“I don’t see him!” he called back into the car. “He ain’t—”
WHACK.
Toe Tag kicked the man in the head from above. He’d been hanging on the roof of the Bugatti.
“Gah!”
The man tossed his gun into the air as Toe Tag kicked him in the face again, and again.
“That’s what you get,” Toe Tag yelled as he caught the falling gun in his hands.
A final boot to the man’s cheek crunched his spine against the rim of the car. His body slumped through the window opening, producing a slew of blood along the road, painting the white lines red.
Toe Tag jumped to his feet and opened fire on the roof around his feet.
Inside, Sweetheart’s second colleague returned fire through the ceiling of the Bugatti, temporarily lighting up the interior with an intermittent, phosphorous white light.
“Man, kill that fuckin’ nigger.”
“I’m tryin’, man.”
Too late.
The bullets from Toe Tag’s gun blasted through the roof and into the second colleague’s body, which danced around the back, splattering blood up the windows and upholstery.
Sweetheart knew death was coming.
Clomp, clomp, clomp…
The sound of Toe Tag stomping along the roof forced Sweetheart to speed up, weaving in and out of traffic.
“I know you’re up there,” he yelled at the windshield. “Yo punk ass ain’t gettin’ shit.”
Toe Tag looked to the west and saw the Freeway Five estate looming in the distance.
I kept getting this strange thing, man. I’m telling you. Something about those towers. I couldn’t stop looking.
“I dunno why she wants to go there,” he whispered to himself. “But whatever it is, it ain’t gonna be pretty.”
Sweetheart glanced at the green duffel in the vacant passenger seat and licked his lips. “Fuck dis.”
He slammed on the brakes, forcing the Bugatti to screech to a halt amongst the traveling cars.
The Bugatti’s tires locked and screamed along the road. The force of the sudden halt threw Toe Tag along the roof and down the windshield, and right through the smoke created by the friction underneath.
“Gah!”
Toe Tag hit the road, narrowly missing the oncoming traffic.
Sweetheart pushed the door open and took out his pistol. He aimed it at Toe Tag’s blood-soaked body and lifted the barrel up to his mostly deformed face. A ghastly sight, but one which Sweetheart was used to.
“You’re meant to be dead. We killed you. So, stay dead.”
Amongst the speeding traffic, Toe Tag aimed his gun at Sweetheart. A stand-off occurred between the two men.
“Who gunna relent first, my nig?” Sweetheart chuckled and lifted the duffel to his chest. “Yo punk-ass want this son of a bitch?”
“It’s ours, man.”
“Shit, you ain’t havin’ it. Yo just gonna have to die twice.”
I knew right there I had to kill a motherfucker, man.
Sweetheart and Toe Tag opened fire one each other. The former died instantly as he squeezed the trigger, bursting into a beautiful fountain of blood and bone as the bullets rocketed through his chest.
The latter was already dead. Sweetheart’s bullets only added to the Toe Tag’s gory miasma of a body. His chest absorbed the fierce ammunition like a sponge dealing with a few drops of water.
“Guh-guh,” Toe Tag spluttered as he stumbled forward and took the opportunity to kick Sweetheart’s lifeless face.
I got our cash back, though. You know I’d jump in front of a bullet for you. Well, I jumped in front of at least a hundred for you, Wydron, man.
Toe Tag felt the scores of bleeding bullet holes over his body and found that he was unharmed.
“Shit. What’s h-happenin’ to me?”
Now wasn’t the time to assess his mortality. He grabbed the duffel, slumped into the driver’s seat, and exhaled.
“Guck, guck—”
He took himself by surprise as he opened what was left of his mouth. Each breath produced a nasty clucking sound. He looked down his front and saw his left lung punctured, wheezing all the air it could take in.
“Gwuck, gwuck—” the back of his throat constricted, sticking through his intake of oxygen.
He clocked his shattered and bloodied face in the rearview mirror.
Just then, a strange orange hue enveloped the vision.
“What the—?”
