If this guy’s a liar he’s the best one ever.
“Why?”
“Because of them,” Murphy whispered.
“Who?” Bobby asked in the same hushed tone, whatever Murphy was afraid of he didn’t want it to hear him either.
“The fuckers in the robe. I never knew his name, never wanted to, but he was always in my head, always whispering, always taunting me and telling me what to do and what to think. He fucking ruined me man! He fucking twisted me up and spun me around until I couldn’t tell up from down like!” Murphy’s was screaming by the time he finished.
No way.
“A Reaper?”
Murphy went on, Bobby’s question unheard, “A puppet, I was a fucking puppet. He poisoned me, he drove me mad, he made me do things, horrible things, things that made me sick but I did them anyway, I had to. There was no way to escape him you understand? I had no choice, none at all.”
“How? Why?”
Murphy sobbed in the darkness for a long time and Bobby let him. “I never told a soul, I couldn’t, they’d think I was mad. I even thought I was mad. Now I know I wasn’t. When I was dead I saw them, a Reaper and an Angel, they came for me. I was a good lad then, I listened to me father and mother, went to mass on Sunday, never got into any trouble with the guards or anything like that. The Angel, he says to repent. The demon, the fucking Reaper, says not to bother. I didn’t know what was happening, I didn’t know anything about that sort of thing, they don’t teach you that stuff in Sunday school. The two of them start fighting like dogs, right out there in the middle of the ocean for Christ’s sake, dancing on the waves like Jesus himself. I saw the Angel fall to his knees, the demon had him beat but I must’ve blacked out or something because the next thing remember is hearing sirens and coughing up water and gasping for air.
“I thought it was a dream, so I kept it to myself and got on with life but the demon, the fucking bastard, he starts to haunt me, ya might say, whispering horrible stuff all the time, always whispering, always nagging and pushing. I’m stuck with him, he says, that he’s there to make my life a living Hell and won’t leave me alone unless I do things. At first it was stupid stuff, but nasty like. Killing things, small things, like rats, then cats and rabbits, then dogs, then calves. He’d swear every time was the last time, you understand, and then laugh like a hyena when I was finished.”
If this guys is telling the truth, and I’m pretty sure he is because no one can make shit like that up, then the whole ‘luck of the Irish’ thing is a crock of shit. There’s a good chance he’s fucking with me though but if he’s not…
“I’d have done anything to stop it like. Anything! When I killed the first person I vomited everywhere but your man, that cunt, he thought it was the funniest thing in the world.”
“So how did you get rid of him?”
“Rid of him? Have you not been listening to a word of it? I couldn’t! He was stuck with me he says. I died, they showed up, he killed the Angel and claimed my soul but I came back to life you see, and he couldn’t go back without me. I was his, he was bound to me and had to wait until I died again before he could bring me here to this fucking place. I’ve been damned since I was seventeen! I could’ve been the fucking pope and it wouldn’t have mattered!”
That’s beyond fucked up.
“Fuck man, that’s crazy.”
“Right you are boy-o. Forty-two years that bollocks had me killing and torturing and doing God awful horrible things. I couldn’t fight him, I tried, I swear on me mother and father I tried. It was useless.”
“But you said you were good, right?”
“I was. I hadn’t been to confession in a dog’s age but my Angel, he was shit like. The Reaper killed him and not only that, he stopped me from asking for forgiveness. If I had just said sorry...one word like, one fucking word, none of this would have happened.” Murphy broke down again, his sobbing, louder this time, filled the cell.
Poor bastard. He lived through Hell only to end up in the dead version for eternity.
“I’m sorry dude,” Bobby whispered, he meant it.
“I am too boy-o but not for what happened,” Murphy’s voice had hardened. “I’m sorry because I can’t let you win. I have a debt I mean to pay and I’ve been waiting a long time to pay it. Those Angels abandoned me, they’re the reason my life was so proper fucked. The Reaper might have been the one pulling the strings, but it was the fucking Angels that left me to him. They were supposed to save me, to protect me like, but they didn’t. They served me up like a roast and turned their back on me while that fucker had his way with me. I’m going to kill each and every one of them! Not for the souls. Not for the devil. I’m going to kill them all for me.”
