Chapter 1
(Chapter song ’The Four Flowers’ by The Philharmonic Orchestra, Katherine Jenkins)
A NEW YORK PENTHOUSE – 4 years ago
The city that never sleeps towers outside the floor to ceiling windows. The lights on the skyscrapers seem like the stars they kill with all the light pollution. The darkened windows reflect a softly lit apartment in the upper west side. A popular area for all manners of money. Personally, I hate it. Too rich for my blood. There’s something about money that corrupts the soul. It makes them act funny.
Even now, as I watch the occasional soul fly by the window, I think it wants what it had. Not because it misses family or love. It misses the view and posh surroundings. The fake respect that no one gives you. It’s just a tool they use because you got money and connections. But in the end, those connections can’t save your ass from the end. These days, though, money can save you if you’re quick enough. The up-and-coming service to the masses means to change that. It seems like a clever idea. I could get in on it... if I thought about dying. I don’t.
Death and me? We know each other too well. I know it’s secrets. I’ve lived them. I’ve seen its darkest parts. I’m desensitized now. Live or die? I’ve been both. It’s like food. 2 credits or a 100. It all looks the same coming out.
Maybe, I’m dark about this. I just don’t see the point of paying money to hang around here for another 80 years... then do it again. What’s the point? So, you can spend money you don’t have; on things you don’t need; for people who couldn’t care less whether you died and didn’t come back tomorrow. If it was me, I’d tell whoever’s in charge of my skin bag to burn it. Don’t question it. Don’t ask me. Set me on fire and walk away. My soul will travel around until the universe gets its shit together. Maybe, I’ll look up Elvis. I don’t know.
I blow out smoke as The Philharmonic bounces off the walls of the white penthouse bathed in warm white lighting. The crystal chandelier on the 12-foot ceiling hangs in the center of a spiral staircase to the second floor. Here on the first floor, crisp, rich furniture decorate the lavish lifestyle that money provided. A contemporary fuck you to lesser beings on the ground. Whatever. As long as I get mine, I don’t give a shit what these people up here do. It just pisses me off to no end seeing some struggle and go through agonizing pain while bitches eat caviar.
I inhale another large drag of my cigarette as my other hand sways in time and my fingers make conducting movements to the angelic sounding duet of opera singers on a speaker system that cost more than a year’s worth of rent... If I paid rent. I haven’t paid rent in years. It’s amazing how much you could get for free if you applied yourself. And I applied myself. Right into the seat I’m in now. Kicked back in a solid oak carved dining chair with my dress shoes crossed on the table. My dress pants still bear the signs of a good after party from some conference in my honor that I was supposed to attend, but... things happened. They weren’t supposed to happen, but money doesn’t give a shit about your conference in your honor.
I but out the cigarette in a glass of bourbon I drank. I wrap my fingers around the crystal glass and place it in the middle of the dark wood dining table. The reflection of the glass in the perfectly polish wax job doesn’t show the red handprint I leave behind as I kick my feet off the desk and run my hand down my sopping wet dress shirt. I apply a full, open hand on the polished table and leave a nicely formed print as I stand.
I stroll out of the dining area to a raised area in front of the windows. I walk to the window and admire my reflection. I run a hand through my soaked hair and place a hand on the window. I lay my forehead on the glass and watch the bugs of New York zip around the roads and sidewalks; oblivious to me 50 stories up. I leave the window and wring out my shirt. Red droplets fall as my shoes step across the polished white marble floor. I run my fingers across the keys of a baby grand piano; leaving red streaks across the white keys.
I step down a single step and walk across a plush cream carpet to the living room with white classy furniture. I’m sure a lot of money paid for this. I lay my hand on the pillows and back, smearing the red off my shirt onto the crisp fabric. My trail grows behind me as I approach the stairs to the upper floor. I step on the first step; making sure not to ruin the red footsteps I created coming down.
As I go back up, I run both hands through my hair and place on hand on the wall and one on the railing. My fingers drag on both as I climb to the place where things happened.
I arrive at the top and stop at a set of well-placed pictures. A slight smile tugs at my lips as I look over a blushing bride and handsome groom on their wedding day. My eyes focus on the reflection of that groom staring back. My smile gets a little bigger as red drips down my nose. I smear red across the glass and move on.
I turn and walk down the hall as my hand dances in the air to the tempo. The ladies are on point. I may have to download this later. I float into the master bedroom of the apartment and light another smoke. As I walk around the room, I pull open drawers of the bride and throw her rather expensive wardrobe on the floor. I walk into the closet and toss out a year’s salary of pointless fabric.
As the red begins to dry on my clothes, I walk to her vanity. I lean to the mirror and fix my brows. I rake my fingers through my blood crusted hair and look over my bloody face. I stand and pull on my blood-soaked sleeves. I look over the containers of make-up and boxes of jewelry. In the middle, I grab the handle of a large butcher knife elegantly etched with Mr. & Mrs. Phelps. A gift, I assume. I guess some things aren’t that useless.
