Renaissance Killer

Christopher Poole

Description

The most compelling autobiography of the decade!

 

 

Known throughout the world for years as the deadliest, most elusive killer of his kind, and wanted by virtually every law enforcement agency across the globe, famed freelance hitman-for-hire Henry H. Hugo finally tells his amazing story in his own words. From the traumas and indignities of his troubled childhood, to his early days just starting out in his controversial profession, to his triumphs over all manner of uncommon adversity, the die-hard crime enthusiast will positively thrill to the eclectic, eccentric exploits related in harrowing detail within the pages of this tell-all tome.

Alternately deeply disturbing, darkly funny, and strangely erotic, Mr. Hugo’s unprecedented memoir is a tour de force of violent action, heart-rending drama, unnatural perversity, and strange and colorful predicament, the likes of which the ranks of history’s foulest individuals could not invent.

Sujets

• LGBTQ+
• Gay
• Fiction

Informations

• Publié par: AuthorHouse
• Date de parution: 24 mars 2008
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781467851633
• Langue: English

Extrait

CHRISTOPHER POOLE
 
R enaissance K iller
 
Being the Wholly True and Unexaggerated Account of the Life and Times of Henry H. Hugo, the World’s Most Gentlemanly Contract Killer
 
 
 
 
 

 
 
AuthorHouse™
1663 Liberty Drive
Bloomington, IN 47403
www.authorhouse.com
Phone: [phone]
 
 
 
 
© 2011 Christopher Poole. All rights reserved.
 
No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.
 
This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
 
Published by AuthorHouse 04/11/2023
 
ISBN: 978-1-4343-6448-7 (sc)
ISBN: 978-1-4678-5163-3 (e)
 
Library of Congress Control Number: 2008901762
 
 
 
 
Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.
Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.
 
 
 
Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
FOR MOM AND DAD.
And for Stephanie, who’s been like the sister I always had.
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
“No doubt, he is horrible, he is abject, he is a shining example of moral leprosy, a mixture of ferocity and jocularity that betrays supreme misery perhaps, but is not conducive to attractiveness. He is ponderously capricious. Many of his casual opinions on the people and scenery of this country are ludicrous. A desperate honesty that throbs through his confession does not absolve him from sins of diabolical cunning. He is abnormal. He is not a gentleman.”
—Vladimir Nabokov, Lolita
 
 
 
“The killing was the best part. It was the dying I couldn’t take.”
—Craig Volk, Northern Exposure
CONTENTS

Chapter 0
A Man of Wealth and Taste
Chapter I
I Am Born
Chapter II
School Daze and Holy Crap
Chapter III
A Rude Sexual Awakening
Chapter IV
The Turning Point
Chapter V
My Victory Day
Chapter VI
The Summer of Marcus
Chapter VII
The Autumn of Gwendolyn
Chapter VIII
Finding the Joy in Life
Chapter IX
To Those Who Are About To Kill, We Salute You
Chapter X
Shrinking Heads
Chapter XI
We Play Fair and We Work Hard and We’re In Harmony
Chapter XII
As Great As All Outdoors
Chapter XIII
It’s My Party, and I’ll Cry If I Want To
Chapter XIV
Good Night, Saigon
Chapter XV
Exodus
Chapter XVI
Surfside 6! Who Lives There?
Chapter XVII
Vision Quest
Chapter XVIII
The Lullaby of Broadway
Chapter XIX
Every Girl Cries the First Time
Chapter XX
Workin’ For the Man Every Night and Day
Chapter XXI
Come On, Pretty Mama
Chapter XXII
When Irish Eyes Are Dying
Chapter XXIII
A Fiery Rematch With Josiah Trent
Chapter XXIV
“I Never Drink…Wine”
Chapter XXV
The Good, the Bad, and the Seriously Fucked-Up in the Head
Chapter XXVI
Hugo of Arabia
Chapter XXVII
Life During Wartime
Chapter XXVIII
The Passion of the Hugo
Chapter XXIX
Bushwhacked
Chapter XXX
Quelle Chagrin
Chapter XXXI
The Devil and the Deep Blue Sea
Chapter XXXII
My Island Home
Chapter XXXIII
Sins of the Father
Chapter XXXIV
Face to Face With the Elephant Man
Chapter XXXV
The Tears of a Clown
Chapter XXXVI
Strawberries
Chapter XXXVII
Vivre la Difference!
Chapter XXXVIII
Manglers on a Train
Chapter XXXIX
Waltzing Grim Matilda
Chapter XL
The Ballad of Palooka Dan
Chapter XLI
Will No One Rid Me of This Meddlesome Priest?, and Other Short Stories
Chapter XLII
Loverboy
Chapter XLIII
Sinner Take All
Chapter XLIV
Hugo and the Tar Babies
Chapter XLV
Hearts, Flowers, and Drastic Measures
Chapter XLVI
Road Warriors
Chapter XLVII
Hugo Does Hollywood
Chapter XLVIII
The Impudent One
Chapter XLIX
Fall From Grace
Chapter L
The End of It
Chapter LI
When the Wood Is Dry
Chapter LII
In Closing
CHAPTER 0

