House Red - Prologue

I had just lit up my cigarette, and peered over the roofs of the nearby houses. A while back we had moved into a villa, which meant a little more privacy, and definitely more space. I could actually smoke a cigarette without anyone nearby noticing. Well, not at this hour at least. After all, this late, there’s barely anyone on the streets – not on this side of town anyway. I could imagine the bustling, lively city where the others were partying. I had been invited, and I had turned down their offer.

This late, I could just hang a bit outside my window, and smoke my cigarette without the smoke getting into my room. My parents would go wild if they found out, they’d go absolutely haywire. Flushing down the cigarette after I was done was easy enough. I could brush my teeth and be done with the lingering taste in my mouth. They say a smokers smell lingers, but I suppose I do not smoke consistently enough to produce that kind of smell, so I don’t have to worry about that either.

Thinking it over, I don’t think my parents know a lot about me. They don’t know I drink or smoke. They don’t know what my fears and ambitions are. They don’t know me. I think fault lies with both parties. My parents come from countries far from here, exotic yet poor areas of the world were the smart and survive, and the rest are cast aside. Places where the strong truly survive, and the poor just form faceless masses. They had survived, and they had moved away from there. Yet, they had not truly cast aside their past selves.

Calling them a bit xenophobic would be both an assessment true and unfair. It’s unfair since they had been molded by that society, and they really can’t help but to fear that what they cannot control in this society. But it’s true nevertheless - all they really care about are results. Be it with sports, games or, most importantly, school, their amount of love for their fairly successful children are directly proportional to how well they do. ‘Results will get you anywhere’, is what they always tell us. They aren’t wrong, however.

Amongst their 3 children, 2 in particular seemed to have inherited their incredible talent and discipline. Their youngest daughter is an excellent chess player, while their middle son is a third dan black belt. To put that into perspective, a regular black belt, a first dan holder, is considered to be only starting to master the martial art. Then there’s me, their oldest son, who doesn’t possess any particular talent or skill. Never did I really mind, their other children have been compensating my lack of results plenty. I can understand why they wish for those results as well, that mentality had carried them through their hardship. In this society the weak are taken care off, so their mentality seems a bit outdated to me in this place and age. Nevertheless, plenty of times have they pointed out their dissatisfaction with me.

That’s where my fault in the matter comes in. The key to any healthy relationship is communication, I believe. It’s that communication, in all its forms, that allows the other to understand how you feel, and what you think. And it’s that same communication that prevents them from understanding me. Pretend to be a little less intelligent then you are, pretend to know a little less than you do, pretend to be a little more afraid than you are.

I took another puff of my cigarette.

It’s easy enough to do whatever you want if you can outsmart the authority watching you. I’m definitely not smarter than any of my house mates. But letting them believe they have this much of an edge over me makes it easy to move around. If they don’t know me, they can’t keep an eye on me. That’s too much of an eloquent description, however – basically I’m able to sneak around if I have to. In the end, they think have me in their palms.

In private, I consulted a psychologist. I think it was wise, after all, if I can think up of this kind of thing I might be a sociopath of sorts. Or a psychopath. In the making. Who knows - I certainly don't, I'm not an expert. That’s why I went to consult a psychologist. What she happened to mention is that – keep in mind I didn’t suggest that I’m a sociopath – based on the conversation we had, I’m the type of person that is able to mask his emotions rather well. A trait I assumed in common with your everyday sociopath. She is a very sympathetic person, but I’m not sure if I have the time for another appointment.

Another puff. I really like how the smoke just disperses and disappears into the dark, clear sky.

See, I might not be as smart as my siblings, or parents, but based on test results, and the fact that I’m currently an ‘almost’ cum laude student at my university, I think I’m at least above average in terms of intelligence. This intelligence I use at my leisure. Rather than going to the library to study for a test I have already studied for, don’t have to study for, or, heck, already made the exam – my parents won’t know anyway – I have a bit of a hobby on the down low. Well, it’s a bit too demanding to be called just a ‘hobby’.

Money laundering.

While moving around from party to party, eventually I met people considered criminals by mainstream society. Well, they might not be the real criminals, just trash doing nothing but waste time om the streets, but they definitely know the real deal. And that’s how I met them.

House Red. Or simply, ‘the House’.

The House is an organization that is involved in distributing certain amounts of counterfeit money. The basic idea is to distribute large amounts of fake money, in varying degrees of quality to distract the authorities from finding out the main stream of incoming laundered money. Naturally, the ‘highest’ quality of fake money is produced and distributed through different channels than it normally is. And that’s where the House and their special connections come in.

That, however, is a story for another day. I’m almost done smoking my cigarette, and so is my thinking time. A powerful throw from the shoulders lands my cigarette on the other side of the hedge, in the canal of water between our villa and the one next to it. Turning around, I come face to face with my assassin. Well, rather, her body sticking out of the medium-sized bag I carried her in. She has been killed. By me. Another trait of a psychopath, I’d think. It can’t be helped, I suppose.

Maybe I should make an appointment with my psychologist after all.

My phone rings. A coded number.

‘House Red. Benz speaking,’ I say as I pick up the phone, closing my window and curtains.

‘Oh, you’re still alive. Did you escape?’ The grumpy voice on the other side responds.

‘Just barely. She got away. You should be careful,’ I reply, unable to not smirk.

‘I see. I’ll contact you later. If I don’t, make sure to check in tomorrow,’ the person replied.

‘Will do. Later,’ I hang up after that.

For a few minutes, I just stare at the lifeless body of my assassin. Such a shame, she was rather hot, actually. Not that I would have had a chance with her anyhow.

A deep sigh later I sit down at the edge of my bed, staring at the mirror in front of me.

Where do we go from here, I wonder.