by Mike McCrary
GENUINELY DANGEROUS
MIKE McCRARY
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
GENUIENLY DANGEROUS
Copyright ©2016 by Mike McCrary
All rights reserved.
No part of this publication may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission from Mike McCrary.
ISBN: 978-0-9891329-6-1
Published by Bad Words Inc. www.mikemccrary.com
Cover art by JT Lindroos.
CONTENTS
Dedication
Prologue
Part I
1 • 2 • 3 • 4 • 5 • 6 • 7 • 8 • 9 • 10 • 11 • 12 • 13 • 14 • 15 • 16 • 17 • 18 • 19 • 20 • 21 • 22 • 23 • 24 • 25 • 26 • 27 • 28 • 29 • 30
Part II
31 • 32 • 33 • 34 • 35 • 36 • 37 • 38 • 39 • 40 • 41 • 42 • 43 • 44 • 45 • 46 • 47 • 48 • 49 • 50 • 51 • 52 • 53 • 54 • 55 • 56 • 57 • 58 • 59 • 60 • 61 • 62 • 63
Part III
64 • 65 • 66 • 67 • 68 • 69 • 70 • 71 • 72 • 73 • 74 • 75 • 76 • 77 • 78 • 79 • 80 • 81 • 82 • 83 • 84 • 85 • 86 • 87 • 88 • 89 • 90 • 91 • 92 • 93 • 94 • 95 • 96 • 97 • 98 • 99 • 100 • 101 • 102 • 103 • 104 • 105 • 106 • 107 • 108 • 109 • 110 • 111 • 112 • 113 • 114 • 115 • 116 • 117 • 118 • 119 • 120
Part IV
121 • 122 • 123 • 124
Also by Mike McCrary
Acknowledgments
About Mike McCrary
This book is dedicated to those who have fallen short of their dreams but still find the courage to pick themselves up and keep on dreaming big.
Wait, that’s not right.
This book is for those who continue to chase their dreams while the universe continuously shits all over them.
Better.
* * *
PROLOGUE
Nothing clears a room like a wall exploding.
Drywall flies, plumes of dust fill the air, once proud Tuscan-inspired interior is turned to chunky confetti in a blink of an eye. This is what happens when a white Ford F-150 plows into the living room at ramming speed. Off the kiss of the truck’s grill a large man is sent airborne. While he flies across the living room, past a dog and over his business partners seated on the couch, the Large Man’s face is surprisingly solemn.
The house is secure, they said.
We’ll do the guns at the house, they said.
No problem, they said.
As the Large Man’s neck snaps upon impact, his final moment of reflection is crystal clear…
They are stupid twats.
The remaining people in the house scatter like roaches when the lights come on. Some chase money that’s been sent twirling into the air, while the others, motivated more by self-preservation, make a flight to safety by heading toward what’s left of the front door. Their attempts mean little, as five masked individuals exit the F-150 dressed all in black with heavy-duty military-grade boots that shine like mirrors. All five are armed to the teeth, but looking for more firepower.
Some folks can never get enough.
In particular, they are looking for the firepower that is currently on display. An arsenal is laid out across the floor on a floral-print sheet—hand cannons, modified ARs with mounted launchers, pistol-grip shotguns, a buffet of full-on instruments of mayhem. This is the firepower that was moments from being bought and sold by the aforementioned twats. Before the F-150 loaded with armed, masked badass individuals came ramming through the south wall.
An unpleasant surprise.
Obviously.
Three of the masked five rip off shots, dropping each like sacks of sod. The remaining masked two snatch up the guns and whatever twirling cash they can get their latex-gloved hands on.
Not a movement wasted.
Not a word spoken.
No need.
Take notes, kids, a strong crew is doing work here tonight.
Their skill is jaw-dropping.
Inspiring.
These people are not twats.
* * *
PART I
“I would rather have a free bottle in front of me than a pre-frontal lobotomy.”
