Arcturus Black, Receive Introduction

An Introduction. The Introduction.
      “Good news kid, I got somethin' for ya.” Eddy says, sliding a small rectangular box down the table between us with a huge hairy fist the likes of which could only belong to an Italian in his mid forties.
      “You sound like a fucking pedophile,” I say, picking the box up from the table and opening it with a sharp tendril of blackened metal off my forefinger. Fucking guido couldn't have just handed it to me instead? What am I, contagious? Merry Christmas, it's a tiny brick phone with exactly one number under contacts. A job, probably another tech run for his little R&D buddy up high.
      “You shouldn't have,” I say with only the slightest elevation of my left eyebrow to indicate that perhaps it'd be safer for him to hurry it the fuck up. Prior engagements and all that. With this fuck's mother. The afterimage is haunting, so truly terrifying is the grotesque image of bumping his dead mother's uglies, I almost miss his reply.
“-ucking brat. Has anyone ever told you that?” He says while the gigantic black caterpillars that I often mistake for his eyebrows contort in frustration. You're going to wrinkle right through that age negation if you don't watch it fatlard.
      “Yes, now tell me about this belated birthday present before I shove it so far up your ass your farts will have a fucking dial tone,” The time for witty banter has passed go and collected two hundred faggy pink monopoly dollars, which is probably worth about two thousand of today's dollars. Thanks Obama.
“Your first contract, kid. Consider your cherry popped all fuckin' over again,” For once, something comes out of this douchebag's mouth that doesn't make me want to punch him. Hoping that this is the beginning of something beautiful, I keep silent as he pulls a picture out of his coat pocket. His attempt at nonchalantly tossing it to me fails spectacularly and it drifts onto the floor a ways to my right. We look at each other, I meet his ugly brown eyes with my gray ones, and he has the balls to make a sweeping gesture with those fucking sausage fingered hands at me.
      “Pull,” I say. Most would assume that this is the point in which the picture then flies gracefully into my outstretched fingers. It wasn't. The crash of his gargantuan ass hitting the floor after I pulled his chair out from under him was only out-shined by the seismic shake of the upscale living room around us. His face is absolutely priceless, jaw clenched and eyes bulging, I can tell he's moments away from reaching for the pistol under his sleazy suit jacket. I suppose that might've been an overreaction, so why not give the grease-ball a bone before he walks out and I walk into this shit blind.
      “Before you get yourself killed, I have something for you,” I raise my other hand over the table, eyes trained on fatso's gun. My gauntlet ripples and out falls my present to his poorly dressed ass. A small slip of paper, with exactly two lines written in scratchy script courtesy of yours truly. Those two exceeding mysterious lines make his greedy pig eyes light up and I can already tell he's content to remain on the floor as long as I want him to, provided I let him out with most of his limbs intact.
“Yeah, yeah, wipe that fuckin' smirk off your face you little shit,” He says, but we both know I had his gross balls in a vice. He stands, grabs his chair and does the hilarious dance known as 'the dance of how to sit in a chair that's half the size of your ass.'
      “Pull.” Pretending I don't notice his twitch for the sake of common decency, I deftly catch the picture as it flies towards me. Looking down, I struggle to keep my face blank as it desperately strains to portray immediate recognition. Dean motherfucking Samuels, the lead political activist for the 'Beyond-Human' movement. Thank you Jesus, I promise to make it hurt, for you man. For you.
      “Dean Samuels, been all over the news lately dunno if you've seen him yet.” Looks like you pulled it off, but with this dumbass it is surely a hollow victory.
      “There's only one fucking channel Eddy. How could I not?” My eyes are still glued to the picture, tracing the lines of his face. His bright blue eyes, dark brown hair, and aquiline nose all painting the perfect Neo-US politician. Just looking at him makes me hear the echo of his voice in my head, with his annoying slogan playing in an endless loop of nightmarish elitism. Times have changed, the world has changed, so why can't we? Support Dean Samuels for change. Jesus fucking christ how can this shit sell to anyone? I blame Obama.
      “Call the number, and don't go acting like your fuckin' self being all fucking bratty and what, you ain't the only preeminent assassin out there looking for work.” Wow, he knows the word preeminent? And he can use it in a sentence? 
      “Believe me, I'll be on my best behavior pops,” I keep my voice level, but for some reason he just isn't buying it.
      “I'm being serious kid, do this right and you got a guy in a very high fuckin' seat owing you a favor of equal god damn worth kid. This ain't a joke job like the shit you an' I have done in the past, this could be the beginning of something big, for the both of us,” Trailing off at the end of his very unmoving monologue, the eternally old Eddy picks his ass out of his chair. Before stepping into the foyer behind him, he turns to me, clearly expecting something. For the both of us, huh?
“Exit stage left porky, I know what this means,” He leaves, muttering something doubtlessly unkind about my mother as he slams the front door. I watch him amble to his Cadillac, waiting until it turns at the end of the street before getting up.
      Reasonably certain lardass has left the building for good, I get up and walk towards the gaudy vase on the shelf behind me, with the full breadth of my dark armor on to cover my face, my feet touching ground soundlessly as I move. Reaching behind it, I pluck the trusty 'Arcturus Black's Blackmail Recorder: Only In Case Of Emergencies. Usually.' Patent pending, fucking bureaucrats. With my agent of mutually assured destruction safely in hand, I step out of the house that once belonged to my late neighbors. An expertly chosen location for both easy access to one of my own safe-houses and gasoline reserves, and the added bonus of a well stocked liqueur cabinet. Walking to the kitchen of the now dead...Sanders? Smiths? Who cares. I shoot a tendril of black metal around the locked cabinet above the counter and yank the doors off their hinges. Alcohol was one of the few things that could be scavenged whenever, due to the long shelve life, so I grab a single bottle of Smirnoff and leave with one hand grasping my digital camera, and the other my new bottle of shitty vodka. I guess dreams do come true.