Gregg shook his head. "Ridiculous. Anyway, did anything suspicious ever go on?"
Frank stepped into the living room pressing his boot into the marshy carpet. His mouth curled in disgust at the thought of the wood floor below and the repair bill he would have to foot. "Other than constant parties, people coming in and out at all hours, and suspicious odors billowing out? No, nothing unusual for this place."
Frank glanced around the room, trying to keep his glance from straying toward the back bathroom. He listened to Gregg's questions, though his attention remained elsewhere.
"When was the last time you were here, Frank?"
"Earlier today, actually. I got a call about a leak in the back bathroom. Idiot kid said he tried to fix it himself." Frank motioned his hand toward the back of the apartment. "Didn't do a great job."
"You didn't stay to fix it?"
"Nah. I just turned off the water. I needed to get some parts. Fact is, I wasn't in too big a hurry to get it fixed up."
"That's not exactly a ringing endorsement of the property, Frank."
Linder smirked. "People who care live someplace else."
Gregg stepped around Frank and motioned for Linder to follow him. "I'm just gonna need you to ID the body."
Linder swallowed with thoughts of the source of some of the moisture and followed. He strode across the living room and recalled his last visit here. Even he had been angered at the amount of filth that had grown in the unit. He and Thom had argued.
"Why didn’t you call me earlier," Frank had asked. He could tell the water had to have been there for weeks.
"Nope. Just happened today." Frank could still here Thom's condescending tone and gum smacking.
Linder clinched his fists and shook his head before entering the bathroom. He looked down and saw the blood-matted hair outlining Thom's face. Frank looked for any sign of the familiar smirk on the kid's face. He found none in the slack features.
"That's him. That's Thom." Linder signed and stepped out of the bathroom.
"Well, that's all we need. Thanks, Frank."
Frank stared at the apartment, its wet floors, smell of rotted food and stained walls. He thought of the smug punk who lied in the can, soaked with his own blood. Frank knew he had tried to be reasonable.
He wanted to be nice when he went over. He had planned to just fix the toilet and leave. But that little piece of crap just kept pushing.
"When you’re done with that, I need you to look at the freezer. It’s been busted for a while." Frank remembered the little shit spitting his gum to the floor. "I don’t know why I keep living in this dump."
Frank thought he would just threaten the kid and it would be over. Most of the time, he would say eviction, and kids would shape up. Not Thom. Poor bastard.
"No way, man. You haven’t fixed any of this shit. I don’t gotta pay rent if you don’t do your job."
Linder laughed again at the feeble argument of the dumb kid. "Idiot," he said. "You have to file complaints for that to count. And document it. You’ve just been a loser for six months, and now you’ll be a homeless loser." Frank remembered laughing aloud as he kept working on the toilet. The laughter stopped soon after.
Frank could still hear Thom walk out of the bedroom and mumble to himself in the kitchen.
"Look, you’re gonna let me stay here."
Frank remembered looking forward to whatever Thom had to prove his case. A scowl took over his face with his recollection of what happened next. The pictures.
"That’s right. You’ll be letting me stay here, and this is why."
Frank gritted his teeth, recalling the photo Thom had placed in his hand. The image of his daughter standing in a group of several men was clear in his mind.
"If you try to kick me out of here, I’ll make sure everyone, ever Mrs. Landlord, gets a gander of the rest of these."
Frank's heart pounded in his chest. His anger had not relented a bit. Still, he knew he tried to give the kid a break. "Leave and give me all the pictures and film before you go." Frank would not allow those atrocities to float around.
"Frank?"
Linder glanced back at Officer Gregg. "Sorry, what did you say?"
"I said that was all. You okay?"
"Yeah, just thinking."
"'Bout what?" Gregg closed his notes and slipped them into his pocket.
"About how much it would take to clean this place up."
Gregg huffed. "Pretty callous of you, Frank."
"Well, let's just say Thom's not gonna missed around here."
Frank turned to Gregg. "I'm sure you found drugs and all kind of equipment in here." Frank glanced back at the bedroom and thought of the pictured and video he had destroyed. "Who knows what all went on in here. But, I'm not losing any sleep over this one."
"I hear ya."
Frank left the apartment and let out a chuckle at the thought of Thom's response. "No way. I’ve even got video, dude. I’ll get that out there to. No question."
For a second Frank had felt sorry for a stupid kid who just did not know when he had lost.
"If you try to get rid of me, or even charge me rent, I’ll show everyone what your little girl can do. And trust me, she can do a…”
Those were the last words out of Thom’s mouth before the polished wood of the seat slammed into his jaw, pushing teeth and blood from his mouth.
Linder remembered catching a glimpse of his naked daughter in one of the photos before raising the seat above his head and slamming it down into Thom’s neck. Thom fell to the floor, and Linder hammered the seat onto the prone and motionless head repeatedly.
Linder emerged from the apartment and took a deep breath of the night air. The familiar smells of alcohol, smoke, and bodies filled the air.
"So, Frank. I'll give you a call if I need anything."
Frank cleared his throat. "Actually, I had planned on getting away for a few days. Already have my plane tickets."
