“Well... That’s kind of awesome. How can you write a serious headline about that? It’s begging for some tabloid-ification.”
“‘Madman kills seven in Queens’ is ours. The Daily News went with something like ‘Ninja nut slaughters seven.’ Theirs is better.”
“Obviously.”
Soldier Himmler raps the top of the phone with his baton.
I grimace. “Fred, I gotta go. I’m using up the Third Reich’s minutes and they’re itching to invade Poland.”
The cop snatches up the handset and ends my call for me. He points his baton back down toward the holding cell that I share with Declan. “Move,” he says.
“Yeah, yeah, schnell, I get it.”
He jabs me in the side to get me moving. It hurts.
I grunt. “You treat your kids this way?”
Soldier Himmler licks his lips. “No, I treat my son like a king. I treat pieces of shit like pieces of shit.”
I smile at him. “So, you’re into plunger work?”
He jabs me in the side again.
Declan is curled up on the grimy, piss-stained floor when Soldier Himmler pushes me in. The photographer isn’t crying anymore, at least, but he isn’t moving much either. I guess he’s just depressed and annoyed.
I pat Declan’s shoulder. “Buck up, fuckstick. The boss will have us out of here in no time.” I stick my tongue out at the NYPD soldiers on the civilized side of the bars. “The company will work something out.”
“I can’t believe this shit is happening. I can’t believe I’ve been arrested. I can’t believe I’m an accessory to murder.”
“No, you’re a victim.” I lock eyes with Declan. “It was self-defense and he was a fuckin psycho. Keep your story straight.” I rub my temples. “I haven’t worked out all the angles yet. Did you want me to let him chew you up?”
Declan scratches the big, leaky bandage on his arm. “Why did they put us in the same cell, anyway?”
I shrug. “No vacancies. Fine boys in blue are very active these days. Protecting the city from jaywalkers and loiterers and minorities and reporters.” I grip the prison bars and wink at the male cops who eye me with contempt. One aims his service revolver at me.
Declan bolts upright. It’s the first time he’s moved swiftly in hours. “I should have refused to come with you.” He scratches the sopping red bandage again. “I should have known better. Everyone says you’re trouble. They tell stories. I heard about what happened on New Year’s.”
I glare at him. “What did you hear, exactly?”
He smiles a little. “I heard enough.” That perks him up. Some feeling of moral superiority. “I heard you killed the mayor. A goddamn war hero.”
Fucker.
Years ago, before my current gig, which is effectively being a sensationalism slut, I was at the top of my game. A reporter’s reporter. On my way to becoming the Ed Murrow of my time. Some people said I wrote like Sy Hersh and Hunter Thompson combined.
That was preposterous, of course, but I didn’t correct em.
I’d been tapped by my prestigious editors to do an interview with the brand spanking new mayor of New York City on the eve of a new year. General Michael Callaghan (retired). It was to be in the minutes before the ball dropped in Times Square. And it was also gonna be streamed globally.
The mayor’s aides made me promise that it would be a “friendly” interview. Just garbage about the coming years. The NYCZ’s dropping crime rate. Increased tourism revenue. All that morning talk show nonsense.
Uninteresting, positive bullshit.
I wasn’t allowed to talk about Callaghan’s time as a lackey in the Justice Department, about his tenure at the Pentagon, or his four years as secretary of defense—when he “may or may not” have quietly re-authorized the “limited use” of napalm and chemical weapons during a “police action” in North Korea to quell the nation’s nuclear trigger finger.
Of course not, I told em.
I’ll be a good dog, I said.
They should’ve known better.
I mean, this was Hunter Hersh they were talking to. Right? Lauded for being equal parts gonzo and scholarly.
We were standing on a podium in Times Square in front of thousands of people—few, if any of whom, were New Yorkers. It was cold. A gentle off-white snow was falling. There were about four inches on the ground already.
Cameras were rolling. And though I was flanked by cops and security, it felt like it was just me and the mayor being broadcast into millions of television sets and streamed online into millions more computer screens and datapads.