Shit! This guy is on a mission.
“Whatever you’ve done, I don’t give a shit. I have to kill you and I won’t be a bit sorry about it. This is bigger than you yank, bigger than you by a long mile! I’ll have my revenge, I will. I’ll fucking murder every one I can get my hands on, slow and messy if I can too. There’s no way I’m going to let anyone stop me! Not you, not Jones, not even the devil himself!”
Bobby’s ears rung with the echo of Murphy’s declaration. When it died, and the silence returned, he said the only thing he could think of, “Good luck with that.”
“Jesus boy-o, what the fuck are ya on about?” Murphy snapped, clearly expecting a different response.
“I don’t know. What am I supposed to say? You got a giant helping of cock and balls and now you want some revenge. I get it. Am I going to talk you out of it, no, so why bother? Shit, if I was you there wouldn’t be anyone talking me out of it?”
“You don’t strike me as much of a killer,” Murphy said coolly after a long moment pondering Bobby’s response.
Join the club.
“As far as I know I’m not.”
“And you’ve no clue how you ended up here?”
“Not a one.”
“For fuck’s sake, you should at least try to remember.”
Really? Wow, what a great idea Einstein. Why didn’t I think of that?
“I tried everything while I was waiting for that…that class to start. Nothing worked, it’s just gone.”
“Maybe you did something when you were langers?”
“Langers?”
“Ye know, wasted…fucked up,” Murphy clarified.
“Maybe.”
“You went postal as you yanks like to say.” Murphy was determined to solve the mystery.
“Possible I guess…”
“Well you did something.”
“Yeah.”
“You’re not curious? I’d be up the fucking wall like.”
“I don’t know, bro.”
“You might need to know. You might find more than just the reason you’re here, you might find out who you are.”
“Dude, I know. I tried, I really fucking tried!” Bobby was losing his patience. “I can’t make myself remember.”
“There’s got to be a way.”
What the fuck is up with this guy?
“Listen, there’s not. I’ve tried bro, don’t you think if I could I would?”
“Don’t know.” Murphy replied, he’d heard Bobby’s excuses and maybe that’s all they were, excuses. Maybe the kid was just too afraid to face his truth.
“What do you mean you don’t know?”
“Maybe you’re just hiding from it, you’re scared to face it like.”
“Fuck you!” Bobby was boiling, the Irishman was pushing his buttons, and his legendary luck. “I’d love to know. I’d kill to know but Jones said it wasn’t in my cards and I’m pretty sure what he says goes in this place. Let’s drop it, I’m done with it and I’m done with you.”
“Right you are so then boy-o, suit yourself.” Murphy seemed unfazed.
Don’t be such a dick Bobby. The guys just trying to help and he’s been through enough. Seriously, imagine living with a Reaper your whole life then ending up in Hell surrounded by the fucke
rs. No spank you.
“Listen, you seem cool and I didn’t mean to get all nasty but I don’t remember, plain and simple. I remember some stuff, little bits and pieces, but the rest isn’t there, it’s like it was erased or stolen or some shit.”
“All right, no problem.” Murphy replied.
“From here on in its eternal torture or eternal slavery. This right here, this cell, you and me, this is the best it’s going to get for…well for-fucking-ever! I’d prefer to sit here and shoot the shit with a new friend rather than get all worked up and waste this last bit of peace arguing over what we can’t understand or control.”
“Fair point,” Murphy agreed after a moment’s thought.
“So we’re cool?”
“We are, cool as a cucumber.” His ‘c’s sounded came out like ‘q’s, and made Bobby smile.
*
“So, ever been in love?”
“Love? Really? That’s what you’re gonna lead with?” Bobby replied, smiling again.
“Well if it’s baseball talk you’re after you might as well talk to the wall.”
“Baseball?”
“Yeah, you know, a bunch of fat guys throwing a ball around.”
