Caressed by golden-mottled wings; And now he breathes the air of night; ready to break through the darkness; and sees the shadow of his prey.... The blue smoke exhaled deep from within my lungs enveloped my profile, building a subtle barrier between those delicious thoughts and the ongoing celebrations. New Year's Eve, 2006. I still smoked Marlboros, concious of the many times friends had alluded to the fact that it was time to phase out those filter-tipped sceptres of a predominantly cheerless and lonely past. But they had kept my company then and there was no compelling reason to quit the solace they afforded, now. The bourbon singed my throat as I contemplated the long night ahead. Marvin Rosales was a singularly disturbing brontosaurus of a man for most people he came into contact with. There still remained tucked somewhere the memory of my acute discomfiture, the day we had first met. I was still a novice to the intricacies of the trade at the time, burgeoning with visions of excavating daring inroads to the very top. We had both grown to appreciate the other's limitations. He was still one of the cleverest men I had the somewhat dubious fortune of ever knowing; I shunned human contact sometimes for weeks on end and he stubbornly sought to drag me out of my self-imposed seclusion, succeeding thoroughly in awakening my carefully controlled fury. But his ill- considered actions belied the sincerity of his intentions and on most occasions I almost forgave him for besides being my chiefmost financier he was also an incorrigible gambler. I had profitably channelled this weakness of his into glazing both our respective coffers. He jokingly often called me his ace. A Honduran by nationality, the man had been born into old money. Splurging on expensive parties for a host of non-descript acquaintances connected together by the frailest of thread's came naturally to him, as did the ever ubiquitous prize-wife and the fashionable drugs. He loved the woman dearly nonetheless and had had the huge mansion built as an altar to her beauty and in my humble opinion the architect he had chosen had been blessed with an unearthly creativity, so reminiscient of the pre-Victorian era. Its impressive brownstone facade reared up four-storeys, bay windows leading out onto little porticos in each of the eight bedrooms. The spectacular ultra-modern interiors perpetually defied the hand-carved stone gargoyles guarding the massive teakwood doors. Mis Recuerdos lent an imposing presence to the otherwise bleak landscape. devoid of human habitation for miles in every direction. He stood at the bar now, handing out Bloody Mary's with strips of acid-blotter for stirrers, flirting with a couple of stunningly attractive young women and too far gone to notice my conspicuous assessment of his whereabouts. But my thoughts were elsewhere. I glanced at my watch irritatedly. She was late. About Four Years Earlier. Holiday Inn. Miami Springs. Splayed irrescuably on the humungous sofa, my sobriety threatening to succumb to the exigencies of cheap whisky; I had arrived at the very distinct conclusion that Victor was quickly approaching the limit of his viability as an asset in our chosen industry. Dangerous words conspired to escape the confines of my lips. 'I think it would be much more comfortable if you undressed and went to bed. We could talk tomorrow', he said emphatically, the syllables igniting a deep-seated festering rage of which he had no inclination. 'Tomorrow might be a trifle too late', I retorted with feeling. 'You are treading very thin ice here. A little more time', my voice dropping a couple of octaves now. 'My personal life is not your own little chessboard, so stop tap-dancing around me.' 'Why her?' 'Why not, motherfucker? Why the hell fucken not....', words spoken in a cold morbid anger. 'On the motherfucken brink of glory, you ask me why. Why indeed!', I said sitting up with incredulity etched all over my features, but the power-struggle had reached its climax. He had deferred at the time; possibly taking into consideration my slurring indistinct words which I must admit were quite effectively upheaving his romantic agenda. But the man would never forget the episode although I didn't care at that particular moment. Present Day. 12.15 am. Her aura was indescribably breathtaking. Her passage eliciting admiring glances, never catcalls. Eastern-european origins, that rare piercing violet gaze; an intimidating, alien creature. Victor had fallen for her charms at the first hello. He believed it was something akin to love much to my extreme chagrin. We were at the threshold of an important enterprise and at that juncture distractions would only serve to retard our advance, I knew. Every ounce of reason I could generate remained deplorably ineffectual against the wall of obsession Victor had built between himself and reality....I watched her move through the room now, with a zeal that would have been more suited to a psychopathic stalker or to a paticularly voracious member of a marauding pride of lions. She stubbornly refused to meet my gaze, fully aware it seemed of my nefarious intentions. I rose to my full height and strode across Rosales' hall; scotch on my breath and an inferno blazing at my loins. My approach was rewarded with a brazen smile and a flick of her shoulder-length molten ebony mane. But she