Bad Games- The Complete Series

by Jeff Menapace

  Arty laughs and rubs his right hand back and forth over Jim’s shaved head.

  “Second,” Jim continues, “forget the city. Too many people piled on top of one another. No privacy whatsoever. That’s important too, the privacy thing. You find a good spot, you don’t necessarily want to cut and run. Sometimes you wanna set up shop and enjoy yourself a while.”

  “Amen,” Arty says.

  Jim adds: “City’s ideal if you want to do an abduction—whores, homeless, runaways; it’s a fucking gold mine for that—but as far as home invasion goes, give it a wide berth. Not worth the effort. Arty?”

  Arty takes his eyes off the road for a second and glances back at the camera. “Third, you’ve got what we’ll call your poor part of suburbia, your boroughs in shitty counties, whatever. For our purposes, let’s just say where white trash lives.”

  Jim breaks in. “Worth mentioning that there are plenty of shitty suburbs and boroughs with blacks and beaners, but, much as it pains me to say, they tend to have better instincts than whites. Much, much harder to run some kind of scam or catch ’em off guard.”

  “Good point,” Arty adds. “It’s also worth mentioning that if you ARE going to target mostly whites, it’s a good idea to throw in some color once in a while. And of course the converse is true: If you prefer blacks or Latinos or whatever, you should toss in a white here and there. Don’t stick to one pattern. We’ll get to that in later episodes, because it’s damned important, but for now, keep your color palette somewhat broad. You do that and you’ll extend your career tenfold.”

  “Sex too,” Jim says. “You start building a resume of just pussy, you need to consider throwing in some cock and balls now and then.”

  Arty laughs again. “Well put, little brother.”

  Jim lights a cigarette and cracks the window. Both men now have to speak louder over the open window’s audible rush from the moving car.

  Arty: “Going back to white trash in poor suburbia and such—it can be done, but it’s risky. Most are gun-toting rednecks just itching for an excuse to pull a trigger. Don’t give them one. Steer clear.”

  “So what does that leave us with, Arty?”

  Arty glances back at the camera again. He beams like a proud papa to his son. “Any Town USA, my friends.”

  “Now, the difference between Any Town USA and your typical suburb is the state of mind of its residents,” Arty says. “Parades, fairs, fireworks, apple pie—it’s all about community and trust. Urbanites, hell, even a good number of suburbanites tend to be wary of strangers. But Any Town USA folks? They simply assume that if you’re in their town, you’re one of their own—you can be trusted.”

  “And that trust,” Jim says, leering, “is like a key to their front door.”

  Quick cut and Arty and Jim are parked on the side of a neighborhood road, a stone’s throw from the main street of the town they’ve chosen. People veering off the main street periodically pass by their car—couples walking dogs, couples pushing strollers, couples young and old walking hand in hand, enjoying the fall day.

  And Jim, window down, waves and says hello to all of them. And every single one waves and says hello back without so much as a flicker of concern on their smiling faces.

  Arty, facing the camera: “This is what we’ll call the selection phase. The reconnaissance phase. Jim will first select someone who catches his eye, and then we will simply proceed to follow them. Now, keep in mind, just because you see one you like, that doesn’t mean it’ll be a sure thing. Take that girl over there for example…”

  A shaky, rotating image around the interior of the car until the camera settles and zooms in on a pretty young woman walking alone down a side street, both hands occupied as one holds a cell phone to her ear, the other a Starbucks cup from which she periodically sips between animated laughs and exclamations into her phone.

  “…Completely oblivious to the world around her.” Arty continues to narrate off camera while the focus stays on the girl. “She would be an absolute piece of cake to follow, BUT suppose we follow the girl to her house, and her boyfriend or husband comes strollin’ on out to greet her and the dude’s built like Arnold fucking Schwarzenegger. Might wanna consider giving that one a skip.”

  Jim speaks up off camera. “We’ve handled big guys before.”

  Another shaky, rotating image around the interior of the car until Arty is facing the camera again. “That’s true—Jim and I HAVE handled big guys before, but never without some sort of leverage. The best leverage of all being children. Secure the children, and the dude, even if he’s Bruce fucking Lee, will do whatever the hell you tell him to. Children are PERFECT leverage. However, that leverage requires a great deal of homework and cunning to secure. And, as we’ve already said, this episode is for beginners.”

