Sugar Valley (Hollywood's Darkest Secret) (87 page)

“How about nothing?” Mark opened the driver’s
side door and pulled the driver out of it, scraping this man’s back
with the broken glass that lay on the street’s cement, having blood
appear through this man’s white shirt. He put him in the backseat
and then got in the driver’s seat, still smiling toward what he’d
just done, finding humor in it of sick, unsound and demented
quality. As soon as he turned on the engine, he looked at the
cabdriver in the back seat and laughed, “Where to?”

Mark drove to the destination, while the
cabdriver slowly began to regain consciousness. Pulling the cab
into the back alley of the Oscar building, and seeing Curtis
standing in the middle of it, he got out of the cab, while the
cabdriver regained full consciousness, opening his eyes a bit,
leering around the cab in disoriented gestures. A cool breeze shot
through the alley, as Mark went up to Curtis’ short figure and
whispered, “Give me my gun with the silencer on it, now.”

Curtis gave him his gun, silver and shiny,
with thickness to it like that of a train’s steel. The cabdriver
started to scream for help, seeing that he was in a vacant alley,
praying to God that he would see his children again, knowing that
harm was about to come to him. The driver’s life flashed before his
eyes, seeing Mark, holding a gun toward his head, the driver began
to flash things in his mind that he never thought would come to his
thoughts.

Oh, God, please, please, I don’t want to end
up on the five o’clock news, having my body being found in an empty
alley. Please, oh God, please, why didn’t I just drive off, oh God,
no, please help me, please. I promise, oh I promise I’ll start
going to church more often, promise I’ll put the seat down on the
toilet, I promise, oh God, help me.

As his mind flushed out these thoughts
through his consciousness, as well as sub’, this gun that was being
shown to him, was a subliminal message of death, knowing that
through this darkness, a light would appear; the spark from the gun
going off.

Mark smiled at this helpless driver and
spoke, “You see, if you would have just settled for one hundred
dollars, this would have never happened.”

Bang.

He shot the bullet from this silenced gun
into the driver’s forehead, pulverizing his brain, seeing the blood
gushing out of it, running down his face, and neck. Mark pulled the
cabdriver’s dead body from out of the cab and threw it in a
dumpster. He then walked up to Curtis and said, “Alright, little
buddy, let’s do this.”

They walked over slowly to the side door of
the building, when Mark heard a noise; it was a screeching noise.
He put his finger up to his mouth as a signal to Curtis for him to
be quiet, and then he turned to view where the noise was coming
from.

“It’s coming from the front of the building,”
Curtis whispered.

“What is it?”

Curtis tried to pick the side door lock with
a screwdriver, responding, “I don’t know, I came in this alley from
the back end of the building, you did too. Just don’t worry about
it, it’s probably something like a cat.”

Mark slowly walked down the alley, hiking his
evil-filled legs toward the end of it. Coming to the end of it,
Mark saw poles of lights and a red carpet that stretched a mile
long. There were bleachers and bleachers for the fans to sit in,
and an Oscar statue that stood twelve feet high. The beauty
overpowered his mind, but he seized it back when he saw security
guards in his view. He began to feel fear, fear that he was going
to get caught, and fear that he was going to get shot.

He pulled his body back in the alley deeper,
whispering, “I can’t do this. Am I crazy? This is the Oscar Awards,
police and Security are going to be all around.” As he thought
about it, Curtis accidentally tipped over a garbage can in his
attempt to unlock the side door. Mark ran up to him and said in an
angry but nervous voice, “Listen, would you be quiet, I don’t want
to get arrested.”

“I thought you said she told you to come at
6:00 p.m. tomorrow?” Curtis questioned, throwing the screwdriver
away from himself with frustration in his velocity. He noticed that
there was a chain, with a lock, that was on the knob of the door
and connected to a pole that was on the brick of the building. He
pulled out a wrench, cut the chain, and then asked, “Hello, did you
hear me? Didn’t you say she told you to come at 6:00 p.m.
tomorrow?”

“Yes, I know, she did, but it’s better that
we come now, this way we won’t have to deal with a lot of security
guards on our asses,” Mark answered, removing the chain and the
broken lock from the door. He took out his gun with a silencer, and
shot through the doorknob, breaking his target in a snap of a
finger.

