Blood & Tacos #2

by Ray Banks

Tinh was on him with his KA-BAR in an instant, giving the gook another smile under his chin. The next man out of the tunnel got Tinh’s boot in his face. Mathes heard the man’s nose smash into his own skull, and his K-rations started coming back on him. Tinh stomped the man’s face twice more, just to be sure. "Let’s go."

  The tunnel was small, the ceiling so low that even Tinh had to hunch over. Mathes’ knuckles were almost to the ground. There was little light, a low red glow, but Mathes never determined the source. He just stayed on the Sarge’s heels, almost bowling him over each time they came to a cross-tunnel and the Sarge stopped to listen for approaching enemy. Mathes had no idea how long they were down there, time a distant memory, like pussy or joy. The weight of the earth above, the jungle, the foreign men and their foreign war, they all pressed down on Mathes’ head, until he felt like screaming his throat raw.

  At the next cross-tunnel, two men approached from their left. Tinh let the first one crawl past, and then jammed his knife into the neck of the second man. He died silently, his windpipe neatly sliced in half, but as his body collapsed to the ground, his buddy turned. He drew in a breath. Mathes raised his pistol.

  "No!" Tinh said, but Mathes pulled the trigger and blew the gook’s brains out the back of his hat. The shot deafened them both, and for a second, Mathes wasn’t sure that he hadn’t just shot himself in the head.

  Tinh didn’t take the time to explain that Mathes had ruined whatever stealth they’d had. He just worked the strap of the AK off the nearest dead man and took point. He moved dead ahead, heedless of any cross-tunnels.

  They turned right, then left, then right again. Tinh caught sight of two more men coming at him from fifty feet away. He put his shoulders up, trying to cover his ears as best he could, and opened fire. The AK tore through both men. Tinh never stopped, stepped right over the bodies in his path. His throbbing ears picked up shouts, but he had no idea where they were coming from. He kept his finger on the trigger.

  "Mathes!" he shouted. "Your six!"

  Mathes turned and the big gook was on top of him. How they ever fit this boy down in this tunnel was beyond him. He was shirtless, and his brown skin almost glowed. He leered at Mathes as he brought his hands up around the young corporal’s throat. Mathes stared bug-eyed as the boy—he couldn’t be any older than Mathes—strangled him with his massive hands. It took Mathes only a few seconds, though, before he put his Colt .45 under the boy’s chin and painted the ceiling with his brains.

  "Jesus," Mathes said, his whisper loud in his skull. "Jesus Christ."

  "Mm," said Tinh, "let’s go. And bring your buddy."

  Gummy Ba had killed at least eight of Thuy’s men by himself, the jungle his cloak. He almost laughed out loud as Thuy’s men ran around like cocks with no hens. Thuy must have got these faggots wholesale from Hong Kong.

  Lang appeared next to where Ba squatted watching the main hut, the soft light of its cookfire in the window. Lang nodded towards it, but Ba shook his head. "This is Tinh’s fight."

  In the hut, Thuy sat in the lotus position, his rifle oiled and cleaned at his side. My lay on the floor, her sights on the trapdoor in the corner. The mongrels howled now. Thuy had almost succeeded in shutting out the noise, the screams, the smell of smoke. But then Hai burst in. A thin trail of blood was spattered across his face.

  "Sir!" he said, "they’re killing us out there! I don’t know what to do!"

  "You can start by shutting the fuck up." Thuy rose. He walked calmly to Hai, the idiot’s lazy eye spinning in uncontrollable circles in its socket. Thuy smiled and then slapped him in the face. "And then you can close the door. We’re expecting our real company any moment now."

  Hai did as he was told and then squatted down in the opposite corner from the trapdoor, his rifle in his shaking hands.

  Thuy stood in the center of the room, his hands clasped behind his back. The rain outside started up again, a few sprinkles on the roof, and then sheets of rain. The scar on Thuy’s right arm began to itch.

  Slowly, so slowly, the trapdoor opened.

  My’s whole body tensed, then relaxed.

  A hand poked up through the trapdoor. Then the door itself opened all the way.

  My fired, just once. The trapdoor slammed shut, and they heard the ladder snap as whoever it was fell back to the tunnel floor. The babies screamed louder.

  Hai laughed. He bounced across the room and flung the trapdoor open.

