by Travis Borne
“Aha, the man himself, big Jerry!” Officer Rex said. “I see you got out early, congratulations. Your girl up for working this weekend? I got two credits.” Rex let fly a sinister smile along with his taunt.
Glaring at Rex through the mirror at the bar, Jerry replied, “Rex, I fucking told you, she’ll never work for any of you—” His face became red and his breathing became forced and slow as if his lungs were being pumped up by hydraulic cylinders.
“You better watch your tone, redneck. Remember what happened last time? We might just have to call foul and send you down there without her.” The officers standing point at Rex’s side, Rolfe and Lars, smirked. “Carmen, you wouldn’t mind joining me, would you? Two for one special, come on, what do you say?” He chuckled perversely. Jerry spun around to face him and kicked the stool away with his heel.
“I don’t know what makes you so strong, Rex, but if you want to give it another go, this time without your goons, maybe we can settle this once and for all. Then I’ll take those credits fair and square—after stomping your ass into the ground.”
Rex busted out laughing—then stopped himself abruptly. He stood up straight and serious in the tomato-red suit. His black hair was slicked onto his head like a helmet, protruding from the back as if it had once been long, then clipped sharply and straight at the top of his neck. He placed his device onto the counter, took a step forward, and looked up to the taller, and by far larger, human. Carmen grabbed Jerry’s arm—but Jerry was a rock. Others in the bar held their breaths, waiting. The volume of the country music plummeted as though the jukebox was sneaking out the back door.
“And if I win—as I always do?” Rex mocked, his black eyes and white wrinkled skin glowing under the neon-blue haze. Slowly, eerily, the colors of the lights swapped as if riding a breeze: green, yellow, orange, then held at red.
Jerry took in a breath as if it was infused with crank—and he held it; his lungs caught fire and swelled, pumping his solid chest muscles up and out, and he looked to Carmen who was latching herself ever tighter onto his arm. She was a foot lower and looking up from the stool. Her glassy, now sharply focused and penetrating eyes said, “No.” And with her mouth she said, “Don’t, Jerry.”
But Jerry turned away, re-glared at Rex and said, “If you win, Rex, you will have my woman, for one day. And she will get both credits. But fair and square, man to—whatever you are. No tricks and none of your goons can interfere.”
Patrick said, “Jerry, bro, don’t—” Andy and Luke wobbled their heads in agreement.
“Come on, man,” Andy said, “let’s have a chill night, relax, enjoy the—”
As if Pat and his friends had suddenly become officers, Jerry cut them off with a glare too. He was beginning to seethe from the inside out and he’d yet to take a sip—he’d also still had the slightest bit of shakes, still in recovery mode himself, but now he was as unshakable as a boulder.
“You giant fuck,” Rex mocked, “hear that? Even your friends know you haven’t got a chance.” Jerry rotated his head slowly, back to face Rex square in the eyes. Rex lost his seriousness and vomited laughs. “Jerry, if I really wanted your girl I could have her anytime.” He paused, noticing Jerry was a solidified tree of muscle, and really serious about this—and several tense seconds passed. “Okay, but I must sweeten the deal—to make it worth it for me. If I win, and I will, I get you. Carmen will be mine for this entire weekend. And you get to be my bitch for two days, any two days of my choosing, and no credits will be granted.”
“Jerry, please—pleeeease,” Carmen urged. Her shaking had returned along with a rush of tears. And she could hardly keep her hand on his.
Bart had gone stiff but noticed her movements. He furtively slid a drink her way, which he knew she needed, now more than ever. Pat noticed and further nudged it her way. Carmen peeled herself away from Jerry and took a sip.
“And if I win,” Jerry replied, “if I pound your skinny ass into the pavement, you will never bother us again—ever.” Rex looked around. The crowd was expanding like a bucket of yeast in an oven. Even the upstairs had emptied and people were shuffling inside, sliding around to fill every nook and cranny, and lining the oak-tree-sized spiral staircase in the back.
