Alexander Wiseman, having lied to his wife Beth, parked his blue Honda Accord discreetly in the shadows of the poorly lit parking lot. He left the motor running, hating himself, hating his life, and hating Saul the most. Shutting the engine down so violently he nearly snapped the key, he stared at the porn shop, stealing his courage for one last meeting.
The porn shop had been Saul's idea, along with everything else up to and including Carlee. That last bit had taken Alexander a few weeks to figure out, a few weeks too late, a few weeks that endangered his marriage, turning him into a traitor.
He ran a hand through his thinning blonde hair, loose strands parting easily to fall onto his sagging shoulders. He should have known a woman like Carlee could only have fucked him with mercenary intent. A convention in Las Vegas, too many drinks, and the next morning he had found himself in her bed, remembering everything as though it had happened to some impossibly luckily movie character, in a movie the ratings board would never have approved.
He climbed out of the car, his back creaking, his knees throbbing with pain, his long heavy coat reaching nearly to his ankles, and walked slowly towards the entrance.
She had been amazingly uninhibited, fucking in every manner he had wanted that weekend, forty years of pent up fantasies and frustrations finally fulfilled. He'd left Vegas knowing the best screwing of his life, learning quickly just how thoroughly she had fucked him.
He pushed open the door; the insistent beat of some shit ass hip-hop song pounding on from a radio. 'Poppers,' stimulants for the fags prowling to sniff like glue, lined the counter; the cashier barely noticed his arrival. Throughout the store a riot of colorfully obscene sex toys assaulted his sight, and mounted on the wall above the door leading to the arcade, a three-foot long dildo, a cock-head at each end, hung like a perverted hunting trophy. Blow-up dolls, hard rubber dolls, counterfeit cocks and cunts, and an endless supply of magazines, DVDs, and cheap, tasteless gags filled the shelves producing a pit of perversion. Men trolled the aisles, inspecting the DVDs, and magazines; he carefully avoided eye contact, walking directly to the arcade.
When he was younger, arcades had been places filled with videos games, places of innocence. Nothing in this shabby back room had any innocence, least of all Alexander.
Saul had showed up during his lunch, looking slick in his two thousand dollar suit, not bothering with an invitation, sitting at the food court's cheap plastic table. With pictures, big glossy clear photos of him or Carlee, Saul had browbeaten him into submission. Within a week he smuggled classified data from work, closing the trap completely.
Arrogant and demanding, Saul taught him to be a traitor. Not anymore, because tonight he intended to end it. This time he meant it. He almost reached into his right pocket, barely catching himself in time before he broke the plastic seal that had taken hours to perfect. Instead he fidgeted with the small chain in his left pocket.
He ignored the DVD cases displaying the porn available in the booths, moving to the far hall of booths. Doors lined the short hallway, a red light above each indicating occupied or vacant, while men strolled slowly about, pretending to studying the fuck flicks while trying discreetly to catch each other's eye. He moved directly to booth number six, luckily unoccupied, and moved to step inside. A thin man with an equally thin mustache smiled at him, but Alexander shook his head, entered the booth, quickly closing the door, but leaving it unlocked.
The sharp pungent stink of jizz and bleach filled his nose and he wanted to puke. A television, looping an endless series of ads for dick enhancements, massage parlors, and porn, provided scant illumination. Used tissues, lube, and cum littered the floor as evidence of the booth's non-espionage related activities.
Pulling out a five-dollar bill, he fed it into the machine and the TV switched to one of the scores of channels. On the screen two fags busily sucked each other's cocks. Quickly he hit the button changing channels. Carefully selecting a spot on the wide padded seat, He found a channel with two women busily eating each other out and settled in to wait.
Through the thin wall, the muted, rhythmic grunting of two men fucking spoiled his viewing and he wished Saul would hurry the fuck up. The knob of the door twisted, someone testing the lock, and Saul never did that. Before he could reach out someone pulled the door open. The man looked in, then down to Alexander's crotch.