“Why didn’t you just shoot that and the chain
before?” Curtis whispered while Mark opened the door.

“Because, I wanted to see you try to pick it,
it was for my own amusement?” They pulled out flashlights and began
to comb the area, pointing their lights to walls and doors that
were located on the inside, in back of the building. It was amazing
to them, the front of the building, where the theater and main stag
are located, was beautiful, with decorations galore, and glamour
that made a rainbow look ugly. Yet the back of the building was
timid, smelly, with the aroma of urine and dirt, and dust on the
ground that was as thick as sand. Mark flashed his light at Curtis’
face, adding, “Now, all we have to do is find the stairway that
leads up to the rafters.”

They were in total darkness, their
flashlights were the only way to guide their sight; they scanned
the area. Finally, Curtis came across a door that read TO THE
RAFTERS. Seeing that Mark was standing right next to it, Curtis
stated in a smart-alecky pitch, “Here it is.”

Mark pulled out his gun, very quickly, and
tightened the silencer that was on it, speaking in a whisper, “She
was right. Alright, let’s go.”

They started to walk up the creaking stairs,
feeling sandlike dust, cracking against each step they took, and
then hearing a voice, out of the darkness, shouting, “Who’s
there?”

The men turned around and saw a single
security guard, flashing his bright flashlight rays at their faces,
burning their eyes at the same time. They both had to think
quickly, so Mark spoke, “Oh, um, it’s us, we’re the, ah, night
guards.”

Mark held his gun in back of him, hearing
this security guard questioning with suspicion, “Do you have any
identification?”

“Yeah, here’s my identification.”

Bang.

Mark pulled the gun from behind his back and
shot the guard in the stomach, smiling as this innocent man fell to
the ground, twitching from death coming to his body so
suddenly.

Curtis became frantic, hysterical, yelling
through the darkness, “Shit, what did you do that for?”

“Cold, hard cash, you dumbass. Uniform or
not, nobody’s getting in the way of my money. Nobody.” Mark hit
Curtis on the head with his other hand, adding, “You idiot, he was
a security guard, I had to kill him.”

They both grabbed onto the body and carried
him up to the rafters, hearing the stairs creaking more, stopping
and resting ever so often from the guard’s weight. Once they
reached the top, they threw his body in a cardboard box that
resembled a refrigerator, and began to set up their equipment.
Looking out from the distance, the rafters hung from many strings,
or wire-like cables, levitating in the air, making this long strip
of wood into a bridge-like platform. The view was beautiful; seeing
the stage in the distance, and the darkened, red seats below, they
could just imagine what this sight would be like with lights on.
Suddenly, Mark realized that the rafters were where the lighting
men went to maneuver the lights for the ceremony. He began walking
on this platform, thinking of what to do if the lighting men came
up there when, in a moment’s notice, his movements provoked the
bridge to shake. Curtis felt it swaying and shaking as well,
yelling out, “My God, dude, this thing isn’t sturdy. I’m afraid of
heights.”

“Well, deal with it. A lot of money is on the
line here and this is the best place to get a clear shot of Damen’s
head,” Mark yelled, grabbing Curtis by the ear as if he was a
little schoolkid, and guided him to where the gun was going to be
set up to shoot the victim, or victims.

They set up the long gun that stretched five
feet, right in the center of the bridge, putting a scope on it, and
a silencer to muffle the gunshots. After they set everything up,
Mark explained, “Now, as soon as we finish them off, I want you to
go down to Julienne’s seat and grab the check. Her seat is 25C,
she’s the third row from the front. After that, we go, wait for the
next day, have her cash it, and split the money.”

“Who is this bitch, anyway?”

Mark got defensive at the name Curtis used to
acknowledge her, so he punched him in the face, and whispered with
anger, “She’s not a bitch, she’s a very beautiful, strong, and
caring woman. She earned my trust an hour ago, that’s how special
she is.”

“Yeah, but she hired you and me to kill two
people. It sounds like she’s a saint to me,” Curtis spoke with
sarcasm.

After his last word, they both heard a noise
coming from the doorway that they entered into, the doorway that
led to this bridge of death they’re floating on. Once they turned
to face it, they saw two security guards walking up the stairway to
the rafters.

