In It To Win It [The Sociopath’s Script 1]

Chapter Two-3

The forty five year old lady leaned in further into Darius’ ear. She raised her voice by an octave to be more audible over the live Rock band playing at the small stage located about twenty yards from them.

She repeated what she previously said, “I asked; can I get you something to drink?” That time around, Darius heard what she was saying.

Darius then turned to her, lifted up his beer bottle to her face and shook it, “I already got something to drink, honey.”

The lady was attractive. Although she was in her mid-forties; she was actually quite the stunner. She was what folks refer to as a ‘cougar’. True to the nature of the large jungle cat; the lady was on the prowl for a big young slab of meat to devour.

The lady smiled, pulled out packet of cigarettes and tossed one onto her lips. She said, “A single beer is never enough, young man. So, how did you get that scar running across the back of your ear?” She asked as she pointed out an intricate web of healed stitches running down Darius Hart’s hairline.

Darius instantaneously pulled some of his luscious hair over the discrepancy in an attempt to hide it. He didn’t like it when people looked at it but at that point, it was already too late. He replied, “I caught some shrapnel back in the day in a black operation. Had my skull reconstructed using some heavy duty stuff…”He balled up his hand into a fist and knuckled the back of his head thrice. The dull muffled metallic clunking sound coming from Darius Hart’s cranium was audible given the fact that the Rock band was just transitioning into another song.

The metallic sound startled the lady; but she was more intrigued than petrified. Darius Hart continued explaining, “…They reconstructed my skull using a space-age titanium plate. Couple that with several rifle rounds through my body and I’m still here; what does that tell you?”

Darius asked and paused. He then answered his own question, “Back in the navy, I asked my captain why I was still alive after surgery. My captain presumed that God thought He needed me to remain on earth to sweep out the trash because I was very good at it. Months after saying that, my captain’s alternate diagnosis of my psyche came to the conclusion that I was too evil; so the devil himself denied my entry into hell, fearing that I would overthrow him for his crown. My captain said that right before I was dishonorably discharged. However, my prognosis is the fact that I am just too hard to kill.”

The lady was in awe.

Darius Hart took another sip, burped out loud and carried on, “So… hearing that, do you still want to buy me a drink? Bear in mind that a man who the navy considers to be too extreme might not be suitable to your needs, lady.”

Having had a couple of drinks in her belly, the lady was now even more curious and drawn to him than she was alarmed. She courageously blurted, “You may be trying to push me away but they say that consistency pays off. And I believe your stories are more interesting than scary. So why don’t you narrate them to me over breakfast in bed tomorrow morning? Let’s make this a night to remember…” She hissed and then licked her lips as she ogled his well-structured physique, “…Hi, I’m Maggie… and you are?” She said as she extended out a salutation.

Seeing that his efforts at repelling her had borne nothing but futility, Darius resorted to blatant rudeness. He griped, “I am um… I am… I am Bored! James Bored!”

Darius loved women but he was not interested in them on that particular night. He had other items on his itinerary and a hot steamy night with an attractive middle-aged woman wasn’t on the agenda.

He left her handshake hanging; ignoring her harmless gesture. He picked up his beer and stood up just as the Rock band on stage was concluding its act.

Darius had picked the opportune moment to walk away. He was more interested in a member of the Rock band that was now getting off the Classy Hooligan stage.

Meanwhile:

Seven years of hustling through thick… and more thick… and the thickest in the music industry had left Clayton Ray a husk of a man.

Clayton had sealed the matrimonial deal making Sandra Hill his wife three years after Shannon Clair had introduced her to him that day back in College. After her studies, Sandra became a doctor by profession at a local hospital named St. George Midtown Center Hospital, LA.

Contrary to Clayton Ray’s situation, Sandra had blossomed. She was striking in appearance; with a body that made men… and women drool. She was extremely intelligent, cultured and passionate. The obvious distinction in the couple often made Clayton’s cronies say that he either used the mystic dark arts or trickery to cajole the stunning damsel into nuptials.

Everything about Sandra was a direct contrast to her significant other. She was initially drawn to him by his boyish charm and bad-boy deportment. Sandra didn’t even quite understand what she found to be so intoxicating about the beleaguered musician. All she knew was that ever since that day her best friend, Shannon had introduced them, she had fallen hopelessly in love with Mr. Clayton Ray.

Regardless of his financial difficulties, Clayton Ray insisted that he never wanted any help from Sandra. His old-fashioned approach to life prompted him to never ask for monetary help from his wife. Although it can be judged as misogynistic, Clayton believed that it was the man who should be the provider in a relationship. He kept a firm foot on that particular aspect and that was another quality that Sandra found attractive about him.

Clayton was always broke, and that was just a drop in the bucket of the issues he had. His main form of transportation was his old Harley-Davidson Knucklehead; and it had then hit its septuagenarian years.

Clayton Ray’s bike had been roaring long before Clayton was even a sperm in his dad’s gonad. The bike’s vitals always leaked and it was frequently problematic to ignite. In addition to that, the Harley’s paint-job had taken lots of wear and tear since that day he met his wife, Sandra Ray Hill. He however loved the classic machine and his fondness towards the unsafe crotch-rocket prompted his wife to refurbish the bike on his behalf on numerous times. He initially refused her help but she too became firm. Her actual words were, “I love you, Clay. And despite your meager earnings, you still buy me nice things. I came to terms with the fact that you deem yourself too manly to accept my help. However, what I will not stomach is my man riding a dangerous machine so I’ll repair it even if it pisses you off! A bike is already dangerous as it is. You will not kill yourself under my watch!” At that point, Clayton gave in.

