by Beau Johnson
Reggie’s words. His arrogance. Not mine.
But it took years for me to find him, long after Janet left and I’d resigned.
“My son, he would have hit double digits today. Means he would have been just out of diapers when you had him taken down.” More mewling. More trying to push himself into a corner which would never relent. “Because of this, in honor of this, I believe it’s time I let you choose.” He stops at that, waits, then raises his one good eye to mine. On his face sits everything he wants, everything he needs. It just might finally end. The chance having come at last.
It hadn’t though. And never would. Not after everything that’d been done. But it gives me what I require. What I will continue to take from Reggie until I no longer can.
It meant we’d just begun.
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An Older Type of Care
“I never thought it would end like this, Rider. Not with another man’s dick down my throat.”
It’d been years between now and the last time the detective and I had done our bit. Retired from the job, Batista had gone on his way, fishing and the life of a cabin-man his reward. Me, I continued on, but slower, finding rage could age just fine. It was a surprise, then, when the man up and made contact.
Liver spots covered him now, a flurry, and nothing like back in the day. His hair was gone too, all of it, save for the beard. If he asked me to, I’d have put him down. This how much I’d come to respect this man. I say this not only because of the monster which ate at him, but for the Alzheimer’s as well.
It is said that God can show mercy. Taking in the machines and fluids Batista was hooked into, I say He has forgotten and died.
“This isn’t an isolated case either, Rider. I’ve done my homework.” I agreed with him, even before I started digging into it myself. What we shared, my family’s demise, it does things to men like Batista and I, breeding a certain type of contempt for a particular type of man. One step beyond is what allowed us to do the things most would not. I am not wrong in stating as much, not when innocents are involved.
It started at night, first with missing time and then with something more. The nurse’s name had been Gish, Robert J. Six months removed from his last position in another rest home and here he was, in Batista’s rest home, preying on men weaker than he. Tall and gaunt, Gish wore Buddy Holly frames above a blade-like nose. An Ichabod Crane-type, though in reverse, predator instead of prey.
“And you think he’s doctoring the meds? That about the long and short of it?” It was rhetorical, really, what I was on about, but Batista looked as though he needed to let it out. Figured I was as good a target as any.
“You haven’t changed, have you, Rider?” I couldn’t and would never, and only because I picture them still—my mother and sister as alive in my heart today as the day my search began. Finding them as I did is what sealed the deal, showing me how broken our system truly was, their remains the last clean breath I’d ever come to take. “Not that I’d expected you to. And really, I can’t even say why I’d entertained the idea, even now. Honestly, if the cancer doesn’t get me first, I swear the Alzheimer’s just might take away everything we’ve ever done.” Same old Batista: heart on his sleeve. The shirt was older now, sure, and clearly near the end of the wash, but the man was still the closest thing I had to a friend, wanted or otherwise. I’d be good to remember as much.
Done, I told him I would do what he asked, that he’d had me the moment I picked up the phone. He smiled at that, there in his bed, his old man face for a moment close to the man I began this journey with. Pillows behind him, propping himself up, he growls one last thing, “Do me a favor? Before you do him, make sure the goddamn bastard bleeds some, will ya?” Not a problem, the night nurse an easier mark than I thought once I got him secured.
Piece of scum taped to a chair, I’d taken Gish to a place I’d kept, one of the smaller ones. Brought back old memories, did this, to a time when my arms were stronger than the tools I had come to lean upon.
“You know why you’re here?” He did. His eyes telling me as much: silent but for staring me down. I told him anyway, listing every ailment of each senior he’d drugged and then forced himself into. Finished, he finds his balls, tells me to fuck myself, and that I couldn’t have had it more wrong.
“They wanted me to,” is what he says, his eyes big and wide, like holes. I wasn’t buying. Not after everything I’ve seen; the crazy he was trying to produce as far from real as real could get. Wasn’t until the gun came out that we got to the business of what he really was.
“No,” he pleads. “Just please…not my face. Not my face! My mother, man!”
Okay. The face it was then.
Batista would understand.
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No Offense to Mr. Neeson
Let’s get this right out of the way: I am not a good man. Not by any stretch of the imagination. Of questionable origins some might say. What? You don’t read comics? Too bad—your loss. But hold on. This big bloke here? The naked dude behind me? This is what things are really about. He look a bit familiar maybe? No? I’ll up and elaborate then.
He’s a pedophile, a facilitator, and all around nasty piece of cunt. We’ll get back to him in a bit, I think. First I need to explain what this all entails. Plain and simple, a cease and desist order is what this is. My employers proving themselves a different kind of breed, that’s for sure. Takes balls for someone of their standing to associate with someone of mine, let alone draw up a contract.
You see what I’m saying here?
That’s right, shitbirds, I am one of you. Not exactly like you. No, as that would put us in some kind of kettle calling itself black territory, but a dirtbag all the same.
Not anymore though. Nope. Now it’s the side of angels I’m on.