  Jim: “Fair enough. So, who on this fine day would be ideal to pop one’s cherry then, Arty?”

  “I would suggest shooting for an older couple, Jim.”

  Quick cut and the two brothers are parked in front of a cozy, detached one-story home.

  Arty: “We’ve chosen our older couple. I would guess them in their mid- to late sixties. The husband was out front riding a mower, the woman was tending to her garden. No dog—we’d have seen it by now—kids, if they have any, almost assuredly relocated. The man appeared soft and weak. Skinny arms, gut, bigger titties than his wife. No threat there.”

  “I’ll never understand it,” Jim says. “Pussy doesn’t even look like he can do a single fucking pushup. How does a man like that expect to protect his family?”

  “Well, this is Any Town USA, Jim. There are no threats here.”

  Jim: “My dick just got hard.”

  Arty laughs, then continues. “Both have gone inside, yet they left their garage door open, along with their front door and side door. There’s screen doors on both the front and side doors, of course, but it has been our experience that screen doors in Any Town USA are seldom locked. This is where your improv skills come in, friends. You don’t want to be a fucking idiot like Bundy and drive around with a damn ‘kill kit,’ as the FBI called it, in your trunk—cuffs, knives, ski masks, rope, the works—because if you get pulled over, like Bundy DID, you’ve got a hell of a lot of explaining to do. No, you need to have the ability to think on your feet. Work your way inside and be settled before they’re even aware what the hell is going on. They’ll sense something is off, but it’s almost a guarantee that they’ll do nothing about it.”

  Jim says: “People in Any Town USA—most people, actually—never trust their gut. They suppress most doubt, thinking the worst could never actually happen to them. Kinda like fucking without a condom. ‘What are the odds the STD actually chooses me?’ they think. ‘Not me. Not important me. No way.’”

  “Does that make us STDs?” Arty asks.

  “I suppose it does,” Jim replies. “Once you come in contact with us, we stay with you for life.”

  Arty laughs. “I love it. Moving on then—what are you thinking for this one, Jim?”

  “I’m thinking barbecue, Arty.”

  “Barbecue it is, then.”

  Cut to Arty in motion as he approached the couple’s home, unassumingly headed towards the side entrance by way of the driveway, as though he might live there. He was carrying a six-pack of beer. The lighting outside had dimmed some. Dusk was not far off. The camera closely following Arty was far steadier than to be expected, and the two pairs of captivated eyes watching the film soon discover that:

  “Jim here is wired up with a small body cam and mic on his chest,” Arty says, pausing to face his brother before leaning in close to the lens to make a spooky noise and face. Jim can be heard laughing off camera while Arty straightens up and adds: “Keeps Jim’s hands free to join in on the fun, not to mention that approaching your target with a bulky camera on your shoulder will raise a red flag with even the most trusting soul. We tried doing it once, pretending we were sweepstakes people or whatever. Got us in the front door, which is usu
ally ninety percent of the battle, but things got a little messy after. Was still a good time.”

  “Yeah, I remember that,” Jim says. “That was the little Napoleonic pussy who kept threatening to sue us if we touched him, wasn’t it?”

  Arty nods. “Indeed. We tied him and his wife up, went out, and actually bought a gavel at Office Depot. Held our own trial, didn’t we?”

  Jim can be heard laughing again. “We kept cracking the fucker with the thing, yelling ‘guilty!’ after each whack.” He laughs harder. “Good times…”

  Both men seem winded as they talk, but it is not from exertion; it is from excitement.

  They approach the side entrance. The primary door leading into the home is still open, the screen door their only obstacle. But, as Arty had already assumed, it is unlocked, and both Arty and Jim enter.

  “Helloooo…?” Arty calls as he and Jim enter the den.

  The couple, seated on the sofa, their backs to Arty and Jim, are watching television. They both quickly rise and spin towards their unexpected guests, surprise and confusion—not fear; not yet—on both their faces.