He looked to the west to find the third tower at the Freeway Five estate roasting in the night sky.
“Jeez.”
He started the Bugatti’s engine, pulled the door shut, and sped off along with the traffic.
***
Dusk had fallen by the time the Bugatti hit the Valley’s main high street.
It’d be dark very soon.
The storefront lights snapped on, one by one, as the car drifted towards its destination.
Toe Tag breathed a sigh of relief. He’d escaped certain death, but his face revealed he wasn’t at peace quite yet.
The duffel sat on the passenger seat. The upholstery was splattered with blood. Not even the sight of the hustle and bustle from the street was enough to divert his attention.
Eyes forward, he remained focused on the road ahead. A couple of buses in front blocked his progress.
The deal went bad. I know that, and I knew I was gonna pay the price when I got back. Buildings on fire. People behavin’ all strange.
As Toe Tag applied the gas, he felt the urge to slow down outside the nightclub. A woman made her approach from the opposite end.
She wore a green nightgown and had long-flowing black hair, seemingly in a world of her own. Gliding with a deft elegance, her determined face stood out from the crowd of party goers whooping and hollering at her.
I couldn’t stop staring at her, man. Everyone was looking.
Toe Tag lifted what little remained of his head and shot her a look through the blackened glass, knowing nobody could see inside. He leaned forward and made himself comfortable on the wheel. His heart skipped a beat as he absorbed Iris’s bewildering beauty.
Iris didn’t look his way.
In a whirlwind of thoughts, his elbow slipped and accidentally thumped against the car horn.
The William Tell overture played out.
“Shit, shit, shit, no—”
The crazy tune was enough to have everyone outside look at the passing car; a symbol of wealth and opulence in an otherwise economically-starved society.
Iris turned to the car and made eye contact with Toe Tag for the briefest of moments. She couldn’t see him on account of the tinted driver’s window.
Something about her, man, I swear. Those eyes.
Toe Tag could see her, though. Her magnetism was undeniable. He caught the steering wheel in time to avoid another car, cleared his throat, and shook off the urge to yelp.
It was like she was asleep, or somethin’. Gave me the creeps.
Iris’s pupils tore away and back to the path ahead, leaving Toe Tag to drive on.
As he caught her back in the rearview mirror, she appeared to turn transparent, and fade into the night air as she walked away…
***
The Bugatti pulled into the industrial estate parking lot. The warehouse wasn’t lit up, which meant his gang hadn’t arrived yet. Toe Tag knew he was first back with the cash, which offered him a rare moment of reflection about how badly he’d screwed up.
A crystal-colored tear bled out from his right eye duct and ran down his cratered cheek, slinking across the exposed cone and mixing with the flesh.
A quick check in the rearview mirror revealed his face. Battered and broken, almost beyond recognition. His lips pouted forward and puckered like a fish, much to his surprise.
“Wh-what’s happening to m-me?”
He sniffed as he felt sorry for himself, quietly praying his master wouldn’t put a bullet in his face when he returned.
I got the money, though. That’s all that matters. I got killed, too. Disfigured, I guess. But, shit happens.
A crunching of tire-on-tarmac occurred a few feet away from where Toe Tag had parked. He rolled the window down and gasped.
“Shit, they’s here.”
Toe Tag hopped out of the car and held out his arms at the approaching white van. The headlamps careened across his face as the van performed a three-point turn and parked on the road opposite the gated entrance.
“Yo, Cind’rella. You can’t park that here.”
The engine shut off.
Cind’rella hopped out from the driver’s side, complete with his wedding dress and crystal shoes on his inordinately large feet.
“Man, keep your voice down,” he said. “We’re in trouble.”
“You’re tellin’ me.”
Big Six kicked the two back doors open and climbed out of the van. “Yo, Double-T. We got a dead nigga in here, man.”
“Shit.”
Big Six reached into the van and grabbed something in both hands. Whatever it was was heavy.
“Man, this fucker weighs a ton.”