“No please, baseball is an eight letter word for boring!”
Murphy laughed, it was like a warm blanket on a cold night, and Bobby let it wrap itself around him. When it faded Murphy regaled Booby with his many tales of failed attempts to find love before he drowned. He covered it all; first kiss, first boob squeeze, first everything. When the door appeared to end the conversation, they stood to face each other as the light from Jones’s chamber painted their faces in firelight. Murphy extended his hand. Bobby took it eagerly, shook it firmly and smiled honestly.
“Good luck.” Murphy offered.
“You too,” Bobby returned the honorable lie.
They entered the chamber, leaving their friendship behind.
10.
Itching and twitching, the last eleven stood waiting for Jones to begin. Bobby surveyed them all, one by one, from where he stood just behind the roughly formed line. Everyone looked terrified, Haneef and Tennen most of all. Van Holt tried to hide it, puffing out his chest and flexing, but his eyes gave it away. Jones stood center stage, hands behind his back, scanning their faces, a wicked smile on his own. “I hope you all made good use of your time in the presence of your enemy. Silent determination or stricken by fear, I can’t figure out which. You lot are either pathetic or profound.”
Maybe a little of both.
Jones roared and spun, raising his arms like a madhouse ballerina. “Ladies and gentlemen! Boys and girls! It’s show time! The fight card is set! The fighters are ready! Our two preliminary bouts that, I regret to say, hold little promise. Then we have a very special three women showdown! Yummy yummy! And then there will be two, yes two, co-main events that are sure to end the night with a bang!”
Robes rustled and feet shuffled, the would-be fighters only response.
“Ingrates!” Jones roared and pain flooded his audience.
Bobby burned; his eyes, his balls, his bowels, his everything.
“Show some gratitude ladies and gents. Show me you appreciate all the hard work, all the effort I put into this wondrous evening.” Jones seethed, spittle flew with every word.
Bobby pushed through the burning misery, raised his hands and brought them together in a feeble clap. Jones turned at once, his eyes met Bobby’s and the pain disappeared. Bobby picked up the pace, applauding feverishly.
Jones smiled. “Come on you lot, if the man of mystery can do it so can you.”
Once they realized what they had to do, all but one did. Tennen was struggling, doubling over he collapsed and writhed on the floor. The agony too much to overcome.
“Come on you weakling, you coward! A killer of boys and girls, you make me sick. Not because of the deed, but the method! Shooting them as they hid behind desks and doors! Such misery squandered! Such terror misspent! Coward! You give us all a bad name you putrid shit! You make us weak just by being here! You disgrace the Master! You disgrace the robe! Get up coward! Get up! Get up!” Jones worked himself into a state of black rage, leaning from the edge of the stage, screaming so loud the rest of the class covered their ears for fear the drums inside would explode if they didn’t. He pounced, landing beside Tennen, his teeth bared and grinding. Lost to the pain, the kid didn’t know what was happening until Jones started kicking, by then it was too late. Driving his foot into the squirming teenager, over and over, with incredible force until he was spent. Tennen stopped squirming and lay sprawled and motionless at the madman’s bloodied feet.
Jones straightened his robe, shook his head and floated back to the stage. “It seems we need to make yet another adjustment to the schedule while that pile of shit heals. Mr. Tennen and Ms. Haneef were to fight in the number two spot but now…” he let the silence hang, the tension climbing through the pregnant pause. “Our debut bout will be…The Deadly Donkey and The Mystery Man!”
FUUUUUUUCCCCKKKKK!!!!!
Murphy stepped forward, eager and undaunted.
“Come on down!” Jones cried, his rage had morphed to cheer, a murderer one moment, a ringmaster the next.
Bobby walked towards the stage. Steps appeared, and he climbed them without pausing, if he did he might never start again. Murphy followed in his wake. Jones pointed to one side of the stage and then the other. Bobby shuffled to the first spot, everything seemed to have slowed, every sound muted and hollow, he felt hollow.
“Face your opponent!” Jones commanded.
