A Better Kind of Hate

by Beau Johnson

  “You’re a liar as well as a murderer. You know that?”

  I re-found his gaze, looked up and slowly nodded my response. I was caught, and had been since he got there—denial or no denials.

  “First sensible thing you’ve done since I got here.”

  “If you saw me…” I said, now curious. “Why haven’t you told the police?”

  “Does it matter?” He spat his answer, and then leaned forward in the chair. “Whatever. You want to know, I’ll tell you. I was waiting for you. Not at first. At first I was in shock. But as the investigation went on I came to realize what you were up to. Or rather, what you were omitting in your statement. This is when I knew you for a liar. You are a coward, too, Randy.”

  Suddenly his anger abated. There in the chair, his shoulders sank and he began to cry. His eyes looked weary now, and his voice—it lost the grate it bore, the fury. “I never once heard you mention how you were darting in and out of traffic that day. Not once that your speed…that it was well above what it was supposed to be. Sure you said you were going a little over the posted, but nothing like what I saw. You know what I saw? I saw a man who couldn’t care less about those around him; a man who at best is a child. You were an accident waiting to happen. And you know what the funny thing is, out of all of this. I thought that very thing as I watched you pass me that morning, not thirty seconds before…”

  His voice had become quiet and, as I said, anger-free. He was a different Bobby Charles than the one I had been dealing with. This was the shell of that man, his husk. I was sure the other one still lurked there somewhere, but for the time being he was nowhere to be seen.

  “No,” I said again. “No, Mr. Charles, it wasn’t worth it. I know that now. Actually, it should have been something I knew before what happened happened; which would have prevented it from happening, now that I think about it. But in regards to the statement I gave to the police…”

  “Don’t! Don’t go there.” And like that, his fury was back. Restrained but oh so on fire. “You said what you said. That it wasn’t worth it. Good, it’s what I needed to hear. It makes what comes next much easier. In the meantime, don’t go digging yourself holes you can’t climb out of.”

  “Bobby, please, let me at least explain why—”

  “Do not call me Bobby!”

  “Sorry. I’m sorry. I just…” but my words, they failed me. And I believe it was right about then that everything started to clear for me; this moment when I began to look at life from a whole new angle. I believe this is called a paradigm shift. Is this correct? Whatever you called it—this was when my “rampant” apathy and “masked” sociopathic tendencies found themselves beneath the boot heel of the human condition, quashed forevermore.

  It was the beginning of my change for the better.

  “It doesn’t matter,” he said, his anger dissipating once more. He sighed. “We are where we are; are what we are. The road less travelled. Whatever.” And then he laughed, but there was no humor in it. No; none. “Sometimes I think it was as much my fault as it is yours. I used to have a mantra….a saying I’d whisper to myself whenever I would get thinking about things, when things like losing my wife and child to inexplicable random events crept into my head. It started when Val and I were dating, from there snowballing to include our son. They never knew I did this, even when the need arose and I found myself in the same room with either of them. I would turn my head, quietly repeat my phrase three times, and that would be it. But I had to mean it, that was the thing, the promise I set for myself. I could never just go through the motions. If I did, it wouldn’t work, and whatever I had tricked myself into believing would fail, ensuring the inexplicable random events which scared the shit out of me could do nothing more than come true; stupid; all of it. But it kept me going, believing. And then you came. Randy McAlister—my Mr. Inexplicable.”

  I didn’t know what to say, didn’t know what to do. Should I comment? ran through my head. So did begging for my life. Instead I watched him stand up and take off his ball cap. He looked to the window, ran a hand through what remained of his hair. At this I realized how empty the man was; how much I had emptied him. Turning from the window, he said, “Earlier you asked me if I’d kill you. Honestly, that’s what I came here to do. In my head I was going to give you one chance, one question: was it worth it. You answered the question, Randy, but you didn’t answer it correctly. To tell you the truth, I don’t believe you fully comprehend the query. But as we sat here, as we talked, something occurred to me. I’m here for a reason—to give you more time, not take it. You need to know. You need to see.”

