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11.

Upstairs in the foreman's office, Sciorrenzo sat in attendance with a number of other local drug barons throughout the sprawling Pacific Northwestern regions: Monty, Hattrick, Denesia and Sakuya were perched comfortably in robust leather chairs placed around a long, rectangular-shaped table, discussing various engagements and operations from months past. Above their heads an aged ceiling fan spewed bright light from fat halogen bulbs. As the men were accepting drinks and clinking glasses, the fat old Italian clinked a fork against a wine glass, emanating a dull humming ring. With their attention gathered, Sciorrenzo officially began the meeting.

"So as most of you know, we are here tonight in attendance to come to terms with a particularly… troubling issue." Nods of agreement complimented troubled murmurs beneath the dull tobacco-scented air. "Even now as we speak, there are a number of informants present down below, among all those fucking jive-dancing faggots and furry pricks. Most of these cocksuckers are currently unaccounted for, snooping around in hopes of getting their grimy spic paws on heavy contraband that we've struggled for many months to conceal from prying eyes." Sciorrenzo grunted, pointing through a large mesh-screened window that looked down upon the primary carving floor below, now littered with drug-fueled crazies, dancing their lives away. He shook his head with disgust, cleared his throat, hocked deep and spat a large, bloody lugie onto the floor, stomping it down into the wood.

Sciorrenzo looked at the partners and cracked a dismal smile, fraught with evil.

"Little do they know that they won't be getting a goddamned thing. We've all sent our own men - and women - here to retrieve, with no hope and no avail. This is a decoy, a contrived effort to weed 'em out and knock 'em down into the dirt, so that our current operations can't possibly be over-encumbered with their belligerent bullshit. Can I get an A-MEN, brothers?" Sciorrenzo asked in a boasting tone, like a game-show announcer.

Sakuya nodded, folding his bony hands together, resting them upon his turgid breastbone. Monty and Hattrick both swigged down their glasses, filled to the brims with top-dollar liquor, illegally imported. Denesia cleared his throat and leaned back to snap his finger, popping his knuckles habitually. A young man dressed in a three-piece suit approached Denesia, attentive and alert. Denesia whispered something into the boy's ear, tucked a fifty-dollar bill into his jacket pocket and wiped crud off the corners of his mouth, patting the suave young man on his rump as he exited from the room in a hurry.

"You sure they don't have any other tricks up their sleeve, man? Y'know, like outside interference? Who's to say we aren't being spied on right now? Right out there, in those goddamned woods?" Denesia asked.

"Could be recipe for disaster. We not safe here, not for long." Sakuya added, nervously rubbing at his elbows. "What more you need to be convinced, Little Italy?"

"Well, at least we can get fucking hammered before then, eh?" Monty blurted out, gap-toothed guffawing grin pasted upon his cheeks. "Good enough for me anyways, shit!"

"Yeah, where'd all dem fine-azz hookers y'all dun promised us go to anyways, Sciorrenzo? I ain't seen but a single sugar-mama up 'ere the whole damn time, man! I need me some pussay! Ain't no doubt 'bout it, dawg!" Hattrick snorted from laughing, spinning his shot-glass like a toy top across the table's surface. Hattrick and Monty gave each other a high-five, snickering with immature hilarity.

"Both you mother-loving cunts should learn how to shut the fuck up right about now, you'll get your poon-tang, after we conduct business. Got it? Name of the game - 'business'. Not acting like a bunch of stupid fucking morons." Denesia ordered, stern frown rippling his aged brows into a V-shape.

"Pussy for later, gentlemen. Right now we conduct business. I in agreement with Denesia. Priorities first. You understand?" Sakuya asked Hattrick condescendingly.

"I'll show you business, you goddam stinking gook basta-"

"Ah! That what I want hear all night! You give me reason to kill you now! You good man! Good man! Sciorrenzo, may I?" Sakuya asked, slapping his hand down hard upon the tabletop while holding his wrist close to his hip, ready to whip out his piece and drop Hattrick before everyone else, to riddle his negro body with smoking bullet-holes.