Toe Tag looked up at the apartment block on the opposite side of the road. A silhouette of a couple about to embrace formed in front of the orange interior.
As they moved closer, a dampened rendition of a seventies pop track pounded against the windows.
It was the same lady I saw on the street. I knew it. I fuckin’ knew it.
Toe Tag ran back to the Bugatti and pulled the keys from his pants pocket.
“Yo, Tee,” Cind’rella called out. “You best have gotten Wydron’s cash.”
“I got it, but I can’t stay here.”
Toe Tag jumped into the driver’s seat and started the engine. “Something’s happening.”
“Shit, fairy-boy,” Big Six said. “If ya don’t wanna help me with this dead guy, then you can move him yourself.”
Cind’rella didn’t know which way to turn. He could have chased after Toe Tag for an update on the money.
Alternatively, he could assist his partner with the removal of the dead body.
He chose the latter.
“Motherfucker, you better get back up in this bitch real quick,” Cind’rella barked at the Bugatti as it backed up to the entrance, screeched around 180 degrees and bolted through the gates.
Something inside me told me I had to get outta there.
As Toe Tag turned the corner, he looked up at the window.
The shadowed couple no longer embraced each other.
The smaller figure waved its arms, as if it were in distress.
“Nuh-nuh,” Toe tag squirmed as he tried to keep his attention on the road. “Get out of my head. Get out of my head.”
***
The barrel of Wydron’s Glock seemed to grow bigger and bigger when Toe Tag opened his eyes.
His explanation had gone down like a cup of lukewarm puke with his boss.
Wydron snorted and nodded at Iris. “You expect me to believe this? That, somehow, y’all got spooked because of some ho like her?”
Toe Tag produced a pathetic whimper and opened his eyes on Iris. She stared back at him, utterly perplexed.
“Man, I get back, hoping she’d gone. But she’s here. She’s here, man. Get her away from me.”
Toe Tag’s left foot buckled as he moved it back in protest. The tag around his ankle slid across the ground, collecting up tiny fragments of dirt.
“Wydron, man. I’m telling you. She’s ain’t right. She’s a bucket of bad news. You’re pointin’ your piece at the wrong nigger.”
Wydron didn’t take the news well. “What you say, asshole?”
“Kill her, man. Shoot her in the fuckin’ face.”
Wydron turned from Toe Tag to Cind’rella. “Nigga, dis true?”
“Huh?”
“Motherfucker,” Wydron barked as he whipped his Glock at Cind’rella’s face. “I said. Is what Toe Tag’s sayin’ true?”
“Uh-huh. Yeah, it’s true.”
Wydron lowered his gun and tilted his head at Iris. “Well, well, well, seems like we got ourselves a little somnambu-fuckin’-list here.”
Wydron brushed his neck chains and took a step towards her, which was enough to have his nose three inches from hers.
“My boy says you’re frightening him. Says you’re asleep.”
Iris held her breath. She felt her throat constrict and squeeze every last vestige of hope and sweat from her face.
Somewhere deep inside, she thought she was dead. Perhaps she was right, she thought.
“What’s good, girlie-girl?” Wydron chuckled. “Afraid y’all are gonna wake up? See my boy with my cash money? He already dead.”
He pointed to Cind’rella with his gun without looking and moved his lips to Iris’s left ear.
“That faggot fairy, he dun’t exist, neither. But me? Shit, bitch. I’m as real as all hell. At midnight, I got a problem, see. Expectin’ a couple Arabs to deliver my shit. And you’re gonna help me.”
Iris didn’t dare move as his hot, stank breath wafted into her earhole.
“When they shows up, you’re gonna go with ‘em. You go into the bathroom, yeah? You wash up. You wash up real good. Neck, pits, arms and thighs, and you scrub that pussy up real good, too. Y’unnerstan’ me when I speak to you?”
Iris barely nodded.
She pinched her thigh between her fingernails in a vague attempt to wake herself up, but it didn’t work. Wydron grinned, having caught her in the act.
He went to grab her wrist, when Toe Tag interjected.
“No, wait.”
