapini. He was a drug dealer, pushing Ecstasy to kids that visited clubs like the one that we were both in that night.

He dealt in other things: cocaine, Angel’s Tears, prescription speed. He had a taste for young hookers and fast cars. He lived in Buckhead, one of the only parts of Atlanta that had not succumbed to the gang wars and corruption that caused it to be classified as a D7 city back in 2015. He had no family, and the only company that stayed more than one night in his expensive mansion were his dogs: three dobermans. His bodyguard, a large immigrant known only as ‘The Kenyan’, was no where in sight. I smiled; not because of the drink in front of me, of which I hadn’t even had a sip, nor because of the music that blared. The dancing did not entertain me, nor did any of the other amenities that this place pretended to offer.

I smiled because I was there to kill Lapini.

I walked around the club, trying to see what my best options were. I had several tools at my disposal, but I only needed to use one, from the looks of things. There wasn’t anyone in his immediate area, and the music was loud enough for me to do my job without too much notice. The lighting was good. Occasional yellow spheres would dance across his chest, lighting him up like some sort of drug god sitting on this throne.

But even gods can die.

I walked past him, went to the bar, and asked for another gin and tonic. I waited for my drink, watching Lapini out of the corner of my eye. He sat motionless, catatonically staring at the women dancing close to the stage. I started to walk with my drink, leaving cash for the bartender, and then sat about 10 feet behind Lapini on a stool, resting my arms on the cool metal surface that served as both a table and a support for the massive ceiling above. I fingered the pistol in my pocket; it was a .22 calibre rimfire semi-automatic Colt pistol with a filed and threaded barrel that allowed me to attach a short silencer at the end of the weapon. It lay in my jacket pocket, safety off, ready to fire. I took another look at Lapini, another look around me. These people were oblivious. In the far corner were some high schoolers dropping Angel’s Tears into their eyes. It was time to end this.

I raised the pistol slightly within the pocket. In the movies, people always shoot out of their jacket, leaving a dramatic bullet hole as a reminder of their actions. However, I am a professional. There is no need for that reminder. So as I raised the pistol, I moved my other hand to lift the flap of my jacket pocket. Through a small hole I cut in the lining of the pocket, I slid the silencer through. The gas vents would stop there from being any light, and even if there was, I doubted anyone would notice. I lowered the pistol, lining it up with the back of Lapini’s chair. One more glance. I couldn’t afford to botch this. I had come too far.

I was clear. I was clear, and I fired. There was a quiet –phut- as the gas escaped from the silencer, and a clink as the hammer cocked back. A small rip, too small for anyone to hear, announced that my bullet had found its target. It traveled through the back of the chair, and embedded itself into Lapini. He slumped forward, passing out as far as anyone else could tell. He was dead, and I knew this. I quickly slid the pistol back into the interior pocket, folded the black lamb skin flap closed, got up, and walked out of the club.