96 lines
5.2 KiB
Plaintext
96 lines
5.2 KiB
Plaintext
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ooooo ooooo .oooooo. oooooooooooo HOE E'ZINE RELEASE #736
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`888' `888' d8P' `Y8b `888' `8 "The Biggest, Largest, Most
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888 888 888 888 888 Exciting Heist of All Time
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888ooooo888 888 888 888oooo8 Chapter 3: The Wrath of Gods"
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888 888 888 888 888 " by Nybar
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888 888 `88b d88' 888 o 7/16/99
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o888o o888o `Y8bood8P' o888ooooood8
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About an hour and 15 minutes before Mogel was shot, a telephone
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awakened Mark Thoreau. Mark always slept with one eye open, just in case of
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such a call. They came often. His wife went on slumbering... she had been
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conditioned the opposite way, to ignore phone calls at night.
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"Hello, Mark Thoreau speaking, who is this?"
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"This is Grivinsky. They're getting close"
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Mark yawned. Someone was always 'getting close'. They never got
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there though. He had quite a profitable niche going making sure they
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didn't.
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"So what do you want me to do about it?"
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"What we discussed."
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"And the money?"
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"Look in your mailbox, Mr. Thoreau. The rest will find it's way to
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you after the successful completion of the... business... we discussed."
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"Okay. Where are they?"
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"At 'The Gemini Diamond', 35'th and second."
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A click and silence. "Bye then... call again some time, we'll talk
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sports." Mark said to the now-silent voice. He had had literally hundreds
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of customers, and each of them seemed to be waiting in line to end their
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conversations like rudely, but then again, cordiality isn't quite a staple
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of the murder for hire business. Not yet anyway. But he was always
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pushing his clients. Well, in the one minute and thirty seconds before they
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hung up, anyway. Maybe one day a priest that wanted a nun knocked off would
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stumble upon him; the conversation might then run like this: "Hello sir,
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how are you doing today?" "Quite alright. You?" "Oh beautiful. So, I'd
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like you to kill Sister Francine, as we discussed." "Splendid. May I
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inquire about my money?" "Certainly. The money will arrive promptly. Pray
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make sure that bitch doesn't live." "Certainly. Good-bye, sir." "Good-bye,
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and may the lord keep you." "Oh, thank you, though my prospects with the
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lord seem rather dim with at the moment." "Comes with the profession, I
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suppose" the priest would say while chuckling "well, cya 'round then."
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And only then would come the once-dreaded click. This was a pipe-dream of
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Mark's, at least.
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Back to reality, though: Mark got up, put his clothes on, kissed his
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wife, grabbed his briefcase and he was off. First he took a manilla
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envelope out of his mail-box and (after inspecting the contents) put it into
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his house. Then he hit the streets... his destination was a short enough
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distance away that he could walk it. A casual observer, seeing him walking
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casually to what he made seem like nowhere in particular at 4 in the
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morning, would probably think he was a drunkard. He was certainly unkempt
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enough, dressed in fading jeans and a lumberjack shirt. His red eyes (from
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countless nights of interrupted sleep) added to the observers evidence. The
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clincher was the carefree but self-conscious way he walked, a true drunken
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shuffle. And if a casual observer should see him and think this, he would
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be highly pleased. No one remembers a drunk at this hour of day, he
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reasoned, but one does remember a sharply dressed man in a tuxedo carrying
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a briefcase, which is supposedly the uniform of those in his profession.
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His attire never came into play though; he strolled the whole distance
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without seeing a soul.
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As he approached the diner, he looked at two pictures. They were
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Nybar's and Mogel's. Inside the diner, he casually glanced in their
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direction. Nybar was making a scene. Mark took a seat and ordered a slice
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of pie and coffee. He hoped he'd have a chance to have them. He didn't.
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Too soon, Nybar and Mogel were out the door. He gave the waitress a twenty
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and cautiously followed them. They climbed in a van, so he had to use the
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'company car', so to speak. It was parked in the back of the diner, as
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promised, a shitty looking Buick. He eventually followed them to an
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all-night hardware store, Tony's. He decided this was the place he should
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strike.
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He parked the Buick behind a building, then climbed a fire-escape to
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the roof of the same building. Here he set up his rifle and scope. This
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was always the hardest part of the job, trying to stay alert while waiting
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for what could be hours for one shot. But he was a veteran... eventually
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they stepped out. He took aim and fired. Mogel went down. He prepared to
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fire again... but where was the other one? Must've ducked under the van or
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something. He waited for a shot. Twenty minutes of utter concentration
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passed. Then he heard a 'shing' noise. The sound of a knife being
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unsheathed. This was the last sound he'd ever hear.
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[ (c) !LA HOE REVOLUCION PRESS! HOE #736 - WRITTEN BY: NYBAR - 7/16/99 ]
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