by Stuart Keane
The man who'd made it his mission to belittle me, judge me. To stop me from becoming the man I now was. His face was at the corner of my vision, on every enemy.
A distraction, the curse of my family coming back to haunt me at the brink of death.
Then the Vietcong burst through the jungle …
*****
I kneel on the bed, razor in my right hand. I'm shivering, taking in the scene. Slowly, I reach out and take her hand.
I hear my father, in my head.
You did this, boy. Fucking murderer. You're just like me. You love hitting a woman.
No, I'm nothing like you. I loved her …
Fucking pussy.
My words form as I wipe the tears away. "I'm sorry."
*****
Rollins was killed by Jigsaw's M16. The gun performed what we call 'failure to extract,' which is when the chamber jams on a used shell. This was probably the first thing going through his mind when he signed the gun out. Clean or not, a dead man's rifle is not something you want to inherit. I saw the look on his face as the gun jammed. He looked at me in resignation, knowing he was fucked.
When the left side of his head disappeared in a cloud of blood, seconds later, I went into full-on rage mode. I've rarely felt that way before. My blood boiled, my skin was on fire. I swear my vision turned red, like the fabled saying, but it might have been the blood dripping in my eyes.
I looked at the enemy, staring death right in the eyes. The image of my father, his very visage haunting me to this day in every confrontation, miles away from home in the middle of 'Nam, slowly faded.
He didn’t scare me anymore.
I shot a VC as he leapt from the jungle. His head broke open like a melon smashing against a wall.
My father, the distraction, was no more.
I lost control, my entire being – senses, body, motion – went into automatic defense mode. I collected the guns from my fallen comrades and unloaded on that jungle. For a moment, time slowed, bullets were visible in the air. Or at least, it felt that way. Leaves and branches were obliterated. Vietcong, some of them, fell dead in a hail of gunfire. I took four bullets, one to the leg, two in the right arm and one in the left shoulder.
I should have died out there.
I didn’t die. My men did.
I led my men to slaughter.
When the chopper collected me, I would have taken their bodies back with me. They had to pry Rollins's mutilated corpse from my arms. I would have died saving the bodies, taken a hundred more bullets. They were honorable men for the brief time I knew them and deserved a proper burial, not to be pilfered and desecrated by the fucking gooks that had taken their lives.
Such was the way in 'Nam.
Rollins stares at me over my left shoulder. His brains slide down my face. It brings back memories of other fights, other battles.
I went back into that jungle a year later.
People say war is hell. What do they know?
Hell is peace compared to war.
Once you've seen a man vanish in a cloud of blood at the hands of a dead newborn child, one who couldn’t decide its own fate, mere days into its life, sacrificed at the behest of its mother, nothing is the same.
That's just the beginning.
Torturous images fill my mind. Every day, they chip away at my façade. I'm John Dixon, security guard at the local shopping mall in Denver. I earn enough money to keep my life stable, and there’s my inheritance from the war. Payoff money, I call it. It could be hush money for all I care, who'd believe the horrors I've witnessed? Uncle Sam sending me into the backwoods of Vietnam to kill its residents. Yes, I killed them, but who are the real survivors? Me? Rollins' family? Rogan's mother and sister, who were infinitely proud of him for going to war, even though he was shitting his khakis? It's no place for a fucking kid!
In war, there are no survivors. Only victims.
Casualties.
Just like Andrea, my fiancée, who now lies dead in my bed. Strangled because she moved funny in her sleep. The first night she stayed over after our proposal, and I throttled her with my bare hands. Maybe it was a bad dream or something, she was just readjusting in bed and getting comfortable, but my instinct was to throttle her.
She isn't moving … she hasn't for some time.
I don’t remember doing it.
I killed the only person who, despite all my flaws, loved me for who I am. She didn’t give a shit about my past, or how many gooks I shot in the face, or even how many men I led to slaughter. She only cared about me.
Maybe I am like my father after all.
Nothing more than a woman-beating, psychopathic drunk.
She loved me, enough to marry me. To say yes to my weak, hopeful proposal.