How does something like this happen you suppose? Bank. How the fuck else? My employers having almost as much as you I’d reckon. Difference being they have no qualms in spending every penny in an attempt to take you down. This brings us back to tape-boy here, your second-in-command. It may surprise you I know this. It may not. Either way I couldn’t give a shit. What it should suggest is that I have a particular set of skills. And yes. Yes. I know what you’re thinking. But before you get all up in my face let me just say that not only would I eat Liam Neeson for breakfast but I would reheat that motherhumper for lunch. Hyperbole you say? A man given to tooting his own horn?
No offense to Mr. Neeson, as I am shorter, thinner, and balder than he, but fine, we return to Marcus then. See how I’ve popped out his eyes? How I really tunneled my way through? Really changes the shape of a person’s face, doesn’t it? Might be why you failed to recognize him at first. But ho, look at this! Look how the flame begins to lick at the skin of his legs. You also might be wondering why I started at the bottom instead of coating the man from the top. Valid point. It’s because I’m far from done; why I have begun to put him out. And there’s really no easy way to say this so I’m just gonna go and say it as best I can: diesel fuel.
See how it flows into the parts of his thighs which have yet to harden and close? Some kind of pretty is what that is. And look! Look how everything runs like tallow now, like goddamn soft serve. Collecting into hunks on the floor.
Leads me to wonder if you realize where we’re headed.
’S’okay. I’ll give you a hint.
It ends. All of it. Not tomorrow. Not later today. Right fucking now.
You do not touch nor film one more man, woman, or child in the ways that you have. I have addresses, you see. I have appointment dates. I even have little Christopher’s ask to good ole St. Nick. And just so we’re clear, do not feel special. You want to know why? Of course you do. Because it’s not only Mr. Big-shot-I-can-do-anything-I-fucking-well-please I’m talking to here but all you pieces of shit.
My employers have the means, the money, but more importantly they have the wherewithal to see this through. Makes me wish I kinda met them sooner now I think ab
out it. Since I didn’t, we’ll go this route. I dare all six thousand, five hundred twenty-six of you to ignore this, to just scoff and delete the fuck away. Actually, I implore you. We found you once. We’ll find you again. And hey! Hey, would you look at that! As you’ve been listening to me explain the way things are the diesel fuel has gone and eaten right through the muscle of the man who helped bring us here today. And seriously, look at those femurs! I mean, Marcus, dude, you had to have worked out! Brings us to the last little bit of it, then. Now that you’ve seen what your futures’ may hold. Only going to say it once so be a bunch of dears and do keep up.
Try me, fuckers. I’m a goddamn angel now.
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ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Yes, all these stories came leaking from my mind. That is not to say I was alone in making this collection happen. Quite a few people have been instrumental upon this journey. First I would like to thank all the good people who took a chance on me all those years ago and saw something in the things I write. This includes all the talented souls at Out of the Gutter Online, Ron Earl Phillips and his crew at Shotgun Honey, Gary Duncan over at Spelk Fiction, Ben John Smith at Horror Sleaze Trash, and Josh Goller at the Molotov Cocktail. I would also like to give a special shout out to Tom Pitts, he being the man who put me on the path. Last, but not the very last, are my sister and brother, Terri-Lynn and Shane. Over the years they have been my sounding board, my supporters, and my extra sets of eyes. My wife has been all these things as well, but has come to sleep with one eye open for reasons which could or could not be misconstrued. Finally, there is Down & Out Books. Top of the list being Eric and Christy Campbell, Lance Wright, and Eric Beetner. Thank you from the bottom of my heart you guys.
Thank you for taking the chance.
Oh, almost forgot one: you. The one holding this. As I’ve been known to say: never has handsome been so kind as to the person who reads to the end. See you when I see you. Peace.
Beau
March 10, 2017
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PREVIOUS PUBLICATION CREDITS
Some of the stories in this collection have been previously published.
Bartleby Snopes: “Darnell (Waiting on the Day)”
Bending the Rules, edited by Alex Davis: “Toad Baseball”
Horror Sleaze Trash: “Meanwhile, Back at the Ranch”
Out of the Gutter: “Never One to Do Things by Half” and “Ten Off the Top”
Out of the Gutter Online: “Alma,” “And Now, Back to the Program,” “Fire in the Hole,” “Front, Then Center,” “A Full, Upright and Locked Position,” “Heavy Lego,” “I Remember. “#TheMediumIsTheMessage,” “More Than They Could Know,” “An Older Type of Care,” “The Only Thing That Fits,” “The Place Before the Place,” and “Size Matters”
Sein Und Werden: “In Preparation”
Shotgun Honey: “Coffee, Tea, and Me” and “Knit One, Purl Two”
Spelk Fiction: “No Offense to Mr. Neeson,” “Recompense,” and “Regrets, I’m Thinkin’ Yeah”
The Molotov Cocktail: “A Better Kind of Hate,” “Gank,” and “Loose Impediment”
Underground Voices: “Bobby Charles”
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Beau Johnson lives in Canada with his wife and three boys. He has been published before, usually on the darker side of town. Such fine establishments might include Out of the Gutter Online, Spelk Fiction, Shotgun Honey and the Molotov Cocktail. Besides writing, Beau enjoys golfing, pushing off Boats and certain Giant Tigers.
