The Backroom Game: Part II
There is a billboard above the building directly across from my apartment. I must look up at it just about every day and although the advertisement has changed several times ranging from a drink brand to beauty products and then a high-end clothing line, one constant has always remained present. Regardless of the product being promoted, without fail, each time I look up at that billboard, the same pair of eyes look back at me. The exact same bright blue eyes that now stared back at us having just burst into a backroom poker game that we were hired to clean out.
As if we had just activated landmines, we stood stunned, unsure of what to do. Her presence changed everything. A bonafide celebrity being robbed at gunpoint was sure to be front page news tomorrow and nothing good would come of that for us. Adding fuel to the fire that was my rapidly rising anxiety, two peculiarities emerged as I scanned the room. I noticed that all of the betting money, the contents of the safe, and any other valuables had already been neatly piled into two duffle bags on top of the table. On top of that, the other individuals around the card table on either side of the woman were all blankly staring forward slack jawed, seemingly unaware of our armed intrusion.
“Relax, boys. You’re right on time,” The woman at the center of the card table spoke, her voice dripping with effortless charm; words wrapped within a smooth, raspy tone that tickled a part of my brain. Her voice was both disarming and alarming in a hard to quantify way. “Job’s almost done. I’ve got everything packaged up and ready to go, there’s only one thing left for you to do.” She rose, zipped up the two bags and tossed them to land at our feet before making a sweeping, dismissive motion toward the others still seated vacant and motionless around the card table. “Would you kindly be dears and use those things you’ve brought to paint this room red. I’ve grown tired of these friends and I’d rather they not spill any secrets before the time comes.”
“That wasn't part of the job,” I stammered, the words arriving without my mind’s approval. It was still stuck processing the dizzying suggestion that the job had come from her and what then were the possible ramifications if what she said was the truth. Why was I so quick to even consider her words? A part of me wanted to heed this siren’s call, but why?
Her gaze narrowed and held firm to me as she rounded the table to stand before us. It felt like staring into the sun; immense heat coupled with a frosty sting that radiated outward from the depths of her glowing blue irises. Her eyes held depths that I never knew possible. I felt lost within that depth until she spoke once again.
“Your job… is to do whatever I want you to do.”
A loud snap rang out as she used her thumb and middle finger directly in front of our faces to hammer home her displeasure like an impatient customer. The sound brought with it a monumental shift. My perception faded and then realigned while the woman proceeded to slip past us in a huff with the two bags in tow. I was no longer myself. Ensnared within a mental web of her creation, I had become little more than a passenger seated on a train bound for certain destruction. It felt like an out of body experience as I watched helplessly while my body moved without my control. My shotgun jerked around wildly before slowly coming to rest alongside one of the men’s heads, an action mirrored by my cohort, as my index finger twitched alongside the trigger. I tried to force my eyes shut, but they too rejected my desperate pleas, solidifying my growing fear that there would be no escape from the commands of the woman from the billboard with bright blue eyes.
