Born To Bleed (The Roger Huntington Saga, Book 2)

by Ryan C. Thomas

  They were good paintings and I was proud of them. Proud that I’d proved my father wrong--I could make money being an artist--and proud because I’d sold the image rights to an independent comic book publisher for enough money to buy a six pack of beer and a beta fish. Independent publishing doesn’t pay, my friends. But then, pride is worth more in the long run so it evens out.

  I tell myself that, anyway.

  Thing is . . . these types of paintings were not my bread and butter. Californians don’t want dark, sci-fi geekery; they want schlock culled from tropical paradigms, images from films like Endless Summer and Cocktail. So that’s what I paint for money. They call it Plein Air, which stands for open air, meaning you paint outdoors. Really it’s just a fancy way of saying “boring landscapes that get old women’s panties wet.” Long stretches of beach with palm trees blowing in the breeze, waterfalls and rock formations, the occasional woody with a surfboard on top. Collectors hang them up in their game rooms or over their kitchen tables. Hell, you can buy a thousand just like them at Bed Bath & Beyond, but collectors want one-of-a-kind stuff. They want to brag to their guests about how it’s an original from a famous local artist and they got it at a gallery show and blah blah blah look at me I’m so important. Little do they know I live in a crappy box of an apartment because what little money I make off those paintings goes toward my shrink bills and car payments on my vintage ’82 Camaro.Hey, I’m entitled to a little bit of luxury, right?

  The other reason these collectors want originals is because they like to go to the exact spot in the painting and take a photograph. Then they hang the photo next to the painting to prove the scene wasn’t just made up. Plein Air collectors are weird, but don’t look at me . . . I have aliens on my wall. A quick look outside the window told me I still had the brunt of the day to get the paintings done. My process is simple: scout a location that hasn’t been painted before (I’m not the only plein air artist in So Cal), set up my easel so I can get it right, and paint until I’m drunk. The natural lighting really does make a big difference when mixing colors for the final product. And the alcohol makes me not care that I’m painting stuff that would make even Bob Ross groan, were he still alive.

  I figured I could get one done this afternoon, albeit sloppily, and take a photo for the next one to do at home tonight. Burn the midnight oil and all that. The lighting would be off but Barry probably wouldn’t notice. Only color he really cared about was green, which I don’t say to sound like some anti-Semitic jerk. It’s got nothing to do with him being Jewish, just with him being an asshole.

  I grabbed two canvases, my paints, and those two beers from the fridge and made my way down to the parking lot.

  It was almost one in the afternoon. The Clash was on the radio belting out “The Magnificent Seven.” I checked my rearview mirror to back out, saw my Red Sox hat looked worse than I’d thought. It was faded and ripped and the red B was starting to unthread. This hat had been through a lot, and it meant a whole bunch to me. Tooth’s father gave it to me a few months after the funeral. If Tooth had ever written a will, I’m sure it would have specified he be buried with it (and maybe a beer and some Traci Lords videos, too). It needed a major overhaul. I took it off, mussed my hair, and put it back on, checked the rearview mirror and froze.

  The man from my dreams was looking at me from the backseat, his gaunt, unshaven face stained in blood. He held up a bloody fishing gaff and said, “Bet you didn’t know I raped Jamie with this for a whole hour. She weren’t no virgin when I was done with her. I covered it in Butch’s dog shit first. Oh yeah. And when I yanked it out all sorts of good stuff spit out at me. That fucking bitch came, I swear.” He laughed that high-pitched witch’s cackle, the same laugh that haunted my dreams every night.

  I closed my eyes and gripped the steering wheel so hard my knuckles popped. You might be thinking I said something like “I know you’re not real,” like some lame movie cliché, but I didn’t. Because I’m not afraid anymore. I said, “When I open my eyes, if you’re really there, I’m going to rip your fucking head off, reach down your throat and tear your lungs out.”

  I opened my eyes. He was gone. Another hallucination. I’d been off my meds for a month now and Dr. Marsh said some old symptoms might reoccur. It’s classic post traumatic stress disorder, or so she said. Same as the war veterans get. It’s no fun, let me assure you. Dr. Marsh advised me not to stop taking the pills, but I wanted to try, just to see if I could move past them. Not to mention they were expensive.