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OTHER TITLES FROM DOWN & OUT BOOKS
AND ITS IMPRINTS
See DownAndOutBooks.com for a complete list
By J.L. Abramo
Catching Water in a Net
Clutching at Straws
Counting to Infinity
Gravesend
Chasing Charlie Chan
Circling the Runway
Brooklyn Justice
Coney Island Avenue
By Anonymous-9
Hard Bite
Bite Harder
By Jonathan Ashley
South of Cincinnati
By Trey R. Barker
2,000 Miles to Open Road
Road Gig: A Novella
Exit Blood
Death is Not Forever
No Harder Prison
By Richard Barre
The Innocents
Bearing Secrets
Christmas Stories
The Ghosts of Morning
Blackheart Highway
Burning Moon
Echo Bay
Lost
By Eric Beetner (editor)
Unloaded
Rumrunners
Leadfoot
By Gordon Brown
Falling
Falling Too (*)
By Rob Brunet
Stinking Rich
By Milton T. Burton
Texas Noir
By Dana Cameron, editor
Murder at the Beach: Bouchercon Anthology 2014
By Eric Campbell, editor
Down, Out and Dead
By Stacey Cochran
Eddie & Sunny (TP only)
By Mark Coggins
No Hard Feelings
By Angel Luis Colón
No Happy Endings
By Jen Conley
Cannibals and Other Stories
By Shawn Corridan and Gary Waid
Gitmo
By Matt Coyle, Mary Marks and Patricia Smiley, editors
LAst Resort
By Tom Crowley
Viper’s Tail
Murder in the Slaughterhouse
By Frank De Blase
Pine Box for a Pin-Up
Busted Valentines and Other Dark Delights
A Cougar’s Kiss
By Les Edgerton
The Genuine, Imitation, Plastic Kidnapping
Lagniappe
By Nora Gaskin Esthimer, editor
Carolina Crimes: 21 Tales of Need, Greed and Dirty Deeds
By A.C. Frieden
Tranquility Denied
The Serpent’s Game
The Pyongyang Option (*)
By Danny Gardner
A Negro and an Ofay
By Jack Getze
Big Numbers
Big Money
Big Mojo
Big Shoes
The Black Kachina
By Keith Gilman
Bad Habits
By Richard Godwin
Wrong Crowd
Buffalo and Sour Mash
Crystal on Electric Acetate
By William Hastings, editor
Stray Dogs: Writing from the Other America
By Jeffery Hess
Beachhead
Cold War Canoe Club
By Matt Hilton
No Going Back
Rules of Honor
The Lawless Kind
The Devil’s Anvil
No Safe Place
By Naomi Hirahara, Kate Thornton and Jeri Westerson, editors
LAdies’ Night
By Terry Holland
An Ice Cold Paradise
Chicago Shiver
By Darrel James, Linda O. Johnston and Tammy Kaehler, editors
Last Exit to Murder
By David Housewright and Renée Valois
The Devil and the Diva
By David Housewright
Finders Keepers
Full House
By Beau Johnson
A Better Kind of Hate
By Jon Jordan
Interrogations
By Jon and Ruth Jordan, editors
Murder and Mayhem in Muskego
Cooking with Crimespree
By Lawrence Kelter
Back to Brooklyn
By Lawrence Kelter and Frank Zafiro
The Last Collar
By Jerry Kennealy
Screen Test
Polo’s Long Shot
By Dana King
Worst Enem
ies
Grind Joint
Resurrection Mall
By Ed Kurtz
Nothing You Can Do (*)
By Ross Klavan, Tim O’Mara and Charles Salzberg
Triple Shot
By JB Kohl and Eric Beetner
Over Their Heads
By S.W. Lauden
Crosswise
Crossed Bones
By Andrew McAleer and Paul D. Marks, editors
Coast to Coast
Coast to Coast 2
By Terrence McCauley
The Devil Dogs of Belleau Wood
The Bank Heist, editor (*)
By Daniel M. Mendoza, editor
Stray Dogs: Interviews with Working-Class Writers
By Bill Moody
Czechmate: The Spy Who Played Jazz
The Man in Red Square
Solo Hand
The Death of a Tenor Man
The Sound of the Trumpet
Bird Lives!
Mood Swings (TP only)
By Gerald M. O’Connor
The Origins of Benjamin Hackett
By Gary Phillips
The Perpetrators
Scoundrels: Tales of Greed, Murder and Financial Crimes (editor)
Treacherous: Grifters, Ruffians and Killers
3 the Hard Way
By Gary Phillips, Tony Chavira, Manoel Magalhaes
Beat L.A. (Graphic Novel)
By Tom Pitts
Hustle
American Static