by Kirk Alex
“I know I won’t be going back to the club. . . .”
“It’s a start. You know, you’re one of the very few to ever look at me as though there might still be something human there.” Biggs indicated the part of his chest where his heart supposedly was. “Could be I’m beyond being human, having the average human’s sense of right and wrong. . . . At least you look at me like I am. . . .”
“I don’t believe anybody’s all bad. . . .”
“Yeah? After everything I’ve done?”
“Yes.”
“Oh, I’m bad. All bad. I wouldn’t know any other way. . . . Nothing gives me the kind of rush that hunting down and killing people does. . . . That’s the truth.”
“Maybe so. I’m still alive, which proves my point.”
He shook his head. “You don’t quite get it. Half the time I couldn’t make up my mind if I wanted to cut you up into chunks to feed the congregation, or if I should propose marriage. I had no idea, could have gone either way, until I walked through that door. Now I know: I want you to be with me. First I’ll have to figure out how to get out of this unpleasant situation I’m in.”
He dug his left hand into his pants pocket. Came up with a gold necklace and what appeared to be an engagement ring dangling from it. She could not be certain, but thought she recognized it as the same ring Rudy had given Olivia Duarte.
He handed it to her and watched as she fumbled nervously with the clasp, unable to get anywhere. He assisted patiently enough: unfastened the clasp and hung the necklace round her neck.
“Doesn’t that look real nice?”
Relieved she would be spared, Pearleen could no longer hold back the tears. Biggs mistook it for something else. She kissed him on the cheek to help him continue thinking along those lines. “It’s about time.”
“Do you feel as I do?”
“I wondered how long it would take you to get around to it.”
“Had to make sure what I felt was the real thing. Would you consider matrimony at some point? Once my current problems are resolved and I win custody of my kid? I don’t want the kid not knowing who his father is. I worry that Tillie will turn him into a mama’s boy and a downright sissy—on the outside chance that he’s mine biologically. Otherwise it’s purely academic.”
“After it’s all worked out and finalized. I would consider it. Knowing what I know about her, from what you’ve told me, I don’t think she should be raising your son. You’re the father, after all—and he should be with you.”
“You’re right. We wouldn’t want to get off on the wrong foot. Something like marriage shouldn’t be taken lightly.” He looked at her without saying anything, then turned and walked out. Pearl Bell sighed a deep sigh, as tears made their way down her face.
CHAPTER 571
Biggs stepped out of the Furnace Room and Marvin R. Muck leaped at him with Roscoe’s bayonet.
That bulletproof Kevlar vest Biggs had on gave Marvin little choice as to what to go for: neck or sides. Was afraid if he went for the neck Bishop might duck in time and make him pay for the fuck-up.
Marvin chose one of the sides, a spot below the right armpit.
Swing in from below so the dude can’t see it comin’. Move like lightnin’ so the dude can’t stop it.
Went for it. What he got instead was Biggs’s elbow, blade diverted enough so that it was thrust into the Kevlar, causing it to snap in half.
Marvin cursed.
It would have to do. Steel still be steel. Three inch’ or eight. You got the blade. Could do enough damage wiff it if he put his mind to it.
Marvin had been so intent on nailing the original spot that he was unwilling to let it go. Gave it a second try. This time the shortened blade he had to work with dug into flesh and bone. Ribs. He’d driven it in there as hard as he was able. Gripped the handle with both hands and attempted to draw it down toward the hip and was not able to due to the Velcro straps. He did the next best thing: stuck it repeatedly.
Biggs raged, dropping the chainsaw. His mouth wide open, face flushed bright red. Blood poured out of him (for a change) instead of someone else.
“WHO THE ONE BE FAKIN’ NOW, OMAR! Heard that, Omar? Quit your fakin’ and die, punk!”
Biggs was down.
“HOW YOU LIKE IT NOW, BROTHA TRUSTY? WHO THE ONE CTD NOW? Who the one goin’ ’round the drain? I can’t hear you, Brotha Trusty. You like to put me down? PUT THIS DOWN, SUCKAH!”
Marvin kicked him in the head, and then attempted to force his foot down in his mouth.
