Free The Accidental Existentialist by Joshua Graham Page B

who
looked too lazy to scratch his own back, Rayshkin grabbed him by
the neck. Pushed him back to the iron rails. Bent Chris backwards
so half of his body dangled over the inky water. “You come on boat
now! Understand?”
    The pain in his back nearly tempted a
shout out of him. But Chris refused to let that happen. Instead, he
focused on a much greater pain—the thought of what they’d done to
Ben, and his next move.
    With all his strength, he hooked his
leg upwards with such relentless force that when his shin crashed
into Rayshkin’s ‘nads, he almost felt a sympathetic
cramp.
    To his surprise, though Rayshkin
grunted and strained, though his eyes bulged, red with tears, he
only clamped down harder on Chris’ throat. Flecks of light shot
around his eyes like a fireworks show with no color but
white.
    He was fading.
    Unable to draw a breath.
    Again, Chris kicked him in the crotch.
This time with the steel reinforced tip of his boot.
    Rayshkin let out the breath he’d been
holding and cried out in agony. He let go, fell to the ground in a
fetal position holding his family rubles.
    When Chris straightened up and rushed
over to Rayshkin, the pathetic assassin lifted a hand as though to
shield the next blow, and curled up even tighter. Like a pill
bug.
    Catching his breath, Chris glanced
around and watched pedestrians walking by, ignoring the entire
scene. He reached down, grabbed Rayshkin by the arm and pulled him
to his feet. “All right. Where’s this boat?”
    “ Pier…Seven!”
    Before Rayshkin could do anything
about it, Chris relieved him of a Glock, a cellphone, and a box
cutter. And a tiny two inch blade that was sheathed and strapped to
his ankle. Looked like a silver arrowhead, but it was probably
sharp enough to slice through rope like it was
spaghetti.
    Could come in handy.
    He strapped it to his own ankle, and
then shoved Rayshkin forward towards the pier. “Let’s go and talk
to your boss now.”
    A look of terror mixed with respect
emerged on Rayshkin’s countenance. “Now I know why my boss likes
you, O’Reilly. You’re crazy.”
    Chris Connor smirked. “You have no
idea.”
     
     
    It wasn’t one of those big fishing
boats that takes fifty or more out to water. Just a nice looking
yatch—the kind you might hold a small party on with a few friends,
no more than a dozen. Nothing impressive. Rayshkin stepped aboard
first, then Chris followed. That’s when he saw the name panted on
the hull.
    Potemkin
    Oh please, delusions of
grandeur, ya think? This ain’t no battleship —Boris, a short man in a black leather jacket smirked at
Rayshkin. The entire conversation was conducted in their
mother-tongue and went to the effect of Rayshkin’s manhood being
question. Rayshkin tried to laugh it off, but his tell-tale limp
betrayed him.
    Boris stiff-armed Chris as he tried to
pass him. He opened his palm and wiggled his fingers. “Come on, you
should know better.”
    From his pocket Chris produced his
Beretta, held it by the muzzle and placed it in Boris’ hand. Then
he took out Rayshkin’s Glock, box-cutter and slapped them down on a
bench. Recognizing his comrade’s weapons, he laughed and called out
to him. “Evgeny, you are getting soft!”
    Rayshkin turned around and gave him
the one-finger salute and went below decks.
    His face otherwise stone cold, Chris
cracked a tiny grin from the side of his mouth. To Boris (in
Russian): “He’s a lamb.”
    Boris slapped him on the back and
snickered like the rat he was. His blue ball-bearing eyes narrowed
and he rubbed his bald pate as he shook his head and continued to
make jokes about the Evgeny Rayshkin, aka “Evgeny the
Terrible”.
    Chris stood still, though
the deck of the Potemkin tilted with the gentle tide. It was enough
though. He rarely went out on boats, and when he did, Dramamine was
his only salvation. “I don’t like boats very much.”
    “ That is your
problem.”
    “ Tell your boss that we’ll
talk right here.” Chris pointed