Mayhem: A Collection of Stories
by R Thomas Brown
Mayhem: A Collection of Stories
© 2011 R Thomas Brown
A compilation consisting of the following stories:
The Craving, Deadbeat,
Skinner’s Child, Relief,
The Hit, A Cheap Babysitter,
Brother’s Keeper, Cowboy Chic,
A Serendipitous Stumble,
Enemies and Neighbors,
Reduced, Income Property,
The Miracle, A Different Communion
Copyright © 2011 R Thomas Brown
The Lesson
Copyright © 2001 R Thomas Brown
First Appeared in Futures Mystery Magazine
One Man’s Trash,
What Goes Around
Copyright © 2011 R Thomas Brown
First Appeared at Shotgun Honey
Hurt
Copyright © 2011 R Thomas Brown
First Appeared at Powder Burn Flash
Under the Influence
Copyright © 2011 R Thomas Brown
First Appeared at A Twist of Noir
Dock of the Bay
Copyright © 2011 R Thomas Brown
First Appeared in Off the Record
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system, without prior written permission of the Author.
Your support of author’s rights is appreciated.
All characters in this compilation are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
Also from R Thomas Brown
Merciless Pact
Coming Soon
Hill Country from Snubnose Press
Introduction – Nigel P Bird
I read Mayhem a short while ago and would like to commend it to anyone sampling the collection now, anyone who’s wondering whether to press on the buy button or not.
Do it, I say.
Do it now.
Soon as you start, you’ll want to thank me for my advice. One of the many things I enjoy about Ron’s work is that it's so very difficult to classify.
Mayhem verges on the dystopian at times, horror at others. It skirts through noir and crashes into crime. No matter what genre the piece you’re involved with, there’s one thing that I can pretty much guarantee – that as you read, you’ll feel uncomfortably close to the events and the thoughts of the protagonists as Ron really gets under your skin.
Under-pinning the writing is a sense of acute observation. These observations are then used as a spring-board from which he launches to land in a pool of a highly fertile imagination. Not only are the stories gripping, they hint at bigger things, larger philosophies, which left me intrigued when I read them and in the cases of some of the stories, still do.
R Thomas Brown has shown in his many reviews of the short form that he understands the art and craft as well as anyone. Take a trip through his mind and you’ll see that he’s able to apply that knowledge with the perfect balance between subtlety and hard hits that you’d want from a book.
A triumph, indeed.
The Lesson
Finally, my success is complete. I have worked all my life to help just one person be the kind of individual we are all meant to be. All the pain, the work, the hours of preparation seem like nothing compared to this triumph.
For years, all the drones walking about town have made me sick. They shop where they're told is the hot place to shop. They eat at the trendy restaurants. They stand in lines with over an hour wait to get into a diner that was mentioned in a local magazine. People stand in the heat, waiting to be seated when there are several establishments with no waiting all along this strip. What's more, the food is no better there than it was when the place was considered a dive, but some new decorations and a review in "The Watcher", or whatever that magazine is called, have turned it into "the place."
Then there are then people who watch television from the street. They go out on beautiful days, with their families, and they watch television in the window of a store they won't enter until it's reviewed in some inane magazine with a one-letter title. The worst part is that this entire absurd behavior is just so they can laugh at the latest round of beer ads. Now, I am not immune to the humor of men yelling at one another or dogs acting like people, but there is a limit to what I can stomach.
It absolutely sickens me that we have let ourselves become slaves to the mass consciousness to the extent that we can't even eat, shop, or watch what isn't popular. Well I have news for society, feelings are not always popular and we, as a society, need to get back to understanding what personal feelings and tastes and preferences are all about.
With that ideal in mind, I have done my little part for the greater good. Sometimes I find someone who is on the edge between being a complete social drone, and a real person. When I find someone like that, I help her to become the person she can be. I help her find the feelings and desires that society doesn't teach her.
A few weeks ago, I saw a young woman who was out shopping with her friends. They turned to go into a particularly pricey store that prided itself on the twelve shades of white tees they carried. This precious soul actually refused to accompany her friends, and sat on a bench and read a book. A book! Oh, I thought the skill of reading anything other than fat grams and fabric contents had been lost. I could hear her calling for help, for rescue from her caged existence.
I walked over to her and made small talk for a few moments, until her friends reappeared. One advantage of the environment of mindless materialism and superficiality is that I can usually get women to talk me. After all, I dress well, am fairly good looking, and make sure to drop off a bag in my M5 on my way to see them.
As usual, I asked that young lady if she would like to go out. Not all of them say yes, and that is a wonderful thing. Those women who show the ability to stand up to their friends, and to resist the magazine image of male perfection, already think for themselves and need none of my help. However, when faced with the pressure of her friends' glances at my clothes and car, she wanted to go with me, and I didn't hold that against her. After all, I knew she needed my help.