  Arty holds up the six-pack of beer. “Where is everybody?” he asks.

  The man says: “I beg your pardon?”

  “Are we the first ones to arrive?” Arty asks.

  “Arrive?” the man says.

  “To the barbecue,” Jim can be heard saying.

  “Barbecue?” the man says.

  Arty places an embarrassed hand to his chest. “Oh my God, are we—are we in the wrong house?”

  The man smiles nervously. “I think so.”

  “You THINK so?” Arty says.

  The man’s smile leaves. His anxiety is clear. “There’s no barbecue here, gentlemen.”

  “If you don’t want us here, just say so,” Arty says.

  The woman finally speaks up. “You have the wrong house. We are not entertaining anyone today.”

  “Early days, ma’am,” Arty says. “Early days.”

  “I beg your pardon?” the man says.

  Arty faces Jim, faces the camera. “‘Gentlemen.’ ‘I beg your pardon.’ People are always so polite in Any Town USA.” Arty strolls casually towards the sliding glass doors leading out onto the patio. He looks outside, observes the empty deck, and turns back. “No one out there. I guess there is no barbecue after all.”

  “We told you that,” the man says. “If you could be on your way now…”

  “So polite,” Jim says.

  Arty nods, casually locks the sliding glass door and draws the curtains. He turns and walks past the couple who now stands close together, dumbfounded, fear slowly trickling onto their faces. Arty heads towards the front door, talking over his shoulder as he does so.

  “As I mentioned previously, getting inside is ninety percent of the battle.” He locks the front door, turns, and heads towards the side door from which they entered. Locks that, and then the door leading out to the garage. It is all so cavalier, so routine, the couple can still only stand and watch, dumbfounded, the gravity of what is occurring yet to truly hit home.

  Finished, Arty returns to the den. He approaches the couple and raises the six-pack again. “Who wants a beer?”

  Cut to a bedroom. A rotating shot of the décor suggests it is the couple’s bedroom. The rotating shot stops and zooms in on a king-sized bed. The woman is gagged and bound, her eyes swollen from crying. She is whimpering incessantly through her gag. No sign of the husband.

  A shaky shot of the camera before it settles completely, Jim soon appearing before the lens and backing up into view. He smiles and waves at the camera. “Arty and I secured the situation and then went back out to the car to retrieve the big camera and its tripod. Should be able to capture most everything now.” The woman behind Jim continues to sob on the bed. Jim calls to his right: “Action, Arty!”

  Shot of the bathroom door opening and Arty leading the man out with a gun to his head. The man is wearing only his underwear. The front of the underwear is soaked with urine.

  Jim starts laughing, pointing at the man. “They always piss themselves.”

  Arty smiles and shoves the man onto the bed next to his wife. The man immediately rolls towards his wife and begins checking her for injuries. She sobs helplessly and mumbles something inaudible through her gag. The man starts crying along with her.

  “She’s fine, sir,” Arty says. “Other than tying her up, we haven’t harmed a hair on her head. HOWEVER…whether those hairs remain unharmed is completely up to you.”

  The man looks back at Arty. His face is a picture of frightened wonder.

  “What am I talking about, you ask? Simple.” Arty approaches the bed. He reaches forward and takes hold of one of the man’s flabby breasts, the nipple to be exact, and squeezes it, the man crying out. Arty than slaps the man’s ample ass once and hard, as you might the hindquarters of a horse to get it moving. “Let yourself go over the years, haven’t you—?” Arty stops suddenly and looks at Jim. “You know, we never did get their names.”

  “What are your names?” Jim asks them.

  “Please…” the man begs.

  “Popular name.” Jim looks at Arty. “Seems like they’re always named Please. The women too.”

  “Maybe it’s one of those unisex names,” Arty says. “Seriously though, folks, we really would like to have your names. We’re filming something special here, in case you didn’t notice.”

  The man and woman say nothing, just continue weeping into one another.

  “No?” Arty asks. “Fine—we’ll name you ourselves.” He points to the man. “We’ll call you Homer, after everyone’s favorite lovable fatty, Homer Simpson. You’re looking a little thin on top there as well—” He gestures to the man’s balding head. “So the shoe fits a treat.”

