by Mark Tufo
“You said one drink and then you were going to leave.”
“I came across the damn country to see you.”
“I don’t remember asking you to,” Mike said, standing up straight, figuring this conversation was going downhill fast. He wished he had brought in the axe with him.
“I should have called first,” Durgan said, dipping his head.
“I wouldn’t have picked up even if I had a phone. I can’t believe I’m doing this,” Mike said as he stooped down below the sink and grabbed a brown bottle. I’ve got some Jeff Daniels.”
“Some what?”
“Jeff.”
“Is that like a generic brand? Or his less famous brother trying to cash in on the family name?”
“What in the hell are you talking about?”
“It’s Jack Daniels.”
“That’s what I said.”
“Just pour me some.”
Mike grabbed a couple of mason jars he had found in the cabinet and poured them both a couple of fingers worth of the bitter liquor.
“That’s about as smooth as sandpaper,” Durgan said as he took in a sharp intake of air.
“I think I’d rather get in a fist fight with you than finish the rest of this crap,” Mike said as he gulped the remainder of the firewater down. He poured them some more when Durgan matched him.
“Why here, Mike?” Durgan asked as he took another small sip.
Mike felt a small fuzziness begin to build behind his eyes, the first sign of an oncoming buzz. “No people,” he answered. That was at least partly the truth. He downed the contents of his glass and poured another. “You know Mrs. Hollow really liked you.” Mike added.
“That battleaxe?” Durgan said, arching an eyebrow. “Doubtful. Pour me another, would you?” He raised a glass. Mike complied. “She couldn’t stand anyone, least of all me.”
“She always told me how much she wished that Jandilyn had married you.”
“That’s rich,” he said smiling. “Me over you. I think she would have learned the error of her ways right quick.” He tipped his glass to Mike before he took a significant swallow.
The bottle was a third gone when Mike asked his next question. “You’re not really intending on leaving, are you?”
“I thought you’d never ask.”
“I didn’t.”
“Where am I going to sleep?” Durgan asked, looking around.
“Motel 6?” Mike asked.
“You wouldn’t want me to drive like this, would you?”
“We’re not buddies, you and me, Durgan.”
“I think right now, Mike, we might not be friends, but we need each other.”
“I was—am doing fine.”
“Me too,” Durgan lied. “Well, let’s do this again tomorrow night.” Durgan stood and staggered over to the couch. He face-planted into the cushion, his legs raising up and draping over the arm of the lounger.
“Good night to you, too.” Mike headed upstairs. He came back down with a spare pillow and blanket. He placed them next to the softly snoring Durgan, but then fanned the blanket out across his body. “I ain’t tucking your ass in, though,” he said as he headed back upstairs.
“What a weird ass day,” Mike said as he stared at the ceiling. He thought sleep might be elusive even with all the alcohol pumping through his system, but he was out within minutes. Somehow having his previous mortal enemy asleep in his house made him feel safer. He hadn’t even had a chance to really dwell on it before he was fast asleep.
***
Mike awoke the next morning, a splash of light across his eye, blistering into a plume of pain. He jolted awake when he realized he wasn’t alone. He scrambled out of the bed and slammed onto the floor, the percussion of the contact sending waves of nausea through his stomach.
“Hey there,” Durgan said, squinting his eyes.
“What are you doing in my bed?” Mike asked from the floor.
“Your couch sucks, it’s not very comfortable.”
“I don’t give a shit if it has spikes for cushions—what the hell are you doing in my bed?”
“There’s nothing wrong with two men sharing a bed.” Durgan stretched.
“No, there isn’t, but it is for us. Get out of my damn bed.”
Durgan groaned, he looked worse than Mike felt. “You got any food?” Durgan stood, stretched, and scratched his nether regions.
“Oh, man, this day is going from bad to horrible, really quick,” Mike said, pointing to the doorway, hoping Durgan would get the hint.
“Want me to make you some breakfast?” he asked.