Now she's dead. Sprawled on my bed, naked and cold.
Another casualty of war? Definitely.
I stand here now in the doorway of my bathroom staring at her corpse. She's as beautiful in death as she was in life. I did this. I killed her. I strangled an innocent woman because of the images, no, the memories of my time in the war. Memories I wish I could pull from my brain and flush down the toilet.
I realize my face is half-shaved. The cream still clings to the stubble on the left side of my face. I'm shaving with a corpse on my bed. Habit? Did my brain make me do it to distract me? Do I shave to punish myself for the slaughter of my men, to have Rollins arrive and constantly remind me I got him killed? Rollins nods in the mirror behind me. He's right; I deserve to suffer for eternity. Maybe this is another chapter in that long, slow, tortuous journey to my deathbed, a journey that should have ended in 'Nam, or even at my father's abusive hands, but didn’t. Why should I be happy when everyone around me is destroyed by my mere presence?
I toss my razor into the sink with a ceramic clank. I don’t even turn around; I toss it over my shoulder as I would a grenade, and it lands perfectly. I move slowly to the bed and sit down, feeling Andrea's leg tap me in the small of my back. I open the drawer in the bedside cabinet and take out my service revolver, placing it on the bed beside me.
I trawl through some distant memories.
I remember holding a young recruit's slippery intestines in with a pot lid. His name I don’t recall.
How I smashed a gook's brain in with my rifle and didn’t stop until I saw brain ooze from the cracked skull, like some visceral piñata.
The newborn baby flying through the air.
I remember a dream I once had about the baby crawling along the wall, its fragile head twisted around, bloody eyes hanging out on oozing optic nerves, staring at me. I hear blood dripping on the wooden floorboards, tap-tapping away, the volume growing. It's screaming for its mother, the woman who so heartlessly tossed it—girl or boy, I don’t know—across the jungle to save herself.
This dream is repetitive, routine.
I can’t shake it from my fucking head.
Once, I was the child, reaching for my father, the man who neglected his family. My eyes torn out, I reached out in vain and my screams went unanswered.
It's one of hundreds in my vivid, traumatized memory banks.
I lift the service revolver off the bed and check the ammo. It's loaded. I glance over my shoulder and look at Andrea. My hand moves to her head and touches her black hair. For the first time since Rollins' death, I'm trembling. I stroke her forehead, noting the coolness, and retract my hand, curling it around the handle of the revolver.
"I'm sorry," I mumble, not able to say or think anything else.
I glance into the bathroom and see Rollins standing there, watching me with his one eye, his arms folded. I see the joker card tattoo on his forearm, the same one I have etched on my skin. I glance down at it, rubbing it with my fingers, and remember the good old days. We were soldiers in arms.
Friends.
I place the barrel tip under my chin. So many people put it in their mouth … that won't work. I want the bullet to go through my brain, not under it.
Once Rollins and
I went to a bar after a stressful day. We drank; we ate; we sang badly. Even the women were interested in us, which didn’t happen often. I remember asking him what was important in life. He said one sentence that stayed with me the rest of my years.
"Family. You can’t sell it, trade it, or lose it. And they always come back."
He was wrong ...
I wonder how it would have been with my father, had he bonded with me. Taking his son for his first ball game, his first beer, his first strip club.
I had none of that.
I look up and my father is there, nodding away, smoking a cigar with a cold bottle between two fingers. He rocks back and forth silently, his cold gaze aimed in my direction. He always terrified me.
I haven't seen him since … since … it eludes me now.
No, wait. I remember.
I see his obituary on a crinkled newspaper in my hand. The last time I saw an image of my father. I took it from my mother, who'd been crying over it. I can recall the transparent paper where the tears soaked through. In the corner were two lines of text and a standard photo – no smile – of him, glaring at the camera. He probably wanted to kill the photographer too.
He liked doing that.
He even killed himself.
I look up at his ghost. "I'm not sorry, you got what you deserved."
With that, he vanishes, my demon vanquished.
