PRODUCTS

Skyscrapers

Ciaran re-read a text message that illuminated the screen of his cell phone from the leather-padded backseats of the jet-black limousine he was in, as it strolled through Los Angeles' more luxurious quarter.

Drop by mine tonight at 11 for your payment.
Call Remy and a limo will pick you up.
See you then.

He drew back the sleeve of his flash jacket to examine the time on his gold-banded watch: 10:47.

It wasn't until the limousine that he was being chauffeured in slowed down that he tore away from both of his distractions to look out of the black-tinted windows. If it weren't for the neon lights that emanated from the penthouses and apartments that lined the avenue, the towering condo above would've remained inconspicuous in the dark. He breathed a deep sigh to brace himself before nodding up front to the driver who was sat behind the glass pane that separated them. Only a matter of seconds later, Remy opened the backdoor of the swank ride in preparation for Ciaran to make his exit. He had an appointment with who some people would refer to as the devil.

-

Carl made the small drop from the lonely step situated on the inside of the club's doorway, appreciating the chilled sensation of the air conditioning, as the humidity and drought from outside had made the climate dismal. He was surprised by the lack of security, as there was only one solitary bouncer who guarded the doors. Although he looked menacing enough, he didn't do anything to prevent Carl from entering. Almost as if he was expected somehow.

He stopped dead in his tracks to observe his surroundings. It was Egyptian themed and definitely a hell of a lot more modish than half of the city's other nightclubs. The walls were metallic and aluminum, engraved with symbolic markings, which, in itself, gave the place ambience. Black and chrome replaced the traditional gold and blues; the bar was paneled with plastic that had hieroglyphs and the ancient alphabet carved upon, which glowed a lime-green luminescence in the dark. On the dancefloor, a hologram of the Eye of Horus slowly faded in and out, swirling like verdant ocean waves. The design and style was nothing short of transcendental.

Carl's eyes further wandered the interior of The Muse, the only movement or noise was that of bar staff overturning chairs from the surfaces of tables, in preparation for opening later that night. It wasn't until his vision fell upon the lone figure sat at the bar that he once again became entranced. The man in question was no older than Carl, maybe a couple of years at most, and was decked out in an expensive suit, complete with cuff links. He had short dark hair that was starting to curl, just stood shy of six ft and had a vaguely ethnic look about him. He was the very meaning of tall, dark and handsome.

Hesitant at first, Carl made his way across the club to sit at one of the many vacant stools which lined the bar, choosing the one closest to the mysterious man, who gazed into the bottom of his drink. Even the glasses were made to match the design of the futuristic tavern - plastic and UV reactive. Little did Carl know, that he was sat beside Lennox Jones, whose organization supplied Nina's ex girlfriend, Kari, with the drugs that she pushed in the neighborhood. All the major-to-insignificant players had heard of him.

"New?" Lennox asked without so much as lifting his head to face him. He was one who had a cool, calm and collected persona. Something admirable.

Carl fiddled with one of the discarded beer coasters placed in front of him as means of distraction as he provided him with an answer. He, too, was trying to act apathetic, but it wasn't working. "Yeah."

Lennox turned to face him and grinned softly. "What can I do for you?" Carl looked up where he was met with by the clearly wealthy man's sea-green eyes, which allured him. His presence was charismatic. Lennox clarified when Carl failed to donate an answer. "Coke, speed, ecstasy?"

"For real?" Carl blinked. A tinge of disbelief filled his eyes at the new knowledge that his acquaintance was a drug dealer. He certainly didn't look the type; he had a kind of college boy notion about him.

Lennox narrowed his eyes to meet directly with Carl's. "I assume you know who I am."

"The bar owner?" Carl swallowed nervously. He had a brief idea of who he was but didn't want to say in fear of somehow causing offence. He didn't know why he thought that, or how it was possible. It was an instinct.

Lennox chuckled lightly at the apparent naiveté of the younger of the two. It wasn't a sneer but more of a likeness for his characteristics, a charming innocence. "Among other things, yes."

