Trouble dealing

“Is this all you’ve got to offer?” the man asks angrily as he browses through the guns placed on the table, hand hovering over a hunting rifle. He’s clearly nervous, looking left and right as if expecting something unpleasant to happen; fingers twitch slightly.

“I have more in my storage,” Ivan replies and crosses his arms, “but these are the weapons relevant to your personal interests, so figured I’d just bring them and not the extras you definitely ain’t gonna need.”

“Now that’s some customer service!” one of the criminal underlings laughs heartily. “It’s not every day you see an arms dealer so dedicated to bring us only what we need.”

“But this is not all we need!” the nervous man, their boss, growls in agitation. “We need more! More weapons!”

“No you don’t,” the dainty replies calmly. “Given your territory and the weapons the cops use around your corners, these will be plenty enough for your need - it’s simply a matter of mastering them.”

The boss grunts but doesn’t reply, and his hands now keep brushing over the numerous weapons laid out on display. He considers them carefully, picks them ups and holds them to feel their weight, and caresses the cold metal of their shells. Finally, he speaks:

“Fine, we’ll take them all.”

“A pleasure to deal with you, as always,” the young dainty smiles, but this smile is merely polite; void of any feeling. In reality Ivan doesn’t care who he deals with or how pleasantly the negotiations go: the only thing that matters to him is that he gets his money.

“Do you want it all in cash now?” the boss asks.

“Preferably, and right now.”

The man gives out a command, and soon another man approaches Ivan while holding a suitcase, then snapping it open and revealing a stack of cash in neat, organized bills. Ivan takes the case, starts counting the money, and with accustomed motions goes through them - it’s exactly how much he needs, and a little bit extra.

“This is enough,” he then says and closes the suitcase. “Take good care of those weapons - they’re the finest of my stock.”

Ivan is glad he doesn’t need to carry any of the weapons back - it’s always such a bother to try to move them around without attracting the attention of the curious eyes of people not part of this disgusting, underworld operation. They’re the lucky ones; the blessed ones who can live in comfort without the need to dirty their hands in the blood of others.

But just as he’s about to leave, take the suitcase with him and disappear for good, his sensitive ears twitch as they pick up a sound from the floor above: heavy footsteps, at least 6 people, with no intentions to make their presence unknown.

“Is there another exit?” he asks hurriedly, but trying not to alert the others - if others knew of the approaching danger, they’d prioritize themselves before their dealer, putting him in trouble. And as Ivan likewise couldn’t care less about the fates of these men he’s merely doing business with, he knows the only one looking out for him is no one else but he himself.  

“There is a back door,” one of the men closest to him reply, gesturing towards the dark corner hidden in the shadows of the empty shelves and stacked up boxes. “It leads to the back alley.”

“Excellent,” Ivan says, grabs a tighter hold of his case and makes his way to the exit - and not a second too late, for the moment the dainty opens the door he hears the sound of a megaphone.

“This is the police! Put your hands up!”

The men curse and grab their weapons, the sound of metal clicking as they load, followed by the sound of a door coming down as the officers push their way in - undoubtedly armed as well.  

The door closes just as the violent shooting and screaming starts, and Ivan runs up the stairs, clutching his suitcase full of illegally acquired, dirty money. His heart is beating to the feverish rhythm of his hooves clicking against the old, wooden stairs. In the darkness he can only see the dim light of the rundown door ahead of him, with the sides of it revealing some of the lights from the neon signs outside.

Despite the severity of his situation and the fact he can hear someone has now broken through the exit door, Ivan opens the door quietly, to take a glance if there is an ambush waiting outside.

Hand reaching for the hidden gun inside his jacket, Ivan, much to his relief, concludes the coast is clear and rushes out, into the shadows cast by the tall buildings; into the sea of people, where Ivan is just another person in the sea of many - those unknown there is a wolf walking among the sheep.

His pace is still fast, and he thanks his small stature from the comfort of blending in with the tall crowds, and soon the sounds of the shooting and death and chaos are so far behind him he almost forgets them - but only almost.

Not wanting to reveal his location to any possible officer tailing after him, Ivan rushes to the only place he knows where he’s welcome. Like an alley cat, he climbs up trash cans and crosses roofs, trying to make himself as difficult to follow as possible, until he finally jumps down at the sight of the cabaret’s lights in front of him and sneaks to the backside.

He climbs up the creaky stairs of the building, up to the where the cabaret dancers live, and reaches for the window Ivan knows is never locked. Like a burglar, the dainy enters in and fast closes the window behind him.

“Ivan, is that you?” a familiar voice timidly calls out from the dark room room.

“Sorry I’m coming over so abruptly,” Ivan replies, his voice almost gentle. “Did I wake you up?”

“No,” the soft male voice replies, and even in the darkness Ivan can see the fellow dainty sit up on his bed and reach for the night light.

When the orange-tinted light finally appears, Ivan sees the familiar figure of Laurel in his nightgown.

“You’re like a cat,” he laughs as Ivan comes further inside. “You should have told me earlier you’re coming, so I could have made you something to eat.”

“I didn’t plan on coming, but something came up,” Ivan replies awkwardly. “Do you mind if I crash here for the night?”

“Of course not!” the other dainty exclaims, but then his voice lowers as he adds: “Are you in trouble.”

“No,” Ivan lies, not wanting to worry this overly gentle, sweet dainty. “Just wanted to come over.”

“Silly,” Laurel chuckles, blissfully unaware of what Ivan had just done, and what, hopefully, he had just escaped from. “My room is alway open for you, so don’t even worry about it.”

He stands up, his figure tall and graceful; looks not suitable for a mere cabaret with bad pay.

“I’ll go get you something to eat.”

“You don’t need to, I didn’t come here to eat,” Ivan replies, but Laurel sternly shakes his head, his locks moving from side to side almost hypnotically as he does.

“You look like you haven’t eaten at all today! Your cheeks are sinking in, and I won’t let that happen on my watch!”

Laurel huffs, determined, and walks outside the room. When he’s gone, Ivan sits down on the floor and sighs, adrenaline rush finally coming to its end and leaving him with exhaustion, and a cold feeling inside his chest.

“He’s too good for me,” he thinks as he watches after Laurel, hearing the clip-clop of the man’s hooves echoing  from the corridor.

“I wonder why I keep coming back here... no matter how many times I tell myself not to…”