was only teasing. The cool night wind whipped my hair around making me squint, catalyzing the alcohol racing through my bloodstream and in effect slowing down my reflexes. It would take a careful rationing of my faculties in order to successfully overcome my quarry. Darkness seeped into my being, pulsing, untethered; threatening to overcome my already weakened will as I pulled my key out of the door of the Maybach and embarked on the long trek back to the house. Even with all my misgivings, the consequences of retreat at this point would be nothing short of disastrous. The darkened mansion faced my advance again; with a snobbish, detached fatuousness as if it could read deep within the recesses of my soul. I shivered involuntarily. If he had but listened, none of this would have been necessary, reason bespoke itself. I gauged the diameter of the drainpipe running down the east wall fearing corroded clamps for several intangible seconds before I started to climb. My hop onto the tiny balcony was perfectly noiseless for I had wisely employed the precaution of pocketing my wingtips. I slipped on a pair of matte-black nitrile gloves before entering the room. Water was running from a faucet somewhere. I stood absolutely still for moments waiting for my pupils to adjust to the gloom as I unbuttoned my shirt to the waist. A heightened sense of self-preservation possessed me now, honing my senses to a razor's edge of keenness.......We had flirted like adolescents, laughing, thoroughly enjoying each other while Rosales had looked on, deceptively impassionate as always. He was aware of my acute fear and hatred of the woman, for I had referred to it many times in the past. She'd slinked upstairs with a mocking invitation blazing in her angelic countenance, in those beautiful eyes and I had departed with hastily murmured goodbyes to my patron claiming imaginary fatigue at his numerous behests to remain the night. My opening gambit had stayed uncannily undetected by either of them. Victor The man strode with a purposeful gait that inspired passers-by to stay well out of his path, however at that ungodly night hour it would have been highly unlikely that he encountered anyone outside their homes for it was hardly a neighbourhood inhabited by people who were inclined toward indiscriminate nocturnal ramblings. The greatest blow to his illustrious career, he felt was the acquisition of an imbecile for a son and it was to once more harangue with this rather distasteful issue that he was making his way on this sultry humid night that threatened of rain. His harshly introspective reverie passed as he spotted the boy sitting amongst a group of like-minded companions. Swallowing his flaming temper for he was not an individual given to flagrant displays of passion in public, he quietly reprimanded his son for his blatant disregard of the house rules. Victor stepped on his frehly lit cigarette and regarded his father. The rules, so suggestively laid down had condemned his beloved youngest sibling to a penniless imbecilic husband, they had invoked the dormant apathy of both his married older sisters and now threatened to destroy his mother's already failing health. The rules be damned. He rose and marched back to the house, twenty-eight that day and a professional merchant marine; Victor himself was not a man to be trifled with. He had studied to be a priest at a younger, more impressionable age and the inculcated virtues had stayed with him; buried somewhere in the far reaches of his indeterminate conciousness. Disobedience was surely not a sin, he would allow himself to go to hell for. Cloistered in an incubator for the first three weeks of its life, the tiny premature babe would establish quite a trend for outfoxing death. He had grown up as a quiet child and he had kept that quality through adulthood. Dark, brooding, unruffled by even the most cataclysmic changes in his environment; he projected a personality that did not encourage confrontation. The words that issued back and forth that night were of a bitter, easily forgettable nature but the tears stayed with him. It was the first time he had seen his father cry of abject remorse. Victor would never forgive himself those precarious few minutes of youthful indiscretion. Galveston, Texas. The M/S Minerva sat pretty in her berth, dwarfing the sprightly little town with her immaculate bulk. It was a busy day. There were breasts and coloured beads everywhere. The revellers, it seemed were drinking that Mardi Gras after a prolonged period of extreme draught. But for the two men that were engaged in repainting her scarred behind, the celebrations in the distant streets may well have been on another world. Muscles screaming for respite, brows wet with the anticipation of exodus; they laboured on, elevated several metres above the innoccuosly still water on their tiny metal platform. The platform itself was attached the hydraulic boom of a four and half tonne cherry-picker. If the fuel line hadn't intriguingly clogged thereby betraying the oil pump, or if it had been a luckier day the men would have parked and headed for lunch in another half hour. But it did. And it wasn't. Their safety harnesses were attached to the rails of the cage and when the behemoth lost its equilibrium and tipped over, those very harnesses would ensure they went down with it. I screamed