The Muse wasn't an ordinary nightclub. Lennox's subordinates manufactured a vast array of alternative and illegal substances down in the cellar, which were distributed to clients at the bar in the daytime, when out of hours. The club was a front for one of his many covert businesses.

"Thanks," Carl grimaced, memories of Kyle still fresh in his mind. "But I don't use."

"I see." Lennox leant back to look at Carl skeptically, there were a mixture of emotions present upon his face, all of which the 22-year-old couldn't decipher. He came to his own conclusion as to why Carl was in his bar, especially seeing as those that did come in at the afternoon all knew the score. "Buying for a friend?"

"What?" Carl frowned awkwardly. "No. I just..." He didn't know what to say. It wasn't as if he could tell him the truth, that he acquired money in return for sexual favors. "It doesn't matter." Lennox watched on in concern at the clear pain that flickered in Carl's eyes, unable to work out what the problem was. "I'll go. Sorry for botherin' you."

Just as Carl was about to rise from the stool, a placating hand touched his shoulder and gently pulled him back down to remain seated. "Wait." He looked back at Lennox, where the pair shared a barely visible smile. "Stay where you are." Lennox spoke adamantly. Genuine. A first for him. "It was my mistake, at least let me get you a drink."

"You don't have to do that." Carl responded earnestly. He was grateful for the man's kindness. It had been a while since anyone put themselves out for him, not wanting anything in return. He couldn't help but smile.

"I insist." Lennox assured him benevolently, his voice soothed. "All expenses paid."

"Cheers." Carl's smile widened, he couldn't believe how sensitive he could be.

"So, what's your poison?"

-

White laser lights pierced the midnight blue of the sky in flawless rhythm to the fast paced Trance/Euphoria, which droned from each of the speakers situated on all corners of Lennox's condo rooftop. Ciaran didn't understand how he couldn't detect the private rave or light display when he exited the limo, the conclusion he came to was that the penthouse was too high and out of range.

Dry ice crept along the ground and swirled around the ankles of the city's rich and powerful, who were each personally invited by Lennox, who held exclusive parties at his home every once in a while after dark. It was the first time that Ciaran frequented such an event, which was an eye-opener to say the least. Most of the underground celebrities were scantly clad and down to their underwear, leaving Ciaran, until he saw Lennox, who wore a similar suit to his own, to feel overdressed.

"Mr. Venrick." Lennox spoke arrogantly upon his approach, to which he had every right, as he was no less a king whilst they were in his castle in the sky. "I'm glad you could make it."

"Ciaran." He corrected subtly, flashing his business associate a shrunken grin. "Thanks for having me."

Ciaran swiped a drink from the sterling tray a waitress offered and took a sip as he observed the spacious suite. It looked as costly as it was, all paid for with counterfeit and blood money that his elite syndicate either manufactured or stole. Despite being only 22, Lennox Jones was still regarded as one of L.A.'s most ruthless and notorious gangsters. A powerful ally, but deadlier an enemy.

"Pleasure." Lennox opened his palm to punctuate his assertion, accompanied by a smile that was soon distracted by the arrival of Anastasia, who was nude aside from a white fishnet dress, which almost looked see-through. He turned his attention back on Ciaran, who was clearly entranced. "Now, I believe you've met my golden girl."

Anastasia draped her arm around Lennox's shoulder and grinned disdainfully. "Hello again, Ciaran."

"Yeah." Ciaran answered halfheartedly, finding it difficult to take his eyes off of the beautiful woman in their presence. "We've only worked together once though. And that was at the weekend when we done the business on that kid." Anastasia bit the curves of her bottom lip to prevent from smirking. "Before then, we just knew of each other."

"Well, I'm pleased to have been the one to finally unite you both." Lennox voiced optimistically.