Family. They don’t always come back.
Maybe he could have.
I'll never know.
It wouldn’t have changed a thing.
BAM.
"Urgh … where am I … why am I all sticky? What the hell? Is that blood? What was that noise … Oh no, no, no. John, John! What did you do?"
The Swan Song
"Thank you, London."
With farewells still ringing in their ears, the members of Bethesda bundled through the rear double doors of Brixton Academy, making a beeline for their tour bus. The noise of five thousand people, screaming, head banging and moshing was rapidly dwindling as they distanced themselves from the stage.
The lights faded. The crowd's frenzy ebbed away at the disappearance of their heroes. Several filed out of the arena. Many stayed behind to hear a hopeful encore that wasn’t coming. One girl was seeking medical attention in the corner, her vomit-stained Slayer t-shirt hugging her tiny breasts. An overweight security guard was propping her up; his eyes weren’t on her face. A perverse smile snuck across his lips as his inappropriately placed hands held her steady.
After a few moments, the arena was empty. All that remained was a multitude of plastic pint glasses, some crushed and cracked, some half empty, several ripped T-shirts, three soiled pairs of underwear, thousands of black and white flyers, several unidentifiable liquids – possibly sweat, semen and blood – and a bloody tampon. The cleaner, broom in hand, was indifferent to the mess. For him, this was normality.
Brixton Academy, London. Saturday, 23:23.
Outside, the rain was coming down patiently, a hazy mist beneath the streetlights. The air was fresh, cool, crisp. The band stepped out into the cold, and several appreciative gasps emitted from their lips. As one, they stood on the street, relishing the sudden coolness. Several cars rumbled by in the distance. A horn honked in frustration.
Bleeding Lobes, the Swedish bassist, plucked the earplugs from the side of his head and tossed them onto the rain-soaked street. He sucked in several mouthfuls of air, trying to banish the warmth and humidity associated with playing on stage. Tucking his dirty blond hair behind his ears, he looked across the street. Beyond the metal security barrier that kept Bethesda from civilization stood several fans, merchandise in hand, awaiting their idols’ signatures.
Lobes stopped, uncertain. His eyes moved from the waiting tour bus to the fans. He normally enjoyed this part of the evening. Signing things for seven or eight dedicated fans was a personal thing, more personal than a mob of hundreds who simply wanted the band’s private endorsement to raise the value on their eBay sales. Lobes liked that people went out of their way to ambush them on the way to their bus.
Creepy or not, it was flattering.
He gazed up into the night sky, eyes narrowed, aware of the drizzle in the air. He breathed in a deep lungful and breathed out. He couldn’t believe this was all coming to an end.
Two more shows. That’s it.
"Let's go, Lobes, the bus is waiting." The band members started boarding.
Lobes said nothing. He regarded the fans, his heart thumping in his chest. They were the reason he was here today, a multi-millionaire rock star with four houses, three cars and two ex-wives. And, at one point, enough heroin to kill an elephant. At the thought, he rubbed his forearm, feeling the familiar itch. His fingers traced over aged track marks and he grimaced, remembering the past.
You so nearly lost it all.
He owed it to them, the fans. They rescued him. He bent down and picked up his earplugs from the sodden ground. He tossed them underarm, they sailed over the barrier and landed next to three kids, who couldn’t have been more than eleven. They scrambled for the collector's item, all too aware of the hygiene risks. Hell, kids asked you to spit and piss on them nowadays so this was mild compared.
Geist, the singer with vocals that could bring a man to tears and a woman to orgasm, stepped up beside his guitarist. "Fuck me, Lobes; you're getting all mushy on us again. They've seen you, that’s enough for 'em. Let's get the fuck out of here, I'm starving." Geist, rubbing a hand over his slick, chrome-dome head, walked towards the bus.
By the side of the tour bus, a woman waved at the singer and lifted her vest top over her head, exposing her bulbous, fake breasts. Geist walked over, placed his head between them, and stuck his tongue out as her friend snapped a photo on her iPhone. Geist took out a black marker, signed her left breast, and kissed it before moving away. The girls screamed as they recollected the moment via digital photo. Geist paused for a second, thoughtful.