out a warning to Victor but the cold water filling my chest quietened it to a gurgle. Then there was nothing but a conflicting sense of being suspended and dragged down at the same moment. The prospect of an imminent and inescapable demise, they say; brings flashes of loved ones, of regret, of opportunities never arisen to. Nothing of the sort made itself available at the time and it ocurred to me that death itself didn't deserve the character of finality that it is so often cloaked in. Death was only another doorway if one could tranquilly dispense with the ceremony of dying without. The ship's physician was silky and effete; explaining my predicament with glowing references to Victor's superhuman efforts directed towards detaching my harness from the submerged machine. The man's strength and unselfishness had made quite an impression on the good doctor, I could see. Her genial demeanour was carefully moulded to prevent my thoughts from even accidentally straying in the direction of seeking legal counsel for the physical and mental trauma incurred but her intent although commendable was unnecessarily presumptuous. I felt more exuberant than ever in light of the fact that my search for a someone with indisputable integrity had finally been generously rewarded. We resumed work after lunch. Mis Recuerdos Six unimaginably exhilarating years had past since that day. In an inherently unfriendly domain of buisness; we had carved out quite a comfortable corner for ourselves. The merciless pitfalls, the insuperable challenges and the myriad ruthless competitors had only served to reinforce our determination....six long years. I was exhausted. I could quite believably claim to be an expert in a number of doctrines but unfortunately; taking into consideration the present state of affairs; even by an extensive stretch of my powers of persuasion murder could not have been one of them. The cold steel taped to my lower leg did nothing to improve my confidence.....they were on the brink of divorce. The passion had unsurprisingly fizzled out within a few dreamy months spent mostly on the Caribbean archipelago. The partisans on either side were furtive, driven by an unwarranted compulsion to outdo the other. Our empire would never recover from the dust and rubble of alimony, I knew. The gloves would have to come off. Xiamara stood there now, watching me through the blackness of the room. 'Was it something I said?' her voice cut through the tension like a gladiator's scimitar. I stood with the knife clutched in my right hand; lining up my target. The thick Persian rug absorbed my feet settling my balance. 'You just about called me a whoring gold-digger at the wedding, what; pray tell has inspired this turnabout?' The silence disoriented her, I could tell. Muscles tensing now; a moonlit figure of solidifying metal. The truth of the situation became evident to me at the exact same instant the pistol in her fist quietly coughed. It was an unmistakable sound. The bullet intercepted my plunge to the floor; slicing through my left bicep. I snarled out my reply, landing on both palms. We were locked eye to eye as she crumpled to the floor; the six-inch blade embedded in her neck. The M/S Minerva Cabin #673, 6.15 pm. The massive superliner cleaved the dark waves with an energy concieved from a battery of eight huge diesel generators. She was on her way to the Cayman islands with enough power pulsing through her to run an average-sized town; but deep in her bowels beer was drunk in a scrupulous silence, a mystic and elaborate ceremonial of thanksgiving. Two men of diametrically opposite schools of reasoning, drinking together. A thing of untramelled beauty. Visions of exorbitant wealth and power dawned one after the other, if I could but harness this yet untapped resource before me. I lit a cigarette. His practicality in perpetual disparity to my foregoing thoughts, irked me endlessly. Surely one could not squander a second lease of existence on frivolous pursuits. We had survived for another fight, and one that we surely could not lose. My frenzied words filled the room along with the smoke for the latter part of the evening. It was an effort of sheer will, of inexorable confidence in the face of his tiresome defiance. It was a battle of ideas that would vividly protrude fom my memory as one that had not been worth winning. Even in death she had exhibited a grace and poise of unnatural elegance, I thought to myself as I sipped my latte. The silhouettes of pedestrians passed before my glazed eyes, their speed of locomotion slowed down drastically; that sunny day in the Swiss capital. She had been deputed to assasinate me which was principally the reason why the drama of separation had been so vividly and so convincingly enacted, why Victor had fallen so quickly and so completely out of love, why Rosales hadn't intervened, why Xiamara was even at that party. It was for the money that my friend, a man who had once dragged me from the depths of despair, a man who I loved very dearly, a man who was familiar with every facet of my existence; wanted me gone. I almost smiled. He would have been amused to know had he still been breathing that it was not him I would miss, but her. .... finds once more his freedom; to be once more an invisible bird; and feel the night beneath its claws. - Peter Sherry, The Owl | 