Ciaran nodded in response to the sentiment and took another swig from his drink as he offhandedly surveyed the premises, more so to keep from staring at Anastasia, who had left all kinds of sordid thoughts to run wild in his equally twisted mind. It wasn't until he noticed a large photo framed in chrome hanging from the wall above the indoor swimming pool that he realized why she seemed so familiar. She was the illustrious Anastasia Klein, who slipped off the radar back in 2004. "Beautiful work." He noted to the snapshot of her early profession.

Lennox showed signs of pride. He had been a collector of her stuff ever since the day they met. "All down to the model."

"Thank you." Anastasia expressed her gratitude toward their complimentary remarks. It had seemed like an eternity since she was ever glorified for her beauty. Only the scars remained.

Being a fashion model was tough. The glamour was nearly always a façade to hide the industry's true nature: exploitative. Anastasia shrugged it off, as she was close to breaking through to becoming an international supermodel. However, that was cruelly taken away from her. Under the false pretenses of a lingerie shoot, her photographer, Benjamin Ramsey, arranged a meeting with her back at his penthouse that overlooked the cityscape. It was then that her downfall occurred. After spiking her drinks, Benjamin raped Anastasia, leaving her a shadow of her former self. She became engulfed with anger and shame, to the point of quitting her career. But not before getting even. The parties that Anastasia and the other models frequented were always fueled with drugs, which were supplied by one Lennox Jones. She had heard all sorts of rumors about him; rumors of his affiliation with contractual killings. Ramsey had taken her life, all she did was repay the favor. Though it didn't nearly give her the satisfaction or resurgence that she expected. Only two good things came from the arrangement: that the bastard who had destroyed her was dead and that she had made a close friend in Lennox. Yet it still wasn't enough. Over time, she became bitter and vengeful, determined to get her own back on the male species for what had happened to her. It was then Anastasia relocated behind the camera, having a hand in producing gay porn, her way of humiliating and getting revenge on a race she considered a virus - men.

"Assuming you know why I called you here, shall we continue this conversation in my office?" Lennox suggested, as he made a gesture to the chrome door that led to the elevator, which took those who entered directly to the place where he conducted his business ventures.

Ciaran shrugged unaffectedly. "Whatever suits."

"In that case," Lennox smirked. "You better follow me."

-

Lennox breathed a bemused sigh as he turned over on his side to put an arm around Carl's waist, when he realized the space where he once lay was empty; the warmth from their body heat had escaped due to the covers having been thrown back. He squinted to adjust his bleary eyes to the dark and switched on the lamp, before sitting up to do a quick survey of the room. Carl was stood some distance opposite the bed, leaning down to pull his jeans up over his legs.

"Where are you going?" Lennox asked in concern. He had expected them both to remain in bed for at least the duration of the afternoon. The sun's daybreak rays had already arisen, glistening through the blinds of the gangster's classy bedroom.

"Nowhere." Carl turned to face him and smiled ruefully. A second later he extended on to what sounded like an assurance in a quiet voice. "Yet."

Lennox blinked apprehensively, accompanied by a barely audible and perplexed laugh. "What?" He glanced over at the digital clock placed on his bedside cabinet to read the time displayed in red, glowing numbers: 05:23am. He didn't understand what could be so important that Carl couldn't stay, especially so early in the morning.

"Well, you got to pay me."

In Lennox's eyes flickered the same pain that had once resided in Carl's. With one small sentence he had turned passion into perversion. "Oh, you're a..."

"You didn't know?" For the first time Carl had actually felt bad about clearly hurting the feelings of a client's. Maybe it was because Lennox was nice to him the day before, he didn't know, but he felt guilty for it. "Look, I'm sorry, man." He sheepishly apologized, his facial expressions remorseful. "I thought you did." He didn't have to be told, and he wasn't being arrogant, but he could tell, even without words, that the revelation killed.

"No, I get it." Lennox assured him with feigned nonchalance. He had truly thought that Carl was the one; he was the only person he had ever made a real connection with. His first and last and always. Or so he thought. "It's okay."