Officer Gregg paused. "Okay. We can ask you any questions when you get back. I don't think this'll be any different than most of these stories."
"Probably not." Frank let out a snort. "So, when you getting off tonight?"
"Soon. I just need to look into a call about someone creeping around behind the Quick-Mart. Probably nothing, but it beats hanging around here."
"I hear ya. Take care."
"You too, Frank."
Skinner's Child
Congressman Goodfellow:
If you are reading this message then two things are clear to me. First, you are neither particularly cautious nor intelligent, since you opened this attachment. Second, you should check your computer for viruses. You really should be more careful. I have taken careful steps to ensure that you do not know who I am, yet here you are reading an attachment on your home e-mail account. (Do you get the most recent virus protection at home?)
So what is this about? This letter comes to you from my home: my prison. Though I have chosen this situation, you would be sorely mistaken to assume that this is the life I would have chosen for myself ceteris parabis. No, this is how I have chosen to cope with the punishment levied against me for my crimes. What are my crimes? I would prefer not to tell you just yet, it would spoil so much of the suspense. First, I want you to know why I'm here.
I was sentenced to six months of "behavior modification therapy." The idea behind this punishment, no doubt the culmination of long hours of deliberation by people who think outlawing sodomy will save society, is to condition the offender to behave appropriately.
Though the procedure was straightforward, I will strive to make my explanation as simple as possible for your benefit. I was placed in a cell modeled after a "Skinner Box." If you have never heard of B.F. Skinner I apologize. I will explain, but I cannot improve your obviously lacking education. In my cell was a floor capable of emitting a quite painful electric shock, and a door for food delivery. Other than the lavatory and bed, there was nothing else.
For the first month, I was le
ft alone, greeted only by a buzzing noise, followed by food delivery. Day after day, the buzzing noise was my only companion. I came to enjoy the sound as it both broke the silence and announced the arrival of my meals, which were surprisingly good, I must admit. After the first four weeks, a gentleman spoke to me over an intercom.
He babbled for several minutes about his belief that chimpanzees would one day evolve into men and his theory that the earth was flat but that the edges teleported you to the other side. I listened to his rambling until he mercifully concluded. Another man then asked what I thought of the ideas. I told him that I believed the previous man was proof that chimpanzees had learned to speak. I was greeted by an unbelievably painful shock. Hours past and I grew hungry. I heard the activation of the intercom and prepared to welcome my friend, the buzzing.
Instead, I was asked again about the moronic lecture. I asked the man behind the wall to pass on my advice that the subject matter was sufficiently ridiculous, though his comedic timing could use some improvement. Again came the shock, but no buzzing. Suppertime arrived and again I was asked about the speech. That time I listened to my stomach and informed him that it was interesting and insightful. The buzzing and the accompanying food greeted me.
Then next several months progressed along a similar pattern. From time to time I would hear some imbecilic speech, followed by questions of my opinion. Biting remarks drew shocks from time to time, but never food. Positive comments were answered with buzzing and food. Beginning in the third month, the speeches came more often. Positive comments to those were rewarded with ice cream, or an hour of television, or a book. These rewards did not come every time, but I still began to welcome the banal comments of the next moron in line, to see if anything was available. It sickens me now to imagine myself craving the opinions of simpletons, and actually praising them for spewing their mental refuse.
Now, I am sure you are thinking that I must have done something to deserve such treatment. Well, if you consider voicing your opinion to be a heinous crime, then you're right. Yes, my crime was being an individual who dared to claim that I might know more than someone else.
One day, I attended a meeting at work. I was listening to yet another empty suit regurgitate the efforts of some underpaid analyst who stopped his productive efforts and composed a few remarks. It was then that I was faced with a misuse of language, which I now believe is required for advancement up the corporate ladder. That Luddite concluded his speech by informing the gathering that his departments' project had not yet been "optimizated."
I could not allow this chair moistener to go unchecked. So, I asked him to explain the difference between the word he used and "optimized," other than that his was not a real word. Predictably he offered no retort, though I had hoped he would demand that we "interface" after the close of the meeting. I gathered my papers as the lemmings attempted to hide their smiles.
On my way to my cubicle, I passed the offices of men whose jobs I could do in my sleep. After working for several hours, two police officers arrived. They informed me that I was being arrested for "continuos use of unproductive, unneeded, offensive language in a non-entertainment setting."
So, why do you live in seclusion? I'll tell you. When my sentence was done, I was elated to be able to regain the control over my actions that had been stripped from me for so long. My employer welcomed me back (though they had little choice since my attitude was classified as a disease). After several weeks of avoiding most people, I attended another meeting.
Predictably, fake words were heard often during the gathering. However, I was particularly appalled when asked where I was currently "officing." I prepared to unleash a verbal barrage upon the vocabulary-deprived idiot, but stopped when I noticed the attention of the room on me. When I returned to my cubicle, my supervisor congratulated me on my recovery and informed me I would be nominated of an "Attitude in Action" award.