—Dean Martin
1
You don’t quit the movie business, the movie business quits you.
When it’s over there’s no meeting with HR.
No severance package. No handshakes. No hugs. No tearful goodbyes.
People just stop talking to you.
They methodically separate themselves from you like you’re the host of an untreatable, unthinkable disease. As if any form of communication with you will put them at great risk of infection. The disease is called Failure, and they don’t want any of that rubbing off on them.
At first you think, Oh, they’re busy, they’ll get back to me.
They will not.
Nobody calls you back. However, if you listen close, bet you can hear them laughing at you. Your emails hang there unanswered, more than likely deleted with a casual tap. If you fall off the call sheet, then it’s a long, hard climb to claw back on. Once you’re on the outs, getting back in is damn near impossible, and there is only one way back. You have to have something they want. To be more specific, something they can profit from.
I want back.
Badly.
A large chunk of me needs to be back.
Badly.
And I still believe I can create something those fuckers will want.
Badly.
2
After much labor, my lids separate, serving up one bleary-assed slice of life.
I’m back.
Back to the living.
Back to the universe.
On my back, fully dressed in suit and tie while laid out in a bone-dry bathtub. I can feel the bulge of what I assume is an empty P. Noir bottle. Can feel it wedged under my rib cage, along with an oddly familiar, comforting even, paste of sorts coating my teeth and tongue. Turning my head slightly to the left, I notice there’s some sort of science experiment floating in the toilet. Can’t completely recall the genesis, although the smell has me guessing it has something to do with the half-eaten bucket of Extra Crispy balancing on my sternum. Completely fixated, I watch with my mind drifting in and out as the bucket rises and falls with each breath. The good Colonel is walking a tightrope across my tie, teetering on the horrific fate of a certain germ-riddled death that lies at the bottom of my bachelor tub.
It’s damn hypnotic.
My stubborn, boozy fog is showing early signs of weakness. Time for everybody’s favorite morning game—piecing together another questionable evening at the Jasper Tripp estate.
Morning, sunshine.
I hate the sun.
I eat the dark.
Fuck off, Ra.
In the old days it was harder to jam the pieces together. Shit, lucky if I could find enough to work with. Those were the drug times. Not bad times, mind you, depending on your moral compass. It was just back then—and by back then I mean a couple of years ago—I found myself cracking my lids open in much more dicey situations. Let’s face it, more interesting situations. I used to awaken in more unpredictable places, surrounded by more unpredictable people. Much, much harder to piece together in the light of day. More fun too.
Miss those days.
Loved those days.
I gave up the hard stuff, the drugs. Courts saw to that. Th
e booze I keep around mainly because, well, I like it.
How did I get here?
How? Well, the how, I know. Rather not think about it. Actually I think about it a lot. Don’t enjoy it. Like tonguing a sore in your mouth. It stings, but you keep working it as if trying to find the magical center of Tootsie Pop.
I’ve put on weight.
Pretty sure my IQ has dipped a bit.
I watch daytime talk shows, and worse, I like them.
I’ve become a functional fuckup. It’s as if I did some horrible thing, and because of that thing, I’ve been forced into some witness protection program. I’m not in witness protection, of course, I’m in the burbs. Forever damned until I either figure out how to continue chasing my dream or the sweet release of death.
Whichever happens to come first.
It’s not bad, I guess, this place. Not like anybody here beats me. I’m not starving. This place just isn’t my brand of vodka. It’s like an island that I crash-landed on and now I can’t find a way back home. Stranded in a strange land where I don’t speak the language and everyone smiles a lot while searching for a way to understand me. I’m surrounded by people but somehow completely alone. I’m fucking E.T. only nobody really gives a shit.
I attend the block parties.
I smile.
I accept their cream of mushroom soup recipes.
I drink.
I enjoy the queso.