For the first two minutes, everything was fine.
When I pulled out documentation about the order to use chemical weapons in North Korea, he stammered. He made a cut motion to the cameras. Security started moving in. I hammered on him. He dodged questions. Then my audio was nixed.
Live feeds started to drop. I didn’t care. I was still secretly broadcasting a live stream to the net with my own datapad. I pulled up photos of the victims on the screen of my Asimov and started scrolling through them so he could see.
Security grabbed me.
I broke their grip. Grabbed the mayor. Shoved my datapad in his face. With a steady, angry finger I cycled through the countless hi-res photos. All the victims of his paperwork.
He fell on his ass.
I showed him pictures of people burned beyond recognition by napalm. Pictures of mothers whose flesh melted off onto their own sons and daughters as they held them and cried without sound. I showed him pictures of children born without toes. Born without limbs. Children wracked with pain cuz spina bifida had chosen them.
Nerve damage. Urological disorders. Skin diseases. Soft-tissue cancers.
All the feeds had been cut, but the PA system was still on. Hundreds of thousands of people were listening in Times Square. Even more online. The entire front of the crowd was a sea of dropped jaws. Cheers and merriment turned to shouts of outrage. Between gasps I heard the assemblage’s anger. A slow boil hitting the point of no return.
Their mayor, the man they elected, exposed before their eyes. A man who ran on a ticket of peace and family care stripped naked as the violent war pig he was.
I shouted at General Callaghan. “Aren’t guns and bombs good enough for you fucks?” Two big cops pulled me off and pinned my hands against my back. I ignored the pain. The crowd writhed. People rushed the barricades.
The mayor didn’t stand up. He stayed on his butt. He stared at the floor and started rubbing his head. He pushed his palms into his eyes.
One security agent wrapped his arms around the mayor.
He let himself be hoisted up.
Callaghan said, “Guns are just fine.”
The mayor reached inside the agent’s coat and removed a Beretta 9mm handgun. “And now you’ve really fucked my life,” he muttered. He aimed the gun at me, then paused, as if considering. Instead of obliterating me, he slid the barrel between his lips and blew a bucket’s worth of brains onto the snow.
Coward.
Dickless goddamn coward.
The front row was covered in blood.
There were lawsuits. Legal fees. My reputation got run right into the ground alongside some horseshit cult hero status online that died off after a few months.
I couldn’t pay rent.
A few years and many jobs later, I’m at the bottom. But at least my landlord gets his checks.
Declan says, “Not to mention what happened with the school teacher’s union...Jesus, or that Televangelist. Every time you go out to do an interview, something happens. And it’s always bad.”
I squint at him. “I was cleared. If Callaghan hadn’t punched a hole through his head, he could’ve had me put away for whatever he wanted to. He took the easy way out. And fuck you, he was a war criminal.”
&nb
sp; Declan ignores me. He keeps sliding his fingers over the wound Schneer had given him. “Doesn’t matter. This sucks and I should have known better.”
I don’t want to hit Declan anymore. I want a drink. “We’ll be out soon.”
And we are. Sort of.
NYPD soldiers move us into the general containment area as the rosy fingers of dawn crawl across the sky. This can mean a few things. Either the company is pulling strings and we’re on our way out, or the police have higher profile crooks to put in the clink. I look around at the others who’ve been deemed dangerous to society. The other assholes at least look the part. We just look like tired jerks.
Declan resumes his fetal position on the floor. He grunts various curses at me. Picks the bite.
An hour later in the cage, one of our new “friends” tries talking to Declan. This “friend” is an enormously fat Puerto Rican man. So large, in fact, that he might have his own gravitational pull.
The rotund Hispanic says, “Hey... Hey, man, you doing okay?” The fat man caresses Declan’s head with one hand. He rubs himself through his thin khakis with the other. “You okay there, buddy?” He rubs himself a little harder. Declan doesn’t move.
