Pat glared at me. He had vomit, slobber and human waste oozing from his mouth. He tried to speak, then started gagging—he was having a difficult time trying to keep from swallowing the filth. I shook my head as I smiled at him. “Damn, Pat, you’re one sick fucker.”
He started to mumble again, but turned his head when a rumbling noise came echoing from the cleanout, followed by another rush of turds and piss. The liquid had splashed Pat in the face and the heavier solids had landed on Steve’s head. They were covered with so much filth that they looked like swamp monsters. Steve wouldn’t look at me, so I yelled at him. “Hey, why you pouting?”
Before he could speak another gush of sewage came rushing from the cleanout, followed by another, then another. I laughed. “There are some shittin’ fools in this building.” I had to step back a few steps as the tub overflowed with sewage, causing a larger pool of brown water and pieces of shit to spill out onto the concrete floor. Before the entire floor was covered, I went to Pat’s clothes and found his cell phone. I sent Steve a text that read, Good job with the inspector. Your professional attitude went a long way with him. He is going to give us two weeks to get the repairs completed. I’ve decided to head out of town for a few days for a much-needed vacation. I will be turning off my phone, so just take care of anything that arises. Also, tell my wife I’m leaving her. I held up the phone so Pat could see it. “I just sent a text to Steve’s phone in case the police look at your phone records when you’re reported missing. That way no one will come looking for you down here.” I pulled Steve’s phone from my pocket and responded to Pat’s text. I looked at Steve. “Hey, captain, the police won’t be looking for you either—I sent a text to Pat that said you had already planned on going camping with some friends so you would be out of pocket as well.” Steve’s phone was an android, so I tossed it into the tub. The water would short out the circuits so the police couldn’t track it through the GPS. I added a new number to Pat’s phone, then shut it down. His was an antiquated piece of shit with no GPS, so I tossed it on a nearby workbench so he would find it later if he lived. The ten minutes that I had been in the basement, the flow of flushing toilets had increased to every two minutes or so. Pat and Steve were speechless as they sat in chest-high filth. I grabbed some caulk and a caulk gun from a box of materials that was on a workbench, then went upstairs. I ran a thick bead of caulk around the door jam, then closed and locked the door. I ran another bead around the door’s edges to ensure the odor would be contained, at least from around it. Before I left, I propped open the main entry doors to help with the odor.
Colostomy Bag or Death
Wyatt looked as if he wanted to throw up. “That was freakin’ nasty.”
“I know, I was there.”
“How long did it take someone to find them?”
“Not sure. That’s why we’re going to Atlanta after Titusville. I’m curious as well.”
“We’re really going there?”
“I told you this trip was going to be like show and tell.”
“How long ago was it?”
“About seven days ago.”
Wyatt’s eyes got big. “Holy shit! Do you think it’s wise to go back?”
“It’ll be fun to see what the outcome was.” Seth looked at his watch.
“Are we on a schedule?”
“Not really. This road trip will be spontaneous for the most part. We do have a few places we must go, but no time constraints, unless you need to get back home to your daughter.”
“She’s okay. She’s stayin’ with my aunt.” Wyatt noticed another sign. “Palm Bay is coming up.”
Seth looked at his watch again. “We’re running a little behind.”
“I thought you said we’re not on a time constraint?”
“We’re not.”
Wyatt looked in the rear-view mirror towards the back seat. “Can you get my bag? I need my binder.”
Seth pulled Wyatt’s bag between the seats, noticing it was heavy. “How much crap you got in here?”
“I didn’t know how long I was going to be away, so I packed a lot of stuff.” He looked over at Seth. “My binder should be on top.” Suddenly he remembered his revolver was in the bag. “Wait. I’ll get…”
Seth pulled the gun out. “Nice piece.” He handed it to Wyatt. “You might want to keep it on you.”
Wyatt looked guilty as if he had been caught doing something wrong. He took the gun and stuck it between his legs. Seth pulled out the binder and opened it. He laughed when he saw how many articles there were. “This is like a school girl’s scrapbook.”
Wyatt was still embarrassed from Seth finding his gun, and he turned a shade of darker red from Seth’s last comment. “Why are you not pissed at me?”
Seth rolled down the window a little, then lit a cigarette. “For what?”
“The gun… Jim.”
Seth shrugged his shoulders. “Anyone in your shoes would have called the cops; I wouldn’t have expected otherwise, and the gun means you’re not a bitch.”
Wyatt was relieved as he looked over at his binder. “Which one do you want to talk about?”
“I don’t care. It’s your story.”
Wyatt reached over and flipped the pages. He stopped at an article that the headline read, Gangbangers Gruesomely Murdered. “What about this one?”
Seth smiled. “You like that one, do you?”
Wyatt nodded his head to indicate yes. “I had read this story a few years back and always wondered why you would do such a thing.”
Seth flicked some ashes out the window. “Because they were gangbangers. These fuckers are constantly wreaking havoc on innocent people; they fucking live for it. I have probably fucked up more of these scumbags than I can count.”
