Boris Gant

In which a very dangerous man is given a very dangerous job.

The fat ones. God how I hate the fat ones. I was excited about this job too. Just last week I went up and invested in a new Model EU cremator oven - 3550 series. Cost me lots, but she’s a beauty. Her sleek five nozzle release system can reduce a corpse to dust at 45 kilos per hour. Practically sings.

She weighs 20,000 kilos by herself, and that’s not even including the hydraulic loading table they threw in for free. I’m pretty proud of this thing. That doesn’t feel right. Calling her a thing. In any case, she’s a sign: I’m going up in the world.

It all began a few years backs. Cremation was a good business - a good fit for me - all said and done, but burning up the recently deceased just wasn’t doing it for me at the time. One night,  I got to thinking:

Hey, Boris, what’s the biggest problem in the hit man industry? Well other Boris, that would be the body disposal bit of the job. That gives me an idea, Boris. Me too, but you go first other Boris?  Why not use the cremator and make some coin while we’re at it? Exactly, Boris.

So that’s what I do now … on the side. Needless to say, business is booming. I work whatever hours I want, have everything nice and planned three or four days in advance, and all I have to do is command one my employees to go ahead and run the funeral end of things for me when I’m unavailable. It’d be perfect, if this tub of lard wasn’t making things all difficult.

See, my oven can handle someone with a maximum diameter of about two and a half meters around the gut, plus clothes. This fat-a*s, a Mr. Walter F. James, has eaten himself just outside my baby’s viable range, and hydraulic lifting table or no, he isn’t going in.

Well, at least not until I carve him up. I don’t care for that activity, but I’ve done it before, and I can do it again.

I’m sharpening my equipment - knives and bone-saws and such - when my cell vibrates. I check the number and see that the it’s unknown. I hit answer.

“Yes, right, the pig will be in the oven in just a few, if you could please be patient I’ll send you the  confirmation signal shortly,” I say into the phone. People are impatient these days.

“This isn’t about that, B. We have a new target, and this one takes priority. Someone’s on their way to take the pig off your hands, the new task takes priority.” This news makes me uncomfortable. I was looking forward to using my new oven.

“Oh, and I suppose that I’m to go along all la-ti-da? What if I say no, I want the pig. Sod. Off.” I am acting cheeky. I’m their best; it gives you some leeway in cheekiness.

“Then the fellow we sent has instructions to make you the pig, B.” Sonofabitch, must be important.

“Fine, right. Anything I should know before I pick up the dossier?” I’m making a plan. I’m not going along with this so easily.

“You’ll have a partner. You’ll meet them there. Now go.” Then, he clicks off.

I wait out front for my relief to arrive. While I’m waiting I send an email to Cole, that’s the other guy who can use the new oven, that I’m taking a long weekend and leaving my car at the crematorium. A nice, scrawny man shows up after a while and informs me that he’s here for the pig. I size him up. I’m still fuming when I lead the relief into the building.

I hit him hard and fast. Think I fractured his skull - I think. Then, I hoist the body into the oven and turn it to ash. About an hour and a half passes. Lovely. Worth every pound. 

Finished, I dial a number that I’m not suppose to have.

“Who is this,” asks the voice. It’s the same voice as before.

“Listen mate, it’s B. The pig is getting cold, didn’t you say someone was coming?” I’m loving every second of this. I’m met with silence. Then he speaks, hush and threatening. Gives me chills.

“How did you get this number, B.”

“From you, how else?”

“When.” That was all he said.

“It was in one of the dossier’s from a few weeks ago.” More silence. I’m lying,  but I don’t think he’ll assume that Boris Gant, a.k.a yours truly, was somehow able to track him down. That would be preposterous…and what happened.

“Fine. No wait.” I hear a sigh. “Never mind, we’ll send someone else. Now go.” This time he doesn’t hang up. I take the rare opportunity.

“Who’s the target.” I hear yet another sigh.

“The true and rightful king of England.”

“What?” I am lost. Maybe he’s lost. Someone is lost.

“Don’t call this number again.”  Beep. Call ended. I fold up my phone and cram through the seams into into my pocket.

Needless to say, I’m speechless. It’s not like my contact to make a joke. I take the keys to my ex-relief’s car and drive out toward a highway stop to pick up the dossier, which should have all the information I need to deliver my end of the bargain: some poor b*****d’s ashes.

As I fantasize about how well the new oven worked, I think to myself: “wow, other Boris, this is a pretty nice car.” I step on the gas. The engine roars. No electric bullshit here. Gas, just like my oven. I grin.

Reviews

[Coyote Poetry]

The story is true. Burning the dead is a big business. Nothing is cheap. Death can be costly with grave and the extras. I like the conversation and the very nice ending. Thank you for the excellent chapter.
Coyote