“You wuz right about one thing: finally got to backstab yo’ ass. You dun talked about it enough. Yo’ wish come true. Finally happen for you. Finally made it, Omar: got me hatin’ yo’ gut’! I hate this place! Hate yo’ gut’ more than I could ever forget! Takin’ that chump change from me that time we done Slim’, takin’ everything from me ’cept that cheap-ass Timex what ain’t worf shit! Even I knowed that! You the cause I ain’t got no chopper’ here, Omar! Make me look bad all the time, hurt my ass! See this hand? See the way my pussy finger be bent? Can’t give nobody the bird wiff it ’cause you wuz too cheap to pay for a croaker! See that, Omar? Roadkill eatin’ tight-ass mothafuckah! You can blow bank on all this other boo-shit: Crack and Roll’-Royce and Cadillac, leave hunnerd-dollar tip for the bitches to show what a big man you is—and can’t take me to see no croaker! Sorry-ass nigga! Now be the time you git it all back—wiff interest! For Homie Dizz, Homie Psycho, Homie Meatball—AND MOST OF ALL: Homie Snagglepuss! They wuz the best; they wuz my true partner’—something you knowed nothin’ about! Get me, Omar? Don’t like for nobody to call you Omar? Shit, boy, I don’t be the one give you that sissy-ass name when you wuz born! Don’t trust nobody, don’t like nobody ’cause yo daddy turn’ you out when you wuz a punk kid—that still don’t make you right. Ain’t my fault yo daddy be one of them short-eye’ homo mother’.” He applied more force behind his foot. Pressed down on it. “YOU AIN’T SO BAD NOW, IS YOU, BROTHA TRUSTY LUSTY? I TOOK ALL THE SHIT I COULD TAKE OFF ALL YOU ’TARD FUCK-UP’!”
Marvin reached down for the ring of keys, applying pressure behind the Adidas sneaker he was forcing down into Biggs’s mouth. Biggs continued to grunt and groan, fought to catch his breath. He got both hands on Marvin’s foot in order to attempt to yank it off, and could not do it.
Finally, Biggs was able to get his fingers around the butt of the .357 and fired a shot through that leg. And did it again. Muck screamed, pulling his leg back. Saw Cecil trying for a third cap. Muck’s life depended on his next move. He kicked at the hand that held the gun, did it again, and sent the Magnum skidding toward the pit and into the water. He staggered back, too weak and in too much pain to keep upright, tripped on the open door to the pit, and dropped into the water himself.
“MAMA, THAT HURT’!” yelled Marvin R. Muck. “Lord, that smart’!”
Biggs crawled over by the john door, planted his hands on a brick he dug up among the half used bag of cement mix and containers of ready-mixed Concrete Patch left over from the time Big Tex had sealed the hole in the bathroom wall caused by Pearleen Bell and her stripper pals.
“Do unto others, always do unto others. Before they do unto you. . . .” Biggs crawled back in the direction, pausing. No strength to go further. “You’re Circling the Drain, Marvin.”
Marvin was in denial, shaking his head.
“I ain’t. . . . Don’t want to be. . . .”
“I said you’re CTD, Marvin,” Cecil Biggs assured the Quisling who betrayed him, just as he knew he always would. “Circling the Drain. . . .”
“I ain’t goin’ down no drain. Ain’t no CTD, me.”
“You got discipline coming, Quisling.”
It took effort for Cecil to raise the brick high enough and hold it steady enough to line up, aim it for Marvin’s head. He had a hell of a time keeping his arms from shaking. “There’s nothing you can do about it, Judas. Nothing you can do.”
Biggs’s jaw was killing him. Was it dislocate
d? Couldn’t be sure, all he was sure of was the agony it caused him whenever he attempted to speak. Keep your mouth shut, then. Wouldn’t that be the smart thing to do here? Yes, but the traitorous punk had to be made aware why he was being wiped off the face of the earth.
There was something else he wished to add to it, but the pain in his jaw made it close to impossible. Forget the words, and fling the brick. Crush the imbecile’s skull. Had it coming to him; they’ve all had it coming to them. Venal, worthless fucks.
He heaved the brick—and missed.
“Time, Brother Trusty,” Marvin implored. “I got to call Time Out, me.” And did his best to try to climb out of the pit, lost his balance, and dropped back into the murky water. Remained submerged. Unable to pick himself up. Biggs had his hands on a second brick by this time, and patiently waited for the other man to come up for air. Marvin did eventually, his face bobbing out of the water, his mouth like a mini geyser as filthy water and blood shot out of him.