Some fans were unpredictable and dedicated. Others were just crazy.
Lobes nodded in silence, accepting his decision. He waved to the fans, who weren’t interested. They were watching the scramble for a set of earplugs, transfixed. Lobes walked to the tour bus and climbed the short, narrow steps. As he boarded the bus, the exterior became a forgotten memory.
Lobes ambled down the narrow walkway, warm air comforting his chilled skin. He stepped between Zhang and Hunter, the remaining band members, who idled on dual leather sofas. Stepping to the rear of the bus, Lobes lowered his six-foot frame onto his bunk and flopped his head down onto the three pillows. He breathed out, exhausted. He watched his friends with amusement. He scratched his forearm once more.
Zhang, a lithe and energetic fellow of Chinese descent, was tweaking and tuning his guitar strings. His long mane of black hair hung loose, covering his face as he worked. His red Ibanez MTM100 sat across his lap, dwarfing his tiny frame. A custom model decorated with skull and crossbones print, it was one of several the guitarist owned in his private collection. They never left the tour bus.
Meanwhile Hunter, the drummer of the band, was scorching the blond hairs on his muscular, tattooed forearm with a Zippo. An immature smile creased his face, pulling taut on the tight cornrows that decorated his scalp. The pungent stench of burnt hair quickly filled the interior of the bus and Lobe felt his face creasing in disgust. "Fuck sake, Hunter. You gotta do that in here?"
"Fuck you, man. I'm bored shitless. These gigs get more and more depressing by the day."
"Well, it’s a good job we’re retiring soon. Two more shows and Bethesda will be part of metal folklore forever. Remember, that’s been the goal ever since we started."
"I know, man, but twenty years? Bit of a chore if you ask me. It better be fucking worth it." Hunter was waving the flame of the lighter along the underside of his forearm. The skin turned pink with heat.
"It'll be worth it. No other band has ever done anything like this. Remember that. They all swear, fuck, take drugs, and drink e
nough bourbon to develop liver failure, but what we're doing, the swan song, is going to be legendary. Anyone can offend. It takes balls to take it a step further."
Hunter nodded. "I fucking hope so."
Silence filled the bus. Zhang's guitar strings twanged in the background. Lobes closed his tired eyes and relaxed. Hunter tongued the Zippo flame and laughed.
Geist climbed onto the bus and bent down, whispering into the driver's ear. After a second, the doors slammed shut and the bus engine revved to life. Geist stepped forward to join his companions, dropping the partition behind him. They now had total secrecy.
He wasn’t alone.
"Guys, I want you to meet Reign and Melanie."
Zhang looked up. Hunter turned and watched the two women. Lobes poked his head out from the bunk. He recognised the two women immediately. They obviously wanted more than a selfie with their favourite band.
"Ladies, this is Zhang … Hunter … and over there is Bleeding Lobes himself. I'm Geist, your host for this evening." The two women stood, hugging each other. The excitement obvious on their faces, their eyes perused the Bethesda tour bus in wonder and amusement.
Reign, the photographer, brunette hair and bronze skin, wore a black vest top, which barely covered her huge bosom. A pink netting covered her right arm, hooked around the shoulder. Her blue jean shorts rode to the hilt, her bare thighs exposed, smooth and gleaming with the recent rain. A tattoo sleeve daubed her entire left arm, depicting skeletons and love hearts and several men screaming in agony. Lobes thought the work looked intricate. Reign obviously knew a decent tattoo artist. She had piercings through her eyebrow and lip.
Melanie was the woman with the fake breasts, which were hardly contained within her white vest. A black skirt floated around the middle of her thighs. Knee high, black boots with all manner of buckles and clasps and badges clinked as she moved. She had no visible tattoos that Lobe could see; chances are she spent all of her available funds on her body. A long silver chain hung down from her waist and disappeared beneath her skirt. It dangled in the air, enticing. Lobes suddenly became curious.