by John L. Hart
Mouse leaned down and he wasn’t even sure what he was gonna say until he heard the instructions leave his mouth and go straight into the spook’s ear. “I got no beef with you, so do us both a favor and play this up. You heard what the man said. I’ll do what I can to go easy on you, but you gotta help me out. One more time now. Got it?”
As if they’d rehearsed it a thousand times before, the spook screamed while Mouse sprayed him once more, lit him up, and crowed, “He’s roasting!”
The flames went out again just as the stupid song was over. Stupid as the name of some group who called themselves “The Crazy World of Arthur Brown,” and, much as he loved money, Mouse knew he’d pay a year’s salary never to hear them again.
He also knew, right in that moment, that if he could grab those passports and start a new life with Missy, he’d be willing to empty garbage cans for a living.
But he didn’t have that option, and something wasn’t right with his head—not that it was ever right, but he wasn’t splitting off the way he needed to, and maybe that’s why he was having such trouble getting his act together, trying to figure out how to help the spook who’d helped his friend, instead of doing what it took to save his own skin.
You good man.
Mouse caught himself about to mutter, Shut up, bitch, only to realize it was Missy’s voice he heard.
Blocking out the image of Missy, her voice, he quickly switched the strobe lights to a flood of red, and tried to focus on the next song coming up. At least it was one he got to pick, and much as he dug Sinatra and Dino, nobody came close to Sammy. Sammy was always a reminder that even short guys could beat the odds, make it big, and get the woman they wanted, and boy did he need reminding of that now.
The halo wire on his head no longer burning, Mouse flung it toward The Pale Man and tried to ignore the passports being waved in the air, along with the surgical tray where Jenkins was now standing. As the peppy instrumentals piped in, Mouse went to town on his version of Sammy’s number one hit.
Who can take a Dumbo, wrap him in a vise
Soak him in some Sterno and even make a Pale Man sigh
The Mousey-Mouse can, The Mousey-Mouse can
The Mousey-Mouse can since he mixes work with fun and makes it all so good…
Mouse grabbed the cold whipped-cream canisters he had on ready, caps off, and sprayed the writhing JD from head to toe while he skipped in circles around the dental torture chair and sang:
The Mousey-Mouse makes everything he takes gratifying and
Stupendous
Now you talk about your fucked up wishes, he can even eat your
Mrs.!
And with that, Mouse leaned in towards JD’s neck, whispered, “Sorry, buddy,” and bit off the bottom of his ear lobe. It wasn’t nearly as much as he probably should’ve taken, but the blood that gushed out made it look like plenty. The blood flowed down and over the white whipped cream and Mouse licked it up as he created a red and white painting out of JD, bucking against his restraints.
Even if it was for show now, Mouse was sure it would be for real once this act was over and the final one began. He wasn’t sure what he was gonna do. He just didn’t know. But for now he slapped the spook hard, sending red and white cream flying, and then wound up his version of “Candy Man” with:
Oh, who can take an ear off, dip it in some cream
Separate the pussies from the buddies who are mean
The Mousey-Mouse can, oh The Mousey-Mouse can
The Mousey-Mouse can since he mixes work with fun like they do it in the ’hood . . .
As The Pale Man went crazy, clapping and shouting, “Bravo! Bravo!” Mouse knew it was too early to be taking any bows.
Everything so far had been cake, compared to what was to be his grand finale: the lobotomy.
40
Mouse hit the play button with jittery hands and in piped the Percy Faith Orchestra doing their “Theme from a Summer Place.” For once there wasn’t gonna be a song, there wasn’t gonna be a dance, just some really nice instrumentals to settle him down and hopefully calm the spook while he did the worst thing he’d ever done, even worse than the Willie Pete treatment and offing the Fish rolled into one.
Those guys’d had it coming, just like Vo, but the main thing was, once they were done, they were done. Scrambling somebody’s brains like eggs and leaving ’em like that for years to come, to piss and crap on themselves, even be fed like a baby, now that was a whole other level of wronger than wrongness. Like Hitler kind of shit.