  He left the room then, his big work boots heavy on the floor. He wasn’t gone a long time, it only felt that way—the minutes like hours. I don’t know for sure, but he might have even done this on purpose—making me wait like he did. Maybe so, maybe no. Either way, the man was certainly entitled. Anyway, it was only a feeling.

  The screen door slammed shut as he came back in. It had been old, that door, and loud, in need of repair since before I inherited the place from my parents. It was as the axe hit the floor with a thud that my balls hardened and my penis shrank. At this time I didn’t know it was the axe from the woodpile outback he had brought back inside with him, remember, only that an object of considerable weight had been grounded to my kitchen floor. He dragged it too, the whole way back. Picture him doing this: the handle, his hand. Now picture red paint, but faded from years of use. The noise it made? It became the stuff of nightmares to me, of can’t believe and this is not happening! It put mice in my chest and ice down my back. And again it seemed as though he were taking his time, making sure I had everything I needed to completely take in the sound which approached me. He probably was doing this, but I’ll never know, not for sure. The old me? The person I used to be? He would say this was exactly what Bobby Charles was doing, the old dog getting himself a bit of an hors d’oeuvre before the main course to come; his big ’ole slice of retribution pie. Oh yes, my old self could see this very well.

  Curious: I didn’t scream. And, looking back, I cannot for the life of me find a reason why this wouldn’t happen. Is it possible to become too scared to scream? I don’t know, but I would probably prove a very good case study.

  So I didn’t scream. Instead, I watched the doorway until he came back into view. As he did, I saw the axe, it trailing behind him like a long and rigid pet. It wasn’t until seeing this image that I realized why the terror inside me had been building. It was the sound, you see, the dragging, scraping sound which accompanied the man’s return. I think deep down I might have known what it was all along. Right here, at this realization, was when my bladder let go.

  “Don’t worry,” he said and came toward me, forward, to the edge of my bed. The axe was up in one hand now, held onto by the neck. He pointed it at me as he talked; little jabbing motions which seemed to punctuate every third word or so. “This is not what I had in mind. No, I brought a gun. One I was going to put in your mouth and make you eat. This will not be happening now.”

  His anger? The stuff he had brought with him? Gone. Not an ounce of it in him now. It wasn’t lurking either, as before, when his display of emotions were back and forth, both fast and furious. No, something had happened. He was calm now. Dejected, but calm. Soon I would come to know why; to find that the man had found an escape route—me, of course, the in-house facilitator.

  We looked at the axe, both from different perspectives. His most likely reverence, mine most definitely fear. He hefted the weight in front of me, changed hands then grabbed it by the neck once more. Back to punctuating, he said, “I won’t lie. This won’t be easy on you. Going to hurt like nothing you have ever felt, I’m sure. However, when it’s over, I will leave you a choice. Might not seem fair to you, but you are a murderer, Randy. I don’t want you to ever forget that. This is why it has to be this way; this your daily reminder. Ready?”

  Ready for what? This is what I wanted to say; what I needed to say. A mewlin
g sound came out of me instead, the back of my skull suddenly trying its very best to push through the headboard it was up against.

  As he raised the axe I raised my arms.

  Down it came, down, and fire erupted in my mind as big black spots popped into my field of vision. This time I did scream, but it sounded far away and high—like a girl’s. He took off his belt next, creating a tourniquet half way down my thigh. Vaguely I remember him asking where I kept my own, or if I even used one. I couldn’t answer, or if I did, I have blocked it out. He must have found one though, as I didn’t bleed out once he went around the bed to finish what he started. What I do remember him saying is this: “You took two from me, now I have taken the same from you.” Then I felt metal in my hand, the gun he placed there. Down in my ear now, he spoke as I writhed in pain and screamed in curses. “I will give you one chance. I will stand and swing one last time. I will aim for your head. Do me this one thing right, Randy. Send me home. I miss them. More than I could have ever known. If I do it myself, I chance them again. That is something I cannot do—”