"No!" Alexander hissed, pulling the door closed again. He heard footstep as the guy shuffled off looking for some other stranger's cock.
The far wall shook as the men on the far side vigorously fucked. One started getting loud, before being suddenly muffled. He watched the electronic timer shrink, bitterly pulling out a bill and fed the machine. Another five dollars wasted.
The door opened, and Saul stepped into the booth. His black hair, short, perfectly trimmed, his clothing possessing more style than Alexander could ever hope to attain. He looked more like an actor than a spy.
Saul surveyed the cum, lube, and rubbers on the floor and said, "Having fun before I got here?"
"Saul took out a cloth, prissily cleaned a section of the padded bench, and sat next to him.
"That's not friendly."
"I'm not your fucking friend. I'm your fucking dog."
He shook his head, playing at caring, but Alexander knew this bastard to be heartless.
"I think of you as a friend."
"Fuck you. I'm just a tool to you, a fucking idiot. No more, I want out!"
Saul smiled and patiently explaining again. "You know we can't do that. You're too valuable. Why you're my best agent. If it's the money..."
"I don't want..."
"Keep your voice down. No one will pay any mind to two men back here, but not if you're shouting."
"This wasn't my idea." He waved his hand around, indicating the booth, the repulsive fucking, and whole damn shop. He never wanted to steal classified documents, and he didn't fucking care if this was great cover, he wanted out.
"Why did you call me?" Saul's voice lost all hint of patience. "Have you got something for me?"
"Yeah," He snarled. "I got something, I'm out! I'm not doing this anymore."
"Yes, you are. If I have to publish you know you'll be ruined. I've got some great pictures of you coming and going back here. That's better than Carlee, almost."
"I want out." His voice fell, his hopes of convincing Saul evaporating like his innocence.
Saul stood. "You've wasted my time. You do what I say and when I say."
He turned to leave. Alexander thrust his hand into the sealed pocket. The plastic tore easily and with fast deft motions Alexander stood, grabbed him, in a firm grip with his left hand, while clamping the wet cloth from his pocket over Saul's mouth and nose.
In a movie Saul would have known fifteen different kinds of martial arts and have had a ton of weapons, but real life didn't work like that. They struggled, grunting and breathing heavily as they fought. Saul clawed at Alexander's arms, but his fingers slid off the heavy coat sleeve. Quickly, far more quickly than Alexander had expected, Saul fell limp.
He kept the cloth in place, just in case the bastard was playing possum. After a full minute, He carefully lowered him to the bench, and stood, watching him breathe.
Alexander's hand did not shake, and a terrible calmness swept over him. For the first time he knew he could kill. He retrieved Saul's smart-phone, wallet and identification. Once, trying to put Alexander at ease, Saul had been good enough to explain that no one except Saul could contact his agents. That way, if the Feds grabbed anyone, damage to the network would be limited. Now Alexander counted on that bit working in his favor.
He fed another fifty dollars into the machine, enough for a several hours, and then on a mischievous whim, switched channels back to fags screwing.
Turning to Saul he undid the man's belt, pulling his tailored pants and underwear down to his knees. From his left pocket he pulled out the small but sturdy chain. Fixing one end to Saul's heel with a thumbtack and, bending the knee for slack, the other end he looped around Saul's neck.
He released the leg, it straightened, and Saul started choking. Deeply sedated, he didn't twitch or thrash, and in minutes he'd be dead, another tragic stupid fuck-head who killed himself while jacking off.
Alexander stepped out of the booth, locking the door behind him. Oh, a clever autopsy might catch the sedative, but unless they really went whole hog testing, it'd look like the poppers these guys used.
Smiling a "just fucked" smile, he left for home.
Robert Mitchell Evans has been a sailor, a dishwasher, a shipyard
worker, a cashier, and currently his day-job is in the pharmaceutical
industry assisting physicians and patients in navigating the wilds of
the US healthcare system. He resides in San Diego, California and
he has published an ebook collection of nearly-award winning short
stories, Horseshoes and Hand Grenades. He can frequently be
found haunting southern California SF conventions.