A Man of Wealth and Taste
M y flight lands punctually (two minutes early, in fact, according to my two hundred and thirty-five thousand dollar Rolex, which is never wrong) at Los Angeles International Airport, and I drain the last of my Cheval Blanc ‘89 (excellent year) from its crystal glass.
Disembarking from the plane with the rest of the first class passengers, I tip a flirtatious nod to the handsome, auburn-haired steward who has seen to the charging of my glass with sparkling French wine over the course of this particularly dull, uneventful flight (really, dear reader, I sometimes wonder how I find the strength to go on at all), and emerge in Terminal 4 of the world’s fifth busiest airport. I pop quickly into the little boys’ room, then proceed downstairs to baggage claim where I retrieve my single leather suitcase, and conduct a brief but thorough examination of the combination lock to assure it has not been tampered with.
From here I stride purposefully – but not hurriedly – towards the exit, delaying only long enough to purchase for myself the day’s edition of The Los Angeles Times .
It was a cold, raw, bitter bastard of a February morning when I’d boarded American Airlines Flight 32 at JFK in New York, four hours – and as many time zones – ago, but California is more agreeable, meteorologically speaking, and I am permitted to enjoy the fleeting warmth of a yellow sunbeam on my face as I board the bus bound for downtown L.A., some fifteen miles to the northeast.
Now, ever since the dawn of my financial prosperity, I hardly ever ride buses anymore, and I certainly never found it to be a pleasurable experience when I was destitute. Buses are filthy and smelly and full of bacteria, not to mention the positively grotesque pack of sub-humans with whom one is forced to share the ride. There are times, however (and this is one of them), when the anonymous, uniform conveyance of public transportation is just better suited to one’s agenda than would be a rental car.
Taking a seat up front – the back is where you’ll find candy wrappers, wads of dried gum, and discarded condoms littering the floor – I hold my suitcase on my lap, and am addressed unceremoniously by a vulgar, pot-bellied man in a yellowing t-shirt and a pair of blue jeans with holes in the knees, sitting across the aisle from me. His accent is distinctly of the southwest – Texas, probably – and a faded tattoo of a topless, amply-endowed mermaid festoons his hairy right forearm. All that’s needed to complete the picture of such an obvious redneck is a rifle full of buckshot tucked lazily underneath one sweaty armpit, and a John Deere cap over that bad comb-over.
“So, what are ya, some kinda fag or somethin’?” he asks me.
I don’t dignify his query with a response, though I must commend him on his astute power of perception, which apparently belies his outer demeanor. On the other hand, I doubt that I am one of the more difficult homosexuals to spot on the street, as I do tend to make myself rather obvious. But, as I always say, dear reader, if you can’t be with the chromosome you love, then love the one you’re with.
I admit to the crime of looking ‘interesting’. I’m a tall, thin, pale-skinned man, with long, skinny arms and legs. I’ve been told in the past, by more than one person, that I could pass for the brother of that illustrious literary pedagogue Ichabod Crane, and, in school, the other children used to call me ‘scarecrow’ (until they discovered I was gay, at which point they began calling me other things). My hair is shoulder length, and very blond, both my earlobes are pierced, and my chin is sharp and pointed. My eyes are of a pale blue, my cheekbones are high, as if pulled back by wires, and my lips, deep red though they are, are ghoulishly thin. Often I’ve wished they were fuller, but I’m damned if I’m going to pump them full of collagen and come out looking like some freakish Angelina Jolie.
On this particular day I am wearing a tan leisure suit (yes, I’m aware the leisure suit attained its peak in 1975, but I’ve always retained a fondness for it) with matching fedora, and a pair of immaculately shined Donnell leather shoes. And this has been typical, dear reader, of my day-to-day dress for several years now.
The bus makes a stop on Hill Street, in what they call the Historic Core of downtown L.A., and I get off, my suitcase clutched in my right hand, my newspaper folded in half beneath my left arm. I remain standing at the curb, and, after the bus has driven from my sight, I hail a taxi. Once the yellow cab has screeched to a stop in front of me, I climb into the back and instruct the driver to take me to a Holiday Inn I know in the Old Bank District.
I can see from the driver’s identity card that his name is Muhammad Abdul, so I eschew any further conversation. After a few questions from him concerning the nature of my visit and whether I’ve ever been here before fall by the wayside unanswered, he seems to get the picture, and clams up.
The Holiday Inn is hardly my kind of accomodations, de