I whip my head around as a blur blazes past me. A woman is sliding in on her knees toward my toilet. I don’t know the material, but those pants she has on are allowing her to glide right across the tile floor as if she’s performing in an ice show of some sort. I keep one eye on her and one on the bucket of chicken that is rising and falling rhythmically with my now slightly elevated breathing. She grabs the toilet seat, jams her face in, and relieves her insides into the already soiled waters below.
Rather violently, I might add.
Calmly I remove the bucket of chicken, mainly because I don’t want to draw any undue attention to myself. As if I’m out in the wild trying to steal a camera shot of an exotic bird—mustn’t frighten it away. As I get a better angle, my suspicions are correct; I know this woman. Matter of fact we had intercourse last night. I like her. Hope the vomiting wasn’t induced by my lovemaking, a little late in the game to try and make up for it. One thing is certain: very difficult to be sexy when you are expelling your guts at such a rapid rate. Guess you never can tell who will end up blowing up your American Standard the next morning.
Her name is Joan or Jennifer or Jill—fucking J-something. She’s the victim of a recent divorce and lives a few blocks over. Victim is probably being generous. After crying for few days, an hour tops, she went out and got the requisite post-divorce package: tit job, tummy tuck, tan, therapy, and a shit-ton of yoga.
Look, I’m no stranger to divorce, not judging, but maybe if she’d taken that kind of care prior to Mr. Blah Blah cheating on her, perhaps life would be slightly more pleasant for her right now, not to mention me.
Watching this is horrific.
Or did she cheat on him?
I can’t keep it all straight.
Damn, I miss LA.
Enough about me.
J-something is done.
With her stomach freshly emptied, she says to me, “Wow. Think we fucked so good I puked.”
Suppose it was my lovemaking.
3
I walk with J-something toward the door.
Her hair is a fright. Makeup, a deranged six-year-old’s Picasso. Hint of vomit. Despite all that, there’s this gnawing feeling of not wanting her to leave. Be nice if she didn’t stay forever, of course, but at the same time I’d rather she not rush off. I understand that’s not a great feeling to openly admit as a dude. Not a cool guy. Not many songs written about that sad sack. Few scripts get green-lit starring that guy. However, a lot of movies do get made about a dude crushing ass. I’ve worked hard to be both of those guys at times.
Sad sack? Ass crusher?
Results are mixed at best.
“I can make some coffee if you want to hang out a bit,” I say.
I hate myself immediately. Feel dirty for having even said the words, but it’s out there now. Hanging. Twisting in the wind. Can’t put the genie back in the bottle. Rarely does anything worthwhile come from being a morning-after needy male.
She tilts her head slightly, raises her eyebrows skyward, and allows a smirk coupled with a snort. While shaking her head side to side, she silently mouths the words “Fuck no.”
Hurts a bit, I’ll admit it, but I won’t let her see that shit. I smile back and snicker, playing it off as if I was kidding. Guess she got what she wanted, or some facsimile thereof, and now she is ready to go back to doing whatever the hell it is she does. Guess nailing the strange guy from Hollywood is some form of thing around here. A conversation piece.
I’d love to think it’s a badge of honor, but I have no such illusions. If that helps her get through the day, fantastic, I’m just fumbling through this thing like everybody else. I’m an oddity of sorts around here. I’m not a project manager at Bullshit Corp, don’t play golf, and I don’t give a squirt of piss about the school district. Think she pretty much captured the essence of our relationship with her “fuck and puke” commentary.
I let us both off the hook, giving her a light peck on the cheek then a gentle nudge to the door. Our eyes meet for a moment of sweetness. It’s the most human moment we’ve shared, and it was nice to have it. I’ll try to remember it as I’m cleaning my bathroom. She cracks a smile moving toward my disaster of a front yard. If you looked down my street, you’d see a row of nice, newly constructed homes with perfectly manicured lawns.
Save for mine.