The fat man unzips his pants. Starts tugging on himself.
It’s weird.
To me, weirder than even the Schneer attack.
Everyone in the cell inches away. Whistles. Pretends they aren’t seeing this, like most New Yorkers.
Everyone except a skinhead with swastika earrings. He’s as interested as a pervert at a peep show. And he wants his money’s worth.
Declan backhands the guy’s junk. The freak seems pleased rather than dissuaded.
He gets hard.
Declan growls. He snatches the Puerto Rican’s prick and pulls. Rips the topmost layers of skin off. The torn flesh looks uncomfortably like a used condom in the photographer’s hand. Declan rolls away as blood shoots out of the genital spigot he’s created. He drops the mottled fuck flesh and backs up against me.
The Puerto Rican falls forward. Screams. Jiggles slightly as his fat cushions the trip to the ground. A puddle of crimson spreads underneath him.
I’m impressed. I tell Declan: “If that guy ever finds you outside this holding cell, he is gonna rape your brains out. With a pitchfork and an audience.”
Declan grabs me. Brings my face closer to his. “Get me out of here.” He bites his bottom lip. Digs an incisor into the pink flesh and draws blood.
I plant my index finger at the center of his forehead and push him in the general direction of away.
Behind me, a cop hits the bars. “You two,” he points at me and Declan, “bail’s been posted. I regret to inform you that the New York Police Department didn’t get to mess with you longer.”
Declan and I nearly trample each other getting to the open cell door. I tap the cop on the shoulder on my way out and gesture to the fat man. “That guy said he wanted to fuck your quote ‘cute’ son in the ass.”
He cop goes rigid. He glares at me. “Who the fuck told him I had a son? And who told fuck him what my son looks like?”
I gesture toward the skinhead. “The actual Nazi.”
As Declan and I leave the holding area for the front of the building, I can hear heavy thuds and grown men crying like whipped dogs.
* * *
Fred waits for us with cups of coffee. “See? Just an overnighter. You’re fine.” He hands me some java and frowns at Declan. “Maybe you aren’t tip-top, but...”
Declan alternates between scratching his bandage and his neck. He needs a shower and some pills. Or maybe a doctor. I’m pretty certain at this point that the Schneer bite is infected.
His stomach gurgles loud enough that I can hear it. He says, “Guys can we get some breakfast? I’m fuckin starving.”
I ignore him. Say to Fred, “Can I borrow your datapad? I haven’t retrieved mine yet. It’s being held for evidence or some shit. They’re copying all my files.” I sigh. Wistful. “All my porn.”
Fred digs his datapad out of his jacket and tosses it at me while chugging caffeine tar. I spill my own coffee on my boots while trying to catch it and flip Fred the bird.
I call Helene. Talked into the screen once she responds. “Hi, honey. Is everything all right?”
I can hear her typing. “So far.” She’s already at work, so the conversation will probably deteriorate within seconds. She says, “Hang on, Poppa Bear.” Then to someone else: “I don’t give a flying fuck if the driver thinks he picked up ten crates. There are supposed to be twelve. Yeah? Suck my farts.” Then to me: “Sorry baby. At work. Where are you?”
“In jail actually. Well, no, I was in jail.”
“You’re where?”
“In jail. Was. Past tense. I’m being released as we speak. On bail.”
Helene laughs on the other end. “Do I want to know?”
I love this woman. “Probably not. But it’s sort of a funny story.”
“Please be careful, Poppa Bear. Call me as soon as you can.” She stifles a laugh. “And I hope your butt is okay.”
I smile without thinking. “You’re a damn devil girl.”
Fred raises an eyebrow.
“I love you. Call me when you can,” she says.
“I love you too, Momma Bear. I’ll call after I get ripped to shreds by my boss.”
I grit my teeth. Hand Fred back his datapad.
Fred says, “The Thing?”