Rex puffed out a few sarcastic chuckles from his thin, wrinkled lips and welcomed humans and workers alike with palms up, fingers crawling and calling. “Now hear this, everybody. Jerry thinks he can take me.” He sent the first dead-serious glare to Jerry. “You’re weaker than ever and you know it.” All heard; Rex made sure of it. It was an excellent time to further solidify his superiority, and it would be a pleasing win. He, as well as every other being in close company knew, Jerry would be utterly destroyed. Countenances went gray-blue with dismay. Somber deflation—and happiness was vacuumed from the bar. But this time, unlike most others, there were at least slivers of…of something else. And, this time Jerry had not even taken a sip.
Rex stood tall, confident. He couldn’t, wouldn’t, ever cower in front of the humans and workers. He took in their funereal expressions with satisfied sponges for eyes, eyes black like black holes, absorbing light from a universe and turning it cold.
The last revolt happened over sixty years ago. The final stand and last attempt, as it had been accepted. Before the push, optimism and hope abound, and after, pessimism infixed control into the hearts and minds of every citizen of Midtown—humans and workers alike. Like ice popsicles composed of liquid nitrogen, the defeat was a stab into each and every, once warm, heart.
Humans and workers had come together, then, had teamed up against the officers and just about managed to overcome the odds—but the officers retaliated with untouchable speed, and the same seemingly omnipotent fighting prowess they’d always possessed, the same power they could always manifest—unbeatable, unstoppable, deadly. And the officers’ strength had not been diminishing over time like that of the humans—there was no fatigue, and therefore no chance in hell Jerry could overcome this dominant capacity today. It had been a much-needed demonstration once, the last, and since, none, not a soul, had stood up to an officer, much less to Rex, the top dog, leader of the pack; he was more lethal than any officer, and the least compassionate.
“I agree to your challenge,” Rex pronounced, “but you must know, you cannot win, and I did warn you. I will have Carmen, then you.” He made sure the world could hear it with a stentorian, seemingly impossible voice.
Carmen went limp, passing out. Patrick and Andy caught her and made sure she drank some more of the healing ale. Jerry just stood like a statue made with alien metals; he glared solely into Rex’s eyes now, and felt something, something else that was new. Jerry perceived scintillas of doubt. The sliver of an emotion spun out from Rex’s eyes like the black plague, and it was all he needed. He thought of a railroad spike, and himself sweating, burning in the hot desert with blistered skin, driving railroad spike after railroad spike into, not the plates, but between Rex’s eyes, as if he was on the track, spike after spike after spike, driving it in and splitting this motherfucker’s skull—then giving him the boot like he’d done to Lee; the memories—were still returning.
Rex, seeing this new and sober and unwavering stance, and Jerry’s boiling hatred, unsmiled his grin to oblivion. His face lost the mocking, joking grin as if it’d been sucked up and into his black holes for eyes. Calmly and slowly, like a doorman, Rex said, “After you, sir.” His goons moved like goons do, to the side, and Rex waved a hand toward the double doors.
Jerry strode. Officers, humans, and workers moved aside as if he was a juggernaut. Jerry was—a walking bulldozer. Rex took a last look at the in-awe humans, then followed Jerry with a smooth gait. Carmen buried her face in Patrick’s shoulder.
The bartender raised Jerry’s glass full of bubbling green ale and yelled, “Jerry!”
Jerry halted at the door. He turned. His eyes were emeralds. He bore not an expression. He saw the drink but only shook his head. “No drink necessary. I don’t need it anymore
.”
He gazed at Carmen. She lifted her head and sent him a devastated look; but also, the new feelings lingered. She was desperate, but somehow, hopeful again—and he could sense just that; it was mixed with the aura being stretched between them.
Carmen moved her lips, although no sound came out: “You can do it. I love you, no matter what.”
Jerry returned to his love a look of determination, conviction. This was the sooner rather than later, the now, and no more waiting. His solidified stare ignited fires in others, too. Jerry had just re-lit that back burner, boiling blood, sending it into channels long since neglected.
Jerry’s look was not that of a crazy, drunken partier, one Rex and his goons had countless times beaten to a yellowy-red mash of indistinguishable pulp. His eyes told Carmen many things just then, but mostly—and others swallowed the moment likewise, faces lost their saturnine silver—it said, “The time has come. And this time, I will not fail.”
