by Chuck Rogers
Option two was to run.
But that was fleeing a crime scene. It was my house. My fingerprints were everywhere. For that matter my DNA was everywhere including inside the victim, and if the world didn't end?
Clean getaways without outside help are few and far between.
Rumor was I had two hours.
My best dubious option was to bank on the apocalypse.
I turned away from Line. I was good at compartmentalization. I would deal with those feelings later.
A lot of people I knew in LA had safe rooms, but a safe room wouldn't stave off the apocalypse. I needed to get underground. There was the subway, but the hordes would probably flock there. What I needed was a bomb shelter.
And I knew someone who had one.
I very reluctantly got on the phone.
I texted Beautiful Bobby.
I don't know what floats your boat, but if it's gay porn then you know who Beautiful Bobby is. His ticket into gay Valhalla was being one of the Big Cock Cops, Movies one through six. Cock Samson was the muscle bound, blonde white guy with a mullet. El Gigante was the Latino with the chorizo. Blaque Stallion was, well, the black stallion. They all pitched. Basically they solved crimes by exposing themselves to criminals who would stop mid-crime to worship their dicks or 'confess' during anal interrogations.
Beautiful Bobby was the Big Cock Cop who caught.
Not exactly sure what his role was beyond some vague "going undercover" sub-plot which meant the criminal mastermind and his henchmen would pull a train on Bobby and then the other Big Cock Cops would burst in, the final act orgy would start, and in the end the jizz-covered Bond-villain guy would pull a Scooby-Doo, "And I would've gotten away with it too, if it weren't for those darn Big Cock Cops!"
Then 'The Lieutenant' would tell the Big Cock Cops "Good work! Now hit the showers!" and they would all lather up and jerk each other off during the credits.
It was gay porn gold, and it pretty much wrote itself.
Not a lot of plot, but then again Big Cock Cops practically re-introduced characters and some kind of plot back into porn. All six movies took home gold at the AVN awards and so did the stars.
Beautiful Bobby was a glam-rock wisp of a lad who was hung like a rhino and could shoot on command. He was also a party-boy whore who would sleep with Arabian oil sheiks, Russian oligarchs and heads of state if the price was right.
Bobby also loved drugs and making bad decisions.
Long story short, Bobby made a very big mistake with some very bad people, and one of his older "benefactors" with money hired me to wipe Bobby's slate clean. Say what you want about him, but Bobby understood gratitude. He also constantly made it obvious he wanted me to fuck him.
But hey, I got a Christmas card every year and he'd given me some good referrals.
Did I say long story short?
Bobby's house in Malibu was 70's Eichler-style and came with an 80's vintage pre-fab bomb shelter in the back yard.
I knew this because after I had done Bobby his favor he'd also hired me to set up the security suites of his domiciles.
I texted him.
Hey, Beautiful.
He loved being called that.
I was surprised when he texted back immediately.
♥♥♥!!!FRAME!!!♥♥♥
God, damn it . . .
I took me several long seconds to think about how to frame this correctly.
I had nothing.
Listen, the world is about to end.
My world ended 2nite!
Yeah, mine too.
Really
Yeah, really. You too?
Frame
What?
Do u no how 2 tell if sum 1s really old?
Fuck you.
They text using complete sentences and punctuation.
I rolled my eyes and texted back.
FUCK-YOU.
Wheeeeee!
He texted before I could fashion any kind of response.
Frame
I tried to imagine what was coming next.
What?
Do u like to b choked
I'd been water-boarded. Wasn't a fan.
No.
Ceiling suspension flight attendant gear full strangulation I swear it felt like God fellated me!!!
I tried to imagine Bobby hanging from the ceiling dressed like Jackie O while person or persons unknown performed complicated and physically dangerous acts of oral outrage on him.
It wasn't hard.
Fellated. That's a good word.
C? U get it!
No. No, I don't.
Haha
Listen, I need to borrow your bomb shelter.
Really
Yeah, really.
Y
Because the world is going to end.
I checked my watch.
In about an hour and fifty-five minutes.
What r u going on about?
He used a question mark. I uncharacteristically lead with the truth.
I met a hot astrophysicist in a bar. She explained to me how a non-relativistic jet is going to fry the planet tonight.
It sounded lame even to me.
Did u fuck her?
Yeah, then she thanked me, told me it was two hours until doomsday and blew her brains out in my bathroom.
WOW
So, can I borrow your bomb shelter or what?
Sure no prob
God bless his gay whore heart.
Are the supplies and everything up to date?
I could hear his pride across the ethers.
Updated & upgraded. Sec#37263
Okay, I admit I smiled as I saw the five numbers on the keypad in my head.
F-R-A-M-E?
YAY!
Really?
Wheeeeeeeeeeee!
Bobby loved his friends without fail, hated his enemies with the venom of a catty twelve year old girl and pretty much everyone else on earth existed to serve his needs. I was vaguely fond of him, kind of like an errant stepbrother who had gone off the rails a long time ago.