  I started the car and left, the two cans of beer tapping together on the passenger seat. One for me, and one for Tooth. Only I’d have to drink Tooth’s for him. I knew he’d want me to.

  Chapter 2

  I needed to stop by Murray’s Art Depot on Franklin Ave. to restock a few oil paints. It’s a small mom-and-pop business with tons of brushes and paints and canvases and anything else a true starving artist could want. Unlike the big chain stores like Michaels, they really know their shit. I mean, real artists do not shop for supplies in places where the majority of aisles are dedicated to scrapbooking. The way those sagging, old women cluck for that stuff you’d think they were pigs in a feed store. “Oh my gosh, Hazel, did you see the cute little bunny stickers they have! I’m going to do a whole new scrapbook of just bunny pictures! Wee!”

  The third World War will start over who gets the last bunny stickers for a scrapbook . . . mark my word.

  When I got to Murray’s, Cameron Plimpton (Murray’s kid) was working the counter. He looked up from whatever he was reading when the bell over the door jingled.

  “Hey, Roger. Hail to the King, baby.”

  “Klatu, Verata, Nikto,” I replied, our own little joke that drove his father nuts. Cam was in high school, but he was a pretty cool kid. He reminded me of me ten years ago, swept up in comics, always on the lookout for the next great horror film or anything starring the amazing Bruce Campbell. (Thank God the Academy finally recognized him.)

  “You need some paints to do another faggy palm tree picture?”

  “You know it.”

  “You should paint big ol’ buttholes on them so your clients can screw them. Ha!”

  “Cam!” Murray came out of the small room behind the counter where he kept a small fridge and a TV. “What did I say about that kind of talk when you’re working. Hi, Roger.”

  “Hi, Murray.”

  Murray grabbed his son by the back of the neck in a loving fatherly way that meant he was two seconds away from grounding the kid for his own good. “I hear you spout anymore homophobic bullshit in this store you’re gonna work for free. I’m not gonna lose customers because of your ignorance.”

  “I’m just joking, Dad. Don’t go all Palpatine on me.”

  “I don’t know what that means. Is he mocking me, Roger?”

  I laughed. “Not really. Well, maybe. Emperor Palpatine was the ruler of the galaxy in the Star Wars films.”

  Murray cocked an eyebrow. “I’m gonna bet the guy was bad. What happened to kids respecting their parents?”

  “Shit, Dad, it’s just a joke.”

  “And no more swearing!”

  “But you said ‘bullshit.’”

  “I said enough. What do you need, Roger?”

  “Just need some oils. I know where they are.”

  “Hold up,” Cam said, “I’ll come with you. I wanna show you my new stuff.” He picked up a sketchpad from next to the register and hopped over the top of the counter. Murray rolled his eyes and went back to watching TV.

  Cam and I walked to the paints and I started looking through the various tubes for the colors I needed. I noticed the prices had gone up since I had been here last, but I kept my disappointment to myself.

  “Hey, you get the new Batman/Green Lantern mash-up?” Cam asked, flipping through his pad.

  “Of course. Got the limited edition foil cover ones as well.”

  “That was badass when they fought. I thought Batman would kick Jordan’s butt, but man
oh man he got served.”

  “All a misunderstanding, anyway. You knew it had to be. They’ll never really have two superheroes be enemies for long. Heroes have to stay heroes.”

  “Oh, here’s what I’m looking for. Check this one out,” Cam said, offering the sketchpad to me. He was a pretty good artist, dare I say better than I was at his age. On the page was a charcoal sketch of a naked girl with some kind of space gun riding a giant dick and fighting off what looked like more giant dick monsters. As a testament to his skill it was good stuff. As a testament to his hormonal urges, it was scary.

  “See, each cock monster shoots sperm grenades and their balls have afterburners in them. She’s gotta shoot them in the big vein running down the center to kill them.”

  “You’ve got issues,” I said.

  “Okay okay, that one’s just a joke. Seriously, what about this one?” He flipped the page. This new drawing was better, done in colored pencil. A woman in a red bodysuit riding on top of a giant alligator. In the sky, spaceships dueled with lasers. A large red planet shimmered behind the distant clouds. Some kind of sci-fi-fantasy hybrid. It reminded me of a Borris Vallejo book cover.