“Not after where your hands have been,” Mike told him.
“I make a mean omelet.”
“Eggs?” Mike turned a little green. “Any chance I could be sick without an audience?”
Mike was praying to the porcelain gods when he heard Durgan’s car start up and drive away. He uttered the words ‘thank God’ and then found himself a little perturbed that Durgan hadn’t even said goodbye.
He stayed there another half hour, confident the dry retching had come to a conclusion and he could start back up on the Clearing. The sun and the work would do him some good.
A lone bird watched as he descended the path to his work site. He knew if he looked hard enough it would be a raven and probably even the one with one white eye. He refused to let anything delay him today and if he stopped to wonder about the bird and its significance he would lose even more time. The chainsaw was out of gas and Mike had no desire to go back into town.
“Just like in the good ‘ole days.” He grimaced.
The axe bit deep as he swung it, the first hundred or so swipes were pure torture on his head. The vibration rattled his teeth which set off seismic explosions in his skull. He debated more than once the validity of the day’s work. As the first tree fell over he began to hit his stride. He had planted his axe into the second tree when he saw the ghostly figure of a man staring back at him. He jumped back quickly, letting go of his only weapon.
“Fuck, man. You scared the shit out of me. I thought you were a ghost.”
Durgan said nothing for long seconds until Mike thought perhaps he was. Maybe he had still been drunk and plowed his car into a tree or the stage two cancer had caught up with him a little early.
“This doesn’t feel right, Mike,” Durgan said, finally speaking as he looked around.
“Why are you back?” Mike groaned. “You apologized, we drank—hell, we even slept together. Everything should be hunky dory. You can go meet your maker in peace.” Mike paused for a second. “I’m sorry, that was a crappy thing to say.”
Durgan plowed on as if Mike had never spoke. “You had no food and I’m not drinking any Daniels—Jeff or Jack—ever again. I bought some good stuff.” Durgan smiled wickedly, pulling out a bottle of Tequila.
Mike could feel his stomach lurching just thinking of drinking the caustic liquid. Yet he still walked over to where Durgan was, grabbed the bottle, spun the top off, and took a swallow.
“Tastes like ass,” Mike said, wiping his mouth.
“What are you doing, Mike? I mean really,” Durgan said, swiping the bottle from Mike’s hand.
Mike stopped for a moment to think about it. “I guess I don’t really know,” Mike answered.
“Fair enough. I’m going to make breakfast, come up in a half hour.”
“You know this whole little set up we have going is pretty weird, right?” Mike asked.
“What? We slept together last night, the least I owe you is a decent breakfast.”
“If you say anything about how you ‘can’t quit me’ I’m going to use my axe on you.”
“You like sausage in your omelets?” Durgan asked, smiling.
Mike was about to answer when the ground under his feet began to sway, although it wasn’t quite that pronounced, it was more like a ripple, like a stone in a pond.
“Mike?” Durgan asked with concern.
“Yeah-yeah, bacon is fine,” Mi
ke answered and then more quietly. “I’m close.”
Mike came into the house an hour-and-a-half later and only because the blade of his axe had skipped off the side of a tree and cut into his leg.
“The eggs are colder than my mom’s tits.” Durgan laughed as Mike came in the door. He noticed the free-flowing blood. “Holy shit, Mike.”
“Feeling a little woozy,” Mike said as his eyes rolled up and he went down.
***
“Jandilyn!” Mike said sitting up.
“Not quite,” Durgan said from his chair. Mike was on the couch and Durgan was sitting at the kitchen table doing his best to single-handedly take care of the tequila.
“You know I saved your life today, don’t you?” Durgan asked.
Mike looked over at him; the tone did in no way convey the same meaning as the message. “You alright?” Mike asked, wincing as he tried to move his leg.
“There you were, bleeding like a stuck pig, and all I could think was that maybe I should just…” He paused. “Do nothing. I mean, you went down, man. I’m thinking you really would have just bled out and I’d be rid of you.”