Biggs flung the brick, and it thudded against Marvin’s face, knocking him back down again.
Cecil himself was nearly out. Fought to keep from losing consciousness. Could he make it? Would he make it? He didn’t know.
Don’t pass out, Cecil. Don’t you dare do it. You’re tougher than that, made of tougher stuff than the average asshole. Show spine, Cecil. You’ve got spine. Backbone. Passing out at a moment like this is akin to aiding the enemy, your enemy. All of them, as always, the enemy. Don’t give the weasel the satisfaction. He’s one of them. Always knew it. Don’t let them defeat you. Don’t do it. You can lick them yet. You can beat them all. YOU CAN WIN.
He was flat on his back, against the cool concrete of the basement floor. Unable to move. You against them. It’s always been that way. You against the world. Get up, you bastard. Get up. Fortitude.
I can’t get up. I can’t move. Wondered if he were the one who was CTD, after all? Circling the proverbial Drain, am I? CTD?
“I was born Circling the Drain.”
At last. Self-loathing. Mutt. Gutter trash. Own up. Admit it. Long time coming. Explains the suicide attempts—and that’s what this could be, all of it: runaway train to a place known as self-immolation. He’d chosen his own fate—a long time ago. Better yet, it had been chosen for him. No matter. Either way. And it was being carried out. Realized. Nihilism. His own existence. Squashed.
Then it dawned on him. He needed to have something sober him up, his thinking: Get off this ride. Stop this self-destructive kind of talk and thinking. You’re losing a lot of blood, too much blood, all that blood. You can’t afford to lose blood and still expect to survive. The stuff of life is seeping right out of you, oozing right out of you.
You have to get out of here. Find a way to get to the tunnel, stop the bleeding, and make your getaway. . . .
CHAPTER 572
When he looked up, Marvin Ritalin Muck, the Fuck, was leaning over him with what may have been the same brick he’d just thrown at him and missed with.
“No. I’ve got a portfolio worth half a million, Brother Marvin. I’m actually worth more than that. Considerably more. All yours. All yours. . . . Don’t drop that brick on me, Brother. . . . Don’t do it. . . . We’ve been through so much together. . . . There’s a bond there. . . . We’re family. . . . Family. . . .”
“Yo, what was it you tol’ that ho that time? When death call on you, give in to it?”
“Share and share alike.”
“Hate the sin, not the sinner. Remember that one, Dawg? I never did believe it. ’Cause wiff you it be the other way ’round: you don’t be hatin’ the sin. What you be hatin’ be the sinner: yo’self! You know it, too. Mothafuckah all this time be hatin’ his own self and takin’ it out on other peep’. Like to run yo mouf, showin’ off the IQ, when you the dumbest one there is.”
“All for one. One for all.”
“You a lie, clown. Yo. You lie like a rug. You been lyin’ all this time, Brotha Trusty. . . . Brotha Trusty been lyin’ to Brotha Marvin. In a House o’ the Lord, no less. How ’bout that?”
“Nest needed feathering. The nest comes first. Feathering costs money.”
“Like seein’ a croaker be costin’ money. You ain’t nothin’ but a lyin’, football-head no-class killa.”
“You got laid. Gave you the roof over your head. . . . If you want money, I’ll give you money. Money is meaningless if there is no one to share it with, like family and friends. I always meant to share, only wanted to wait for the right time, until I was certain there was enough of it. That was the plan: to share in the spoils—and live it up. Why else do it?” Biggs needed to take a breather. “You can have the titles to the Rolls and the Cadillac, homie. Pink slips are yours. I can always buy another car; I have the jack. Rolls and Caddy: greatest pussy magnets in the world. Draw bush like bees to honey. You would know better than I, my brother.”
“If there be one thing I know, a tight-ass nigga like you ain’t gonna part wiff his jack or the pink slip’. . . . No way. . . . Am I right, Omar? Am I right? Learned me to read you like a book, didn’t I? Better than that Bible you was pretendin’ to be readin’ from all the time.” And Marvin plowed the brick up against the left side of Biggs’s face and watched the blood ooze out of his ear. “Not that I ever learned me to read real good, me. You get my meanin’, don’t you, Omar?” He brought the brick down against Cecil’s nose and mouth. Frothy blood bubbled up.