I went home that day confused and angry. Why had I not educated that word butcher? Why did I feel grateful for being considered for an award that amounted to a postcard with "Way to Go!" emblazoned across it? The next several weeks went the same way. I held my tongue when faced with ignorance, and was occasionally rewarded (sometimes with friendly pats on the back, or invitations to events, or tickets to some sporting event). I came to welcome meetings as an opportunity to not mouth off. Then it hit me. The Box had worked its evil magic on me. I was sickened by my behavior. It still makes my stomach turn to think of myself congratulating some overpaid, overfed clothes rack on his "great job."
I could not continue like that. I also could not return to my previous life. That company would not accept the behavior, nor would any other since any background check would reveal my treatment. Any employer would report my condescension to authorities and I would be "re-treated."
That brings the story to today and to you. Because of your love of "experts" and "non-offensive language" and you callous disregard for freedom, I have been forced to cease all direct communication. I work from home and communicate only by e-mail because I cannot suffer a world that considers comfort more important than liberty and acceptance more importance that accuracy. And, Congressman, I will not suffer individuals whose actions support those attitudes. Whether your decision to allow these behavioral modifications was driven by money, personal hatred of humanity, or simple stupidity, your responsibility is the same.
I am but the first of many who will drop from your web of thought control and fight against those of your ilk. (I do hope you've run a virus scan as I recommended.) I will find others, and we will make this a land of freedom again.
Do not attempt to reply back or to track me down. This was sent from an anonymous account that I have already deleted.
Have a nice day. I'll keep in touch.
A Serendipitous Stumble
Sometimes it just doesn’t pay to get up in the morning. I hear that from a lot of guys after I show them the Polaroids that their wives will be using in court. Those words normally follow the threats and the bribes. I spoil morning for loads of people, but I make sure that getting out of bed pays me well. In fact, if I don’t have business planned for the day, I normally just roll over on to whoever was with me the night before. Unfortunately, even that doesn’t save me every time.
A couple of days ago a guy came in to pay up on one of the biggest mistakes I’ve had the pleasure of exploiting. Like most of the people who come to me for proof of a lack of decorum on the part of the significant other Jack Benford was no prize himself. He was rude, loud, ugly, and unfortunately for him, empty handed.
Now, I’m not an unreasonable man, but I do have to protect my reputation. Some people make sure they get paid by having contracts, but that does not work for a large part of my clientele. In addition to finding spouses gone astray to the arms of another man, woman, or other, I also make sure that certain criminal family members are not swindled by wolves in sheep’s clothing. For obvious reasons, those clients don’t care much for contracts. At the same time, they don’t have much respect for someone who can’t get paid.
So, I had to get my money. Of course, the guy didn’t want to pay because I had no pictures of his woman with someone else. She wasn’t cheating. She was clean, and I don’t doctor photos. He was an ass, and I wouldn’t blame her for getting a little something on the side, but she wasn’t. Now, I wouldn’t call her clean and pure, but she wasn’t serving as an inkwell when Captain Jerk-off was away.
“No pictures, no money!” He yelled until his face was red. A real bad temper, I’m telling you.
I laughed. Probably not my best moment, but this guy was ridiculous. Here he was yelling and screaming, when I knew he was going to pay eventually. This guy would be simple.
I let him go. He felt all proud, and I didn’t want his mood to spoil the sushi I had panned for lunch. I mean, money is important, and so is my reputation, but good sushi is heaven. I had some great salmon sashimi, and some of the best spicy tuna rolls I’ve ever had.
&nb
sp; Anyway, after lunch I found Jack at work, and I started taking pictures. If he needed pictures to loosen his purse strings, I was going to make sure and have some pictures that would open that wallet and bring me a nice payday. After he left work, I met up with him at the local discreet hourly lodging establishment and waited for him to make his way to a room. I like to know who I’m dealing with, so I always tail the client on my first day. It doesn’t slow me down very much, and it has come in useful many more times that must with old Jacko.
After about fifteen minutes, and young girl showed up. I would call her hot, but I have a problem referring to girls under sixteen with those kinds of terms. I snuck up the window after she went in, took some pictures that made my point well enough, and then went back to my car and sounded the alarm I purchased through the mail. I love having that thing around, really makes some people sweat.
It almost made old Jack perform a different function. They ran and I laughed. Once he was gone, I decided to meet him at his house with my little present. I was pretty sure that he’d pay once he saw what I would share with his wife.
At this point, it was the early evening, and all I was doing was trying to get money I should have had before noon. I was going to get some dinner, and a few beers to help me forget that I wasn’t being paid, but I wanted to get rid of this pain in my rear as soon as possible.
I drove up the drive to his house, and almost turned around. Up at the house, I could see that his wife, Becca, was home. In fact, she was kneeling next to his car. I pulled out my handy opera glasses, yes I like opera, and watched her. A few bushes made a home between the tow of us, but I was pretty sure then, and sure now, that she was trying to cut the brake line. I considered coming out from the woods and helping her end the life of that little prick, but I stayed back.
I removed the glasses from my eyes and scanned the scene. Becca was still hard at work, but soon enough Jack came rambling out of the house. It was clear that he had been drinking, and he was not happy. I watched him walk up behind her, grab her shoulder, and turn her around to face him.
Mayhem: A Collection of Stories Page 3