Memoirs Of An Antihero

by Drew Blank

  Outside the pool’s fenced entrance were several metal poles buried into the asphalt, designed specifically for holding onto kids’ bicycles while they enjoyed a fun summer day in the water. From the looks of it, those poles had not served that purpose for years. Each pole had four thick steel hooks attached low enough to accommodate a bike lock of some sort. Some of the hooks still had chains hanging from them, obviously left behind after some unlucky discovered the lock holding their chains in place had been cut. Each represented a very bad day for one child, who had simply wanted to ride his bike to the pool and have fun with his friends. I latched the rear wheel of my bike to the pole closest to the gate and then began preparing myself for the night’s activities.

  I stripped myself of the Tully’s shirt, vest and tie. Underneath I just had a white t-shirt that had seen better days, which I quickly covered with the black sweatshirt. It proved to be a little snug as I zipped the front, but it did not limit my mobility. A tight fitting top would definitely be better if there were an altercation, as opposed to a loose garment that could be grabbed and used against me. I left my shoes on underneath the boots, as the boots were easily two sizes too big. Concern immediately came over me as I pulled the straps of the boots as tight as I could and my feet were still swimming within them. Wearing those clunky, loose weights on my feet could slow me down considerably. Sitting on the concrete I thought for a moment, questioning my decision to go through with this insane plan. I was never one to back down from a challenge, but the boots were certainly a realistic roadblock. In that moment of self-doubt, looking down at my feet that were just not big enough, I came up with the solution. I had intended to leave my uniform wrapped around the bike, not worried if it was there when I got back or not. After so many years working at Tully’s, I had shirts, vests and ties to spare. That night, my uniform would serve a much better purpose.

  I first wrapped my right foot with the white pinpoint oxford, using the sleeves as ties around my ankle. The left foot was then padded with the black vest, secured by the necktie. Sliding my feet into the boots once more, I pulled the buckles as tight as they would go. It was still not a perfect fit, but they were secure enough to wash away any concern I initially had. I slid my phone from the front pocket of my pants and turned the volume off. This was not a practice I was ever very comfortable with, as I hated not being readily available for Moxie if she ever needed me. However, tonight was for her and I could not afford any distractions. With the bug-eyed sunglasses in the back pocket of my black tuxedo slacks and the gloves stuffed in the sweatshirt’s pockets, I was almost ready. All I needed was a weapon.

  Growing up in a group home for boys and being in countless tussles, one thing you learn very quickly is that anything can be a weapon. Your best bet is to stick with something you can hold on to and that cannot so easily be turned against you. Most of the boys relied on their makeshift shivs they would keep on their person in the event of a brawl. I myself was never a big fan of stabbing. Put to the test, I was never quite sure I could give it the follow through necessary to cause any real harm. The day I rescued Mema from the three hooligans I chose a fire extinguisher because blunt force weapons were more my style. In the past I had used chairs, lunch trays, shoes tied together by the laces, bricks, pipes. I had even found the leg of a mannequin to come in handy once. I never had to look very far to adequately arm myself. A rusty old bicycle chain would definitely do the trick for tonight’s festivities, of which there were plenty here. I wrapped one of the abandoned chains in my hand and headed back to Tully’s.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Under the cover of shrubbery that surrounded the parking lot, I made my way to Randy’s car a few minutes before one. I surveyed the area, checking out any unfamiliar cars parked in the lot, hoping to pinpoint the location of Randy’s supplier. There was nothing out of the ordinary, as far as I could see. However, I was early and I doubted the guy coming to meet Randy was one to just hang around and wait. Randy had backed his 98 Acura Integra into a corner spot, far from the entrance. He would frequently ramble on about his car to whoever would care to listen, but I never paid much attention. He was into street racing and had modified this car to the point that I don’t believe it had any original parts left. Painted a lime green with bluish flames spreading along the bottom of the car onto the doors, it did not look like a car that was almost twenty years old. As I sat crouched behind the tail of the car, partially hidden by overgrown bushes, I could really appreciate the time, effort and money that went into his ride. If all went well that evening, I was hoping I would not have to cause any damage to the Acura. That would be a shame.