I picked her up, as I always do, and we went to an out of the way restaurant that serves wonderful Italian food. She had never heard of it before, which is why I take many women there. It's the first step in showing them that what their minds are flooded with is not necessarily true. She enjoyed the food and the atmosphere, as I knew she would. She even commented that she couldn't believe that it was not well known, or that it was as affordable as it was. I smiled as I could see the fruits of my labor already beginning to ripen.
I let her drive the car when we left, which kept her attention on the car and not where we were going. Throughout the drive, I could hear the dull hum of the white noise that occupies the minds of people. By the time I had her stop the car, we were deep into a wooded area that I have found works well for first lessons. As usual, I opened my door and walked around to help her out. She asked me where we were going, but the mood of the evening made it easy for me to lead her along with the repeated use of "you'll see." When we were far enough from the road, I began the lesson.
I pulled the knife from my pocket and opened it slowly. She turned to me had that wide-eyed look that has become as familiar to me as my own face. A typical, brief conversation ensued.
"What is that?"
"A knife."
"What's it for?"
"Cutting."
"What are you going to cut?"
"You."
&nb
sp; She stood there, unable to act on the simple feeling of fear. So many messages had worked their way into her brain, that she couldn't imagine how to act. None of them ever react immediately. Their world has taught them that this was a typical wonderful evening, with a wonderful man. It taught them that this walk in the woods was a romantic end to a perfect date. When it's all shown to be a horrible lie, they all just stand there.
The first cut is always easy, and it was that time too. I slashed the knife across her arm and waited. She just stood there, staring at the blood. She still didn't run, or scream, or beg, or anything. She just stood there, frozen by the crashing structure of her assimilation.
The next cut was difficult, but needed. I grabbed her arm and carved away a chunk of flesh. The blood was everywhere, but the sight of fear and pain in her eyes made it all worth while. She began to scream from the depths of the soul that she had forgotten she possessed.
I lifted my gaze toward the stars and drank in the fear of the moment, and the freedom it brought. As always, I could hear her mind sing out in joy, though her voice cried with beautiful fear.
When the air she forced through her throat was exhausted, she ran. She was fast with fear, but I knew the area and easily kept up with her. I could feel the panic setting in, and could hear the labored breathing and screams for help. She had finally broken free of the bonds of her life, and was ready to feel, to live.
When I caught her, she looked at me with tears in her eyes and begged me not to kill her. They never understand the first lesson completely. Their subconscious understands and thanks me, but the conscious mind is usually too crowded with garbage to comprehend. I told her she was being silly, and that I did this for her. Of course, she did not believe me at first.
"What do you mean you did this for me?" She stammered and stuttered her words.
"You were trapped in your little life, a slave to advertising and 'group think.'"
"I was what?"
"Don't worry. You've taken the first steps to freedom. You'll get there."
"Freedom?"
"It's okay. I'll be watching. If you start to slip back into the patterns of your former life, I'll remind you of what real personal feelings are about."
She was silent after that; after all she had a lot to think about. During the drive home, her silence allowed me to bathe in the awakening thoughts of her mind, and the appreciation she held for me deep inside. One she was home, I reassured her that I would remember where she lived and would even keep up with her when she moved so that she would always remember the gift I gave her, and so I could be there if needed again.
They never believe me at first, and who can blame them. They have been let down by the empty promises of politicians and product hype their entire lives. The notion that someone could be as dedicated as I am to helping her escape the bonds of this oppressive existence is just too much to expect from one lesson.
So, like I do for all my protégés, I left her notes that I was still around for several days. I carved "I'm watching" into her door. I found out her phone number and called several times to remind her of our lesson and how I would be happy to help her again if she went astray.
Of course, I had to call from pay phones. The authorities are not happy with my activities. Their jobs are so much more difficult when people question their authority with their liberated thoughts. I have seen my students spend many hours arguing with authorities soon after our lessons.
She still didn't believe me though, even with my visits. She had to test me to make sure, some of them do; the desire to fit in can be so strong. After a couple of days, she moved from her apartment to live with a friend. I knew I had to act quickly, or else that friend could erase the success we had achieved together and grind the will from that precious flower.
I waited outside her friend's house for a few days, surveying the patterns of her life. It's always the same with drones: get up before dawn, drive to work, come home after dark, sleep. Nothing changes. Friday, something changed. I followed my project's friend to work in the pre-dawn darkness, and rammed her car on a deserted road. Predictably, she emerged from her car talking on the phone. Her call was never completed.