  I shot him right about there, before he stood up, before his final swing. And I emptied the gun, but you already know this part of the story. Do you want to know how his body jerked backward as well? That his arms flew out but his ball cap stayed on; that he was dead before he hit the floor and gone before you opened the door? Isn’t that how the song goes? Doesn’t matter. What does is what he did; what Bobby chose to do—how he opened my eyes. I see this now, as I have been saying—all of it; what life is really all about; this great and secret show. I think I’m going to try and find God now. I think I need to. Not that I have been backtracking, but these last few months, well…they have been stressful. With the facility change as well as the new medication you have me on.

  All I want to do is help. That’s all I need. I have to make up for everything that was before, everything I was before—this is what Bobby gave me, what he cut from me in pounds; that to sacrifice is selfless, and more than holding doors. We are here for a reason. It has been glimpsed, now it must be shown. Bobby, he put me on the path—you must let me ride.

  Back to TOC

  #TheMediumIsTheMessage

  I’ve lined them up, positioning them five feet apart as I go. As I am far from what you’d call strong, this took some doing, but once we find ourselves at the end I’m confident the message I’m trying to send will be clear to the audience it seeks.

  My name is Neena Koufax. I do this of my own free will.

  The medium I have chosen for today is a unique one. I don’t want to spoil any of the mechanics involved, not quite yet, so instead I’ll just say the situation Caldeen University has come to be in is unique as well, so in the spirit of calling a spade a spade, I believe we’ll label things a wash.

  Long story short: fourteen Caldeen University dental students were accused of participating in a Facebook group that joked about drugging and then raping their classmates. An external investigation was launched as complaints arose in regards to the university’s bungling of its own initial investigation. One step better: the university refused to identify the students it suspended. By suspend they referred to the clinical practice setting as opposed to the classroom setting.

  Bullshit, all of it, and only because I’m living proof.

  “You wanna come by tonight? Bring Rhonda if you can.” That was how it began, there with an invite. Rhonda couldn’t go though, and eventually it had been me and three other third-year students who showed up the time it happened to me. The gas they used was the stuff from class, the stuff we would eventually use on the patients we would come to care for. The only caring going on the night before I woke up a changed woman was of the selfish kind.

  These are evil men you have before you; vulgar. Every goddamn one.

  Complaints filed, investigation begun, I feel defeated, demoralized, as though everything is slipping away; that the men who raped me and posted about it “in jest” are being allowed to continue their education even though they laugh as if destroying me wasn’t a big thing. Only when the university herds them together does my mind turn to a more basic mode, a baser level.

  You know what? I believe I need to pause here for a moment, for me to just let you in on some things before we continue on. I won’t take too long here, not if I can help it. Before switching to dentistry, I was in it for the glory is what I want to tell you all: surgeon all the way. Things change though, plans are adapted, and sometimes you just fall in love with something more than you ever thought possible. Know what I mean? This is how I came to Caldeen University. The background I give is for later in the show, before the plunge, when you might require knowledge as to how I’ve kept them alive for as long as I have. Just a heads up is what I guess this is then, that and nothing more.

  I realize I won’t be getting away with this either, but really, this is not the point I’m trying to make. What is is this: there are consequences to our actions. Always has been, always will be. Some will get away with things. Others will not. It’s the way this world of ours works. Perhaps things need to change then, yes? And that’s where this began, when that little voice inside my head decided to take a trip. I understood that if I didn’t stand up for myself they would never get what they deserved. Oh they’d get something alright, a little bit for sure, but would it be just when compared to what each of them put all nine of us through?

  No is the answer you’re looking for.

  And if you can’t find it in yourself to think this way then God have mercy you never run into someone like me.

