Palm Springs, California; it had everything. The rolling, maroon mountains in the rural areas contrasted sharply with the sun-baked estates of the rich and famous far off in the distance. From his view on the aerial tramway of Mount San Jacinto, The Assassin – Smith – could just make out both. The tram ride was one of the most popular attractions in Palm Springs. He admired this canvas before business grabbed his attention.
“Is it feasible?” This was his handler, Mr. Wolf. He was an attractive man with wafting, golden hair and sparkling emerald eyes. Unfortunately, the red blazer he wore didn’t do a thing to showcase his muscular build nor add any degree of menace to his five-foot-seven stature.
Smith, a handsome forty-something year old man with jet black hair and a very demanding face, had quite the crush on his boss. The relationship oozed sexual tension, but Wolf suffered from a horrible disease – he was debilitatingly heterosexual!
“Well?”
With a sigh, The Assassin nodded once. He was a man of no words. In fact, for the rest of the gondola ride, he ignored Wolf. He peered out at a gorgeous sunset that few places in the world could rival.
After the charming sky-ride was finished, The Assassin climbed inside his very tasteful candy black Mercedes SLS. He opened the glove compartment, removing a silenced Colt M45 pistol from its depths. Smith tucked the weapon into its holster beneath his pristine white suit jacket.
The car’s engine roared to life, like a pouncing lion leaping from the bush. Smith piloted the car past a string of golf courses and shopping malls which he was sure housed only the best designer brands. That reminded him: He needed to pick up an Armani tux for his mother’s vow renewal.
As the sun continued to set, it was clear where Smith was heading; the annual White Party. The fireworks could be seen throughout the Springs, exploding in majestic whites and pinks.
The main event took place where it normally does, White Party Park. More than twenty thousand men, some half-naked, a few totally naked, ate, drank, made out, and partied around the giant Ferris wheel.
Smith was both enthralled and disgusted. He loved gorgeous, sweaty men, but loathed gratuitous promiscuity at the same time. It’s true; The Assassin was a walking conundrum. Pity he forgave his own quirks. The quirks kept him single and lonely.
If a person were to wonder how he entered the party armed and without the complete pat down, the answer would be simple. Security tends to become slack when Greek Gods prance around in tight white speedos. No one detected him clambering over the scaffolding set up beside the Ferris wheel.
Work then replaced his view of the delicious debauchery and he set his gaze on a massive VIP tent.
Inside that tent, Fred Robertson and Graham Phelps discussed what to do with the charitable donations. Both men were shrewd in business, but only Fred could be called unscrupulous. He was an overweight smoker battling inoperable lung cancer. His partner in crime, however, was one of the healthiest men in America and the owner of the largest pharmaceutical company, BioScience Labs.
Halfway through Fred’s plan, Graham interjected. “Won’t work, no sir.”
“I organized the event,” Fred shot back between coughs.
“Which is why you’d be the only suspect, you idiot.”
“That’s why our friend’s out there.” Fred lit another cigarette. “I’m not gonna die for enjoyin’ life.”
Graham chortled. “You do know they do put the warning labels right on the package now. In bold.”
Fred simply glared. “I pull this off, we got a deal?”
“My company could always use more cancer funding. Although, you’re screwing over your own community.”
“I don’t have HIV.”
Smiling and shaking his head, Graham shook Fred’s hand and left the tent. He almost bumped into Wolf. His odd proportions made the white BDSM outfit he wore look laughable.
Fred put out his cigarette. “That’s not exactly subtle, son.”
“He’s here.”
Wolf snatched Fred’s collar, nearly dragging him out of the tent.
Smith was waiting. He grabbed Fred’s head and snapped it backwards.
Briefly stunned, Wolf watched Fred’s lifeless body fall to the floor. He growled and reached for his gun. Smith already had his in hand and was about to take Wolf down when Wolf grabbed the nearest bystander. The bystander took the bullets. Smith disappeared into the crowd.
Wolf went another direction, but the pair of them had falcon vision. Neither lost sight of the other. They made their way through the crowd and into a gay bar.
Thankfully, the gay bar was tasteful and not at all what one would expect. Like most restaurants in Palm Springs, the bar had class and a classy clientele.
Smith entered the men’s room right before Wolf. He sauntered over to the urinal. Wolf joined him. They were waiting for a man in the middle to finish.
After some extended eye contact, the third wheel turned to them and baited them in a butch voice. “Want some privacy?” Both killers almost made him their next target. He scurried away, his pride crippled.
Smith and Wolf still just stared at each other. They were hesitant to even flinch. Then, Wolf’s arrogance got the better of him and he drew his gun. His opponent grabbed his arm and shoved it in the urinal. When Smith flushed, he rendered the weapon useless.
It was time for him to use his own. Wolf countered by tackling Smith to the ground. More punches and kicks were thrown. While unclear, one of them managed to slam the other’s head into a sink.
Playtime was over. Wolf, now scared, dodged a couple punches that Smith smacked right into the bathroom mirrors behind them. He didn’t have time to avoid the glass shard Wolf wielded. Smith’s jugular was the intended target, but Wolf managed only to get Smith’s arm during a block.
Another kick landed Smith on his back. When he stood up, the bathroom door creaked closed. Wolf ran.
The next morning felt like Hell. Deep bruising and bandages stretched over Smith’s face, mocking him. He slithered up to his car, a tux slung over his shoulder and a tourist pamphlet in one hand. The shop from earlier didn’t have Armani as he predicted; he settled for Versace.
Smith opened the pamphlet and marvelled at all the tourist attractions he was missing out on. Palm Canyon called to him. He loved to hike, and these rocky mountain trails with views of palm trees and subtle peaks ignited a primal fire within his soul. Then he took a gander at the information on the art museum in the city itself. It featured classic and performance art; the former his favorite. His inner child wanted to visit Soak City and ride the 70-foot twin scorpion water slide. At times like these, Smith wished he was normal. However, he knew he’d never be back here. He would never enjoy these things.
For just a minute, The Assassin examined his car, then the tux. It almost seemed like he had grown distasteful of extravagance, too. What else would he do with the money he made, he asked himself? Not that it mattered. Smith was heading for a crisis of self and he didn’t even know it.
With that, he got into his car and headed into the mountains. His final destination was the airport on the other side. After showing his ticket, he headed through the gate.
“Enjoy your trip to Switzerland, Mr. Kowalczyk,” the stewardess called out.
Smith grinned. It was dangerous using his Christian name, but he enjoyed hearing it. Actually, in truth, he barely remembered it.
Meanwhile, in the middle of the Sea of Japan, Wolf reported his failure to his superior aboard a freighter.
If this mystery man had a physical form, it was well hidden by the shadows of the cargo hold. “What made you think I’d sign off on this?”
“There’s something you need to see.” Wolf pulled a photo out of his pocket and handed it to the figure.
“Is this credible?”
“Yeah, boss, it is. I triple checked.”
The mystery man sucked his teeth. “Have everyone waiting for us on the dock. Dear God, how did I not see this?!”
Wolf nodded and backed away respectfully.
FADE TO BLACK.
Thanks for reading! Stay tuned for next week’s story, full of more international intrigue, travel ideas, style, and fashion.