Royal Haze
The only thing worth dying for in this stinking world, the only thing for killing for? Honour, family, country, king? No. It’s cold and hard and smells like cash. Makes the world go round. Doesn’t matter if you’re white, black, brown, Christian, Muslim or Seventh-Day Adventist – if you got the dough, you can get through the doors of reception.
No turns to yes. Dickheads turn into sycophants. Money turns true believers into infidels and Puritans into schoolgirls. I’ve seen grown-ass men well up at the sight of it. It’s the sexiest woman alive with no crazy ex.
These thoughts, along with a whole bunch of coke, crowded Connor’s mind as he drove the river road out to the airport, trying unsuccessfully to keep his Porsche under the limit. On his left, the refinery was illuminated like a carnival – its reflections smeared across the dark water like an oil spill. A plane skimmed in low, its landing lights on. Passing over him, the sounds of the engines blanketed the convertible.
Cash is the only thing that gets your dick hard again and again, he thought, as he pulled off the road, doused the lights and laboured slowly over the ruts and grassy hillocks. The Porsche’s belts were all worn out and it sounded horrendous, squeaking and rubbing.
Oh well, didn’t matter now, he thought, turned off the engine and listened to the clicking metal in the warm summer night. The sound was undercut by a deeper thrumming which turned to a roar as another plane came in to land.
He grabbed the metal briefcases off the shotgun seat, lugged them out and waddled over to the chain-link fence. He grunted, heaving them in high arcs over the fence then climbed over after them, snagging his jeans on the strands of barbwire at the top.
He groaned a little when he landed. Through the blow and the booze, his knees still throbbed angrily. His goddamn fucking knees. A jolt of anger ran through him as he hefted the cases and moved off towards the hulking shadows on the other side of the runway. Another jet came down. Its landing lights threw his shadow sixty feet in front of him, jumping around like an insane marionette. He followed it, thinking of another time, another runway 10,000 miles away.
He was running across the tarmac. His shadow was flung this time by the hard sun scorching his back, almost as though the mob behind him was a conflagration growing closer. He could practically feel their desperation searing his neck.
His armour jostled. His helmet bounced. His boots pounded the runway and his knees were on fire. It felt like there were 2 knives stabbing him every step he took. He wasn't going to make it. The C-130 was creeping away. He saw CJ, hanging out of the hold, holding onto some webbing, mouthing at him to R-U-N! Then CJ lowered his hand, looked at Connor for a long second then turned and said something to someone behind him. The ramp started to lift.
Connor’s memories came to a screeching halt as he slammed against the side of the hangar. Panting, he crouched for a few seconds, trying to breathe through the ugly stitch in his side. He got his breathing under control and heard voices inside – men talking and laughing. He touched the gun on his ankle, more for reassurance than anything, then picked up the 2 cases and stepped into the wedge of light.
A dozen or so men stood in front of a private jet. It was white with 10 or 12 windows and looked new and expensive. Black writing looped down its side. Silence followed Connor’s appearance and they stared at him. The men wore tunics and lungees. Most of them had long black beards. A couple of them cradled AKs.
Salaam, said Connor and bowed his chin to his chest. One of the men, a short stocky guy wearing a dark green lungee saluted him stiffly then broke into a broad grin, showing some nasty-ass teeth.
Hassan, said Connor.
Connor, my booby, he said in a thick accent. His voice sounded like gravel being processed and Connor forced a smile as Hassan came over and clapped him on the back, showing his fucked-up teeth . He pulled Connor into a deep embrace. His beard scratched Connor’s neck and he smelled the smells he’d never forget – dust and sweat mingled with the sweet tang of hashish.
Hassan put his hands on Connor’s shoulders, his eyes twinkling. He motioned towards the plane and together they moved towards the steps. Another man Connor hadn’t seen stepped out of the shadows under the wing. He wore black robes, a black lungee and had a very long, very white beard.
He came up to Connor, shaking his head slowly. His eyes were piercingly blue like gemstones or the ice deep in a glacier. He put one hand up, placing it on Conor’s chest, forcing him to stop. He brought his hands under Connor’s armpits, pushed his arms up and felt down each arm to the hands. The briefcases dangled five feet off the floor. They felt like they were made of lead.
The old man continued, feeling under each armpit and down around Connor’s ribcage, around the hips, inside each thigh and around the belt. He felt into each pocket. Then down one leg. Knee. Ankle. Turning up his jeans, exposing a white sock. Connor felt sick to his stomach. He couldn’t move and wanted to scream.
The other leg now, the thigh, the knee and – Hey, said Connor dancing back and forcing a laugh. What are you trying to do, jack me off? I ain’t gay, dude!
The old man stiffened, looking like an angry old bird. For a second, Connor’s back felt hot and he was sure he was about to get shot. Then Hassan let out a guffaw and shoved past the old man and dug Connor in the ribs with a short jab.
Jag you off! He cried, trying to punch Connor in the dick. Jag you off!
The old man barked something and Hassan got Connor once more in the nuts then the three of them climbed the metal steps, Connor between the two Afghans. Inside the plane, the air was hot and thick and smelled of menthol and aftershave.
The sickly smell caught in his throat as Connor sank into a cream leather seat. It always felt like a prison in here, he thought while Hassan went through the complicated ceremony of prepping and lighting a hookah.
The old man sat there silently watching Connor who tried to act cool as they passed the hose a few times, breathing out copious amounts of mint-flavoured smoke. His head filled with nicotine and he felt his asshole relax.
Hassan popped the two briefcases, lifted the lids and grinned. A little counting machine whirred excitedly to life and digits cycled upwards on a little grey screen as Hassan fed in the notes. Connor watched the King’s face flutter and flicker and he felt like the monarch was frowning, judging him for his actions. I mean, you could practically call it treason.
Connor took another hit and blew smoke at his king. This'll show him, he thought, this will redeem my misdeeds. His mind inadvertently flicked back to the room full of dead kids, their bodies full of holes his loyalty lodged. And where had it got him, the loyalty of a dutiful subject – PTSD, a broken marriage and serious drug habit.
And now this – midnight dealings with his sworn enemy. Connor’s head hurt there were so many conflicting emotions. His mouth was dry. His palms were sweaty. He almost friggin dropped the little gun as he yanked it out of his sock.
The blue eyes widened, got even wider, looked like they were gonna pop right out of the old man’s head as three red holes opened up in his chest then Connor shot Hassan, saluted the king one last time and His Highness was sprayed with an Englishman’s blood.
x