“Rid of me? What are you talking about?” Mike asked as he looked around for something, anything that could be used as a weapon. A small broom looked like his best option, might as well get some bandages so he could sop up the remainder of his blood after the beat down.
“Jandilyn, was mine,” Durgan said as he swung his gaze over, his head was lowered and his stare was through menacing eyes.
“I thought we’d already been through this,” Mike said, stalling, trying his best to sit up and get moving. The pain in his leg and the dizziness in his head were huge hindrances to that.
“I wanted to kill you that night on the hill.”
“Why didn’t you?” Mike asked. “You would have saved all of us a lot of trouble.”
Durgan stood up.
Here we go, Mike thought as he stood. Between the vertigo and the searing pain in his leg, his moment of gravity defying standing was short-lived.
Durgan laughed, a small cruel sound issued forth.
Mike did the only thing he could think of, he removed his contact and spun around, not at all expecting to be witness to what he saw. Durgan looked to be immersed in a being double his size, a perfect black outline that mimicked all the moves and hatred portrayed on his face.
“I almost forgot about that,” Durgan said, pointing at Mike’s eye. “Mrs. Hollow says that’s where the devil marked you. He stuck his finger in your eye and drained your soul through it.”
Mike thought that almost sounded rational. He was convinced he’d have an easier time choking out a bear than fighting Durgan.
“What happened to the kinder, gentler Durgan?” Mike asked.
“He was an asshole,” Durgan said, coming across the room slowly, taking another swig off the tequila bottle.
Mike was finally able to get his legs to support his body and it seemed that his head would cooperate for the moment, although it was an uneasy alliance.
“It’d be easier for both of us if you stayed seated.”
“Do you mean me and you, or you and the thing controlling you?”
Durgan hesitated. “There isn’t shit controlling me.”
“Well, I’d beg to differ, but I’m thinking debate time is over,” Mike said as he took a few tentative steps toward the broom. “Why are you doing this now? Seems you could have done it at any point last night or even while I was bleeding all over the place.”
Durgan hesitated again. “It just seems funner this way—you all injured and barely able to move. Like a cat playing with a mouse, you know?” Durgan said, the glint coming back in his eye.
“So all that apology stuff?
“A bunch of bullshit to get in the door. I had put some drugs in your eggs, poison really, it wouldn’t have killed you, just immobilized you and then I had planned a hugely entertaining night revolving around some serious torture culminating in your death.”
Mike shivered. “What the fuck is wrong with you?”
“The doctors had a lot of names—dissociative disorder came up a lot, though.” Durgan was inching closer, taking his time. He seemed to be savoring the moment. “What do you really think you’re going to be able to do with that broom?”
“A little light cleaning, when I’m nervous it really helps to calm my nerves.”
“You’re a funny little fuck,” Durgan said, pointing at Mike with the hand that was holding the bottle. “I’m curious to see how much you’re laughing when I’m through with you.”
“Killing me won’t bring Jandilyn back.”
“That’s not the point!” Durgan screamed. “You took something that was mine and now you have to pay!”
Mike had finally wrapped his hands around the broom handle and it felt pathetic. A fully extended swing would do little more than bring up a welt and that would be if the wood could even handle the contact without snapping.
Mike looked over Durgan’s shoulder, which was no easy feat considering the entity that had him encased. The kitchen was bathed in an ethereal light. “Can you see that?” Mike asked.
“How stupid do I look?”
“Oh, you’d be amazed,” Mike told him. “If there is such a thing as honor among adversaries, I promise you I don’t have any tricks up my sleeve. I’m merely asking you if you see anything weird in the kitchen.”
Durgan charged. Guess not, Mike thought as he put the handle up in a defensive manner. Durgan, either unbalanced from his physical or mental disease or more possibly from the half a bottle of rotgut he had consumed, clipped the corner of the couch and went sprawling past Mike. For good measure, Mike thwacked him once hard on the side of the face and, as previously concerned, it did little more than produce a welt which would sting for a day at the most, but Mike felt he would have been better off shooting a grizzly with a BB gun.