  “Does that make her Marge?” Jim asks, pointing at the woman.

  “Works for me,” Arty says.

  “Great. I always had a thing for Marge. All that blue hair. Always wondered whether the carpet matched the drapes.”

  Arty laughs.

  The woman begins to fight her binds.

  “Oh, relax,” Arty says, “I won’t let my brother touch you—not if your husband does what I say.” He looks at the man. “You’ll do what I say, won’t you, Homer? You wouldn’t want a front-row seat to my brother fucking your wife, would you?”

  The man instantly shakes his head.

  “Excellent! Come with me then, Homer.” Arty extends his hand.

  The man hesitates.

  “Homerrr…” Arty warns.

  Jim moves to the wife’s side of the bed. Starts groaning while stroking his groin. The woman shrieks into her gag and whips her head towards her husband, burying it into him.

  “OKAY! Okay, Jesus Christ, okay…” the man says. He takes Arty’s hand, and Arty helps him off the bed. He is not rough with the man, but almost gentle, as if manhandling the man at that precise moment would somehow cheapen the game.

  On his feet now, the man is visibly shaking.

  “Scared?” Arty asks him.

  The man nods.

  “GOOD! That’s good!” Arty says. “Fear gives you adrenaline. Adrenaline gives you strength.” Arty motions to the floor. “Get down and give me twenty.”

  The man just stares at Arty as though he misheard.

  “It’s real simple, Homer,” Jim says, still standing next to the wife. “Arty and I don’t approve of how much you’ve let yourself go. Frankly, we find it disgusting. A real man needs to be strong up here”—he points to his head—“in here”—he points to his heart—“and of course here”—he flexes his sizeable biceps. “Now, up here”—he points to his head—“and in here”—he points to his heart—“just might override what you’re lacking here”—he flexes his biceps again—“ESPECIALLY if adrenaline kicks in, like Arty mentioned. It’s like the ninety-pound mom who lifts a car off her kid, you know? In our experience, people are capable of CRAZY feats of strength when the adrenaline starts flowing. And
to be honest, it makes the game a hell of a lot more interesting when it happens.”

  “It really does,” Arty says. “So, here’s what’s what, Homer: If you drop down and give us twenty pushups—twenty GOOD pushups; we’ll be judging your technique—then Jim won’t cut your wife’s throat.”

  Jim lifts his shirt and pulls a large kitchen knife from his waistband.

  The wife screams into her gag.

  Jim ignores her scream and approaches the camera, brandishing the knife. “IMPROV, friends,” he says. “Got this from their kitchen drawer. EVERY house has a knife of some kind. Like Arty said, don’t be an idiot like Bundy and drive around with an arsenal in your trunk. You gotta MacGyver that shit.”

  Arty raises his gun before the camera. “Now, I know what you’re probably thinking: ‘What about the gun, Arty? You had to have brought the gun WITH you, yes? You told us there weren’t many guns in Any Town USA.’ And to that I would say bravo; you’ve been paying attention. Yes, we did bring the gun. However, we have a permit for it. All very legal if we were to ever get pulled over and searched.”

  “Shall we continue?” Jim says.

  “Indeed,” Arty says. “Homer?”

  The man stays put.

  “Homer?” Arty says again. “Are you not even going to TRY to save your wife? Remember, you’ve got adrenaline on your side. The sooner you use it, the better. Adrenaline can have the opposite effect if you let it linger too long. It can drain the very life out of you over time. Best to use it now while the tank is full.”

  The man slowly makes his way off the bed, his wife sobbing harder, as though he’s abandoning her. He glances back at her, his expression agony itself.

  “Atta boy,” Arty says. He gestures towards the floor with the gun, and in his best drill sergeant’s voice: “Now get down there and give me twenty, boy!”

  The man is a pitiful sight. Naked save for his soiled underwear, posture that of a man already defeated, determination and the aforementioned adrenaline nowhere in sight. He slowly lowers himself to the floor and pauses on all fours for a moment. He eventually stares up at Arty, and his face is all eyes, not unlike a dog begging forgiveness from its abusive master.