A Better Kind of Hate

by Beau Johnson

  Not that I was enjoying myself. Well okay, maybe a little, and only because of what I’d planned.

  I didn’t always know, just suspected, and even then only because of the perfume I’d gotten Cheryl for Christmas. I’d catch little whiffs of it here and there. What pushes the idea further is this usually started at the beginning of the week, come Tuesday, which happened to be Michael’s day off. The one blonde hair I found under my pillow though—this is what became the be-all-end-all. The rest is just simmering wet rage. The shotgun too, and what I was about to create, but that would just be described as aftermath, what I’m sure most of the world will refer to as white noise once everything’s said and done. I’d get some notoriety, sure, but what it wouldn’t do is get me what I wanted most: my life before it’d been turned to shit.

  “That’s it, Cheryl, take him slow, just how he likes. Heaven forbid he ever return the favor, though.” She won’t look me in the eye, not by way of the mirror, but she’s trembling by now, my sister of forty years. For twenty-five of them she’d been vegan, as I’ve said. This pissed me off, as I’ve also said, but the type of red which accompanied that lifestyle change had been a different pill than this; the tint or shade more acceptable than the one reserved for intruding on another woman’s marriage say. Funny how both these things involved meat though, isn’t it? Not ha-ha funny, just…

  “Christine?” And there is definite remorse in his voice. I didn’t care, not anymore, but he didn’t quite know that yet. Not if I knew my husband. “I can only apologize. We were wrong. Let’s stop and we can talk about this…”

  “Like adults? Pretty sure that’s a road you don’t want to venture down, Michael.” His shoulders slump at that, as they have whenever he has never gotten his way. Then he begins what I call his “routine,” which happens whenever he is close to climaxing. It makes me cringe, seeing it from this angle, but I bought and paid for such things long ago. Means I have no one to blame but myself. Well, not exactly. Not with both of them still in front of me.

  “But you know what really kills me? And it’s not only you two doing what you’re doing. It is, don’t get me wrong. But you, Cheryl. You’re the one who pisses me off the most out of all this. Look at you, how you look. Any man could be yours. But no, not fucking good enough. Not for you. You choose to do this instead. You know what it reminds me of? Reminds me of when you went and told us you were done with meat. You remember that? Would have been fine if it only affected you, but it didn’t, not back then. It meant we had to change for you. I lived with it. Mom and Dad lived with it. But we shouldn’t have had to. It’s because you’re selfish, Cheryl, and because you always have to have things revolve around you. It’s why the punishment that presented itself…I think it’s the reason I found you two like this and not the other way round. You figure out what I’m going to make you do yet, Cheryl?” I can’t say she knows, not with any degree of certainty, but the uncontrollable sobbing and shaking was enough for me to reposition the steel through the curls of her hair one last time.

  “You’re going to take it all. Not just to the base as you can. And you are going to use your teeth as you never have before. You are going to eat your meat, Cheryl, and you are going to like it.” Her head begins to turn from side to side at this. I come forward again, the movement forcing more of my husband down into the cave of her throat. It pushes Michael past the point of no return but it does other things as well—things I had come to dream of. The first is the realization I see dawn in his eyes; that he now knows he is more fucked than he previously thought. Second is a stretch, as it wasn’t my mouth upon him, but the odds of Michael coming just as a part of him was going had gone and entered the realm of possibilities. And third, well third I have always known—that self-preservation and selfishness are pretty much one and the same.

  Meant she’d remember to chew before she swallowed.

  Back to TOC

  Ten Off the Top

  As my mother grew older she sometimes shit herself she got so scared. Not many people knew this about Olivia Dunn, which isn’t so hard a thing to believe. What is hard to believe is the way she left this world and the reason why. The why part involves me, or more so my problem, and if I had the choice I would certainly turn back time in an attempt to rectify this. Since I can’t I’m stuck with what we’ll call the lowest common denominator, which, if I’m truthful, is the whole reason things have played out as they have.