Despite his flaws, Sandra had a deep-set attraction and affection towards Clayton’s dangerous way of life. They were an odd couple but the relationship worked year after year without so much as a hitch.

In spite of his mostly fruitless hustle in the music scene at LA, Clayton always claimed to have something gargantuan cooking but he needed his music to keep him afloat in the meantime. He dreamed of achieving ‘platinum’ status; heck even if one of his tracks would hit the ‘gold’ icon then that would do wonders for his name at that point.

The music industry in California was a hard nut to crack so Clayton had been surviving by taking small gigs such as the one at the Classy Hooligan’s stage that night.

Clayton Ray was down-trodden so when Darius Hart approached him later that night, he was more than willing to do anything for his musician name; ‘Tony Rocker’ to blow up.

After rudely rebuffing the cougar and getting up from the tall barstool at the counter, Darius Hart secretly followed Clayton ‘Tony Rocker’ Ray to the back of the stage after he had finished his performance.

This wasn’t the normal superstar back-stage which required a pass for access through brawny bodyguards. This was more of a besmirched alley with two tiny dressing rooms in which the bands and singers could use to get ready for their performance.

Darius waited for a second outside Tony’s room. He was usually coldblooded but he was about to enter the realm which he claimed struck him as ‘kinda out of bounds’. Although he was normally brutal to insurgents behind enemy lines, Darius had boundaries. The realm with reference to this context was killing innocent civilians. Nonetheless, circumstance had pushed him beyond his restraints to give a damn.

As he stood outside Tony Rocker’s preparation room, Darius fumbled within his coat pocket and pulled out a menthol cigarette. He tossed the guff onto his lips, lit it and took a long drag. After another satisfactory puff, he shoved the door to Tony Rocker’s dressing room open and darted in.

Within the dressing room, Clayton ‘Tony Rocker’ Ray was startled by the expressionless man barging in the way Darius did. He instantly set his right palm over the rail of cocaine he was imbibing on the glass table; a vain effort on his part to conceal the white powder.

“s**t! Who are you, man?” Clayton bellowed as he used the back of his other hand to swiftly rub his nose over and over; another futile effort to hide the dots of white powder under his nostrils.

Upon seeing the incriminating spectacle unfolding, Darius attempted a fruitless crack at humor. He pulled out his Smith and Wesson 500 pistol from his inner coat pocket and pointed it at Clayton. He then shrieked, “Freeze! You have the right to remain… to remain…” Darius yelled and specifically stopped in the middle of the suspenseful word so as to throw the musician off.

Thinking that he was a cop, Clayton raised his hands up.

Darius then continued yelling out loud, “…you have the right to remain… remain intoxicated, mother fucker!”

For once, the blank look on Darius Hart’s fascia shifted into laughter as he concluded his dry attempt at the distasteful joke.

The derisive laugh wasn’t amusing to Clayton at all. He was still alarmed about the gun pointed at him and so Darius lowered it.

For a slight moment, Darius juggled between talking and chortling as he addressed Clayton, “Put your hands down, man. I’m not here to arrest you. I just want to do you a favor.”

Upon hearing those magic words, Clayton shot up in glee, “Ah, I thought I recognized you! Are you here to sign me? Did you like my talent? What company are you from, man?”

Darius Hart’s face immediately cringed at the enthusiastic queries from the jittery elated man. Clearly, the coke had already taken effect; however Clayton’s reaction wasn’t wrong given that Darius approached him after his performance.

Darius shoved the gun back into its holster and extended out a greeting, “My name is D and I should have elaborated from the beginning. I’m sorry for misleading you.”

Clayton’s heart sank. He immediately sat back down, bent over the tiny glass table, heaved a rolled note into his nostril and was ready to continue snorting the rail of cocaine.

Darius stopped him just in the nick of time; snatching the note out of Clayton’s hand, “Hey, hey! I’m here to make you an important proposal. I can’t do it if you are high! All I want is about fifteen minutes to an hour of your time and then after that you can snort away.”

“If you aren’t here from a record company or to arrest me, then I don’t care about what you have to offer. Just leave.”

Darius smiled and squatted to get to Clayton’s level from where the musician had seated. He leaned in and looked Clayton in the eye, “I’m not a cop, nor am I a producer. I’m something better.”

Clayton attempted to snatch the rolled note out of Darius’ fingers but he was too slow. Darius pulled his hand back and landed a short robust karate chop on Clayton’s collarbone. The agony rippled through Clayton’s frame and he fell back into his chair; grabbing his affliction, grinding his teeth and groaning.

The strike was lightning-fast, extremely strong and well calculated to be inflicted onto a vulnerable pressure point on Clayton’s frame. Despite his ju-jitsu training, even an adrenaline-fueled fighter such as Clayton ‘Tony Rocker’ Ray couldn’t handle that sort of agony. The move caught Clayton’s attention, momentarily jolting him back to his senses.

“Arrrgh! Ohhhh! Shiiit! What did you do that for?” he mourned as he grabbed his shoulder; feeling as though it was dislocated.

Darius looked at him and curtly replied, “Do I now have your full attention? As I said; I’m not a cop. Neither am I a producer. I am someone you definitely don’t want to piss off so you will have to hear my proposition.”

Amidst his groaning, Clayton asked through his clenched jaw, “Arrgh! Who… Who the hell are you then?”

Darius chuckled and whispered in the most crisp, clear and manic inflection Clayton had ever heard, “Who is a form of ‘what’ and ‘what’ I am is, as I said… I am something better than what you thought. Last I checked; I’m a trained and psychotic killer…”

Chapter Three