Topic: Danny Gold

Kansas City, I love this town, I guess it’s why I decided to stick around so long even when there was nothing left to justify it. killing my sister in self defense in 1999, disowned shortly thereafter, my friends dying in 2000 in very violent manners, so much happening in so little time

Pretty much from 2001 till the present things have been fairly regular. Two to four times a year I'm called up by agent because someone has a serious grievance that can't be settled in a court room so for a considerable fee they send me to the target, it cost extra if I have to find them and make it deader than hell, no other drama than that. Funny how life works out sometimes really.

It started at 1500 hours, that’s three in the afternoon for those not on twenty-four hour clocks. I was watching the A-Team on DVD when the doorbell rings. I know it isn’t anyone I know since the girls were still in class, and if it weren't they wouldn't use the doorbell and Heather normally calls first. So I got visitors, this is extremely rare for me so rare in fact that there maybe some trouble in my immediate future.

I walk down the stairs with a PPK in my left hand and hidden behind my leg as I open the front door. On the other side is a neighbor of mine. She moved in after the deputy on the other side of the street moved out.  She was one of those women who fretted over their appearance after having three children all of whom were the very apple of her eye and she was protective of them on the verge of being overbearing.

She had a smile on her face that told me to beware of what she had planned. She said hello to me and addressed me by my last name, putting mister in front of it. I had a feeling I was right about the whole immediate trouble thing, but to be honest since this was the second time in a year we ever met I felt it was no problem, yet.

So, I  moved behind the door slightly, slipped the pistol into my pocket, invited her in to the dining room and asked if there was anything she would like to drink. She said she was fine with Ice water so I got her some and a bottle of Harp for myself.

She stood there her eyes transfixed on the object on the table, a field stripped AR-15, perfectly legal but still something in her eyes seemed to tell me that I just as well have the Satanic Bible on my table. She shook the look in her eyes out and smiled at me, “I didn’t know you were a police officer.” She said.

“I’m not.” I replied.

The look in her eyes returned again. It was a hard look that you would get from someone if you told them that you supported Stalin. She would have been fine with the rifle if I was a copper but since I’m just a poor fucking civilian I cannot be trusted with firearms. I can tell this is the end of anything approaching pleasant between the two of us. At the very least this will mean that we ignore each other and she tells her children that I’m a bad, bad man and to not talk to Amy or Lita.  Which was probably for naught since I saw her eldest son casting glances at the both of them and I figure I'll have to give him the whole “She may be adopted but I still consider her one of mine” speech.  Worse case is that every time someone gets shot full of holes in Johnson County I get a visit from officer not so friendly because the soccer mom across the table from me calls the cops.

I ask what she came over for as polite as I could. She shakes her self out of her little paranoid delusion of me shooting up the neighborhood, and tells me why she’s here. She knows I’ve lived here nearly all my life, well over twenty years, she figures that I can be used as a mouth piece with the rest of the households on this dead end street, ten not counting her and I, that what this street needs is a homeowners’ association.

I almost choke on my beer trying to hold back the explosive laughter from the thought of me trying to propose, of all things, homeowners’ association, and the blood boiling rage of the fact that she thinks we need one.

“Why would I want to be in homeowners’ association?” I ask.

She replies simply, “To keep from lowering the tone of this fine neighborhood, to keep undesirable influences from creeping in.”

Right now I’m ecstatic that she didn’t take a beer because at that I would have tried to see if I could fit her into the bottle. Right now it would have to remain idle curiosity. I despise the thought of Homeowner’s associations. Having some Auschwitz Bitch leading a community of people with a beef about a neighbor that they either don’t like or seems shady. My gun collection would place me at the very top of this woman’s hit list. I can see where this is going.

First it starts with them coming by my house every two days or so to make certain that my grass is no more and no less than 2 inches high. Soon it leads to letter like this

“Dear Mrs. Thompson,

We regret to inform you that the Homeowners’ Association has decided to deny your request to get your daughter a dachshund puppy. Have you considered a goldfish?


Mrs. Howard.
President Homeowners’ Association.
Now celebrating five years of allowing the Irish into our community.”

What was left of the conversation was me telling her that I wasn’t going to participate in this experiment in fascism and I could get enough arguments against Homeowner’s Associations to turn her into a pariah. She left the house, and was probably envisioning my downfall and my reaction when she would sell my house and take the money for herself. And I was envisioning burning her house down if she tried it.

I had little time to worry about that though. I had to get to work.


It was 2000 hours, which was nighttime in Kansas City during October. And this time I had company. He’s a hitter out of New York State by the name of Daniel Gold. Yeah, he expects me to believe that’s his real name. He’s one of those guys who believes he needs a gimmick, in his case it’s in the cost of the hit, a million dollars a bullet. He was someone who believed he had to super sophisticated. I swear that if he could he’d resurrect Fredrick Chopin and have him compose theme music for this guy and then put it on his razor thin cell phone.

I really despise this prick.