“The fuck do you want?” Wydron snapped.
“Don’t touch her. Please, man. Don’t wake her up.”
Ignoring the request, Wydron grabbed Iris’s left wrist in his stony, black fingers and planted her hand to her crotch.
“You’re touchin’ yourself in the wrong place, ho. Touch yourself there. Especially when you gotta wet sponge. Now, go clean up. Get in the bathroom, and don’t take no notice of the drownin’ elephant in the tub. He restin’.”
The warehouse felt much colder, now.
Iris shuddered and duly obliged Wydron’s orders. Slowly, she turned around and walked towards the bathroom door.
The small stones pierced the fleshy soles of her feet as she walked but she kept the anguish and pain to herself.
Big Six walked in her direction, “Yo, Wydron, man. It’s nearly twelve.”
“Yeah, I know that. Get the table moved for the al-Burhan brothers to move their truck inside.”
Big Six, Cind’rella, and Toe Tag took an end of the table and lifted it.
The four men shrank in size behind Iris as she approached the door. The shuffling, grunts, and murmurs from her oppressors faded into her ears…
Zi-ii-iipp-pp.
The sound of the holdall being opened whirled around the back of her neck. Someone checked the interior of the bag yet again.
“That’s what I’m talking about. Hehe. I’m talkin’ beaucoup bills, nigga.”
The door to the bathroom creaked open at the same time the scraping started from the table being moved. It provided a mysterious and gloomy sound effect of scraping and dripping water.
Then, a chirpy whistling came from within the bathroom. Iris nearly recognized the tune; I Just Want to be Your Everything.
Iris couldn’t see who was inside until she reached the door.
The noise made Iris stop for a moment, fearing what lay around the corner, and beyond the tiles.
Wydron’s voice forced her forward. “What you waitin’ for? Get in the bathroom and scrub that pussy up. Go.”
Iris shuddered and took a few more steps forward, feeling as if it was she who was responsible for the volume of the whistling.
Several tears streamed down her face the further she walked.
Then, she reached the door.
Her jaw dropped.
What she saw was something nobody should ever
have to see in their life…
Chapter 11
Jila sat in the bathtub with her back resting against the tiles, soaping her arms. Her wet clothes lay on the floor. She continued to whistle the tune to herself as she lathered her forearm.
The dead body lay opposite her with its legs draped on the soap holder in front of the shower tube.
Iris opened her mouth, but couldn’t speak, deep in turmoil at the bizarre sight. It was as if she knew the whistling girl better than she knew herself.
Jila turned her head towards the door, unsurprised to see Iris looking at her.
“Oh. Hey, poppet,” she said in a spookily reassuring voice. “I’ve waited for you for so long.”
Iris didn’t move her legs but, to her surprise, found herself literally drifting towards the tub.
“If I stay here without you I’d die,” Jila said, before turning to watch herself rub her arms.
Bizarrely, occupying the same tub with the dead body didn’t alarm Jila in the slightest. “Oh, him?”
Iris concentrated on the thick, gray-skinned face that had bloated under the weight of the water. The end of its trunk hung off the side of the tub and dripped water onto the floor.
“Don’t mind my friend, here,” she said as she nodded at the dead body. “Just think of him as a big, black human-shaped bar of soap.”
Jila grabbed the corpse’s index finger and snapped it clean from its hand. She ran the charcoal-like digit across her neck and used it to soap herself.
“Mmm. Smells like zinc.”
Then, she bit off the fingernail and chewed on it. “Tastes like zinc, too.”
Stunned, Iris looked down at the bathtub. The soap suds covered much of what lay beneath, including Jila’s stomach and legs.
As Jila spoke, her voice had a two-second head-start on her moving lips. “Hey, Poppet. I’m in trouble.”
Iris raised her eyebrows, helplessly infatuated with what the girl was saying.
“I can’t move. I’m stuck,” Jila said as her natural voice amalgamated into that of a man’s voice Iris recognized. “Please help me.”
Somnambulist Page 11