Mouse reluctantly stepped over to the surgical sink and quickly but thoroughly scrubbed down like Jenkins had taught him. He pulled on the surgical gown and gloves. While the strains of violins filled the air he sniffed and smelled a familiar smell. The stink of sweat and fear. But it wasn’t coming from the spook’s direction. He could smell it as strong as a BO check from under his own armpits.
He didn’t want to look at JD with his head strapped to the chair but he made himself do it as he took a dreaded step closer to the surgical tray where the “orbitoclast,” a fancy medical name for what was basically an ice pick, was waiting. It was only an instant of eye contact, but he got the signal loud and clear with an upward flick of JD’s eyes at the wide strap covering his forehead and sweeping down around his chin. The thing wasn’t leather, but something stronger, made out of nylon and something Jenkins called Velcro that was fastened around the back of the headrest. The stuff was amazing, strong as concrete, and stronger still if anyone yanked against it, but if it was yanked in the right direction, the two materials that met like magic would come apart, easy as peeling a banana.
For a second Mouse wondered why the spook wanted him to help get the head gear off instead of the arm restraints made out of the same stuff . . . but then he got it. He thought. If he was having to work around his head anyways, maybe nobody would notice. Fiddling with arm straps would be a lot more obvious, and they’d probably both be gunned down before he could get one loose. Still, he couldn’t imagine what getting the spook’s head loose could accomplish besides him trying to avoid the ice pick, maybe get himself stabbed between his temples to end things clean and quick instead of the much worse fate Drac had in mind.
Yeah, that had to be it.
Mouse gave a short nod. The Pale Man wouldn’t be happy about the spook getting killed instead of the other, and the passports would be good as gone, but . . . it was something Mouse could live with. There was honor in letting another man die with some dignity when that dignity was deserved. And the spook deserved it instead of getting turned into a zombie like those gook prisoners Mouse felt bad for having to practice on, before Jenkins practiced some more sick shit on them himself.
As Percy Faith and his orchestra filled The Laboratory with the sweet sound of violins Mouse felt the tension in his body release. KRZY toned it down, too. Yeah, he was doing the right thing and he could botch this ice pick lobotomy without getting into too much trouble for it himself. He hoped.
He knew how it was supposed to work, thanks to that fruitcake Dr. Freeman who thought up the whole ice pick thing after giving it a try on grapefruits and stiffs. Jenkins was proud to personally know him, and even prouder to know some hush-hush secret about Freeman doing a job on JFK’s sister Rosemary, who’d conveniently dropped out of sight. While she got an earlier version with a hole put in her head to get to her brain, the ice pick lobotomy was easy as 1-2-3.
Lift the eyelid and hammer the ice pick through the bone right above the eye socket, close to the nose and, bingo, there it went “into the frontal cortex,” and scramble it like eggs. Repeat on the other side. Jenkins even said it could be done without anesthesia, right in a doctor’s office, both sides done in ten minutes, like it was no bigger deal than getting a tonsil swabbed for strep throat and sent away with a prescription for penicillin.
Right.
The Pale Man had g
otten up and was moving closer to where the procedure was about to take place, his AK-47-toting bodyguards coming along with him. Jenkins hovered on the other side of the chair into which JD was strapped, his bright green eyes blinking at Mouse like some kind of SOS signal.
Mouse knew he had to work quickly, make everything look like a fucked-up accident and get this over with in a matter of seconds.
He lifted the ice pick with his left hand, shifted his right hand behind the Velcro restraint, and said loud enough for everyone to hear, “Better make sure this thing is secure and—”
With one discreet rip of the Velcro, JD’s head bucked up, his mouth opened and his teeth latched onto the ice pick, taking off the tip of Mouse’s little finger.
Just as Mouse yelped “What the fuck?” and jumped back, grasping the finger spurting blood, Jenkins made the bad mistake of leaning forward.