He spent fifteen minuets complaining about “this mid-western rabble.” To shut him the Hell up I put in some Clancy Brothers. Apparently Dan Gold doesn't appreciate Irish songs of Drinking and Blackguarding. He sat there for the rest of the half-hour we were stuck together waiting for our target to arrive. Like I said, this Yutz thinks the only thing that should touch his ears is nothing but 17th century Piano Concertos. So imagine his relief when Tom “Wrong hands” shows up.

In Daniel’s view Tom is nothing more than a man with a genetic deformity, something fixed with a nice application of selective breeding. I’m nothing more than Archie Bunker and just in the way, maybe take out a couple of the bodyguards while he gets the glory of putting Mr. Wrong Hands on Ice.

I know better. Our target isn’t called Wrong Hands Just because his hands have that deformity that make them look like lobster claws. Well, admittedly that was the main cause, and I didn’t know what the other possible reasons there were, but the parka he was wearing and the bandana over his face were pretty good clues to me, but what ever the reason it was enough to warrant an appearance by me. To me if Daniel Gold here was to serve a reason, it was to be a distraction or maybe to be walking Kevlar

Four other fellows and a girl got out of the car with him and they went into the same apartment building. It stood to reason that they were all in the same gang as Wrong Hands, save for the girl who I assume was offering affection by the hour.  Seeing this we got out of the car, and made our way into the low rent apartment complex.

We walk into the apartment building and we got into the elevator.  Game time, we pull our suppressed pistols from our holsters and hide them behind briefcases. At first glance Danny and I just look like we're a couple of lawyers coming to visit Tommy on what ever business it is lawyers have with scumbag criminals.  We get out on the floor Wrong Hands was on, and we walked up to the door at the end of the hall. Standing in front of the doorway was two gang-bangers. I don’t feel too bad about what’s coming to them. They’re the slime of the Earth other wise I wouldn’t have been given the go ahead to put them on ice as well. You'd be amazed how being incredibly picky on who you shoot keeps you out of all manner of unpleasantness

They come forward to stop us, as if it was moving on it’s own my hand brings my pistol up at a natural pace, and I shoot the first one in the face, the sound suppressor on my USP makes a whisper of my kill. The second one gets two to the chest from the same USP. I don’t stop to acknowledge the hit man that was sent to assist me in this kill. I just kick the door open and see three more dead men sitting on a couch watching a Chiefs game. Danny gets off one round and I get the other two.

We were both scanning the room for Tommy “Wrong Hands” when we hear a dull thud from another room.  Danny notions over to me and we follow the sound, as we get closer we can hear a crunching sound from the room, Dan Gold gives me a look that said “What the hell is that?”  I put down the briefcase and ready the pistol in my hands and motion for him to just kick the door in.

After the door was kicked open Danny boy there had the same experience that I did back in 2000.  In my case I was looking for a friend at KU and I was attacked by a vampire, I got away after emptying my revolver into her twice and running away, but for Danny Gold, this was the first time he saw the mask slip off reality.  Tommy “Wrong Hands” had wrong hands alright.  Six of them, each attached to a different arm.  His body was covered in bristly hair that stood on end, rather it was always that way or they got that way in surprise to make him look bigger I didn't know, but I think what really got Danny's attention was the mandibles on his face that were shoving an arm from the girl we saw before into a mouth full of sharp teeth.

When reality shows her real face it is to say the least a shock to the system.  The reaction people have can be different for every one, in my case it was a reaction to kill, and when that didn't work, I ran, for Danny though he froze up.  His mind couldn't take what was happening in front of his eyes, and while he and Tommy locked eyes I stepped in and putting two hollow points into Tommy's chest and one between his eyes finished the job.

Daniel Gold was staring at the corpse in disbelief. Here’s a man who’s boasted over thirty hits and a freak of nature has him all shaken up. I pulled a white phosperous grenade out of the briefcase and toss it into the room with the dead creature “Common Danny boy, we best get the hell out of here.”
“Right.” Was all he managed to get out.  The grenade went off  as we walked into the hallway and began to set the apartment on fire.

“You know,” he said, “I was paid three million dollars for this job.”

I reply “I’m aware of that fact.”

“And I only made one shot, Which means I have to refund two million dollars.” He told me.

“Price of a gimmick I guess.” I said with a shrug.

“I have a high maintenance wife, and two kids going to the finest academy in New England.”

The feeling came over me, “Danny, don’t do anything stupid.”

“Sorry, but thus are the wages of sin.”

I spun around as he raised his pistol and fired a silenced round into his chest. He jerked back and saw the blood spread over his white shirt. He looked at in in shock like he couldn’t believe that a pistol Heller from Kansas could put a sophisticated shooter from the New York under.

He fell to the ground with a muted thud, and I left out of the building.

Daniel Gold confused arrogance with intelligence. As a result I’m sitting here with a glass of Vodka typing this story, while Daniel Gold made his Stanford wife into a Stanford widow and his two Stanford children are now with out a father. He lies tonight in the Hallway of an apartment building in Missouri.

But don’t feel bad for him. He made his decisions, and he suffered the consequences.

Good night and joy be with you,

The Kansas City Ice Machine

I'm going to need a bigger stick.