  My had time to shout, "Hai!" before a .45 round tore Hai’s face off.

  Sergeant Son Tinh rose from out of the tunnel. He fired Mathes’ revolver at My, clipping her in the shoulder. The yellow of her ao dai blossomed a red flower. She fell to the floor with a cry, landing on her narrow bottom.

  Tinh faced his brother. "Shall we?" he said to Thuy Tinh.

  "We shall."

  Corporal Joseph Mathes once saw a Marine, a big black private, smash another Marine’s teeth into a curb outside a bar in Fallbrook. In high school, he saw two greasers get in a knife fight over a girl, watched as one slit the other’s stomach open. The kid’s guts showed, just a little, through the curtain of blood. A bunch of the guys, just six months ago, dragged him to a dogfight in Cholon, and he watched two scrawny mutts fight until one tore the other’s throat out with its teeth.

  He’d never seen anything like this.

  Tinh dropped Mathes’ pistol, and then carefully removed and laid down the AK strapped to his chest. He tossed the KA-BAR away. It landed point-first in the floor with a thunk. Thuy kicked away his own AK. He lifted his shirt to show no weapons in his belt. Then they both bowed to each other.

  Thuy leapt across the room with a yell. Tinh blocked his punch and then bowled him over. Thuy landed on his back, and kicked up, catching Tinh in the chest. Tinh took three steps back as Thuy leapt to his feet in one motion, landed in a crouch, and swept a kick at Tinh’s legs. Tinh jumped, bending his legs at the knees, and then landed knee-first as he delivered a tremendous punch to Thuy’s face. Both men rolled back into a somersault, onto their feet, and back into a crouch. Thuy smiled at his brother. Tinh did not return it.

  This time they came at each other simultaneously. Mathes, crouched on top of the tunnel’s ladder, could not make out their individual fists in the flurry of blows that followed. Each man would block, block, block, every third or fourth blow finding its mark. Blood exploded from Thuy’s nose, Tinh’s mouth. Tinh grabbed Thuy’s left arm and pulled it up behind his back. Thuy stomped his instep and elbowed him in the kidney with his free arm.

  Tinh whirled back and around. Thuy spun him further, whipping him into the wall. Mathes looked to the woman still staring at her bloody shoulder in disbelief, and then moved his attention to the bamboo pen where the babies were kept. They screamed and howled. But one baby had pulled herself up and was just standing there. Watching.

  Thuy pinned Tinh’s throat to the wall and punched him in the breadbasket. As the air rushed out his lungs, Tinh felt Thuy’s hold on his throat tighten. He butted at Thuy’s face, but Thuy shook the blow off and laughed.

  "When you get to hell, little brother," Thuy said, "be sure to have the devil build a new wing for all your American friends." And he reached back and drew the short knife he had hidden under his belt.

  The baby pointed and said, "Uh-da!"

  Mathes said, "Sarge!"

  My grabbed the Colt off the floor and fired.

  Thuy saw the bullet strike Tinh in the shoulder, but then felt the blood running down his own back and knew it had passed through him first. He immediately released Tinh and turned, and then My fired again, shooting him in the stomach.

  Thuy fell to the floor.

  Tinh coughed and coughed as Mathes pulled himself out of the trapdoor, kicked the gun out of My’s hand. "Don’t move, lady. We’re taking these kids and we’re getting out of here."

  Tinh looked down at his older brother, watched the blood pool on the floor. Thuy smiled. "You might as well kill them now, Son Tinh. Fucking b?i d?i. You know as we
ll as I do what kind of life they’ll have."

  "Your blood," Tinh said. "I can smell the Chinese in it."

  Thuy laughed, a pathetic wheeze. "Yes, it stinks. You should be used to it by now, though, I would think."

  Tinh reached down and pulled the KA-BAR out of the floor. "Say hello to Father for me."

  "I will," Thuy said. "Chúc ng? ngon, Son Tinh."

  "Good night, Thuy Tinh." Sergeant Tinh cut Thuy’s throat. "You fucking asshole."

  Son Tinh focused carefully on My’s shoulder as he bandaged it but could feel her eyes boring into his face. He said, "Does this mean you’ll take me back, little one?"

  My laughed. "Not if you were the last bastard in Vietnam, Son Tinh."

  "That’s what I thought."