In the ice pick went, straight into his left eye socket and into his head, instead of the one it was meant for.
With nothing but his teeth clamped onto the pick, JD jimmied the business end of it back and forth faster than strobe lights while Jenkins made like Frankenstein with electrodes sending currents to command his feet to dance like crazy until JD reared back, lunged down, and started slicing away at an arm restraint.
“Bloody hell!” screamed The Pale Man at his guards. “Stop him!”
A gun shot went off. As if in slow motion Mouse saw the ice pick drop and more blood hit the floor. He saw one of the snake faces holding a bloody knife, saw the slash across JD’s cheek and past the jaw that had been holding the ice pick. Just as the bodyguard’s knife was poised to drive straight into the heart of JD, Dracula shrieked, “NO!”
Everything stopped. Except for the ongoing loop of violins playing the “Theme from a Summer Place.”
“Well,” Drac said with a weird smile and a giggle, “now that was quite the show, wasn’t it? I love to be surprised, and such a surprise that was.” He glanced at the flopping body of Jenkins on the floor, looking like he was going to break every bone in his body, and instructed, “Kill him. He is no good to me now.”
Two bullets popped and Jenkins quit looking like a downed spastic.
As for the spook, he was bleeding big time from his bit off earlobe, slashed open cheek, and the gunshot wound to his arm, keeping him from slicing the restraints.
Maybe it was the blood loss that made him pass out. His freed head slumped down as far as it could go and the whipped cream in his lap turned yellow.
The Pale Man sighed then gestured to his guards. “Take him down to the pit to join Dr. Kelly. I’ll weaken them both some more before we try this again. Oh, leave a small bucket of water so they might determine who needs it most, and I’ll have the other doctor delivered tomorrow. It should be interesting to see how they parse it out from there. Now just in case Mr. John Doe is more coherent than he appears, please take note that Dr. Moskowitz will be lobotomized himself prior to delivery if my employees do not return shortly.”
While the guards did as told, The Pale Man switched his attention to Mouse.
“As for you, Mr. Mouse . . .” The Pale Man shook his head as he ripped apart the passports and every dream Mouse had for him and Missy along with them. “You started off so splendidly, only to disappoint me greatly tonight. But as Scarlett would say, tomorrow is another day. And now I will give some thought as to what your tomorrow shall bring. Sleep well.”
*
Mouse did not sleep well. Not that he’d slept well since Vo had set him up and used Missy to cinch the deal, but the dreams he had, they were bad, and they seemed so real he wasn’t even sure if he was awake or asleep.
He reached over for Missy, only Missy wasn’t there.
Maybe this was just part of the bad dream that seemed real and he was still sleeping.
Mouse felt for Missy again on the mattress they shared. No Missy. He opened his eyes and saw his outreached hand, the bandage she had put on his little finger before they went to bed. The space beside him was empty. He blinked, blinked again, and continued to blink until he was certain he was awake, that the early morning sun was peeking into their bedroom, and Missy was gone for sure.
He flung aside the covers, raced into the huge bathroom. She wasn’t taking a shower. He didn’t find her in the closet, just their clothes hanging side by side, and raced outside in the skivvies he slept in to make sure he didn’t try to jump her bones if he woke up with a hard-on, since he didn’t want no one seeing something as private as that on camera.
“Missy!” he called, hoping she was walking around the area because she hadn’t slept well herself, what with him tossing and turning with the bad dreams and probably waking her up.
No answer.
Mouse raced back inside, threw on the first shirt and pants his hands could grab, snatched his Zippo from beside the bed, pocketed it on automatic pilot, and then ran outside again, barefoot. He didn’t have time to put on shoes, he’d do it once he found her, and—
“Good morning, Mr. Gallini.”
He didn’t have to turn to know the voice, or to register that The Pale Man had called him formally by his last name, something he hadn’t done since taking a liking to him and calling him Mr. Mouse.
Mouse whirled around, demanded, “Where is she?”
