Why Not Will Ferrell?

1. The Request

Mordan sat in his car for a few minutes. He glanced at the folder on his passenger seat. He didn’t need to read the contents again. He already spent the morning with the doctors as they explained what kind of cancer he had and how the treatment would work. He held his grip on the steering wheel, hands on the ten and two o’clock positions. He wasn’t ready to start the car. He stared at the passing cars leaving the hospital parking lot. They probably had a flu or a bad cold, he thought. Not him—he had cancer.

With the best treatment available, Mordan would live long enough to plan for his own funeral. What a joke. What about with the worst treatment?! He knew the answer to his own rhetorical question. With the worst treatment, he’d already be dead.

Out of habit he opened the glove compartment. The gun was still there, locked and loaded, as they say. His cell phone played a chorus of Wheel in the Sky by Journey. Hair music for a guy who was losing his hair. He swiped the screen, entered the six-digit PIN, and said, Yeah?

“Got your call, Mordy. What’s up?” It was Claymen, the Dispatch, the Go-Between for targets and hits. The Front Man who received and distributed payment to the Seeks, the Button Boys, the Gentlemen.

Mordan was a Seek. Fifty years old going on negative prime.

“Thanks for the call back, Clay. I need a favor.” He waited for a response. Long seconds went by.

“Keep talking,” Claymen answered.

“You know all that blood I’ve been spitting up?” he asked

“Yeah, of course. We’re all concerned, especially the Upstairs Department.” He paused again.

“How’d they find out? I only told you.” He knew the answer, but needed to hear it anyway.

“You know I tell them everything. No ifs, ands or buts. Everything.” He sounded defensive, but Mordan knew he had to snitch. Part of the job.

“Anyway, that favor.” Another pause.

“Ask,’ Claymen said, somewhat contrite.

“I need to be put down, but professional-like. Quick and easy. What’ll it cost me?” Mordan took a deep breath and coughed up bloody phlegm into a couple paper napkins. He rolled the paper into a wad and tossed on top of the pile of bloody wads on the passenger side floor.

“What’d the doctors say?” Claymen asked with real concern.

“I think my request to you should answer that question.” Mordan gently snorted a laugh to triggering a cough.

“How long?” he asked.

“Months, with treatment, but I ain’t getting no treatment, so you do the math.” He snorted again.

Claymen took a deep breath, opened the phony leather cased journal on his desk, and regarded the first name on the list of four. He considered the time frame. Trial next Friday. That gives us six days. It’s possible.

“Your assignment will be delivered to you tonight, so be home. It’s a rat. Exterminate by next Wednesday. You’ve got four days. Nothing special. No message. Just the rub. Got it?” Claymen asked.

“Got it. Be home. No frills. Hit and run, right?” Mordan said.

“Right.” Claymen answered.

“And what about my thing? I don’t want an amateur doing it.” His voice sounded tired and worried.

“Quick and easy. Got you covered. Do this thing right. That’s all.” Claymen reassured him.

Mordant ended the call. He started the engine and headed home. Last question to pass through his mind, Why me, why not Will Ferrell?

2. The Assignment

The manila folder sat alone on the empty kitchen table of my sparse apartment. I ignored it as I pulled a beer from the six-pack ring holder and returned the rest to the fridge. Some old Chinese to-go food was festering mold in the containers. Should’ve grabbed a burger. I clicked open the beer and looked at the folder. For years, Claymen’s been trying to get me to use a computer for my assignments, and for years, I’ve turned him down. Old school. You can’t hack a folder. Job done, burn the paper trail. Easy peasy, asthma wheezy. I unfolded a chair that I stole from the local high school and joined the folder at the table. I chugged half the contents, belched, and set down the can. I flipped open the folder. The front page had a picture of a man in a nice suit, the photo paper-clipped to a data sheet: Name, address, family, business, hang-outs, car model, mistress. They always got a mistress, and it only helps me to know that in case I have to track the hit to her address, which is about fifty percent of the time. Usually, I find them at work. And that’s all I know. No reason why he must die. No how I should kill him, slow or quick. No message. No nothing. Just make sure he’s dead.

But, if I remember correctly, this guy was going to talk, to squeal, turn state’s evidence, whatever they call it. What did he know? Claymen don’t like such questions; however, in the state I’m in with death at my door and all, what’ll it hurt to ask myself that question. What’s he gonna blab about that’s so important that he’s gotta be gone and no more. Just like I’ll be soon. Stop thinking and start prepping. Wednesday’s child is full of woe. Tell me about it.