I could not allow one of these things to keep someone from becoming a thinking and feeling person. I killed her quickly; no amount of pain could save one such as her. Her mind was blank; all I could hear were jingles and movie lines pouring forth as she died. I took her keys and journeyed back to the house, to prove my dedication.
When I arrived, I could see the lesson was already being forgotten. She stood in the kitchen, drinking imported coffee, and eating a scone that had probably cost more than a full meal for some people.
When she saw me though, the lessons came back to her. I could see her tremble before she ran for the back door. The immediate response was gratifying and let me know that the reversal had not taken hold of her. Her mind began to sing with feeling, and her screams when I caught her were music to my ears.
"How did you find me?"
"I told you, I'll always be there to help you."
"Help me?"
"Yes, help you know what real feelings are like."
I left soon after giving her a reminder: a scar across her stomach. She will not worry about the slight disfigurement for long, as she will no longer care about appearances, or commercial definitions of beauty. She believed me that time, and moved back to her apartment.
Just this morning, I saw her again. I watched her to see if the lessons still resonated with her. I listened for her mind, and laughed when I heard it singing of joy and pain, of cheer and grief. She felt all the things we are supposed to feel, and those feelings drowned the sounds of popular culture. I watched her for hours, as she shopped and read. I could tell she was not comfortable among people anymore, it is the unfortunate price of awareness.
Then she noticed me. Her eyes locked with mine through the trees. I hoped she had gained some understanding, and was elated when she started to approach me. I stood tall, like a proud father watching his child's graduation ceremony. She approached me slowly.
I could see the anger and fear glaring through her eyes, without even a threat from me. Her emotions poured forth without aid and her mind screamed with such joy at being free, that it almost drove me to madness.
I reached out to her with welcoming arms and closed my eyes with joy. I recoiled with the sensation of cold pain in my abdomen. I looked down and saw that precious girl pull the knife from my stomach. I looked up and saw the smile of satisfaction on her face. As I fell, I heard her mind's song grow with the joy of revenge, and I knew my greatest accomplishment had been achieved.
So, as I lay here, life draining from my body, I have no regrets. My legacy will live on. I helped many people out of the trap society held them in since birth. I helped many people learn to feel raw emotion again. And, I helped one woman overcome the chains of society and just act on her feelings. I will carry the look of pleasure on her face and the song of her mind with me to heaven and wait for my students to join me.
Relief
June heard the doorbell ring through the small trailer and looked up from the two women arguing about the success of a dye job on Judge Judy. Through the glass at the top of the dented metal door, she could see two uniformed officers waiting on the rotting wood deck. She sighed, and rose to her feet. It took considerable effort from both her arms and legs, and she bit down with the pain from the cramps and bruises as she put her abused body into motion. Biting down caused a bolt of pain from her fractured jaw, through her body and almost knocked her back to the chair.
Placing one foot in front of the other in a motion similar to a toddler taking his first steps, June ambled toward the door. She caught the eye of one of the officers through the glass and held up her hand indicating that she was coming. She crossed the few remaining feet with a minimum of winces and opened the door.
“Hello, ma’am. I’m officer Grant,” the tall officer took off his hat and pointed to his fell
ow officer, “and this is officer Harris.” The second officer took off his hat and placed it in front of his chest when his name was mentioned.
June looked into their eyes, forming the best smile she could without hurting herself again. She could see the shock and the pity in the eyes of the two officers, and though she was embarrassed to have the evidence of her situation on display, she knew it was necessary. She waved for them to come in, not wanting to speak. After they were inside, she held up a glass to offer them a drink.
“No, thank you. Are you okay, ma’am? Do you need to get to a hospital?” Officer Grant leaned closer to her, inspecting the bruises on her face.
June shook her head and touched her jaw. She hated looking as she did, but the presence of the officers gave her hope that it would not happen again. In her heart, June was not surprised at her condition. She had seen her mother beaten many times when she was younger, and her father often came after her when Mom was not around. Her father would come into her room, drunk and angry, looking for her mother. If she was not home, Dad would take out his anger, and sometimes his passion, on June.
When she turned sixteen, she left their home in San Antonio one afternoon, intent on making a better life for herself. After a few hours along the residential streets and access roads, she looked at the setting sun and decided that risking hitching a ride was a safer bet than spending the night along the road. Soon after beginning her search for a car that included an extended thumb and two exposed thighs, she was in a truck with Phil.
Phil was an older man, thirty at the time, and she could tell by the look in his eye that he picked her up for one reason only. She was used to using her natural assets to get what she wanted, and her father and a string of early boyfriends had proven to her that sex was about power and control, and little else. After the small talk was over, June leaned over, unfastened Phil’s pants, and took control of the situation.
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