My status in the neighborhood ranks slightly lower than what’s currently staining my American Standard. My yard, my orphaned plot of dirt, it resembles a ’70s porn star’s bush.
Untamed.
Unmanaged.
Unfortunately my next-door neighbor Rick is walking his dog down the sidewalk in front of my bastard-child yard a few feet from J-something.
Eyes lock.
Recognition made.
I can see shame spreading like a disease through J-something. A blockage not allowing oxygen to reach her self-esteem.
“Morning, Karen,” Rick says to J-something.
Karen? Dammit. She’ll always be J-something to me.
Really should help with the Rick-shaming that’s about to take place.
It would be the human play.
“Karen,” I call out, “thanks for helping me…with my thing. That thing. Not my thing. My thing is powerful. Like an angry beast. That thing, in there, in that house, it’s a mess. Fucked up. Needs work, that thing. Anyway. Big help, Karen.”
Blank stares. Eyes frozen in complete disbelief.
Truly stunned by my dumbass attempt at kindness.
I’m not good at any of this.
She nods to Rick and shuffles down the street while forcing herself to hold her head high. As she should. Fuck Rick. I watch him lower his chin with eyeballs high as she leaves, righteousness firing off the intensity of a thousand suns. What the hell has this clown ever done that would warrant judging J-something/Karen, or anybody else for that matter? I should plow through my jungle and drop his sorry—
“Morning, Jasper.”
Shit. Rick has engaged.
Don’t really have a move here other than to saunter over and take my beating like a man. Rick’s T-shirt strains to cover his potbelly. I don’t know his precise age, but fifty-plus is a sensible guess. Rick gets me. He hates me, but still, he gets me. A nice enough guy, just a little nosey, maybe a little bit of a—fine, he’s a massive pain in my ass.
“Hey, Rick,” I say.
“How’s it going?” he says.
“Great,” I say.
“Good, good.” There’s a stretched, pregnant pause. It hurts.
Rick says, “You still liking the ho
use?”
“Yup.”
“Good, good.” More creeping, dead-air pain.
“Weather’s been nice,” he says.
“Yup.”
I can set my watch to what’s coming next.
“You done any grilling lately?”
“No, no I haven’t. You?”
“Oh yes, I got the Green Egg out last weekend. Good stuff.”
“That’s nice.”
“So good.”
“Great.”
“You still do any of that movie stuff?”
I grit my teeth, trying to think of a reply that doesn’t make me sound like a complete asshole. Thankfully, a car passes by. The ears on Rick’s dog shoot straight up. He barks his balls off as he chases after the car at full speed. Rick is not prepared for his dog’s sudden act of aggression. The leash is ripped from his hand as the dog burns ass down the street chasing after a moss-painted Honda Pilot. Not one of their standard colors, must’ve paid extra.
“Fuck,” Rick lets slip out. I’ve never heard profanity out of him, let alone the big f-monster. Perhaps there’s hope for him yet.
Doubt it.
The dog glides down the street with his paws barely touching ground. Raging with amazing recklessness. No fear. Burning a fuel that’s equal parts joy and hatred. Tongue flapping. Teeth ready for damage with eyes ratcheted up to a level of intensity few will ever know. To have such clarity in what you want, allowing you to rule the moment rather than the moment ruling you, such singular focus, having that kind of courage at your disposal and the ability to use it to go after that something you desire.
Have to admit it, I’m jealous of the furry little fucker. But as I watch Rick waddle-run after his rampaging pooch, I can’t help but wonder…
What happens if the dog catches the car?
4
Used to be a writer.
A screenwriter. Some might argue I was never really a writer. Only written two completed screenplays. Both were produced, however, which is quite an accomplishment in Hollywood. You see, it’s one thing to write a screenplay. It’s another thing to write one worth a shit, still another thing to get it read by someone actually working in showbiz, yet another thing to get someone to pay money for it, and a completely different thing to have it made into a fully realized, bona fide motion picture.