Foresight

by Dana King

Dig the hole first.

Seems stupid to say it out loud, like it should be self-explanatory. It's not like you can ask the guy to do it for you. Looks cold in the movies, I know, making him dig his own hole. Like Samuel L. reading that Bible shit in Pulp Fiction . Well, it doesn't work in real life. Hard to motivate someone to dig a hole for himself. What incentive can you give him? “Dig faster or you're a dead man?” Plus, you have to get him to the hole in the first place. Listen to him bitch and moan and whine and cry all the way. Please don't kill me. I'll pay you. I'll let you fuck my wife. I'll let you fuck my wife and my sister. Together. The selfish pussy never stops to think you got a job to do. Someone's going in a hole tonight. If it ain't him, it's you.

The hole needs to be close to someplace you can park your car. Hard to drag two hundred pounds of dead weight through the woods, desert, wherever. Over rocks and tree stumps. So it's gotta be handy. Plus, digging takes time, and you don't know how hard it'll be until you start. That means you spend a lot of time where some innocent bystander might come by and see what you're doing. Then you need a bigger hole.

Like what happened to Mikey Pugliese. Had Pete the Greek in the trunk of the car, all wrapped in plastic. Everything by the numbers. Gets out in the woods, finds a place, starts digging. First foot or so no problem. Nice, soft dirt, practically climbs onto the shovel for him. Then he hits clay. Wet clay, schizophrenic shit, sticky on the shovel, slippery as hell to stand on. Hole keeps filling with water. Can't see what he's doing, falling down. Takes until daylight to get the hole deep enough and drag Pete over close. Just about to drop him in when the fucking Boy Scouts come along.

I don't mean like some Good Samaritan; I mean real Boy Scouts. About twelve of them, with three scoutmasters. Mikey drops Pete in the hole. Cold water splashes all over him. Mikey says something appropriate, like “shit,” or “fuck,” maybe. Next thing he knows, some twelve-year-old fanatic for the rule of law is yelling and the three adults are running over. Mikey already ditched the piece—not too bright, but it ain't like he can kill fifteen people, not with no Smith and Wesson revolver. So he runs. Slips on that fucking wet clay. Falls in the hole, right on top of Pete the Greek. Hits his head on the blade of the shovel on the way down for good measure. Cops already have him cuffed by the time he's like, you know, fully cognizant of the situation.

Always dig the hole first.