54. Street Brawl
People flooded the streets and a forty-foot hollow was established. Downtown, and this was happening. Officers arrived. The red-suits dismounted their red scooters. Telepathically, they received quick notice of the wager and made a beeline for the hollow, shoving people aside. They spread out evenly, stealing the best views while making a cylinder of a fence. No telepathy, but word of the fight among workers and humans spread just as fast. The buildings, overlooks, roofs, and street became packed before Jerry had even finished stomping his brown boots to the far side of it.
Rex stopped short, just off the curb. Lars lent a hand as the top dog removed his jacket. Beneath was his sheen, pressed button shirt, pitch-black and garnished with a glimmering red tie. He removed the tie too, then his gold cufflinks and rolled up his sleeves. Lars sent him a nod, as well Rolfe, and Rex worked his shoulders in a circle and rolled his long-faced head. His immaculate, glossy black shoes took him two steps forward—then he stopped. Rex solidified a grin that seemed to be expanding in sync with his superfluous preparations.
Tension in the crowd was gravity on Jupiter.
And Jerry rotated himself like Jupiter, unbuttoning his forest-green flannel. He removed it, then his white t-shirt, exposing his hairy chest and the broadest shoulders. He was a tower at 6 foot 9. Under a thick, wrathfully angled brow, his eyes had gone from gray-green to bright-green and his jaw clenched tight. A trim beard framed his chin, a chin that looked like it could take a city bus. He lowered his head, took in a breath, then raised it again. The glare, the pushing, I’m-going-destroy-you glare he sent to Rex seemed to possess—as unimaginable as it might seem— the ability to stop a mob of Christmas shoppers.
The crowd went silent.
A distressing thing about existing in Midtown, innumerable years were packed with memories. Being able to recall everything since the first day made it the living hell it truly was. And, no expiration, cessation, no possibility of resting in peace. Up here, tossed down and put into the regenerator; down there, just tossed into it and get back over here, get fucked. It was utterly horrendous torture—perhaps made worse by the week here, in Midtown. But thoughts had been like clouds, occasionally floating by, and recollection was a series of frames playing on a rundown projector: never aging, remembering the details, specks of images and feelings, all of it arrived like unexpected snowballs to the back of the head.
But for some unknown reason the memories were joining together again, like they should have been, should actually be, and clarifying. Jerry remembered clearly the time with Valerie, now, her death, and raising Amy with Jon, and how one day things had become…fuzzy. Now, even those fuzzy memories were becoming clear: when he found himself on a ship, perhaps flying through outer space, the rambling speaker inside a metal compartment with forty or so other humans, and the length of the flight—it took months—then they arrived, here. The speaker pontificated with a didactic monotone: You are arriving to the last habitable world, a flat realm designed specifically for you; Earth—has been destroyed. And it tried to describe the quote-unquote catch in such a way as to rationalize the fact they’d have to work, go down, to keep those beneath at bay. Jerry realized, now, all was a clever deception full of turbid truths. But nothing could’ve been done, then. And all and every have been stuck here ever since, coping, dying, slowly over the course of hundreds of years. Then Jerry remembered again, Carmen, and his triumph on Wednesday. He’d seen Valerie’s face in the place of hers, and had used pain from a seemingly previous life. Just like before, in the cave when his survival instincts had kicked in, when he had become—activated; unglued, he’d pummeled that drone with a blow which could’ve stopped a truck; and the boot to Lee’s skull.
Jerry’s face reddened, and it looked like he was taller, thicker.
Fight the officers, win, and there would no longer be an oppressive force, one able to force people to go down. Officers possessed great strength, speed, and clairvoyance, and had taken charge from day one, asserting they would maintain balance between the upper and lower worlds or everything would crumble. A crumbling, though, would be better; something had to change.