“Waiting for you.” The Pale Man smiled, sipped at the cup he was holding, nodded toward a bodyguard with a silver tray sporting a tea set and another cup. Another bodyguard smiled, the snake on his face twitching around his mouth while he trained his AK-47 straight at Mouse’s bare feet. “Would you care for a cup of tea before we pay her a visit?”
Mouse’s bowels turned to water. His stomach hit the ground. Before he could stop himself he lunged.
The next thing he knew, his back hit the ground his stomach was still on, and his chin felt so busted it had to be broken all over again.
The fuck if he cared, except it made all the words coming out of his mouth sound garbled. His ears were ringing but that had nothing on the alarm bells going off in his head.
The Pale Man loomed over him, smiling, his eyes a bright pink to match the early morning sky.
“Tch-tch, didn’t your mother teach you any manners? I truly cannot abide rudeness. You have disappointed me twice now in such a small frame of time, after being such an exemplary employee since our first meeting. Something for us to discuss later, perhaps. We shall see. The decision shall be yours. Depending on the choice you now make.”
A signal to the bodyguard bearing the tray and the tray was put down, only for Mouse to be abruptly lifted from the ground and marched in a direction that gave new meaning to terror. But just as he was certain they were taking him to The Laboratory where Missy would be in the dental chair instead of the spook, they took a sharp turn.
And what he saw when they stopped, on a hill that sloped down to a large, secured area . . .
“She is so beautiful, isn’t she?” The Pale Man asked. “Certainly a tasty bite for breakfast. That is . . . unless you would rather take her place?”
Mouse couldn’t speak and it had nothing to do with his broken jaw.
The Pale Man dangled a key, just as he had the passports the night before.
“As you can see, your lovely Missy cannot possibly escape her fate unless you choose to use this key and try to save her. But in so doing, you will have to take her place since the great snake is hungry, and you know how it prefers humans to pork. Alas, he can consume only so much at a time, and both of you would most likely cause an unfortunate case of indigestion.”
Mouse’s heart was pounding so hard he could hardly hear anything but the roaring in his ears while he watched the huge white python, so fuckin’ bigger than big it had to break all the records in “Ripley’s Believe It or Not,” emerge from the cave opening, beside a pond filled with lily pads and floating flowers, where The Pale Man kept him nicely
fed and housed, with a high concrete fence to make sure it didn’t escape into the adjoining forest. Like a cushy dog house with a mean pit bull watching over its territory and ready to tear into anyone that trespassed or placed so much as a toe over a barbed-wire fence.
A big-ass tree like they could only grow in Asia, way bigger than anything he’d ever seen in Jersey, was planted all by its lonesome near the pond, with a totem pole close beside it. The same one in the instructional film with the sonofabitch who was about to get eaten before Mr. Phillip got all in a dither and had the lights come up at that Madam Nhu’s joint while Mouse watched from the wings.
Missy wasn’t tied to the totem pole. She was strapped to the tree with more of that magic Velcro, so it must’ve just been for shits and giggles that a big clunky chain was wrapped around her legs with a lock that looked like it was keeping anyone from breaking into Captain Hook’s treasure chest.
Mouse didn’t think. He didn’t blink. He grabbed the key dangling from Dracula’s pinky and hoped to God he took the damn thing off that’d had him jumping with a “here boy” crook ever since they’d first met.
All he could see was Missy tied to the tree while the fuckin’ big snake slithered out of the cave, slithered some more into the lily-pad pond, and was going straight for breakfast, and it wasn’t for one of the hogs that never got eaten.
Mouse wondered if how he felt now was the way Superman felt when he outraced a train and leaped tall buildings in a single bound, because somehow he managed to get to Missy before the “Ripley’s Believe It or Not” snake. He didn’t even remember grabbing one of the snake-faced bodyguard’s knives, but somehow it was in his hand, while the key to the lock was in the other.
He got the lock off, slashed through the Velcro shit—he didn’t have time to figure out where the magic pieces met—and as soon as he had Missy free he said, “Baby, I love ya. RUN!”