“That fucking hurt!” Durgan said, rubbing his cheek.
“Real sorry about that,” Mike said as he moved away from Durgan and closer to the kitchen.
Mike was over halfway there when he felt Durgan’s hand wrap around his calf and send him plunging to the ground.
“It’s not really polite to eat without your guests,” Durgan said as he began to pull Mike closer.
Mike reared back with his damaged leg and struck out for all he was worth into Durgan’s forehead. The pain Mike felt was worth the shocked expression he saw on Durgan’s face.
Durgan immediately let go of Mike’s calf as his head whipped back from the blow. He seemed to be momentarily stunned and Mike saw no reason to waste the opportunity and admire his handiwork.
Mike propped himself up with the table. He finally turned, completely expecting Durgan to be right behind him, about to deliver a jaw cracking uppercut. Apparently, the kick had done a little more damage than he had originally assumed. Durgan was groggy and groaning. Mike decided to not give him an opportunity to recover quite so quickly. He stood up and took a quick two step walk before delivering a bone jarring impact from nose of boot to side of head. Durgan went slack.
“That’s for the Hill, you fuck!” Mike spat. The oily blackness that was truly running the show bent over to see if its charge was still of this world when it was confident it still had a puppet to maneuver it stayed steadfast. “And fuck you, too,” Mike said with a little less vehemence as he finished his entry into the kitchen.
Mike grabbed a large knife out of the sink, then noticed a small bottle next to a block of cheese. It looked like something out of an old apothecary shop, brown in color and a skull and crossbones sticker for a label.
Mike became outraged as he held the small vial up and then a wicked grin spread across his face. Durgan had not yet moved, but Mike figured it would be relatively soon. He grabbed his knife and the bottle and headed back to the prone man. The black figure pulling Durgan’s strings had not suffered the same injury as its host; it stood silent over his body.
“Any chance yo
u’ll get the fuck out of my way?” Mike asked it. It did not acknowledge him. “Fine, we’ll do this your way.” Mike shivered as he moved in close, where his body made contact with the being, his skin burned from coldness.
When he was done pouring the contents of the bottle into the booze, Mike headed back to the kitchen table to sit down. It was long minutes before his skin warmed back up, he had thought about going back to the couch to get his blanket but didn’t want to be near either one of the things that now inhabited his living room.
His left eye throbbed as if it were taking in too much information. The black mass around Durgan waited patiently at its station around the passed out man. Mike walked slowly upstairs to retrieve his eye patch, profusely apologizing for breaking his promise to Jandilyn about removing his contact. It wasn’t long before Durgan began to stir. Mike was amazed; he figured he would have been dead if the roles had been reversed. That might not be a fair comparison, though, because Durgan’s leg was probably twice the size of his.
Durgan rolled over and sat up. He placed his hand to the side of his head which was now rapidly swelling. “Looks like you won this round.” He pressed the tequila bottle against his lips and took an extended draw. “You should have killed me, though.”
“Night’s young,” Mike said, spinning the tip of a knife blade on the table.
“Jandilyn’s mother funded my trip out here, you know. She hired private investigators to find you and then when I showed up at her doorstep she saw it as divine intervention.”
“You know what divine means, don’t you?” Mike asked him sardonically.
Durgan took another drag in response as he delayed speaking.
“I treated her daughter like the angel she truly was and that hag of a mother hated me for it,” Mike said, anger starting to bubble to the surface.
“She hated you because she knew you were going to kill her!”
“Shut your mouth!” Mike yelled, standing up. He said it with such force, Durgan actually shied away; a sneer pulled the corners of Mike’s lips back.
“Deny it!” Durgan challenged. “You can’t because you know something’s wrong with you or you wouldn’t have that fucking demon eye! I can’t tell you how many times I’d wished I had just caved your diseased skull in that day I ran into you.”