Moving Weight

His conjugal tone made me want to slit his throat, but organized crime concedes no room for passion. You rarely see the workings of the underworld; it is in its best interest to remain apparitional. "The marina on the North Carolina side of the Busterboyd, alone."
I collected all the necessities for such an occasion and drove down the empty road. He was already waiting when I pulled in. I struggled to control the urge to pull my m9 and blow his brains all over his Caprice. We exchanged brief glances and walked to the back of his car. He opened the trunk and watched as I slung my package over my shoulder.
It was too heavy to carry cooly. I stumbled under its mass, slowly reaching into my pocket to pull out my keys. He coasted off as I finally managed to pull the handle to the back left passenger door. I laid the black burden down on the cellophane that covered the backseat.
After I scanned the lot to confirm my solitude, I pulled away the black shroud. I hadn't allowed myself to confront the reality that awaited in the unnaturally blank expression I found on his face. The lack of his hallmark vitality was too much to deny. I broke down. I drew his bloodied face to my chest and cried out louder than God had ever heard. I hope he heard every word.
Eloi, Eloi, lama sabachtani.