  Squatting low out of view, I tried to think of anything except for the venture that laid ahead for me. Through my experiences, I had discovered the more I planned an altercation out, the more I was caught by surprise when one of the parties involved, normally not me, did not go along with the plan. My goal was to intimidate the two into relieving themselves of any money they would have on them without having to incapacitate them. The thought had certainly run through my head that I may be forced to fight Randy and very possibly injure him severely. While he was a co-worker with whom I enjoyed jovial, lighthearted banter, he was not a friend. I would never be friends with a drug dealer. My lack of respect for him and his despicable acts excused the actions in my mind. His lifestyle choice brought upon him certain risks and that night I was one of those risks.

  The clock on my cell read twenty-six minutes after one when a black Audi wagon pulled into the lot. A station wagon was certainly not what I would expect a high end drug dealer to be driving, but this was is no way an inexpensive grocery getter. The car swung into the parking lot and stopped, silently humming. Seeing into the windows through a paint-like tint was impossible, but I could only assume the driver was scanning the property for Randy’s Acura. After a moment of idling, the Audi turned towards the lime green street racer sitting alone amidst the brush. Pulling straight into the spot next to the Acura, headlights grazed the top of my head and I ducked lower to avoid being seen.

  The Audi continued to run as its driver stayed inside, obviously waiting for Randy to finish his shift. To avoid being seen, I slid low to the ground, almost underneath the Acura’s trunk, and waited. Approximately fifteen minutes of listening to the Audi hum had passed when I heard chatter from across the lot. Randy’s voice grew closer as he bellowed his good-byes to the kitchen crew and DeeDee. The chain tightened in my grip as I brought myself to my feet, remaining in a crouch to keep out of sight from either of my targets. The engine of the Audi cut off as Randy became visible in the driver’s rear view mirror. As the door to the wagon opened, I readied myself by pulling the gloves onto my fingers and sliding the giant bug-like glasses over my eyes. Peering around the back corner of the Acura, I immediately recognized the driver of the Audi. He had visited Randy on several occasions during open hours and was well known by the staff. His name was Mouse, a nickname with an origin that eluded me. He stood average height with an unremarkable build. Mouse obviously believed in being inconspicuous because his dress was in no way flashy or noticeable. A black t-shirt hid under his gray fleece jacket, all complemented with a rugged pair of jeans and worn sneakers. His pale white skin almost blended in with his platinum blond

  hair. Underneath the bright overhead lights illuminating the parking lot, he almost glowed like an apparition.

  “Right on time,” Mouse approached Randy, hand extended.

  “You know you can count on me, bro.” Randy grabbed Mouse’s hand and shook it firmly. He then took off his vest and crumpled it in his left hand.

  “My best little worker bee,” Mouse said, subtly reminding Randy of the hierarchy. “So how much you got for me today?”

  “Geez, straight to business. I’m fine, Mouse. How are you?” Randy joked to an obviously unamused colleague.

  “If you want to be buddies, get a job where I don’t have to drag ass out at one-thirty to sell you some bottom of the barrel shit.” Mouse wa
s making it apparent he was not in the mood for small talk.

  “Let me just dump this stuff in my car.” Randy unlocked the driver’s door as he stood in between the Audi and the Acura. Mouse approached him, leaving very little distance between the two, probably to keep any transactions hidden and voices muted. With both of my targets positioned between the cars, it was my time to take action. The moment Randy closed the door to his car, I sprang from behind the trunk. Before Randy had any time to see me and react, I wrapped the chain around his neck, positioning it just under his jaw line. Strangulation is virtually impossible from that position, but the typical victim is unaware of that fact and will normally panic just the same. Pulling the chain tight with my gloved hands I whispered “don’t move. Don’t even fucking breathe.” Being careful to mask my voice, I never let myself speak louder than a hushed growl.

