Blood Kratom

“My name is Dante. I am thirty years old. I hate cleaning my room, my dad, and waiting. My mom and fighting are the only two things I love. I have often dreamed of becoming a writer, so I could toss my anger onto papers instead of hurting people. My dad, mom, and sisters are in my backyard, dead.” People called me Shadow, a cool name. It had something to do with my job. Dante was long dead; Shadow lived, borrowing the body. My mom loved poems. She named me Dante because she adored me like a piece of art. My childhood tasted like an inferno. My family was complete, not perfect; I guessed a lot of families. My dad made every day a bad day; he hurt us with words and physical abuse. My mom never fought him, believing he would repent. My dad reformed on his dying breaths.  I stood 185cm and inherited a pointy nose and narrow jaw from my father. I got my clear and soft skin from my mother. When I looked at myself in the mirror, I felt grateful for my full lips, high forehead, and broad face. My look did not fit my job, though. I loved shorts and t-shirts and only had two pairs of pants and one black shirt; I had worn them three times to mourn. The fourth time, I would wear it at my funeral. I did not see the importance of having many clothes. Plus, I was not a big fan of washing. Having less made my life easier, except for the money I guessed. I had only a sofa, refrigerator, and Tv in my apartment. I did not see the point of paying for extra furniture since I spent most of my time outside. I had a bank account, but I preferred to take cash. Hiding my money among book pages was a trick my mom taught me. It worked with thieves and dad. My mom used to say thieves did not like reading. If they did, they would become authors instead of stealing. One day I forgot to lock my apartment door; someone sneaked in. I lost nothing. The intruder messed my cupboards but did not touch my pile of books. I never dated a woman after Catherine. She left for good. I never thought of marriage; a family would hesitate me. Without them, I had no soul to protect. I slept with few women I met. Sometimes, Sir Luther gave an escort a bonus for completing jobs. I tried my best not to include feelings when I interacted with females.  Sir Luther treated me like a friend. I only followed his order and had served him twenty years. He gave me room to stay and food until I could stand on my feet. A friend had advised me to reconsidered changing my life, leading a mundane life as ordinary people do. I refused; blood tainted my hands. I had sunk too deep and had no courage to resurface to embrace a new life. Plus, leaving Sir Luther would be ungrateful. I was an assassin, not a betrayer. I did dirty jobs; I murdered. Sir Luther ordered, and I executed. I never killed more than requested and also never less. If my boss wanted the husband, then I killed the husband. I had exterminated an entire family because the family rivaled Sir Luther and refused to cooperate. My boss sent us to take care of them. Their child was nine months. I could not sleep for one week because he smiled at me and grabbed my arm when I lifted my blade.  Going to church was not my calling card despite my mother’s influence. She never missed masses and church activities. She took me few times, but I saw no change in my family and stopped going with her. I admired her perseverance. Raising a child with a drunkard was hard. I knew it had something to do with her faith.   I just got a call. Sir Luther gave an order. He sent me to accompany his son to Borneo Island. I had packed my clothes. I glanced at my watch; it was one after midnight. I checked my pistol and my knife. A car honked outside. I sat next to Bill. He smiled; I did not. Bill wore Hugo Boss T-shirt and Gucci jeans that night. Shields Emeral Sunglasses perched on his ears. His footwear, I could not see. I smelt Pinaud Clubmen; Bill looked fresh despite the late hour. Sir Luther sat in the front seat and glanced at me. I nodded; I knew what to do. My boss and his son did not talk until we entered the airport. Sir Luther hugged Bill, and he wished us luck. Bill kissed Sir Luther's hand but looked away. Garuda had announced their departure for the third time. We arrived at Pangsuma Airport on October 25, 2019. Breeze welcome us as we stamped boots on the ground outside the building. It whispered news from far away woods. Leaves were turning yellow; time for death was at hand. My feet felt heavy. I looked back; an airplane just took off.  Borneo was the largest island in Indonesia. Five provinces shared territory, controlling over a large area. It had abundant natural resources, but lacked human skills; this situation attracted investors to the island, including greedy individuals like Sir Luther.  We did not talk. I talked to my men, not to my boss. Again, I only followed the order. I had no idea why we went to Borneo. To hell, I would have departed if Sir Luther had wished.  People populated the small-sized parking area, called out names, and welcomed their family members. Family and lovers hugged. A man escorted by four bodyguards strutted toward a black sedan. He glanced at us before closing his car door. The bodyguards had hornbill tattoo on neck. Other cars gave way as the driver honked. I watched as the sedan moved. Taxi drivers swarmed the airport, pressing one another. I never liked taxi drivers. It had nothing to do with their job. Some of them could be pushy; I disapproved of the attitude. A driver had lifted our luggage. I booted his hands. He looked at me like I had murdered his dog. Bill raised his hands. “Ten thousand rupiah to Kapuas Port.” “What a joke,” said one of the drivers. They disbanded, chasing other passengers. A smile cracked Bill’s lips as the trick worked. A man walked toward us. “Come!” Bill winked at me. The man lifted our bags and headed toward a yellow taxi park twenty meters away. We followed him. The driver wore a tight shirt, revealing his bulging flesh. He glanced at bikers at the opposite of the road. I moved closer to Bill. The taxi smelled like sweats. The air conditioner banged; I raised my hand to cover my face. The driver gave a mocking smile. I stared at him; He looked away. Bill elbowed my side; two bikes had been following us from a distance. I did not see anything suspicious. We could head in the same direction. If they wanted to hurt us, I would make them pay. I wished I needed not kill people in a foreign land, this early in the morning. I fixed my eyes on the cross statue near the steering wheel. The driver made a sign of a cross before starting the engine, picked a sunglass, and perched it on his ears; his look improved slightly. He played radio; a female local broadcaster informed about the possibility of a long dry season. She warned the people about forest fire and haze. “Annual phenomena.” The driver changed the broadcast. A local band played a pop song. I glanced at Bill who leaned on the seat, closing his eyes. My eyes spotted a sticker on the door on my right side. It wrote ‘enjoy life, enjoy kratom’. I checked the magazines tucked in the seat bag. I picked one with a local woman in traditional clothes, dancing. The bikers turned to a small road. They had made a wise decision. I trailed the table of content and opened page 20. Local people were losing, the page read. Palm plantations had taken lands from the natives. They had no place to go but stuck to the remaining forests. The companies seized the lands on behalf of the country. All the land belonged to the country. Once the government approved the permit, the natives had no rights. It seemed that each country was colonizing its territory through the constitution. The driver said that the travel usually took twenty minutes, but we started thirty minutes ago. Plus, I saw no traffic. It came to my mind that the driver tried to scam us as few Jakarta taxi drivers did to local and international tourists. I noticed that we had headed to a less populated area. Trees populated the sides of the road. Bill had opened his eyes and leaned forward.  “How long?” Bill said. “Almost.” The driver swerved to a narrower road leading to the woods. “Short cut.” I reached for Nemo, my pistol, gripping. The bikes squeaked, blocking the road. The riders advanced toward us with bats at their hands. Our car stopped. The driver grinned and pointed a knife at us. "Money." Bill smiled, reached for a pack of cigars, and lit one stick. He blew a cloud of smoke toward the driver. “Don’t play with us!.” The driver gripped Bill’s collar and brushed the knife blade on his neck. “Money!”  My pistol fired; nobody touched the son of my boss. The driver was pushed back to his seat with a hole in his forehead. The bikers ceased as I fired. They exchanged look, ran back to their bike, and disappeared into the woods. Bill threw his cigarette out of the car window. “What a start!” He pushed the door open.