A-Combustion

"Combustion"

Meanwhile, Mr. Holloway and Mr. Nately, my world history teacher, were
relaxing in the steam room (ugh) of the Peyton Friars Club. Now at 2:30
in the morning, there is no steam available to fill up the steam room.
So the men chose the best alternative.
Holloway smoked his marijuana through an old recorder. He had been
using it for that purpose since his bachelor party in 1967. He played
"Come Together" as he opened his doors of perception.
Nately worked his cannabis through an antique YodaBong; he had found
it in his physician's equipment catalog (the physician had been a
closet pot addict for thirty years, until the state legalized it for
medicinal purposes. "I gots what you needs," he'd say. "Bongs, roaches,
paper clips, everything you need. And it's all covered, baby."). Only
about two hundred YodaBongs existed in the entire world. Everytime you
puffed, Yoda would say something wise.
"Fear is the path of the Dark Side."
"I sense much fear in you."
"Hey Nately, you goin' to Cancun?" Holloway asked.
"Hell, yeah."
"Gonna put cameras in Chanelle's bathroom?"
"You bet, brother." (Chanelle was a sophomore and Nately's premier
prostitute)
"I need you to do something for me, Nately."
"What's that?"
"I need three of my Geometry students dead."
"You will be. You will be," warned Yoda.
"Okay. How do you want 'em?"
"Make it quick--and quiet. Kill two of them and make the other look
like a suicide."
"Hey, aren't you taking this a little far? I mean, you've already
whacked two in the past few hours--"
"Dammit, these kids have caught on faster--" Holloway gagged on the
pot fumes for a moment, and continued.
"--Faster than my past classes. I have no choice, Nately. I just have
no choice." ***

Lloyd Holloway had been dealing drugs since that revealing bachelor
party in 1967. After doing two joints of pot, he ran out into the
center of town in a toga (he was much thinner back then) and threw bags
of marijuana into the streets. He played "My Favorite Things" as he was
carted off to jail.
In his twenty years as a teacher at Peyton High, he had overseen the
exchange of over 25 million kilograms ($387 million) worth of illegal
substances. All while teaching honors students day in and day out.
"Damn, I'm good," he'd tell himself every morning when he woke
up.
Now his standing was in danger. Those kids were being smart at
something other than math. How else could they figure it all out? Anna
and Laura were now dead. The guards had put Laura's body in the compost
pile behind his house. Anna was literally "sleeping with the
fishes".
What else would keep them quiet? Holloway pensively tapped his massive
gut. Thinking of a more peaceful solution. What would Pablo Escobar
do?
Kill them all, that's what Pablo Escobar would do. ***

Kai Holloway lit up a hot-pressed Cuban cigar and peered out at the
Gulf of Mexico. The Philip Morris trudged along at about twelve knots
(if it weren't for the 12,000 kilos of coke in the cargo hold, the
barge could hit 30 knots).
Kai had been skipper of the PM for over four years now. His father had
pulled some strings with Esteban Cerveza (aka The Little Mexican, who
was in the Middle East on business for God knows what reason) to put
him into the shipping business of the Peyton Cartel. The shipping of
drugs was considered the cleanest part of the business, in that it was
nothing more than following orders and getting people and things to
where they needed to be. It was strictly business, the way it ought to
be.
Few items can fall victim to sick jokes nowadays than a hot-pressed
Cuban. Kai had the whole lower half of the cigar jammed in his mouth,
so that the tip pushed out his left cheek. An immature fellow would
find it a strain not to laugh at Kai blowing that tobacco tube like
nobody's business.
Kai made one last exhalation and tossed the soggy cigar into the Gulf.
He was tired, and needed his rest. ***