  It took a distracted Mouse about five seconds to realize what was going on, but longer to react. Stumbling back a few steps, Mouse fumbled around inside his fleece coat obviously hunting for something. With Randy on a leash and his body simply going limp from terror I pushed forward a few steps.

  “Fuck you, man! Do you have any idea who the fuck you are messing with right now?” Mouse’s voice quivered as he spat out those words. The fumbling in the jacket stopped as he produced a gun from an inner pocket. I have never been a big fan of guns, but I knew it was a 9mm. Aside from the occasional gun that would be snuck in and quickly confiscated followed by an arrest at Donnelly House, it was Tattoo Tom that introduced me to the wonderful world of handheld firearms. Oddly enough, while all his tattooing was done under the table, he was a legally licensed gun dealer. Being a veteran of the Vietnam War, Tom contained vast knowledge of various forms of armament and had the means to obtain and sell just about anything explosively lethal. While my preferred weapon of choice was something big and heavy to immobilize a foe, I made sure to be aware of guns and the advantages and disadvantages to brandishing one in a fight. My fearless nature did not limit itself to guns. If anything, I had a morbid fascination with them.

  Through the years, I had developed a relationship with Tom based on mutual respect. While I respected his business smarts and his knowledge of the world, he respected my ability to bring in countless beautiful young women for him to brand. Though he was almost four decades my senior, we had become good friends. We spent many afternoons discussing everything from my generation’s punk music versus his generation’s rock and roll, to why he thought the moon landing and several other monumental historical achievements were a hoax. Most of the time, however, we spent talking about guns. He showed me every type of gun there was, and some afternoons we would even go to the alley behind his shop and shoot off a couple. My knowledge of guns was definitely more extensive than the average guy on the street, but I still refused to carry one. As a matter of fact, with all the education Tom bestowed upon me, I realized a gun could be just as lethal to the user as they can be to his opponent. That evening, my knowledge was proving to be especially useful.

  “I do know who the fuck I am messing with right now, man” I mocked a now trembling Mouse in a cool, breathy tone. “Your name is Mouse,” I continued “and your friend here, I can only assume, is one of your many lackeys.” I pulled the chain to jerk Randy out of his stupor. I had no intention of carrying on dialog with either of these two, but with Randy being surprisingly docile, I took the opportunity to throw them off my track. I stepped forward, practically pushing Randy to advance with me. Aside from the occasional gasp or whimper, he had not moved since I put the chain around his neck. It was looking like I may not have to hurt him after all. However, using him as a human shield may put some of the blame on me if Mouse decided to unload a few bullets into us.

  Mouse raised the gun, aiming it directly at my head, which happened to be hiding conveniently behind Randy’s. I lurched forward, listening to the sound of Mouse’s tacky silver rings clatter against the metal of the gun.

  “I will fucking kill you asshole!” Mouse screamed as he forcibly shook the gun towards me.

  “Go ahead. You might have to kill this asshole first, though,” I growled back.

  Mouse advanced, gun now pointed around Randy’s head and in point blank range of my skull.

  As he came closer, I stealthily released my grip on the chain with my right hand and secured both ends into my left.

  “Oh yeah, mother fucker?” Mouse felt very sure of himself as he rested the muzzle of the 9mm on my temple.

  One trick Tattoo Tom taught me on one boring afternoon was how to easily turn a gun against an attacker. In reality, the grip on a gun is the worst leverage position you can have on the weapon. Theoretically, to have optimum leverage on any device, lethal or non-lethal, it should be held from the center. For obvious reasons, holding a gun that way with the intention of shooting it would not be practical. However, for someone not looking to use the gun as a firearm, but as a blunt instrument of heavily wielded force, this is the perfect positioning.