  “And just because your daddy was some kinda war hero, it makes you no more special than the next guy. Mikey, you shoulda just paid.” He was right of course, but it’s not a particular point I choose to dwell upon. I had a problem, sure, and I owed some big goddamn bucks, but it was not like I wasn’t ever going to pay. It was my timing which was off; that I felt mine was more important than theirs. Again, my fault, and I accept as much, but what they did to Mom. That’s what keeps me up most nights. “Had you done this, nothing like this ever woulda transpired. Since it did, fine, we live with it. What I mean to say is I’ll knock ten off the top for your trouble.” His forehead creases as he says this, his big body coming forward as he laces his hands upon his desk. Smug, he motions to his goons on either side of me. They are brothers, Frank and Johnny P, and in an instant my face is introduced to tile floor. “What it doesn’t mean,” Sal continues. “Is that you don’t get yours.”

  The beating is quick but ruthless, and by the time they’re done my dominate hand is slightly lighter than how it arrived. And you know what? I took it. Truth be told, I would have taken it before they did what they did. But they didn’t do that. They chose to go and use an alternate route to get my attention. I believe in this business they call it fair play. In mine it’s evil with a capital fucking E. It’s fine though, all good, as I am what my mother made me: a patient man. I’m also a gambling man, but that’s neither here nor there, and it’s not really something I wish to discuss, not if I can help it. Meant I might have to look in a mirror. Meant I might have to…

  Where was I…

  Oh yes, loose bowels always getting the better of Mom when she’d least expect. Frank and Johnny P are the reason for her final bout, the brothers I’m told only there to send a message. Inside, a different door opens, and the younger of the two, Johnny, is unable to reconcile the affliction he’s walked into. Two punches later and it’s me cleaning up what Johnny refused to smell. I knew it would happen sooner or later, my profession being what it is, but the manner in which she is delivered to me, this is what I cannot abide.

  It wasn’t punches that did my mother in.

  Not after I get a look at what remained of her face.

  Causes me to flashback to when the brothers put me to the floor in Sal’s office. In hindsight I see Johnny’s shoes as I saw them then, up close and personal, and then the sticky bits I hadn’t noticed jump out at me, each of them screaming. They focus me, take on a different form, a deeper meaning, and it’s at this exact point in my life that clarity does what clarity does best.

  When it fucks me in the ass.

  But my hands were tied. One man against a sea of many. So I watched instead. Then waited and healed and paid. I also continued to process loved ones here at the Dunn Funeral Home. The same thing I had been doing since before I turned owing twenty grand into forty and then doubling the number by not watching the time as I should have.

  If I were a real man this is where I might choose to talk about the elephant in the room.

  Since I’m not I will instead say it’s four years until I am given any type of opportunity to achieve what I’d been looking for. And be it coincidence, irony, or however you fucking well describe fate, I still smile when I think of what has gotten me here.

  “Very sorry for your loss.” We’re in the biggest of my visitation rooms, the place a zoo of people who looked as slick and somber as movies portray. He’s greyer now, mostly around the sides, but it’s his weight which speaks of all the good living he had going on. Taking the hand he had his men lighten in his, Sal goes
overboard, adding his other one to atop the pile. Did he realize? Sure he did. It’s what men like him lived for. In response I put my free hand on his shoulder and look him directly in the eye.

  “Anything I can do, anything at all—do not hesitate to ask.” As I hoped, he doesn’t, and all of a sudden I’m making calls, ensuring it’s his people who cater the funeral, his people who usher attendees in. In the process I give my own employees the day off, stating what most of them already knew: what Sal De Palma wants, Sal De Palma gets. Complete, it’s on to the lady of the hour, Sal’s mom, and the alterations her body would require. I do my best to be respectful but end of the day, wanted or not, I’m still inside part of a woman I had no right being inside of. Doing this brings my own mother to mind, and how could it not? But I had to push on; had to follow through. You know why right? I don’t have to spell it out for you, do I?

