Napped

Do you see that big lump under the white/floral comforter on the bed? That’s me. My name is Jack Montello, I’m 27 years old, have bright red hair, am just below average height for a male and skinny, and an accountant to boot. I was married, but Sheryl and I got divorced. Lucky for me, I know that she had cheated the IRS on her taxes for her company last year, so I got the house and just about everything inside of it. She got the kid, so I have to pay alimony. Victory is bittersweet sometimes.

See that big Neanderthal poking me in the back of the head while I’m trying to sleep? That’s my brother Dillon. He’s 29 years old, has dirty blond hair, is taller than me by at least three inches, has a bit more muscle than I do, and he works for my dad. What my dad does, well, if I told you, I could get him arrested. I don’t think that Dillon has ever kept a steady relationship with a girl just because he seems to get in a lot of trouble. He’s dumb, he can’t help it. He follows orders from Pop to the ‘t’ and yet still manages to screw up his jobs. Mostly, it’s just getting rid of crucial evidence and making sure he snorts all the coke before leaving the house, just in case someone wants to do a search of the place.

Why am I an accountant instead of a mobster like the rest of my family? It’s as simple as too much stress. My business could go under, I’d have to fight to keep my house, have rabid weasels in my pants, and know that an atomic bomb was going to strike San Diego and get less ulcers with all of that than I would working for my family. Being an accountant is quiet and rarely involves full cavity searches.

“Jack, get up! Seriously, I’m in a lot of trouble and I need your help!” Dillon whispered as he prodded at my head.

“Dillon, did you drive all the way across town just to wake me up?” I asked, curling further under the covers.

“I wasn’t exactly all the way across town. I was running an errand for Pop and I messed it up, you have to help me!”

“What’d you do this time, numbnuts?”

“Remember the time that I called you from Mac the Mulcher’s house?”

“Yeah, the time you almost got your left leg cut off because you were snooping?”

“I wasn’t snooping, I was scouting. This is a lot worse than that!”

“Go to Pop and have him sort it out.”

“I can’t do that, he’ll kill me! Look, if you don’t get up in the next two seconds, I’m going to take the power drill from your garage and drill off your nads.”

His powers of persuasion are amazing.

“Juvenile.” I grumbled, pulling the covers back.

The air was cool, and the floor was freezing when I swung my legs off the side of the bed and set my feet on the ground. I slipped my bare feet into a pair of pink, ratty bunny slippers left behind by my ex-wife and followed Dillon through my house. He stopped in the entryway and looked down and to the right at my living room.

“New furniture?” He asked, pointing at the brown leather-bound couch.

“Yeah. There was a sale at Marcus’ Fine Furniture in the Renaissance Shopping Center.” I replied, reaching for my jacket on the coat hook by the door.

“It’s nice.”

“Thanks.”

I opened the front door and let Dillon lead the way to his brown Buick Century. You would think that the mob would provide better cars, especially to the leader’s kid, but looking at this piece of junk, a nice car is too much of a liability. There was a long scratch from the front bumper to the well of the back wheel on the right side and a massive dent in the back door on the left.

“When are you going to trade this piece of junk in?” I asked, noticing that the interior was torn up slightly.

“I love this car, I’m not trading it in.” Dillon objected.

“How many times has Pop had to change the license plate numbers on this thing?”

“Don’t change the subject.”

Dillon slid his key into the lock of the trunk and turned it to the right. There was a slight pop noise and the lid of the trunk flew upwards. If I thought Dillon was a fuck-up before, there is no way that it beat this.

“D-Dillon! What the hell? What kind of errand were you supposed to be running?” I demanded, my shock too overwhelming to insult him.

“Well, Pop wanted me to bring him a girl named Emma Smith, because her dad owes Pop a lot of money, she was going to be leverage to get more. But…” He started to answer.

“Oh my god! This isn’t Emma Smith, is it?”