Carl pulled his pale blue polo shirt over his toned chest and stomach, glancing at Lennox sympathetically. "Ain't nothin' personal, yeah? Just business." He swiped his jacket from the end of the bed in preparation to make his exit, not even mentioning the money he was owed, as it seemed in bad taste. He shared an awkward glance with Lennox before disappearing out the door, never to meet with him again. At least not in person.

"Just business." Lennox repeated Carl's words in the form of a sullen whisper once he had heard the door close on behind him, a thin layer of unshed tears swelled up in his eyes.

Lennox, however, was right about one thing regarding him and Carl. They did have something in common. He had never been with anyone other than those who wanted him for sex either. It started when he was 14 years old, back in his home country of South Africa, whilst in town with his parents he was abducted by Nigerian sex traffickers, where he remained in captivity for the rest of his adolescent years as a sex slave. It wasn't until he was 17, coming close to 18, that his captors brainwashed him into believing that prostitution, and most of all rentboys - like himself - were wrong. It was their way of having him commit suicide before he reached of legal age, to which at that point he would be of no further use to them. Little is known of how he escaped, or whether he was set free, other than the fact that he arrived in Los Angeles in 2003 under the falsified alias of Lennox Jones. His real name, and any recollection of his life prior to his enslavement, had been erased by years of systematic abuse. To the present day, his family and those who remember his native self, still believe him either missing or dead, none the wiser of who or where he is.

-

Led by Lennox into the office of his condo, Ciaran looked the place over in awe. It had a similar design to that of The Muse, but instead of green, it was blue-lit and metallic. Sat at Lennox's desk was Anastasia, who examined the screen of her laptop, opening one of the many pictures' folders wherein contained numerous photos of Carl, all taken throughout the previous week.

"So, tell me about the network that you belong to, Ciaran." Lennox asked as they came to a stop further inside, both stood just inches from a set of cobalt beads which dangled from a back room connected to his office. "From what I understand, you're not like other snuff film empires."

"That's right." Ciaran confirmed; his eyes discreetly attempted to look over Lennox's shoulder and into the private room which had peeked his curiosity. He turned his attention back on Lennox and concluded when he failed to see anything other than the bright flickering of what looked like a screen of sorts. "We distribute online via e-mail and encrypted sites."

"Sounds very high-tech." Lennox remarked flippantly, whilst taking a sip from his drink, which resided in a silver chalice. "And the people used in your products?" He raised an eyebrow shrewdly. "Other than mine, of course."

Anastasia, still sat at Lennox's desk, used the touch pad to scroll through the collection of surveillance photographs she had taken of Carl, whilst leaning back in the black leather armchair comfortably. The desk was made of glass and had chrome stands, an unloaded gun rested on top. Her jet eyes scrutinized the images; ones of Carl and Nina laughing in the street after dark, others of them in their small rent-controlled flat, barely visible through the netting curtains. Half a dozen more were those of Carl and various punters, leading up to the rave just days before. Anastasia could see why Carl was the first person in Lennox's life who he had become attracted to; he was beautiful.

"Oh, we do those the same as the traditional organizations," Ciaran explained at ease, as though he were discussing normal every day occurrences. "Taking photos of passers by on the street from discreet buildings, sniffing out those who have a certain quality etc." He clarified when he noticed Lennox's frown, to which Ciaran just assumed was due to not having an understanding of how he worked, when in fact Lennox was far from amused. "The only difference between us, other than our methods of distribution, is that we film them in hotel rooms - sometimes live shows on webcams for a more intimate clientele - and make the deaths look like suicides." Ciaran was clearly proud of his work and the system of deviants that he belong to.

"And the police are none the wiser?" Lennox questioned, now with genuine intrigue. He was curious to know how the snuff film industry remained underground without ever causing suspicion. The only reason he could get away with countless crimes was because in all official documents and paperwork, Lennox Jones didn't exist. It was a pseudo name and therefore difficult to prosecute in a court of law. "What about the bodies?"