  Oh, you hear that? Someone’s waking up! C’mon, let’s go see. Lots of stairs, I know, but at least the room has remained secure. I filled it with the same gas they used on me; put it out slow as class was being taught. Professor Burston has been affected by this as well and you can see him over there, asleep behind his desk. Just so we’re clear, he has not been harmed in the making of this.

  Okay. Almost there. As I’ve said, once I realized where they had been placed and that all of them would be together at the same time is when the shit got real. I mean, let’s face it—it was like a dream come true. One born of a nightmare, sure, but you get what I’m saying. Once I saw the place…I mean, look at it! How high up they are, how circular it is, each of them leaning down from the guard rail they’ve been tethered to. And that the room is technically a circle is a boon unto itself, each position channeled back toward my live feed at the center. Refurbished, it’s an old school teaching space, one the university takes pride in, full of staggered seating and standing room only around the top. This is a good thing. No, it’s more than a good thing—it’s apt. You know why? Because it’s old school justice I’m about to hand out.

  Oh, it’s Jackson! And of course it is! Hey there, bud. A little groggy are you? Yeah, it’s to be expected. No, no, don’t try and pull yourself free. Not till you take a good look at what I’ve used to tie you to the rail. Look down, c’mon, don’t be such a sorry sport! Didn’t stop you when you had me down, did it? “Hate sex” is what you call it, no? What you posted? You also say the penis is a tool for men to teach women all they need to know. Those were your words, weren’t they? The ones I’m pulling up now? I know. I know. The tape is rather tight but just go ahead and give us a nod then. There, see, not so bad. No smiles now though, eh? Not for this camera, no. For the others sure, yeah, why not, no one is going to really do anything about a bunch of girls who can’t even remember the night in question, are they? That was another one of yours I think. Or maybe that was Mark. What say you, Mark? Yes, Mark, I know you’re awake. We all do; there is a camera pointed at each of you. I imagine we’re ready then? No one needs an explanation as to why we are here, do they? Fellas, c’mon! Tears, really? I mean, really-truly? Okay. Okay. Since this whole thing began with a question I’ll end it with one: within the abdominal cavity of the average male how much intestine do you think he carries? Anyone? The small intestine is about twenty feet in length and the large is five. Sinc
e I’m using both we’ll add them together. Twenty-five feet times fourteen of you is…okay…let’s see, carry the one. Wow! That’s three hundred fifty feet of you! Or as I like to say: one hundred five meters of hanging entrails in response to the penetration of nine women who never gave consent. It equals what the boys and girls at home have already figured out. What? Some of you fellas still look confused. Fine. I can take care of that. You ready then? Okay. Here goes. Contrary to what people believe, it’s the destination that things are about, not the journey. Two, it will be the large intestine going first. And third? Well third is what this exercise has been about; what your penises have gone and taught.

  Safe travels, boys. Enjoy the fucking trip.

  Back to TOC

  Love, It Makes the World Go Round

  I’d like to say it was my earliest memory that I knew I was different. Not the case. Add about four years to the total and then I knew something was up. Follow this with the cats I graduated to and yeah, I’m thinking running over a family of toads with the lawnmower and realizing I didn’t give a shit is when my tendencies went and made themselves known.

  You understand what it is I’m saying here? It’s importance?

  Good. Wouldn’t want anything getting lost in the translation.

  So I do the cats. Make my way to dogs. And then come about seventeen I go live, become a big game hunter, and say my whatnots to old Mr. Kemper who lived two farms down. Did a number on that man too, his bib overalls the same color of his shirt by time the thresher catches bone. Unfortunate accident they said. Bad things just sometimes happen to good people. You don’t say.

  I’m never suspected. Never even asked. Weird, I know, but by this time I’d already figured out how to play the game. Have been playing it my entire life now that I mention it. Fifty-some-odd years and not even so much as a sniff. Means I’m doing something right. Means I might be smarter than your average bear. Might also mean my time is coming and I’m only as lucky as the next guy. This seems more likely the case, as I’m a firm believer in the law of averages.