Curtis and Mark hid behind the big box that
held a dead, stagnant, lifeless body, and heard one of the guards
asking, “Who’s up here?”

“No one’s here, Greg, you’re just hearing
things again,” the other guard chuckled with them both reaching the
top of the stairway and looking out at the bridge. “You see, all
that’s up here is a bunch of lighting equipment.”

“No, I definitely heard a loud punching
sound,” Greg stated with Curtis hitting Mark on the arm; Curtis
felt it was his fault for making the noise in the first place.

“Listen, no one’s been up here for years,
they maneuver the lights now by computers, ever since they made it
the new Oscar building. The only guy that ever comes up here is a
drunk named Sam that makes sure none of the lights burn out during
the ceremony.”

“No, I saw Sam just a few hours ago, he’s
passed out behind the podium on the stage.” Greg then slowly
approached the box. Reaching it, he began to smell an odor,
sniffing his nostrils up and down, trying to trigger, in his
memory, recollection remembrance, what that smell resembled.

“What is it?” the other guard questioned,
still seeing Greg sniffing the air.

“It smells like Bob, I know that cheap
cologne anywhere.” Greg slowly looked into the box, adding, “Bob,
are you sleeping in there?”

Mark jumped out from behind the box and
shouted, “No, he’s lying dead in there.”

Bang.

Mark aimed his gun toward Greg and shot him
in the stomach, having blood squirting on his gray shirt, and
leather pants. The other guard became hysterical and began grabbing
his walkie talkie, screaming into it, trying to find the right
words to say in a situation like this.

Bang.

Mark shot him in the leg, watching him fall
to the floor of the bridge, pleading for his life, his fate.

The guard stared at their evil, darkened
silhouettes, seeing the gun being faced toward him, hearing his own
desperate screams of help. But then, the flashlight went off, and
all this guard could see was darkness, being afraid to not know
where his killer was, or when his killer will shoot. The guard
wailed with tears, “Please, please, I have a family at home, please
don’t kill me.”

Bang.

The flashlight went on, and Curtis shot him
in the head instead of Mark doing it, watching the guard’s life
travel from his body, seeing his blood dripping down his nose in a
fast and thick flow.

Mark turned around, faced Curtis with widened
eyes, and shouted, “What the fuck did you do that for?”

“What?”

“I was just beginning to hear his problems.
This dude has a family, are you stupid?” Mark hit Curtis in the
head with his hand, and watched to see his reaction, still waiting
for an answer.

Curtis thought he was crazy, him being a
killer as well, and now showing sympathy for a security guard; this
caused Curtis to be defensive for his own actions, defending them
with all of his might. Curtis looked at him, after feeling his own
face from Mark’s punch, and spoke, “Listen, I know you like hearing
people’s problems, but this is ridiculous. Besides, you already got
to kill three people.”

They started to pick up the guard, who went
by the name of Greg, and dumped him in the box with his other buddy
that was just in the wrong place at the wrong time. After they
dumped the other security guard’s body in the box, they used sheets
that covered the old light dimmers to soak up the blood. Then they
went behind the box and decided to go to sleep.

“Well, we so far killed four people, now we
just have to finish the other two off,” yawned Curtis, slowly
shutting his eyes tightly together. “And then we’re finished.”

“Yeah, just don’t screw up tomorrow.” Mark
closed his eyes as well, meaning what he said, hoping that Curtis
would listen to his words of truth.

“Well, it’s 3:30 a.m., so it already is
tomorrow.” After Curtis’ sarcastic enlightenment, Mark hit him on
the head again.

“Listen, smartass, I mean it, don’t screw up
on this job.”

“Alright, and the same goes for you,” spoke
Curtis. He then paused for a second, changed the conversation, and
added, “Do you think anyone will discover the cabdriver’s body? I
mean, maybe we should get him and put him in this box with the
rest, ya think?”

“No, just go to sleep.” Mark and Curtis
closed their eyes, and rested for their mission; the mission of
ending two more lives to become millionaires. They fell asleep on
the rafter, hanging by cables, like bats or winged demons waiting
to pounce on their innocent prey.