  “That’s not bad. Have you tried to enter it anywhere? There are websites you could put it up on and maybe make a sale.”

  “Not yet. I want to mess with the colors a bit more.” He flipped through some more pages and I caught the Lena 12 comic book in between them. That’s the one I did the cover for, the same painting of the female assassin that’s hanging in my apartment. I’d signed the copy for Cam a few months ago. It made me feel good to know someone appreciated my geek art. He kept flipping.

  “This one here,” he said, “I just started yesterday. I’m going to do a big whole ocean battle scene over here. Add some hot mermaids and stuff. But what do you think so far?”

  “I like the woman riding the shark. Do you ever have animals that aren’t mounted by half-naked women?”

  “Well, sometimes they’re fully naked. Tits, ass, and big fucking guns, right? Just like you draw.”

  “Like me? My young padawan, all I do is palm trees.”

  “Yeah, but you drew Lena 12. She’s hot. And deadly. But mostly hot. Really hot. I mean, damn, if I could fuck that--”

  The bell over the front door jingled. “Shit,” Cam said, “frigging customers.”

  “It’s cool. I’m done. I’ll just get these four here.” I held up the tubes of paint.

  “C’mon, I’ll ring you up.”

  I followed Cameron back to the counter and glanced at the door to see who’d come in. It was a tall brunette girl, maybe in her mid-twenties. She was cute, had a beret on. Cameron was eyeing her as well. He puffed out his chest a bit like a rooster.

  For a moment I debated taking Dr. Marsh’s advice and trying to talk to her, maybe even use my upcoming gallery show as a way to impress her, but I decided not to. I have no real understanding of how girls work. I had one girlfriend right before I left New Hampshire. The sex was great--I wish Tooth had been around to celebrate with me--but ultimately she couldn’t deal with my past.

  No one really can. At first they say, “I’m here for you. I understand.” But they never do. Then, when I wake up screaming and punching the air with all my might, yelling for someone to leave Jamie alone . . . then they realize they’ve underestimated how broken I am.

  Too bad; this girl was a looker.

  “Yo, Iron Man, you doing cash or debit?”

  I handed Cam my debit card and he ran it through the reader. The girl made her way up to the counter next to me, stood to my right and smiled. I smiled back. “Hi,” she said.

  “Hi.”

  Good so far. Then my palms got sweaty. I dug down deep for something witty to say. “Hi,” I repeated, like a moron.

  She nodded. And I knew what that meant. She thought I was retarded.

  I had nowhere to go from hello. I tried again to think of something clever to say but all I got out was, “Like art?”

  Fucking moron. Real smooth. She’s in an art store, of course she likes art.

  “Sure,” she said.

  Cameron was trying to hide his embarrassed smile by looking down. The bastard was amused by the way I was crashing and burning. Then what did he do? He cock-blocked me!

  “I draw, and you’re a hottie. I could draw you on, like, a giant frog or something, in a bikini waving a battle ax.”

  She actually laughed. This kid had much better game than me. “Thank you,” she replied, “I’ve always wanted to ride on a frog, but I don’t really want warts.”

  Cameron handed me my bag of paints. “Just an urban legend, the warts thing,” I said, hoping for another laugh. She just stared at me. Someone kill me.

  “Roger here is the real artist,” Cameron said, finally coming to my rescue. “Look.” He took out the Lena 12 comic and showed her the cover. “He painted that. Fucking cool, huh?”

  “Cam!” This from Murray in the back room.

  “It’s good,” she said, politely, though I could tell she was one of those girls that thought comics were for kids. “But I’m not here to model. My husband and I just bought a condo and we want to stencil the trim. Do you have stencils here?”

  I glanced down and saw the ring on her finger. Shit. They were all taken. Just as well. I’d have scared her off soon enough anyway.

  “Yeah, over here.” Cameron hopped over the counter again.

  “Cam! Go around the counter!” Murray again.

  I said bye to Cam and left him to woo his married frog-riding warrior princess.