I blink. Chew on my cheek. “Yeah. Fuck it. They love us, they’ll open up. I have to meet the boss soon, anyway. Sure as shit ain’t doing it sober.”
Declan whines. “We need to get food. Really, guys, I’m dying here.”
I say, “Alcohol is food.”
* * *
The bartenders open the doors for us. Even though they’re still cleaning, they trust me and Fred enough to get our own drinks and settle the tab. Such are the benefits of being a regular.
They turn on the porn. And the music. The metal mayhem of Cannibal Corpse chews its way out of the speakers.
It’s all far more comforting than it should be.
Fred walks over to the same carved-up table we’d been sitting at a couple days ago and sets down a few Ass juices and three Yuenglings.
I spread my hands over the feast. “What, no whiskey?”
Fred smiles. Yanks a flask of Jameson from his coat pocket. “I actually bought this when you called. Figured you’d need it when you got out.”
I twist the cap off. “My hero.”
Declan picked up four quarter-pounders from Burger King on the way here. The grease from the bottom of the bag cuts through the paper. It’s seeping onto the table.
I roll my tongue around my mouth. “That shit’ll kill you faster than smoking.”
Declan frantically unwraps the fast faux food. He devours it. “I know. I’m just so hungry, man.” Oil drips out of his mouth. The table gets spattered with mayonnaise and chunks of unidentifiable matter that will never be mistaken for food outside of a bun.
I reach over and pat his head. “Chew. It’ll taste better.”
Declan ignores me.
Fred and I chuckle.
I put the pint of Jameson to my lips and let it burn my throat before throwing some beer behind it. Fred matches me. We both light cigarettes.
Less than a day away from the desk and withdrawal symptoms are creeping in. I say, “So, what’s news?”
“Aside from the ninja thing? Not a hell of a lot. Some offbeat stuff. New faith study puts atheism at twenty-three percent globally. I’m sure you’re happy about that.”
I nod. Raise my shot of ass juice and down it.
Fred continues: “There was a big feature late last night CNN did about the celebrities that are taking pills of powdered gold to make their shit sparkle. But that’s been ar
ound for forever. Middle East’s still a shitstorm. You knew that.”
“What about the bugs?”
“That was, what, two days ago? People don’t care anymore.”
“Short attention span. Any new attacks?”
“Yeah. One. Small scale. Last night. Would have been front page if there’d been a body count higher than the crazy ninja. Just four dead. MTA started putting up ‘Know Your Foe’ posters with basic descriptions of the bugs. Cops got way better at killing em and tracking em. They’re professional exterminators now.”
At least I was right about the bugs not being a one-off event. “Sorry I missed the psycho sword antics, but otherwise I’m glad the world didn’t end while I was locked up.” I breathe smoke.
“Yeah, well, you and Schneer and Declan might end up becoming a headline. What the hell happened?”
I rub my temples. Another headache. “Schneer went after us. Completely nuts. He bit Declan. I stopped him. Uh, with an axe. Whole new level of skullfucking.” I lower my eyes to the table. “Look, let me survive the meeting with my editor and then we’ll talk. It’s complicated. Between the pol and the whore and him.” I point to Declan, still mindlessly gnawing on burgers. “It’s just insane.”
My datapad—which was a hassle to get back from the cops—vibrates inside my jacket. Since regaining the Asimov, I’ve been ignoring it with dedication. I wanna crawl into a hole and sleep for a month. I don’t wanna answer anyone looking for anything. Especially not me.
I finally check the thing. There are seven missed pings. Every single one is from my boss.
I groan.
Fred polishes off his beer. “Your editor knew when you were getting out. You better get a move on.”
“Yeah.”
I push the pint of Jameson over to Fred and grip Declan’s shoulder. “Ready to go? Boss wants us.”
Declan licks some that-isn’t-real-food goo from his lips down into his gullet.
Fred and I stare at him.
He hasn’t touched his drinks. “We need to get food.” Declan whines again. “I’m dying here.”
Live, From the End of the World Page 7