The fat, bald Italian simply slammed his fists upon the table, causing the ground to vibrate, even over the thumping bass-notes from downstairs. All four men froze in place, faces devoid of expression, eyes wide open and glued to Sciorrenzo, fuming red with anger. A tall and rather anorexic woman with an alarmingly pale-white complexion dressed in a swanky black dress smiled aloud, leaned up against a half-cut barrel filled with ice and various bottles of hard liquor. She giggled, winking at Sciorrenzo, suggesting bloodshed before the night grew long and dull.

"You need to understand something. All you fucking stupid nigger-bitches need to understand." Sciorrenzo pointed out the window down toward the dance floor. "Somewhere out there is an old client of mine, a young pup I took in from the 'pen' when he had nowhere else to go. He was my best informant, my go-to stick-up guy. Couldn't do no wrong!" Sciorrenzo shrugged, smirking. "Now? Why, now he wants to see me killed. Killed in one way or another. I've been responsible for things in the past, crazy things that have been done to him, that caused him to lose his trust in me. Can't say that I was ever proud of myself, but it was only what had to be done. You understand how such a motive of strife operates… right, gentlemen? I sure hope so." Sciorrenzo sniffed deep and hawked another lugie against the windowsill then creaked his neck.

Sciorrenzo's fellow cronies nodded in agreement, confirming their understanding. Hattrick gave Sciorrenzo a forlorn, untrustworthy gaze.

"Before the night is over, I'd like to wipe the ground with that fucking coon-dog's brains. He won't come in here and expect to make it back out alive unless I have something to say about it directly, and there's a promise you can bet I'll keep!" Sciorrenzo hollered, rolling his fat-fingered hand into a large balled fist. "No matter what, Mr. B. is going to bite the dust and our enterprises won't possibly be compromised. This much, I can promise each and every rat-fucked-bastardizing one of you."

The attending gentlemen gawked at each other, issuing not a peep. Denesia broke the silence casually with a low voice.

"Even now as we speak, I've sent an order to my men downstairs to retrieve this… 'Mr. B.' who you speak of, sir. By all accounts, we should be in the clear before long and not have a damn thing to worry about. Business will continue as usual and this place, this abandoned lumber mill, will stand true. It's a perfect location anyways! No interference from the outside, no fucking pigs sniffing around behind our asses, no restrictions or curfews of any kind." The other gentlemen nodded in agreement. "But you fucks wanna the very best thing?" Denesia rolled up a dollar bill and stuck one end into his nostril. He leaned down toward the table and dragged the other end along a carefully-constructed line of cocaine, inhaling the powder with rapid speed. After finishing, he reared his head back, snorted, coughed and sniffed deep. He then lowered his head back down to his chin and peered out at the others with bloodshot jittery eyes, curling his lips upward into an insane smile. "No fucking witnesses." Denesia's psychotic expression caused Sakuya to rear back with fright and Hattrick to damn-near piss himself. "In other words, boys…" Denesia placed the currency-tube into his other nostril and dragged it along yet another line of coke, inhaling deep. He finished, let the tube fall to the table, pinched a small ample amount of coke between his fingertips, sprinkled it upon his palm, snorted back a couple more hits, rubbed the remaining substance against his gums and chuckled wildly. "This place is a fucking gold-mine for a bunch of lowlife bitches like us."

Sciorrenzo smirked, nodding sincerely, happy to see that he wasn't the only one intent on seeing the infiltrators burn at the stake. Just how long the process would take was what irked at Sciorrenzo's conscience. He wanted to murder Maxwell so fucking bad, but he wanted to do it correctly without any flubs in the plan overall. Most of all, he didn't want to risk his own livelihood in order to bring the shep-coon prick down. This thing had to be dealt with properly or else all hell would break loose.

The fat fuck kept his sausage-fingers crossed behind his back, staring out from the grimy foreman's office window, reassuring himself that his hired guns had things covered down there.