3. The Preparation

The lake at Belvedere Park was stocked with fish, fresh every month, for the fishermen. To the south the freeway was always crowded with traffic either headed to or from work around Downtown Los Angeles. To the north ran Brooklyn Avenue, the heartbeat of East Los Angeles. West and east didn’t matter in the big picture. The park breathed life into the community. Mordan grew up in the Big M Projects facing the lake, so he got to see the restocking of fish every month. His parents wondered why he was so fascinated with the park. While kids were celebrating the weekend in the playground or the community swimming pool, Mordan was watching people come and go from the park. If it cleared his mind to do so, thought his mother, so be it. It kept him out of trouble, although she wished he had friends who shared his solitude. She guessed it would be difficult to to alone with friends, she guffawed gently. His father tried to teach him to fish, but Mordan preferred to watch his father catch and release the fish. Mordan asked his father why they restock if people keep putting the fish back. “Because the fish get caught so many times, their lips get ripped off. The die and float to the surface. The restock men skim the dead fish with a net before they toss in the fresh load. Not all seems as it appears.” Mordan then asked, “Why don’t we eat the fish we catch?”

“These are not fish for eating. They are sport fish, for catching and releasing. It’s like a game.”

“Why do you release them then if they’re going to die? Don’t they suffer each time they get caught?” Mordan stared into his father’s face. “You should just kill them. It’s better for them, and it’s better for you.”

“How’s that?” his father asked curiously.

“You save them from suffering. You can give them a quick death. We can’t eat them, so their only purpose for being in the lake is to suffer.” Mordan watched his father’s hard features soften.

Suddenly, his line tightened. He had hooked a sizeable fish. He reeled it in and retrieved it in the net before it could tear itself off the hook and jump back into the water. He grabbed hold of the slippery fish with his calloused hand and showed it to Mordan. He then slammed the fish down on the concrete, killing it instantly. As his father smiled down on him, eleven year old Mordan grinned proudly.

Little did either of them notice at that moment the black mist that emerged from the gills of the dead fish.

It was night, the park was empty, so Mordan had the park all to himself. He had done all his preliminary work to prepare for the hit. Now it was time to watch the lake, to listen for the fish, jumping into the air to catch a moth or mosquito, and to consider the reward for his killing the rat. He thought back to that day he first saw the dark mist as it sprayed from the fish he had caught. He assumed it was poisonous and backed away, but the black bubbles floated over the water and slowly entered the tranquil lake, leaving soft ripples that died almost as soon as they formed. After that, Mordan killed fish after fish to recreate the mist. It took several tries, but it finally happened, and he began to understand the pattern. He opened his school backpack and took out a glass jar. As the mist formed, he quickly but gently placed the glass jar mouth-down over the fish as the gassy mass was released. Once it was in the jar, he slid the lid underneath the dead fish and sealed the jar fish and all.

The blackness swirled around looking for an exit, and then it tried reentering the fish but couldn’t. What are you? Mordan asked. Then the jar hummed, vibrated, and shattered. The black gas expanded and formed what looked like a baseball sized moon. His young curious hand wanted to touch it, but it darted away, over the lake, spun and dropped into the water. That’s when the lake water began to boil as dozen of the dark moons popped into the air. They were angry. Mordan ran home, leaving his backpack behind.

“Where’s your backpack?” his father asked.

“I must have left it at school. It should be in my locker,” Mordan lied.

“Dinner’s on the table,” his mother told him. “Microwave it if it’s cold.”

They were watching Family Feud. He went into the kitchen and ate cold chicken and mashed potatoes. He hoped his backpack would still be there in the morning. He’d have to get up extra early before heading to school.

Mordan the hitman waited patiently for his visitor. It arrived around midnight. He watched the speck of blackness rise from the lake and widen to the size of a vertical football. Inside the dark shape, there was nothing in itself or on the other side. The hitman walked around the floating void. No matter what side he was on, he couldn’t see through it. A few pathway lights were on, the moon was almost full, the headlights from the cars driving by the park were flashing by, but nothing penetrated the black football. Right on cue, the cops drove across the newly mowed grass and stopped their vehicle in the sand of the playlot, right next to the swings. Over the speaker, “Stand and raise your hands where we can see them.” He stood and showed his spread fingers in the direction the cop voice came from. Damn spotlight was blinding. He heard the sound of two car doors opening and saw the silhouettes of two armed cops, guns leveled at him.

“We got a call that there was a man with a gun firing into the lake. Would that be you?” the cop asked. Neither cop lowered their gun.

“I called you,” said Mordan. “I need the right bait.”

“Bait for what?”

“For some catch and release,” Mordan explained vaguely. “It’ll all be over soon.

Tenacles of black slime shot from the dark sphere and wrapped up the cops like Christmas packages. Then the darkness engulfed them both, swallowing them up like marshmallows. There was a humming in the air right before the packages were pulled into the lake. The water boiled and bubbled for about an hour. Mordan watched till the stillness on the lake broke as the two officers were tossed onto the concrete ground that surrounded the water. They were mangled but still breathing. He remembered finding his backpack all those years ago similarly ripped apart. He removed his gun from his holster and shot both cops in the head. He smiled as he once smiled to his father all those years ago.

He was ready now to do his job.

Coming soon

Part 4. Wednesday's Child