  So back to the hollowing out, back to the placing of devices. All told, I secure sixteen claymores to the inner perimeter of the casket, all obscured by an off-white frill ordered special just in case. Each mine sits as it should: FRONT TOWARD ENEMY. Beneath Sal’s mom’s blue pantsuit is a whole other story: fifteen “pineapple” grenades resting within the canal her son climbed out from. All ordnance courtesy of a life long past gone. My father’s collection from a time I can’t even begin to comprehend.

  Set to go off once the pallbearers begin to lift, it will do as I intend, destroying an entire line of De Palmas as they sat and paid their respects. It will destroy my establishment too, and yes, I’m sure I will be caught. It doesn’t matter though, not really. Not when one truly understands what they’ve become.

  You’re only given one mother in this life. Fucking cherish her.

  Back to TOC

  Never One to Do Things by Half

  He knows he’s fucked the moment I ask if it should be Agent Brand I call him now or would it be better if we still went with Hank. I tell him I can’t do Ryan though, a name I just couldn’t comprehend when I looked at his face.

  “Slide it over to Max and Jeffrey there. Good. Good. You gonna make me ask about the one in your ankle holster?”

  I offer him a smile. Then I tell him he should smile, as he’d made it, now within the heart of where all the magic occurred. I concede our operation has been mobile in the past and more than not the reason we have always been one step ahead. What excited me more was what I was about to show him.

  “Before I give you the grand tour, there’s something I need to get off my chest.” The method of his madness is what I wished to address. Not once had a person ever thought to come at us this way. Kudos is what I say to him, my appreciation as to how he posed as a doctor so great I’d decided to acknowledge this achievement with something I hoped he’d find just as clever.

  Brings us to the cardigan I’m wearing. “Look familiar?” I hoped so. Jeffrey procuring it from Hank’s own closet just this morning. “And what about how low I’m wearing this ball cap?” I go on and admit how I know it’s the style Janet favors. Mention of the missus changes things, mainly the temperature of the room. Good. Meant I had his undivided attention. Still didn’t stop me from telling him to drop the look. I mean, was I honestly supposed to believe he never once thought I might go this route if he went and got discovered? “You uphold the law. I circumvent it. It’s the way this thing of ours is meant to work.”

  I move us forward, Max and Jeffrey bringing up the rear. Close to the end of our stroll Jeffrey moves up on past us and opens the blinds. I watch Hank, his eyes, but the man had become stone, would not give one mention as to how tight a ship I run, the view before us as clean and white and sterile as any operating room the world over. No matter. I was too encouraged. In front of us now the thing he wanted most. I direct his attention to the larger bins first. Retrofitted, they jut out from the walls on each side of each work station. To the left go legs. On the right, arms. The final bin sits in front, between each set of doors, and is what we refer to as the “and/or bin.”

  “And I know how smart you are, Hank. So from a business perspective you can see where I’m coming from. If you wanted to, we could jaw numbers all day long. But bottom line, you still would not believe the amount of raw material we chuck per annum.” He won’t look at me, only stares on straight ahead. I understand this. I can live with it. Flipping the equation and we arrive at what it creates. When something different is required, a new deterrent set.

  I give him a few more seconds and then ask him if he’d narrowed down the Big Four my business made most of its profit from. He still says nothing, but I know he knows, so there really wasn’t much of a point in me asking him to list them. Instead I lament about the head. How, try as I might, I am unable to create a demand for that particular ten pounds. Sure we get the odd request for a certain shade of blue for some guy’s blind daughter, and hey, we will happily accommodate when able, but on the whole, no, heads have always been a dead-end investment.

  Hence the and/or bin.