  Parking on Franklin Ave. is a real bitch. You have to be lucky enough to find a meter on the road, which is nigh impossible on a Saturday afternoon, so I’d parked up a residential side street earlier. The air was pretty warm so the walk back didn’t bother me. Not like in New Hampshire. February in So Cal gets as cold as sixty degrees during the day. In New Hampshire it’s almost negative sixty. I wasn’t missing it much.

  There was a dog near my car. A German Sheppard. It wasn’t wearing a collar.

  I stopped a few yards away and watched it sniff around my tires. My muscles tensed and images of a bloodied Rottweiler flashed through my mind. “What do you want, boy?” I whispered to no one. Dogs and me do not get along for reasons you’ll have to talk to Dr. Marsh about. That summer long ago left a pretty dry taste in my mouth for most animals that eat meat.

  The dog took a whiz on my back tire and turned around to find me watching. Tentatively, it lowered its head and took a step toward me. The bag fell from my hand as I balled up both fists. The dog took another step, sizing me up.

  “If you’re gonna do it just do it, fucker.” My biceps flexed, my eyes locked on the approaching animal. “Just know it’ll be the last thing you ever do.”

  It was close now, a few feet away, head still down. A debate rang out in my mind whether to rush it or wait for it to rush me. Instead, I stood still, fists at my side. My knuckles cracked.

  The dog took four more steps, right up to me, sniffed my shoe. I felt like a slingshot pulled all the way back, waiting to snap. A second passed. Then another. Then, it looked up, kind of smiled the way dogs do, and licked my tight, white knuckles. Must be the sweat, I thought. It likes the taste of my sweat.

  Dr. Marsh’s words echoed through my head. Bad dogs are made by humans, they’re not born that way. Either that or they’re afraid for some reason.

  Was Skinny Man made bad, I’d wanted to ask back? Was he afraid of something? No, that sick fuck had been born bad. And there were more of his kind in the world, I knew. Some things are just born evil.

  The dog’s tongue began to tickle the back of my hand. Slowly, I relaxed, knelt down and got face-to-face with it. I didn’t know if it would suddenly turn on me and bite, but I didn’t care. Why I test myself in these situations is beyond me, but I have to do it. I have to know I’m truly not afraid, not just spouting off tough words.

  The dog licked my face. Its hot breath swam up my nose.
/>   “You’re a good boy,” I said, and ran my arms around its neck, gave it a playful hug. “A good boy.”

  “Bogart! Bogart! Leave him alone.”

  Over the dog’s head I could see a man in shorts and sandals heading my way. He jogged over and grabbed the dog by the scruff of the neck and yanked it away from me like he was starting a lawn mower. The poor dog let out a terrified squeak as it was briefly lifted off its front paws. Instinctively, I balled my fists again. This guy’s roughness was setting me off.

  “Sorry,” he said, “he gets out of the yard sometimes. He’s harmless though.”

  Can’t imagine why he runs away, I thought. But I said nothing. Just nodded.

  “C’mon, Bogart, stupid dog, c’mon.” He began dragging the dog back down the street, its paws fighting to get a footing. “Bad dog.” He gave Bogart a smack on the ass that elicited another yelp. They disappeared into one of the nearby houses.

  “Good boy,” I whispered, as if Bogart might hear me on the wind and get some encouragement from it.

  My fists uncurled, and now I could hear the plastic bag with my paints whip-snapping in the breeze. Despite wanting to go have a talk with Mr. Animal Lover, it reminded me I had to get a move on or I’d be painting in the dark. And despite the warm weather during the day, the temperature does drop at night in So Cal and all I had on was my sweatshirt.

  When I got back in the car, I checked the rearview mirror for my boogey man, but all I saw was the car parked behind me.

  Chapter 3

  Over the past year, whenever I drove through the county, I kept an eye out for places to paint, so I knew of a spot out east: a small lake ringed with palms that was about ten miles into the desert past the Borengo Casino. I’d actually stumbled upon it while answering a call for local artists the casino put in the paper. They held an art fair every year and the winner got $5,000 and a free buffet at the casino hotel. I hadn’t won because I’d brought some small pieces of horror movie icons I’d hybridized with X-Men characters: Wolverine as Freddy Kreuger, Jason Voorhees as Spider-Man, The Bride of Frankenstein as Storm--that kind of stuff. I didn’t win, but I sold them for twenty bucks a piece to some college kids who thought they were cool.