“It was interesting what you did, but I’m surprised you didn’t get shot.”
“I’ve had plenty of altercations with these types of thugs before and know what safety measures to take.”
“And what would those be?”
“Don’t hesitate and do the unexpected.”
“Were your other run-ins this violent?”
“Absolutely. In some cases, worse.”
“I’m surprised Jim didn’t cover this one up.”
“He didn’t have time. A reporter was there doing a story in the neighborhood and witnessed the whole thing.”
“Was this something you planned on doing, or was it spur of the moment?”
“It was a last-minute decision.”
“Did you just happen to run across them?”
“Yes and no. I was in California taking care of some business when I noticed on the news how bad the crime was in Oakland. I even read an article stating Oakland and the surrounding area had the most dangerous neighborhoods in America, and a person had a one-in-nine chance of being the victim of a violent crime. When I finished my business, I headed over there to see if it was really that bad. It was around 8 PM when I reached the slums. There were lowlifes everywhere; they were walking, standing and sitting on everything in sight. I was already driving an older Ford pickup, so I put on a straw cowboy hat just to see if someone would mess with me. Sure enough, they did. A white man driving a truck while wearing a cowboy hat was like a magnet for assholes. Punks were running up to me at every stop sign and red light. Half of them were trying to sell me drugs, some were letting me know that I was going to get my ass kicked, and the rest were going fucking nuts for no reason at all. The more aggressive ones were trying to open my doors, or reaching in through the windows to grab the keys. It was like driving a vehicle filled with bananas through a drive-through safari with a bunch of starving monkeys. When I made a second pass they were a lot more aggressive and started brandishing weapons of all types, so I went down a couple of blocks and stopped at a park. I put on a trench coat and loaded the inside pockets with some weapons, attaching them to special made straps. The sun was almost set as I took off on foot. As soon as I turned a corner and started down the street with the punks, several
of them came ghetto-strutting in my direction. I looked back and noticed there were two more coming from behind. I continued to walk, minding my own business with my hands in my coat pockets. They walked right up to me and began talking shit. There were now five of them standing around me. I could also see another group heading my way from down the street. One of the punks pushed me from the front. “Yo, fool, what tha fuck ya think you’re doin’?”
The asshole behind me knocked off my cowboy hat. “Yo’ ass got sum fuckin’ nerve comin’ round here.”
Some other punk popped off, “You gonna get all fucked up now, boy.”
They were all feeding off each other as they cursed and threatened me. There was one punk behind me, one on each side, a fat guy in front and two white wannabe gangsters behind him. I smiled at the fat fucker that was standing in front of me. “Let’s get to fuckin’ then.”
He smiled back as he reached out for my coat. “I’ll be takin’ thi…”
My arms were inside the trench coat. The end of my coat sleeves were sewn inside the pockets to give the appearance that I had my hands in them. Before the fat fucker could finish his sentence, I had taken a short dagger and shoved it up through the bottom of his face just behind his chin with my left hand. I had to move quickly before the other punks had a chance to react, and I had already played out what I needed to do when they had first surrounded me. I spun to my right to the more aggressive punk, slicing his throat with a katana that I had in my right hand. As the momentum of the blade continued past him towards the punk behind me, I pulled the weapon back, then thrust it into his stomach. I released the handle, leaving the blade in his guts, then spun in the opposite direction. My left hand had already pulled out another katana, and as the punk was stepping back, the tip of the blade sliced him across his face. I quickly spun around and noticed the two white chicken shits were running away. I pulled out my silenced pistol and shot both of them in the legs. The fat guy that was in front of me was lying on the ground twitching. The fucker to my right was hunched over on his knees and gurgling out his last scream through the gash in his neck. The punk behind me was limping away with the katana still sticking through him. The only guy left standing was the fucker to my left that had been cut across his face. His eyes had been sliced open and he was holding his hands out. I pulled out a can of lighter fluid and squirted him from head to toe, then lit his ass on fire. People were running from the streets and into their houses as I stood covered in blood in the barbaric aftermath. But it wasn’t over. To their horror, I chased down the fucker that had knocked my hat off and pushed him to the ground. I grabbed the handle of the katana and pulled it out of him, then sliced his stomach wide open. I reached down and grabbed a hand full of intestines, then slung them over my shoulder. I took off running towards the two white punks. After about twenty paces I felt a tug; I had pulled out his intestines from his stomach cavity after they had unraveled out of him. The two white punks were rolling around on the ground, whining about the inhumane treatment that they had received. When they saw me running towards them with a machete while dragging body parts behind me, they jumped to their feet and started limping away as fast as they could. When I got closer, one of the punks pushed the other one down to the ground, probably in hopes that I would stop to fuck around with him. To his horror, I jumped over the dude and sliced him across his back. The gash was so deep that I could see his spine as he fell to the ground. He held his hands out as he stared up at me with fear. “Dude, I’m sorry. Please don’t kill me.”
I shouted, “Colostomy bag or death?”