He turned to face Murphy but Jones stood between them. “Introductions! Mr. Donald Murphy hails from Cork, Ireland and weighs in at one hundred and seventy-five pounds of wiry, farm hardened muscle. At five foot eight inches he’s murdered, raped and killed over forty-seven people. Well done lad, well done! Ladies and gentlemen, the Deadly Donkey!”
The onlookers applauded, Jones made sure of it.
“And to my left…well, I’m afraid this man truly lives up to his name which leaves me in a bit of a quandary. Perhaps a little pre-fight interview is in order. Come on Mr. Grant, come on over and let’s hear what makes you tick.”
More forced applause. Jones plucked a microphone from midair, amplifying his ring announcer shtick to the next level, and stuck the red puffy foam mouthpiece to his lips. “We start with the basics. Mr. Grant hails from Long Island, New York. Daddy and mommy worked hard, middle-class, blah blah blah boring!”
Forced chuckles echoed and Jones nodded his approval. “But what makes you…well, you? Do tell, we’re all dying to know.” He shoved the microphone into Bobby’s face.
I don’t know anything so what the fuck am I supposed to say?
Jones swatted the back of the head, his long bony fingers felt like a bundle of branches instead. Memories immediately filled Bobby’s head, as if liberated by the touch. He saw himself as a boy, playing soccer and baseball and lacrosse, geared up in marron every time, the words North Shore emblazoned on the front of every uniform.
North Shore?
“I like sports,” he said, more a question than anything else.
“Sports ladies and gents, he likes sports! Go on! We are on pins and needles here Grant!”
Bobby saw his high school from the field behind the sprawling redbrick building, a mural of a yellow mustached and pony-tailed Viking covered one wall.
North Shore Vikings, hurrah! I remember that, holy shit, I remember high school.
“I played in high school.”
“Very good, go on, give us some more.”
Bobby was standing in a crowd, anxious and excited, readying to play. He had a stick in one gloved hand, a long one. A big man stood among them, his hoodie stretched tight over his gut, the words ‘Viking Varsity Lacrosse’ stretched along with it.
Coach Jackson, his name was Jackson, he was an English teacher. He gave me a B once, should have been a D but that would have knocked me off the team.
; Checking and rechecking his clipboard, Jackson assigned positions, stick bumps and cheers followed every one. ‘Grant, center d. Go hard Bobby, let ’em know you mean business, hit’ em hard and hit’em fast. If you can’t get the ball get the stick, and if you can’t get the stick…’ Bobby heard himself finish Jackson’s sentence, ‘Get the man.’ A loud roar echoed in approval.
Cool, I was a badass.
“I made varsity lacrosse. I think I was pretty good with the long stick, defense you know?”
“Lacrosse, an interesting sport to say the least. The Mohawk Indians, a gritty lot with flash hair, called it the little war. A brutal and exciting game but unfortunately the modern, watered-down version is a far cry from the original. Perhaps you picked up a trick or two, I noticed you seemed quite adept with the scythe in our earlier practice session.”
Bobby frowned, as confused as a drunk in a maze, “I try.”
“As modest as he is mysterious.”
“I mean I can handle myself,” Bobby added, thinking of the voodoo priest.
“A cuffer then, tell us about some of your fights.” Jones ordered and waited, giddy with anticipation.
Bobby rummaged through the fickle store of emerging memories. A high school fight surfaced, missed punches and awkward surrenders, nothing worth telling.
“Come on Mr. Grant, one fond memory for the viewers at home watching from around the globe!” Jones spread his arms wide as if it was true.
A movie began playing in Bobby’s mind and he was the star.
What the fuck is this?
“Tell us Grant,” Jones growled.
“Um, okay, I was driving this limo, a bachelor party I think, a bunch of guys hopping from strip club to strip club. They were wasted and messy, I remember hating them, those kinds of jobs. Anyway, it was late, last stop, a real low end dive on Queens Boulevard called Nickles, the kind of place guys usually go for a blowjob at the end of the night.”
Fuck, a limo driver? Was I a loser or something?
Death Sucks Page 12