Jerry realized change had been happening all along. As the years went on balance shifted to that of pure, unadulterated corruption in Midtown, especially for the weaker citizens. At times being above mimicked what went on below. And not every beast was so evil, some showed favoritism or went easy on the humans. As more and more beasts became less mean, more and more officers seemed to fall into corruption, polluting the world above which had at least been totally peaceful, once upon a time. It was once a retreat, a refuge from the terrible reality of work—the other side of this demented equation—but had increasingly become an on-edge, officer-dodging existence; and for some, like drug-addled obsequious sycophants, bowing before officers drunk on power became routine. Things were bound to boil over, eventually—but still, never once had man, woman, or worker, fought an officer and won.
The concerned crowd—they all knew Jerry and liked him, loved him! No one wanted to see this fight, yet needed it just the same; it was a signal that maybe, just maybe, hope had not been completely extinguished. They knew he’d lose, just like the last time and every time before it, but hope was still glinting in curious eyes. After hundreds of years of oppression and torture…hope lingered—as if the bright white that encircled them, the light side of the equation, could never be fully extinguished while the dark side remained.
Jerry’s color was as red as Rex’s pants. He stomped his boots one after another and pounded his fist together.
Rex matched his steps.
Arms crossed, officers held the circle of people back, easily and with highfalutin egos. Rolfe, Rex’s longtime partner, shifted his hands together about six inches before his perverse smile, sliding them slowly against each other. He shattered the crowd’s hush of anticipation, yelling, “It’s going to be painful, big man.” Then he turned to Carmen and said, “After it’s done we’re going to send him down so he can use the regenerator. And we’ll let him finish out a week, or two, hell, maybe a month, why not a few months or a year.” He laughed, but Carmen’s countenance had gone rogue, away from sadness and disbelief.
“We’ll see about that,” she said.
“This fat lady ain’t sung yet, Rolfe,” Molly said. Fat Molly had arrived in close proximity, white but yellowing gobs of pie smeared on her face and neck, and plastic hair net.
Rolfe was a bulkier, larger version of Rex. He had the same suit, same slicked-and-clipped black hair and acne-pitted face, and likewise the same perverse nature. Carmen’s tears had dried on her cheeks and chest and she exhibited and maintained the sturdy expression of anger. Rolfe looked her up and down, at her moderately curvaceous body, and his grin piqued, his bleach-white teeth gleamed under the neutron star that was their midday sun. With renewed focus, and brighter-than-a-neutron-star hope, Carmen just stared outward, ignoring the fucker.
They would finally have her.
Most had given in from time to time, but with Jer
ry’s support, not Carmen. And Rolfe continued to pester her. “He’ll share you with me, you know. Carmen, it’s going to be great fun.” Other officers smiled devilishly, looking at her like a piece of meat. And although she still displayed her hardened tears, like trophies, she now appeared undaunted, unlike other times, brewing pent-up hatred in the face of her man’s likely death.
Jerry came forward like a wild bull just released from the chute. His speed increased as if time slowed. He charged, lunged forward and low, and uppercut hard. Rex dodged Jerry’s right then paraded a nonchalant chuckle to accompany the effortless parry. Jerry swung faster with his left; his motions were fluid and deadly, targeted masterfully—yet Rex dodged each with ease. Rex lifted his arms to the crowd; no cheers came. Officers, though, were heard and felt, chuckles and schadenfreude bled from their sinister auras. Enraged, Jerry leapt for Rex, trying to entrap the smaller man in the vice of his herculean arms. Rex spun round, effortlessly; the bull missed the red cape, and Jerry nearly plunged straight into Marti’s Place.
“Why, man?” Patrick said, looking up to him as he recovered. Pat pressed his lips together in dismay.
Jerry turned away from his friend, showing no emotion or response, and headed back out to the circle.
“We ought to finish this quick.” Rex said. “What do you say, Rolfe, ready for another fantastic weekend in paradise, kicking it with a Bloody Mary, or should I say, Bloody Carmen?” Rolfe busted up at the quip and agreed with a hell-yeah nod.
“I sure am, Rex.” Rolfe said. “Take him out and we’ll kick this party off.”
Rex bolted toward Jerry like a flash and his punches were one-two times twenty to the chest before Jerry could even raise an arm. Jerry reacted but the uppercut came, sending him flying, once again back toward Marti’s where stood his friends and Carmen, looking down on him.