His expression changed to confusion. “Cause me to do what with a bag?”
“It’s colostomy bag, asshole.” I pulled out a short-barreled shotgun with a pistol grip and blasted his lower abdomen with a homemade thug-shot. He had a grimace of terror as he stared at his hands; the blast had blown off most of his fingers. “Oh my God!”
“That’s the least of your worries.” I pointed. “Check out your stomach.”
His eyes opened wide when he noticed the front of his shirt was turning red with blood. He pulled up his shirt with the palms of his hands, then stared in horror at his mutilated guts. “Oh my God! You shot me!”
“No shit, asshole.” I ran back over to the other punk that he had pushed down. He was crawling away, so I kicked him in his side, causing him to roll over onto his back. “Colostomy bag or death?”
He looked at the other guy who was trying to keep his guts inside his body by holding his shirt over his wound. “Not what he got.”
I stuck the end of the barrel to his right eye. The same time I pulled the trigger his left eye exploded and blood came spraying out of his ears. I grabbed my cowboy hat, then hightailed it out of there. When I got back to the park, I noticed the buzzards had already found my truck. Several Mexicans and a black dude were looking through the windows. There was also a white punk standing in the bed, and when he saw me, he plopped his ass down on top of the cab where one of his legs was hanging off by the driver’s side door. He was smiling with a chicken shit grin. “Hey, yahoo, nice farm truck.”
I shot the fucker in the face with my Springfield XDM .40 caliber handgun. The impact flipped him backwards, knocking him off the other side of the cab. Before his body hit the ground, I had blasted two of the Mexicans. The black dude was gone like lightning, but the last Mexican was shot with a double tap as he was starting to take his first step. The gun shots had echoed throughout the park, so I quickly got in my truck and hauled ass.”
Wyatt looked eager, as if he enjoyed the story. “Damn! That was messed up.”
“It definitely was intense and happened very fast.”
“The paper didn’t go into all that detail.”
“They’re not going to.”
“Why didn’t you just shoot all of them instead of using the swords?”
Seth tossed his cigarette butt out the window. “Where would be the fun in that?”
“But something could have gone wrong. You took a chance that the punks didn’t have a gun.”
“That’s why I didn’t hesitate and did the unexpected. And besides, these punks aren’t scared of guns anyway, but the sight of a blade with their blood on it terrifies the shit out of them.” Seth looked at Wyatt. “Same as being needle phobic. Most people would rather be shot than stabbed.”
Wyatt shook his head. “That’s not true. I’d rather be stabbed.”
“You sure about that?”
“Absolutely.”
“Let’s say you were going to be executed. There are no ifs, ands or buts, it’s gonna happen. But you do have the choice of being stabbed to death with a large butcher knife or being shot to death with a gun. What would you pick?”
“Well fuck, if you put it that way, I guess I would choose to be shot.”
“Point made.”
12 Gauge Thug-shot
Seth lit another cigarette. Wyatt looked over. “Can I have a smoke?”
He handed him one and a lighter. “Don’t let my bad habits rub off on you. Next you will be wanting to kill someone.”
Wyatt laughed as he lit his cigarette. “You don’t have to worry about that.”
“Don’t be so sure.”
Wyatt took a long drag. “I smoked once. Right after my wife died.” He looked at his reflection in the mirror. “Probably shouldn’t start back, but they do relieve tension.” He looked at Seth. “I want another gangbanger story.”
Seth leaned his seat back. “I have many that I could tell, but since we’re in Florida I have one that took place here. Around eight years ago, I came to Tampa to look for this scumbag. I couldn’t find him and needed someone to take out my frustrations on, so I went to Miami, knowing it was the carjacking central of the world with a large crop of out of control Cubans to fuck up. Even the police don’t go to certain parts of the city due to the violence. This was actually the beginning of what I do now, as far as fuck and go.”
Wyatt looked over at Seth. “What?”
&
nbsp; “Fuck and go. Instead of wasting time researching these assholes and dragging ass, I get to catch them in the act, fuck them up, then move to the next one.”
Wyatt smiled.
“You’re starting to like this shit, aren’t you?”
He shook his head to say no.
“Yeah you are. Anyway, I took a Mercedes off a pimp after I cut off his hands and feet, then…”
Wyatt interrupted. “Why did you cut them off?”
“So, he couldn’t hustle any more.”
Wyatt shook his head. “Your stories never cease to amaze me. You definitely have a crazy outlook on stuff.”
“Good. At least this trip won’t be boring.”
“It hasn’t been so far. So how did you run across him?”
“He was just another fuck and go and there’s not much to tell.”
“Well, what happened?”
“He drove up next to me as I was walking down a sidewalk. He was wearing a large pimp hat, large, gold framed sunglasses and enough jewelry to give Mr. T a run for his money. He motioned for me to come over. “Yo, dog, lookin’ fo’ sumptin’?”
The complete “A Glimpse into Hell” series - 5 books, 195 chapters, 1700 pages, 600K words of pure gore Page 60