  With my left hand now gripping the chain, I threw my right hand over the slide and muzzle of the gun. As Tom taught me, the human brain will almost always react in a defensive manner. The index finger of the shooter will instinctively release the trigger with the fear the weapon may be turned against him. Along with the obvious shock on his face when I grabbed the gun, Mouse’s trigger finger pulled back, just as Tom had predicted. Effortlessly I placed my pinkie behind the trigger, not only making it impossible for the gun to be fired, but giving me an even better grip on the now useless firearm. I forced Mouse’s arm up in the air with mine, the gun safely nestled between our hands.

  “Oh shit’” Mouse muttered as he realized who now had control of the gun.

  “Oh shit indeed,” I mimicked him. With Mouse’s hand still hopelessly holding onto the gun, I lowered our arms and threw my palm forward, thrusting the weapon directly into his nose. Tears immediately welled up in his eyes as blood effortlessly poured from his nostrils. I repeated this move several times until Mouse released his grasp of the gun and fell to his knees. With a final blow, I lifted my right leg and delivered a powerful kick to his sternum. Although the heavy rubber boots cushioned what could have been an otherwise devastating attack, it was enough to throw him down and level him with the asphalt. As an unsuspected surprise, his head was met on the ground by a Heinekin bottle that had been tossed aside in the parking lot, sending shards of green glass and crimson liquid in every direction. I tucked the gun into the front of my slacks and turned my attention to Randy.

  While Mouse had obviously been ready for a fight, Randy was surprisingly passive the entire time. With Mouse down, I assumed the rest would be simple. However, in life you learn assuming is just like hoping. Futile.

  Both hands free again, I gripped the chain tighter and

  forced Randy’s face against the hood of the Audi.

  “Where’s the money?” It was such a cliche line, but I felt it got to the point.

  “Wh-What?” Randy’s terror was forcing him to make stupid mistakes, like questioning the man that had a chain wrapped tightly around his throat. I pulled him up and thrust his head hard into the hood again, this time denting the shiny black metal. Among the clanging sounds Randy’s head was making against the steel, I heard a sound that could only be Randy’s teeth crashing together. Blood was now dripping from his lips. Doing my best to disguise my voice and avoid giving Randy the opportunity to look me directly in the face, I yanked him back with the chain and whispered in his ear, “I don’t want to hurt you, kid,” again acting as if I were a stranger. “Now, where is the cash?” Randy remained silent and grew much heavier until he became limp.

  Swinging him around, I saw his now bloodied face with his eyes closed. I was not sure if it was from the shock or maybe I actually was cutting off oxygen to his brain by constricting his airflow, but he was unconscious. Checking his pulse, I released the force on the chain. Randy was still alive but it seemed he would no longer pose a threat to me. I lai
d him on the ground, his torso draped over Mouse’s legs.

  Randy had said to Mouse over the phone earlier that evening, he had stated he had “it” on him. I figured “it” was the money, so I searched Randy for the cash. Sure enough, there was a wad of bills folded and then rolled into a rubber band in the front pocket of his tuxedo pants. A further search of his remaining pockets turned up a wallet containing a little over a hundred dollars, probably his legitimate take from that evening’s bar tending. I left that for him. Hard earned cash was not mine to take. I was not going to be a criminal like them.

  I then directed my focus on Mouse. He was not unconscious, but I could tell from his moans he was not going to put up any more resistance. In his pockets, Mouse had a similar wad of cash and a wallet full of hundreds. This money I had no problem taking. My search also turned up a cell phone, a pocketknife, keys to the Audi and a rather large plastic wrapped white brick. The package had a circular sticker affixed to the outside. One half was yellow, the other half blue. Each half had small white circles in the middle with smaller black circles inside, looking almost like eyes. My naive mind could only assume what was inside the wrapping was cocaine. What the sticker symbolized I had no idea.

  Trying to cock his head up from the ground, Mouse showed great tenacity by still continuing his tough guy act. “I am gonna find you, mother fucker.” Blood sprayed from his lips as he threatened me.