Bobby, you need to get to someplace safe.
Im in Spain on a yacht
Bobby? I think this shit is real. I'm not kidding.
I know ur not. So if its the end of the world? Party like its 1999!!!
The weird thing was I think he believed me. I thought of Line again. My hands shook as I wrote my shitty, callous text.
Oh, and there's a dead girl in my bathroom. If I'm wrong I may have to live in your bomb shelter for a while anyway.
Sure no prob
I swear. Beautiful Bobby. The porn star with a heart of gold.
He was the only good part in any of this.
Besides I ♥ the idea of u gimping around in my underground bomb dildo
He had to go and ruin it.
Thats hot!!!
God, damn it . . .
I looked at my watch. I had to start packing STAT.
You take care.
Always do!
He didn't, but whatever.
Then it occurred to me that this might be the last conversation I had with anybody, ever, and it was a goddamn text.
I always liked you, Bobby.
Me 2!
Asshole.
It was absolutely time to go if I was going to go at all. As I put down the phone it pinged.
LOVE UUUUUUUUUUU!!!
And Beautiful Bobby was the last person on earth who told me that they loved me.
CHAPTER TWO
What's your plan for the wasteland?
THERE'S A CRIME MOVIE where the anti-hero says Never let yourself get attached to anything you can't walk away from in thirty seconds flat . I'm not saying I can live by that
kind of lofty, Zen, criminal-mystic ideal. I'll admit it. I have stuff. Some of which I'm attached to. Some are luxuries that in my opinion I richly deserve. Others? Literally cost me blood and treasure.
But a bug-out bag is not a bad idea.
No matter what line you're in.
As you might imagine, my bug out bag was stuffed on the operating principle that the heat was on and I was going to make an O.J. style run for the border. 20k in cash, passports, false IDs, a half-dozen burner cell-phones, one hundred Swiss gold francs, a few other odds and ends and a Beretta.
Honestly?
I hadn't really given the apocalypse much thought.
I live in California, and I hang my hat in L.A. Like a lot of coastal citizens of the Golden State, I do have a vague notion that sooner or later the Big One is going to happen and half the CA will fall into the ocean. So I had three days of food and water, an emergency radio and a flashlight, but the fact was I wasn't a prepper.
I'm a bad person.
And I'm I liar if I didn't admit that somewhere in the back of my mind lurked the idea that if there was something I was lacking during a major emergency?
I'd just go take it.
If this was the end of the world?
I wasn't ready.
I'd checked Bobby's bomb shelter for him and given him a list of things he needed to keep in it. According to him everything was updated and upgraded.
God only knew what that last part might mean, but Bobby lived large.
So, I had my bug out bag and a shelter, but, if it actually was the eve of apocalypse?
What to take?
Clothes.
I packed every pair of jeans I had and my two pairs of cargo pants. Boots, hiking, construction and all terrain. Every pair of socks I had. I was a Marine. I knew the golden rule.
Take care of your feet.
Jackets leather, parka and down. Substantial shirts. I had gloves for working, gloves for beating people, and gloves for driving.
All of them.
Hats.
Where's your cover, Marine!!!
I looked at my suits. I dressed for success. I had ten of them, eleven if you include the tux. All bespoke. I took one in case the world didn't end and I ended up in court. I closed the closet door on the rest of them with a heavy heart.
My lock picks, lighters, matches, butane, everything in the medicine cabinet. My laptop. My Kindle. My 10" Shun chef's knife. My Shun 4" paring knife. My hunting knife. My Swiss Army knife.
Can't have enough sharp objects.
I trotted the two suitcases down to the garage.
I checked my watch. One hour and forty-five minutes. I took the steps back up three at a time.
Guns.
I'm not a gun bunny.
I don't have a gun collection.
But for an ex-con living in the Democratic Socialist Republic of California?
I have an assortment.
I broke the concealed wall panels I had put in myself and officially voided my lease. The condo in Silver Lake meant nothing to me. I frequently changed addresses.
I took the Uzi.
Old school, I know, but it was nearly mint and I had taken it as spoils from the asshole that'd try to assassinate me with it. An associate in a Second Amendment friendly state had gotten me seven 32 round magazines.
Old school Marine Corps M-14 designated rifleman rifle. It was what I had carried for Uncle Sam. Wood furniture, scope and a lever on the side that would let it rock and roll.
I took the bayonet.
Sharp object.
I had two beautiful cased Beretta shotguns. A Giubilelo over and under and the Parallelo side by side. Beautifully engraved. If I owned any art it was those two Italian girls. They'd been a gift from a very grateful client.
Winchester 30-30. First gun I'd ever owned back on the rez.
Nickel plated N-Frame .357 Magnum.