  He let that hang in the air. My waited until he’d finished bandaging her up and looked her in the eye. She said, "Once, Thuy Tinh fought with honor for his homeland. But somewhere along the way, he began fighting for himself, and with dishonor. Bringing a knife to a fistfight was the last straw."

  "Mm." Son Tinh nodded. "Can I get you anything else, My?"

  "Yes," she said. "You can get the fuck out of my house."

  Son Tinh gave a sharp whistle. After a few minutes, Gummy Ba returned it, signaling the all-clear. Mathes and Tinh came out, each with two babies in his arms. All of them except little Yen cried and screamed in the rain.

  Even with the ringing in his ears and the screaming bastards in his arms, Mathes smiled hugely at Gummy Ba and his men standing at the bridge. "Well, goddamn, boys!" he said. "Mission accomplished, huh? Let’s go home." He stepped onto the bridge and Gummy Ba hauled him back.

  "You fucking crazy, Joe?" he said and pointed at the MON-50 poking out from under the bridge, glistening in the rain.

  "You want whole place go up?" Ba said.

  "Sure he does," Tinh said. "But not tonight."

  THE END

  Jimmy Callaway lives and works in San Diego, CA. He is the underboss of Criminal Complex and overboss of Attention, Children and Let’s Kill Everybody!

  THEY CALL HIM CRUEL: Burn In

  By Moses Starkweather

  (discovered by Frank Larnerd)

  Not all men’s adventure books of the mid-1980s were Reagan-era paranoia combined with liberal doses of gun porn (and borderline actual porn). Some authors used the freedom of the genre to make social commentary and show the grit and grime of the world they themselves lived in. The Cruel series was short-lived but has been cited as an influence on many writers' work, including discoverer FRANK LARNERD.

  "Give me your money."

  The kid was probably twelve or thirteen, skinny with light brown skin, Puerto Rican or Cuban maybe. He wore a green Dan Marino jersey that was at least two sizes too big and hung nearly halfway down his thighs. Under the kid’s right eye were the remnants of a purple bruise.

  He made a stabbing motion with the gun and repeated, "Give me your money."

  I had seen the kid earlier that day. He had been in the back of the arcade, hanging out with three older kids I recognized: teenage trash from Staten Island who took the bus across the Verrazano Bridge to sling herb and harass the girls from Fontbonne Academy.

  They wore matching black bandannas tied around their legs. In Park Hills they might have been big shit, but to me they just looked like angry assholes hungry to shit on the world.

  I had kicked out the oldest kid twice before. Once for dealing dime-bags and the second time for kicking the coin door of a Defender machine. I’d heard someone call him "Sello" once.

  I pushed my way through his two friends to where Sello was playing Ghost’n Goblins. They were teenage vultures dressed in red vinyl jackets and leaking zits. Both of them were in their late teens. One looked like Charlie Brown, bald with giant jug ears; the other was bucktoothed and wearing 3-D glasses.

  Sello was hunched over, his fingers bouncing from button to button on the game’s control panel. He was an ugly fucker, fat-lipped and greasy looking. A Marlboro dangled from his lips as he cursed at the monitor.

  "Goddamn bunch of bullshit! Did you guys see that? I swear this game is fuckin’ broken."

  I got close and bumped him with my chest. The game gave out a mournful tone as Sello lost a life.

  He flew up, snapping. "Watch it, bitch!"

  I leaned in closer and let his eyes take in my 255 pounds. I’m six two, but a foot taller with my mohawk. I flexed my arms and leaned into his face.

  "I told you to stay away."

  Sello took a step back, giving me a yellow grin.

  "It’s fresh. Ask the man."

  He nodded behind the counter where my Uncle Milo counted out tokens to two kids in day-glo shirts.

  I stepped in closer, so that Sello’s chest touched mine.

  "Get the fuck out, before I tear off your face and use it to wipe my ass."

  "It’s cool, man." said Sello’s friend with the 3-D glasses.

  "It’s not cool," Sello snarled. "The Threats run with Mr. Bread now. Just ’cause you’re built like Hulk Hogan doesn’t mean you’re bulletproof. Remember that."

  I had heard about Mr. Bread. He was supposed to be a heavy, making a name for himself dealing junk and breaking arms down in Park Hills.

  I showed Sello my crazy face.

  "Let’s get out of here," Sello said. "This place smells like shit anyway."

  When they left, the kid in the Dan Marino jersey hung his head and followed.