I toss the table and her precious belongings spill across the cashmere rug splashed with blood. The mirror smashes and I step on her overpriced make-up bottles and sticks as I casually walk to the bed where the marriage was consummated. I’m sure no one thought it would end like this, but the problem with marrying someone too quick is... you really don’t know what’s inside until it’s too late.
I stop at the bedside and look over the long spread legs draped over the edge of the mattress. The heel on one foot hangs off her toes and blood trails down her calves. I step between her legs and lean over the body that was all too lively not too long ago. I glace at the window looking over the city, then back to her.
Her eyes are open and still full of shock. Her lips are blue, and her eyes are void. Her chest and stomach look like shredded meat and the white duvet is dark red under her. Her Prada dress is just as dark and wet. It’s a shame really. She really is a beauty. Or should I say was.
I press my lips into a thin line and breathe hard through my nostrils as I drive the knife between her breasts to the handle. I lay my hands on either side of her and stare into her eyes. “Well, Teddy. You’re in for a real shock. You should probably pay your bills on time.”
I casually push off the bed and take a drag of my smoke as I pull out the cell phone in my pocket. I pull up the keypad and hit the familiar 9-1-1. I place the phone on my ear as I prepare my exit.
’911. What’s your emergency?’
“This is Ted Phelps. I want to report a murder.” The tone is more like ordering flowers then reporting the horror show I’m in the middle of. Just bored.
‘What’s your location?’
“My penthouse bedroom. 4457 34th street.”
‘Who’s the victim?’
“My girlfriend. Please hurry. I think she’s...”
With zero care, I hang up and drop the phone on the floor. I crush the cigarette into the carpet and start my pull-out game.
Ted falls on his ass as I peel myself from his insides. I hate this part. It sends all kinds of messed up signals through me.
My ghostly hand breaches his chest first. And as he seizes on the floor, I yank my ass out of his body. I climb out like I’m climbing out of a hole. My blue, white image wriggles free of his dumbass and takes to the air. I push off and aim for the window. I rocket through the glass and into the night air.
The horns of congested New York traffic and the impatient voices of New York streets are heard as I float a distance away and turn. Being hyper aware of my position in the sky, I look down when hear sirens and admire the red and blue lights that descend upon the High-rise.
I raise my translucent eyes to the apartment and watch Teddy come to. I can’t hear him, but from his reactions, he’s freaking the fuck out. He grabs the woman on the bed and hugs her. He tries to revive her, and as predicted, yanks the knife out of her chest.
With the classical music playing in my mind, I conduct the scene in front of me with my dramatic conductor moves. As the cops’ rush into the building, the movie begins to unfold. My arms sway in fourths as the opera begins to climax. I put my heart into it as the police bust through the door to Teddy’s bedroom. They draw weapons and Teddy turns with surprise; still holding the knife.
‘Drop the knife, you stupid bastard.’ I mutter. As much as I did him dirty, I’d hate to see him get shot for being an idiot.
He drops the knife as the cops push on him and order him down. He drops to his knees just as a woman’s scream comes from the building.
That I heard.
I stop conducting and cross my legs. I lean on my knee and rest my chin in my hand as I watch my handy work unfold.
Also as predicted, Mrs. Phelps appears to bear witness to the true nature of her husband. I can see him try to beg her as the cops demand he shut his mouth. She loses it at the bedroom door and pukes on the rug as an officer holds her around the waist. She a natural. I may cry myself.
They pull her away before she can taint the crime scene and move on Ted. I can tell he’s proclaiming innocence, and I have to laugh. Mr. Main Character is going to have a tough time with that.
The investigators show up and they clap the cuffs on him. As they do, I analyze the scene. I think I could have improved a little bit. There wasn’t enough blood in my opinion, but the reaction was impressive, so I’ll take that as a job well done.
Teddy’s clearly yelling—no begging—to be listened to. I can pretty much write the dialogue. ’Stop... I didn’t do this... I was possessed... I have no idea how this happened...’
Yadda, yadda, yadda. Tell it to the judge.
They disappear and they’re probably reading him his Miranda rights in the elevator as his wife calls her divorce lawyer. Ruined for a piece of ass and unpaid contract deals.
Don’t do business with people who can pay more money than you.
Speaking of which.
The moaning sounds of ghosts interrupts my movie, and I look around to see the Caspers out here starting to move in. Time to go. I float in a stand, dramatically bow, and make my exit.
I don’t know what it is. Every time I walk, everyone wants to be my friend. They have this urge to sniff the ass of new ghosts that show up like dogs. I don’t get it. Are they that hard up for attention?
The problem is, I’m not a departed soul. Just displaced. An astral projection, but with more beef. A Switch is not your friend.
That’s what I am. A Switcher. And the best part?
I don’t exist anywhere. Even to the one who paid me to do this dirty deed. But if I was honest, I would do it for free just to see the look on Teddy’s face. It’s satisfying to me to see some rich bastard take one up the ass for once, but... I have to live. Might as well make a living while I help the rich take each other out.
And I make a pretty good one. There’s nothing that pays more than assassin for hire.
And I’m the best there is.