More ink has been spilled about what guns and what loads were best for self-defense. One fact remained. The closest thing to a death ray, that you could hold in your hand and pull the trigger and all hostilities ceased? Was a .357 magnum loaded with 125 grain Keith semi-wadcutter hollow-points.
It had belonged to my father. The father who'd regretted my existence. But he'd willed it to me.
In my professional capacity, this was the gun I took out and set on the table between us when the conversation devolved into the terminal phase.
That was your ass.
Draw on me if you think you've got the juice.
But if you were dumb enough to grab for it the Beretta was in a small-of-the-back rig and I beat you half to death with it for your trouble and we started again.
I took the suppressed Ruger 22. I had hate for it. Yeah, I did bad things. But I wasn't an assassin. I didn't kill people I didn't know for money. Only animals did that. When I first came to California and helped out my buddy, my name got known. I was asked to do it. I said no. Then I was told to do it. I said no. I was sent this pistol and told to do it or use it on myself.
That was a bad time for all involved.
But the way I'd said no is my final answer had cemented my reputation on the West Coast.
I kept the goddamn gun.
Hey, someone sends you something you didn't order?
It's yours.
Tough darts.
I packed it. Who knew what the apocalypse would bring?
All those, plus ammo, accessories and cleaning kits.
It was quite a load.
It took several trips. I saw curtains move in the condo above and wondered if someone was reporting a disheveled goon loading guns into the back of a black Cadillac in the middle of the night. No time to wonder.
I looked at my cigarettes.
I had quit in prison. Taking it up again in LA had been a sheer act of laziness and stupidity. But smoking was also old school. I found that if your job was to make someone see reason and you lit up, and they asked you not to and you ignored them and kept talking it was a good opening round. The smart ones, and they were few and far between, (because if you were smart you never put yourself in a situation where you meet me), started getting the message.
End of the day?
If I actually have to break your legs?
I hadn't done my due diligence.
It was a fine time to quit again with a guaranteed no way to cheat.
I stopped and looked at Line a final time.
I took my dog tags. If the world didn't end tomorrow the detectives would have a field day with that. It felt like a horrible betrayal until I put them around my neck and swore to myself to never take them off again. I left her gun. I took her phone and used her dead fingertip to unlock it and then turned off the lock function.
I told her I loved her.
I kissed her goodbye.
My hand shook as I turned off the bathroom light and left her there.
I got in the car and drove.
It was Friday night. 3:00am. There was a dead woman assuming ambient room temperature in my bathroom. I was an ex-con fleeing a crime scene with a car full of illegal weapons.
Getting pulled over was not an option.
I obeyed every light, sign and posted speed limit. I sweated every police car I saw. The hands on my watch continued to relentlessly crawl. I drove straight through Hollywood and took The 2 to The 1, which you may know as California's Pacific Coast Highway. When I saw ocean I opened the Caddy up. Malibu wasn't far. I drove sedately through the downtown and then tore those winding canyon roads apart.
I screeched to a halt in front of Bobby's gate with forty minutes to spare. I typed in F-R-A-M-E and sure enough the gate rolled open. I rolled across his side-lawn into his back yard and drove right up to the shelter.
Bobby's was a prefab.
Basically the company dug a hole and then dropped in what looked like a giant, stubby, child's bath toy submarine and then covered it over. The hatch was covered by a fake section of hedge. It lifted right up and there was th
e round, old-timey submarine hatch with a wheel. It was heavy but it opened no problem. I literally slid down the ladder into the darkness below. I hadn't been here in a while so it took me a few moments to find the light switch.
I blinked as the lights came on.
I was appalled.
Oh, Bobby had upgraded.
He'd painted the interior pink.
The floor was 1970's disco with squares of every color in the Crayola box.
It was a goddamn Malibu Barbie bomb-shelter. He'd ignored the four bunks built in the walls and used them for storage. A Queen size bed dominated the shelter with pink and black satin sheets and a mirrored headboard that reached the ceiling.
I recognized attachment points for handcuffs on the bedposts. I checked his supplies. Found the handcuffs. There were month's worth of food and water for a single occupant. Bobby had solar but I lifted the floor panel and checked the shelter's bank of batteries and then the generator. Everything looked tip-top. The kitchenette was barely the size of a bathroom stall but it had a sink, a hotplate and a microwave. Tiny nook for the shower and a chemical toilet. His water tanks were full. He had a big screen TV and shelves of movies.
Unloading the car took way too long.
But I still had twenty-five minutes.
I took his hidden key out from under the rock. I checked the garage. Bobby's Prius and his Jeep Rubicon were both at home and I had to push his Harley to the back of the garage to make room for the Caddy.
I rampaged through Bobby's house.
I filled two sacks with stuff from his refrigerator, cabinets and pantry. I found his guns. When Bobby had pissed off the wrong people I had advised him to arm himself. He bought a .44 Magnum because "Dirty Harry" had one. He'd fired one shot. Then he'd bought a Walther PPK because James Bond had one. I took both.