Little Sonny downed his third double vodka as six multiracial women
stuffed to the hilt with grocery bags (back alley breast implants were
cheap like that) and salt water ran onto the nightclub stage. A man in
pimp attire materialized onto the stage and began singing the popular
rap tune "I Like Big Butts&;#8230;"
Too damn easy, Little Sonny moped to himself. I should be killing
important people, not little girls.
It is not easy being a hitman these days. Politics has become too
self-righteous to become corrupted by ambitious mob and cartel bosses;
after the world saw The Godfather, law enforcement cleaned up (the
Rodney King incident being a small exception) too. They didn't let
little things like assassination slip by anymore. Only stealth and lies
worked in Little Sonny's business nowadays.
It was one hour until sunrise. Not good for a thirteen year old to be
out so late. Thankfully, he was only about five minutes from his house.
There weren't any cabs to flag down, and he didn't have any friends at
any time of day. ***

It was already past lunch time in Riyadh, Saudi Arabia. Mullah Omar
al-Nayir read a note lying on his work desk:

In your suitcase is a loaded Uzi SMG. Go to Allah's Finest Khlav-Kalash
diner at1630. Four men will be there. You know what to do. ***

Nayir hid behind the cloth doorway. Four Hispanic looking men were
talking quietly in what sounded like Spanish. Allah, thy will be done,
he prayed. He lunged into the restaurant and opened fire.
The first five rounds landed in the chest of a man wearing a white
suit. Blood splattered everywhere as he fell to the floor. A man cried
"Esteban!" before receiving two bullets in his forehead. The other two
men each caught seven bullets in the chest and back before dying. Nayir
dropped the machine gun and ran for his life. ***

The dry air of the desert would betray Nayir. He had placed a cyanide
pill in his teeth for easy swallowing. When he was being captured, he
tried to gulp it down. Luck was not with him. His mouth was too dry to
swallow it. A police officer knocked out four of his teeth and a huge
chunk of his gums to remove the pill.
Fortunately, enough of the pill absorbed into his system so that Nayir
eventually would expire. It took six hours, though, and by then, he had
confessed to killing The Little Mexican and three of his associates. He
was paid by Alejandro Noriega, The Little Mexican's nephew. ***

It was now 2:00 PM in Sucre, Bolivia, 10 PM in Riyadh. Alejandro
Noriega shook up a margarita while sitting on the toilet. Half an hour
ago he was asleep, with two "lucky" teenage girls on either side of
him.
Noriega had to be at the Sucre Arena in half an hour, or he would be
late for his rehearsal for tonight's concert. The bathroom's
flourescent lights were giving him a splitting headache. His signature
hips were sore from long hours of double duty. His voice was hoarse
from substance abuse. To summarily understate it, Noriega was an
absolute wreck.
Noriega pulled out a syringe loaded with Botox; the needle had once
been used by a potentially diseased Chilean whore, not that he cared
right now. He drilled the Botox into his arm. Within minutes, the
botulinium cells were revitalizing his wasted body, taking hours of
prodigious labor away from his physical appearance.
Alejandro Noriega had not yet heard about his uncle's death, but he
was certain the mission was a success. Nayir had been recommended by
all of his references, including Lloyd Holloway. In excahnge for 5000
free copies of his new CD No Puedo, Noriega had formed an alliance with
Holloway and the Peyton Cartel.
Noriega, the Sexiest Man in Bolivia, was finally following in his
family's footsteps. He thought his family would be dissappointed if he
ignored his heritage. Now he was making up for lost time. Tonight he
would announce his retirement from the music industry, in front of
70,000 fans. With his money and Holloway's brains (and his fellow
faculty members' expertise), he would become the wealthiest drug dealer
on earth.
"Oye! Esperamos para ti," (Hey! We're waiting for you,) one of those
bitchy girls yelled from outside the bathroom door. Noriega sulked over
to the door and scowled.
"Tengo que ir ahora, mujeres." ("I have to go now, ladies." They were
so slutty he didn't even bother to call them by formal titles. He
didn't know their names either.) Then he got an idea. He had an extra
car in the garage that he wasn't using.
"Vienen con mi, mujeres." (Come with me, ladies) Noriega led them into
the car and told them to keep the engine running and gave them explicit
orders to wait for him in the car until he came back.
It worked! The dumb sluts actually stayed there. For three hours,
until they succumbed to the hot Bolivian air, and the carbon monoxide
from the Toyota Camry's internal combustion engine.

To be continued&;#8230;