"Those that receive the hardcore treatment, and can't be fooled as having taken their own life, are dismembered and the severed limbs wrapped in bin lining, where they're weighted down in concrete blocks and dumped in the Mississippi." Ciaran elaborated gleefully. "As far as the police are concerned, they're just missing persons incidents."

"Well, I've got to hand it to you." Lennox made a gesture with his free hand to the beads that conveyed the private room. Anastasia looked up from the computer screen and smirked; she knew exactly what was inside there. "You and your people certainly know what you're doing." He offhandedly remarked, secretly disgusted with himself for ever having gotten someone like Ciaran involved in his scheme.

Ciaran bore an arrogant grin as he followed Lennox in to the back room. "I like to think so."

Anastasia watched them both disappear through the cluttering beads before resuming her attention back on the screen. She minimized the pictures she had used as a cover for what she was really looking at and pulled up a second window, complete with a detailed profile of Ciaran Venrick. It had been what Lennox managed to get a hold of from the police headquarter database from one of his guys on the inside, two days before he sent Anastasia on her quest to spy on Carl. He needed someone discreet for the job and Ciaran had no criminal record, other than a controversial case from when he was 13 years old. Other than that, as far as the police were concerned, he was squeaky clean. But Lennox, through Anastasia, knew different.

Classified records stated that when Ciaran was 13, he and his brother, Emanuel - who he shared a suspicious relationship with - both suffered abuse from the hands of their alcoholic parents, ensuing the pair to become close in a way that no siblings should. Emanuel was 21 and used Ciaran's fear to his advantage. It wasn't until Ciaran rejected his brother's advances that he then tried to force himself upon him - which resulted in Emanuel's death when Ciaran brought an empty vodka bottle crashing down on his head in order to get him off. It was unintentional as it was irreversible. Ciaran was then immediately sentenced to 12 years in juvenile detention, where he was afflicted with further sexual violence from both inmates and guards alike, shaping him to become the man he is in the present day. Deadly.

-

Amidst the beaded doorway, Lennox and Ciaran came to a stop in unison, opposite a plasma screen which was embedded in the farthest wall. Depicted in wide-screen was the film that Anastasia and Ciaran had recorded back at The Hyatt Regency three days before. Due to deliberate editing, the film was muted as requested, like a silent movie only shown in technicolor. It was the only source of light that flickered in the private room.

"Tell me," Ciaran turned to face Lennox and looked at him dubiously. "Why request my services to shaft this Olsen fella? Surely you're capable of doing that yourself."

Lennox tore his eyes off of the screen in order to face Ciaran. "Please understand that this remarkable gift that you made for me is not a snuff film - I get no pleasure from this sort of material." He corrected solemnly. "It's a memento."

"Of whatever dealings you had with him?" Ciaran didn't understand why Lennox would want Carl dead, least of all have it filmed. He turned his attention back on the screen and felt an underlying sense of gratification.

Carl was faced down on the bed, naked aside from his boxers, as Anastasia and Ciaran kissed and ravished his unconscious and dying body. They had spiked his drinks before filming, having slipped enough of Lennox's drugs in his champagne to cause comatose death.

"I'm sure you were in his presence long enough to realize that he had something special."

Lennox had hired Ciaran due to his profession, and wanted Anastasia because she was his closest ally. He couldn't think of anybody else who he'd entrust to carry out such an intimate assignment. He had wanted Carl's demise recorded not only as revenge but also preservation. Lennox had forbidden both Ciaran and Anastasia from having sex with Carl because he didn't want him somehow tainted in any way, yet their role was to remind him of who and what Carl was; a whore. Nobody fcked with Lennox Jones.

"So much so that you wanted him dead?" Ciaran confronted what he had been told, an amused tone masked behind feigned concern. The only thing he was bothered about now was the rather large sum of money he was earned. He couldn't care less what Lennox and Carl's connection was.

An evanescent smile crept across Lennox's lips, the film's content reflected in twin sea-green eyes, as he vacantly explained the reason for their twisted arrangement.

"I despise rentboys."

All but one.

The End