  Five minutes ’til closing, the kid came back by himself. Not playing anything, just standing off to the side, watching the demo on Bega’s Battle loop over and over.

  At eight, I flipped the switch behind the counter, shutting down the games. I let the last few kids duck under the retractable security gate and when I turned, the kid in the Dan Marino jersey had a gun on me.

  It was a .38 revolver with a dark metal finish. In the kid’s hand, it looked big and heavy. Good thing my uncle had already gone upstairs. If the kid had pulled a gun on him, Milo might have killed him.

  "Here," I said and tugged on the chain attached to my wallet. "I’ve got twenty bucks."

  I opened my wallet to show him. When the kid looked, I kicked him in the chest with my combat boot.

  The kid flew backward and bounced off a Dig Dug machine, slamming into the floor. Pained sucking sounds came from his throat as he tried to draw in breath. I grabbed the gun off the speckled carpet and jammed it in the studded leather belt I was wearing.

  With one arm, I grabbed the kid by his collar and jerked him off the ground so we were eye to eye. His face was panicked as silent tears floated down his cheeks.

  "You still want to rob me?"

  He shook his head and I set him down. I let him cough and wheeze for a minute until he got his breath back.

  "Do you know who I am?"

  The kid nodded, "Sello said they call you Cruel."

  "He tell you why?"

  "He said you pulled off a Russian guy’s toes. Tony T said it was ’cause you broke Jimmy Future’s legs with a shopping cart full of cinderblocks."

  I couldn’t help smiling.

  "Sello, Tony T? Those your friends? They put you up to this?"

  "The Threats," the kid said. "They said it was my initiation."

  "Why would you want to join those assholes?"

  The kid shrugged, "Protection, I guess."

  "They hassle you?"

  "Not really. But they’ll kill me when they find out you got their gun."

  "What’s your name?"

  "Hector."

  "Come up stairs for a sec."

  I showed Hector to the stairwell that leads to the apartment above the arcade. Inside, Milo was asleep in his La-Z-Boy, a half-eaten TV dinner and several beer cans sat beside him. I tossed a brightly colored afghan over him and switched off the television. I put a finger to my lips and Hector followed me down the hall, past dozens of Milo’s Vietnam photos, to my room.

  The kid stood in the door, while I pulled out my earrings
and laid them on the desk. I took a moment to fluff up my mohawk and pulled the gun from my belt.

  "What’s wrong with it?" Hector asked, nodding at the game cabinet I had in the corner next to my weights.

  "Burn in."

  "What’s that?"

  "Sometimes, if the brightness is set to high, a monitor gets discolored so that you can still see the game even after it’s turned off. Take a look."

  Hector approached the arcade machine and gently traced the ghostly maze with a finger.

  "How do you fix it?"

  "You don’t."

  I opened the desk’s top drawer and shook out the bullets into it. Then, I pulled some hollow points from a rectangular box I had hidden behind some socks. One at a time, I squeezed the bullets in the gun’s cylinders. After that, I grabbed my jean jacket and slipped the gun into the inside pocket.

  "What are you gonna do?" Hector asked.

  I snatched my nunchucks off the bedpost and put them in my back pocket. "I’m gonna give Sello his gun back."

  Hector followed me across 99th Street and up two blocks to the bus stop.

  While we waited, the kid asked, "What time is it?"

  "Eight thirty," I said. "Why? You got some place you need to be?"

  Hector shrugged. "It’s my dad. He gets super pissed when I’m late."

  "You should have thought about that before you decided to rob me. You can go home. After I talk to Sello."

  Ten minutes later we were rolling over the Staten Island Expressway. Hector sat beside me, his refection shimmering in the bus window as he looked out to Gravesend Bay. His image looked ghostly and grim.

  I slipped my headphones under my jaw and popped a Misfits cassette into my Walkman. Closing my eyes, I let the music wash over me.

  Before Milo came back from ‘Nam and took me in, I lived with the Junkman. It wasn’t a real house, it was a foster house, two double-wides welded together next to a maze of ruined cars. The whole place was surrounded by tall chain-link fences topped with razor wire. It kept people out, and us in.

  The Junkman had rules for everything: how to eat, when to use the bathroom, when to sleep. He didn’t allow us to look at him, or speak without being spoken to. If you broke the rules, you sat in the chair.