Beach woke to whispering, as if a thousands heads were mouthing off monologues. His heart dropped to his chest and picked up and pointed his iron. The whispering stopped and the room was empty. It was eleven O'clock. He picked up the dirty white cup and looked inside. A fly had committed suicide and ruined his drink. He hacked and spit in the cup, got up and dumped the phlegmatic mixture out the window. He scracthed himself under his tank top and grabbed up what  he needed. His heart was pounding, and it didn't ussually. Business never stressed him. It was easy. Maybe it was the forgotten dream, or whatever it was that woke him, but he was shaking. And Beach wasn't a shaker.

    Outside, with his burner tucked neatly under his hoody, he began walking down Broad Street. His Faux-lex said 11:15, and it'd take him another ten minutes to ge there and set up. Plenty of time.

    Dude lived on the top floor of a dilapidated three family tenament. The other two apartments were for rent, had been for months, and would remain so as long business was done there. There were two guys on the front porch and another two by the side door. There were no other ways up. Beach hung back, watching. Nobody left, nobody arrived. They were waiting. Making sure they didn't see him, he walked a few houses up, went up the drive way of a condemned house an into the backyard. Quietly he hopped fences until he could hear the two kats at the side door. Talking **** about ****. So much for last words.

    The brick came down on back of his head, and lights, like fireworks, ripped through his eyes before he cold make a sound. Before the other man could react, Beach stuck the barrel to his Adam's Apple.

    He put a finger to his lips, "How many upstairs," he whispered.

   The man went to speak, but Beach thought better of it and stopped him.

   "Show me," he pointed to the man's fingers.

    He lifted three.

    "Turn your **** around," he screamed in a whisper like tearing clothes.

    He did. Beach dropped him with a pistol-whip to the neck, but he wasn't out yet. Twice more the gun-butt struck him with wet thumps and he slept.

   After he had deposited the men behind a caved in shed, he made his way up the steps, two at a time. before the door in the narrow hallway sat a fat, shirtless Coloumbian watching something on his Ipod. Sweat shined under the bare bulb as he laughed. He noticed Beach and waved a moist hand toward the door. He was expected. Beach smiled back. This one would be tough, unlike the stringbeans in outside, pistol whipping would only make Big Man mad. Naw, he had something special for him.

    He nodded to the screen and Big Man obliged, moving it a little closer. Aqua Teen Hunger Force's Meatwad was changing shapes at a circus. Big Man looked at Beach and laughed in approval. Shaking his head. Oh, that Meatwad.

    "Urrk!" Beach's dark, strong hands clamped over his lips as something hard, sharp, and pointed slipped between his ribs.

    Big Man tried to struggle, to grab the shiv as it journeyed to his heart, but it was no good. He was almost  crying  when he died, though not quite. The blood was obvious and everywhere. But then, so what? Beach wasn't finished yet.