He reached down and dug up the tunnel keys. While he was at it, it occurred to him to poke around in the man’s pockets until he came up with the keys to the Cadillac. Pimp mobile. His very own ride. Held the keys up in his clenched fist as if beholding a crack pipe full of hope.
“Daddy got his Caddy. Told you I be gettin’ a hog of my own one of these day’. Don’t need no pink slip, neither. Me.”
Biggs, unable to speak, said nothing. Eyes stayed closed.
“Who the one laughin’ now? When I brung it up before you thought it was funny. Didn’t you? Who the one be laughin’?”
Cecil Biggs uttered nary a word. He desperately needed to collect his senses, figure a way out of his predicament.
“Said I need a license. Don’t need shit, me. Been drivin’ since I be a young punk—one way or ’nother. Boostin’ wheel’ an’ takin’ ’em down to TJ and sellin’ ’em to them beaner pig’.”
“You’ll need gas money.”
“Gas? Gimme what you got.”
Biggs attempted to reach back for his wallet, did his best, and was unable. Marvin quickly assisted here. Pulled the wallet out. Extracted what amounted to about seventy dollars in bills.
“You lucky I ain’t got no time to look for more.”
“What you have there won’t get you to the border. You need real jack. You won’t get very far without jack.”
“Wished I had me a mirror right now to show you how ‘pretty’ you look.” Marvin smacked him again across the mouth. “Don’t like the way I talk? Huh, mothafuckah? You was always raggin’ about that. Don’t like it? How you want me to be, Dawg? Like you? Talk like you? Like a cracka? Like Roscoe and them? That what you want? That be yo trip, Oreo. You got it? YOU the Oreo—always was. I like bein’ me, chump. ME. Marvin Muck. That be me. Don’t like it? I AKST YOU A QUESTION, SORRY-ASS CHUMP! YOU DON’T LIKE IT? CAN’T DO SHIT ABOUT IT, NEITHER.” Then: “Cuttin’ a chicken’ head off to get wood never did make no kinda sense; killin’ them hoe’ to bust a nut never did make no kinda sense. Want to slap the hoe? Keeps them hoe’ in line like Iceberg done? I got no problem wiff it. But to ice ’em like you doin’? Time after time, too. Keep that up there don’t be no vagina left. Never thought of that, did you? Ain’t no way I could be a pimp wiffout vagina. Get it? Never even thought of that, did you? IQ, fool.”
“I need medical attention.”
Marvin raised the brick and hit him on the right side of the face. Drew blood from this ear, as he did from the other. Biggs seemed to go out.
“Like to beat on everybody? Like to get yo di
ck off beatin’ everybody’ ass? Only it sure don’t look like you be likin’ it when you be the one gettin’ yo’ own sorry ass beat, nigga.”
It was then Marvin noticed, to his shock and bewilderment, Biggs clearly had an erection developing in his trousers. Woody. Sure as he was badly wounded and barely hanging on. Hard-on. Further proof how truly messed up in the head the dude was.
“Lookit that: Kick yo ass nearly chill . . . an’ all it do is make yo’ dick hard and yo eyes drip wiff blood. Sick punk, mofo. You be the worse one, yet.”
It took effort. Biggs’s swollen eyelids opened. His crud-encrusted lips parted.
“Fuck you, Oreo. . . .”
Marvin raised the brick for one final blow, the blow that would go right through Biggs’s face, the one that would end it for good, or so he hoped. He needed to do it. Put the clown on ice. For all time’.
“Don’t nobody go there wiff me. . . .” Marvin lifted the brick well above his head, held it, poised—only to be thwarted by Julian “Pinko Punisher” Ionesco, who tackled him and tackled him hard. Marvin R. Muck went flying in one direction, the brick in another.
“In Rumania we have loyalty. Stupid black kurva don’t understand loyalty to friend who help you. Ja Ja.”
“I been loyal, suckah.”
Marvin fought his own pain. Needed to get the keys out of his pocket to try to unlock the door to the tunnel. He was going to have to get past Ionesco first.
Marvin punched him in the groin. Was at the bookcase that fronted the tunnel door fumbling with the keys on the key ring.
“Don’t no foreign cracker call me name’. You be the one don’t belong here, foreign cracker. Hear?”
He continued to fumble with the keys. Pushed the bookcase out of the way. Got the one lock unlocked, when the Red Menace tackled him again, causing Marvin to drop the keys.