  Made me wonder if I was being as clear as I thought I was. If Hank realized the implications of us talking as we were. “If it’s Janet you’re worried about, don’t be. She will never see this warehouse and I give you my word she won’t be going into any of those bins.” I get nothing. Nadda. Zilch. So I tell him it won’t be his men going in either, the ones from the surveillance van we took care of before lunch. Still nothing. Left me no choice but to hit the fast forward button. “You however, you I’m gonna let live.”

  And just like that, a response. Or at least a turn of the head and a look into my eyes. I take it as a sign, move closer, and put my arm around his shoulder. “What I need you to remember is it could have been your parents coming through those doors. Could have been your brother and his litter of kids as well. This is what I need you to recall when all this is said and done and you and your friends try and come at me again.”

  The doors open, big as well as small, and through fluorescent light come Daniel, Becka, and John. Takes me a moment but I remember to tell Hank how much I appreciate their names, that each one sounded solid and strong. I then embrace the cliché, but only after the first gurney to work station transfer is complete. Hank couldn’t care less if this would be hurting me more than it hurt him though, and it’s why I afford him his time upon the glass. His struggle affects me more than I thought it would, however, and I cut things short because of this.

  Taking their cue, Max and Jeffrey step forward, continue on, and in an instant Hank and the glass have become the fastest of friends. I wet my lips, clear my throat, and make sure stubble rubs stubble as I speak into his ear. “You aren’t alone in this, Hank. Not for a moment. Yes we may be on opposing sides, and yes we might always be, but take comfort in knowing this decision was one that did not come easy. After all, I’m a father too.”

  Back to TOC

  Anniversaries of the Heart

  It weighs on my mind every second of every minute of every day. Obsession does not describe me though, not to an accurate degree. I am him now. He, unfortunately, me. The difference, the main difference, being our retaliations and how we’ve chosen to implement the pain.

  “Your ribs are showing.” I close the cell door and put the tray down atop the roughed-in toilet. The chains around his wrists rattle as he adjusts himself upon the mattress, his demeanor in an instant changing to what it always changes to once he realizes what’s on top of the tray. Took some doing getting him here too, emotionally I mean, and it isn’t until his right eye is removed that he comes to understand what I have always known. That I was capable of doing what he only ever paid his men to do.

  It meant his need of solid food was no longer required.

  It meant he would never again wear shoes.

  “You don’t start drinking more, you’re only going to give me a reason to go in there and excavate.” He’d respond if he could, more so in fact, but his tongue had been one of the first things to go, going early, pretty much at the beginning of what we’ll call year one. It wa
s joined by his left thumb and right nipple later that same year. All three combining to become the least of what Reggie deserved. Little could I know how difficult it would prove to keep things healthy, let alone infection free.

  “Not that I’d be adverse to such a thing. Not at all. Inner, outer, you know it’s all the same to me.” He makes the noise in the back of his throat, the one he’s come to use to beg. I respond by asking him if he recalls when it had been me who’d begged. He turns his head at this, lowers it, the concrete wall suddenly the most interesting thing in the room. The response is far from new, coming into play about the time his need to stand while urinating became obsolete. The old fashioned way could still be used, sure, but the dribble aspect it creates, it’s what forces the desired effect. Year three is when this occurs. Along with his nose and left ear it coincides with what would have been Becka’s sixteenth year.

  Today is a different day altogether. Today, Daniel would have turned ten.

  “Do you remember what you said to me as you had them brought in? When your goons were holding me to the glass? You said how much you appreciated their names and that each of them sounded strong. I remember this, Reggie. I have never been able to forget.” I have gone down this road before. I probably would again. As ever, he only nods, but then again, I’ve never given him much of a choice, not since tracking him down.

  Caught, I’d been posing as a surgeon in a body parts ring when my own cover is blown. Forced to watch, Reggie whispers in my ear as my children are strapped to operating tables and ripped apart and then thrown into bins. The reason I’m left alive is meant to be viewed as a deterrent, for when me and the agency I work for decide to come at him again.