Sound of Madness

by Brett Williams

  "Jesus, Jim."

  "Don't you judge me. Just keep 'em coming."

  After finishing the bourbon he downed the scotch like a frat boy, then went to work on the beer. After he drained that glass he grabbed its replacement – another beer – silently cursing Bruce for bringing him something besides the hard stuff. Like the bastard was doing him any favors. Shit, like a favor would do him any good. He didn't need anybody doing him any god-damned favors. He dived into the beer with AC/DC on the jukebox, swam through Charlie Daniels, Jim Croce, and Waylon Jennings. He didn't resurface until midway through Eddie Rabbit.

  "Hey, what the fuck? I said keep 'em coming."

  "Jim, you're a mess. I'm cutting you off."

  "The hell you will."

  "You ain't had a drink in how long?"

  "You're a bartender, not my momma. Bring me a god-damn drink."

  "Look, Jim..."

  "Look, Bruce. My fucking family is gone. Dead. Sure it's been a while, but if losing everything worth a shit to me isn't enough for me to fall off the wagon, I don't know what is. Now, are you gonna bring me another drink, or am I gonna have to go someplace else?"

  Bruce grabbed a glass, shoved it under the tap. He pulled the lever, filled it full. "There you go." He slammed the glass down in front of James. "Getting fucked up won't bring back your wife and kid."

  "No it won't. But maybe I'll forget about that for a few minutes. To getting wasted," he slurred, holding up his glass. He brought it to his lips and chugged. The beer disappeared. Like magic his kidneys went full. "There better be another waiting when I get back."

  The pisser, filthy as ever, served its purpose. James stumbled out the hombres door and surveyed the room, which longed to spin, closely for the first time tonight. The Feisty Terrier, a small-town dive bar, appeared to cater to the same clientele it had all those years ago. Alcoholics, losers, men who'd rather be anywhere but home. The lowest of the low. It's a miracle, James realized, that he had found the courage to stop drinking and get his act together way back when.

  “That was then, this is now.” He weaved his way back to his bar stool, where another beer awaited him.

  “You're a good man, Bruce.”

  “You won't be thinking that come morning.”

  “We'll see.”

  The bastard might be right. But who gave a shit? Not him. James immediately resumed drinking. And he started talking. Mostly to himself. Perhaps to Bruce, most definitely to anyone within earshot. He babbled through a couple more beers (if not more).

  That's when the room began to slowly spin. His perch atop the bar stool seemed precarious at best. But worst of all, the loss of his wife of seventeen years, his beautiful blonde Brenda as he always so lovingly referred to her, and his fifteen-year-old daughter Sharon slammed home hard.

  James blurted, “I hate fucking niggers.”

  “Then don't fuck 'em.”

  Not funny.

  The voice didn't register. Bruce hadn't spoke. Some other smart-ass did. A guy in a fancy Western shirt, bolo tie, cowboy hat. He had a black horseshoe mustache. And was wearing a smirk. He sat holding a Budweiser longneck at the end of the bar.

  “Hey, buddy, what's your problem?”

  “You're the fella with a problem. A problem with niggers, I take it.”

  “Don't get me wrong. I don't have anything against black folk in general. But there are a select few niggers who aren't worth a shit. People the world would be better off without. Know what I'm saying?”

  “You sound as if you aren't talking in general at all. In fact, I think you are being very god-damned specific as to which nigger you are referring to. Am I right?”

  “Hell yeah you're right. I'm talking about the god-damn nigger who ran down my family. That's what the fuck I'm talking about, buddy. Do you got a problem with that?”

  “Not at all, my friend. In fact, I'd like to buy you a beer. Nah, scratch that. How about a shot?”

  “If you're buyin', I'm drinkin'. Bruce! Shot of Jack.”

  Bruce said, “You are going to be one hurtin' unit tomorrow,” as he pulled out a shot glass.

  “Tomorrow is the last thing I'm concerned about.”

  The cowboy came over to take a seat next to James. He offered his hand. “Name's Stan. Stan Acton.”

  “Nice to meet you, Stan. I'm James McGuire. Friends call me Jim.”

  “The pleasure is all mine, Jim. I'm sorry about your loss.”

  James tossed back the shot, instinctively wrapped his fingers around a beer. “Yeah, well, sorry won't bring back Sharon or Brenda.” He began to sob.

  “No, I recon it won't.”

  “God-damn nigger all fucked up on God knows what. Probably been drinkin' some cheap-ass Maddog 20/20 shit or something, weaving all over the road. They found skid marks from where he was weaving so much. But no, not any from brakes. At least not until twenty feet past the wreck. Fucking nigger never saw 'em. Stopped after he hit 'em.”

  “Shit, buddy, what a cocksucker.”

  “That's no shit.” James sipped his beer. His hand began to shake violently. Beer spilled across the bar top. Dutifully Bruce wiped it up.

  After regaining his composure James said, “I loved them both so much, I don't know how I'm going to make it.”

  “I know how you can make it,” Stan said.

  “How's that?”

  “By fucking a nigger.”

  “I don't follow.”

  “Oh yeah, you'll follow. Follow that good-for-nothing drunk driver home, give him a taste of his own medicine.”

  A chuckle exploded out of James's mouth. “Now wouldn't that be something.”

  The cowboy gazed deep into his eyes. Deadly serious, he said, “Yes. That would definitely be something.”

  “You aren't joking, are you?”

  “No, Jim. I am not.”

  “Why do you care? You don't know me from Adam.”

  “Ah, but I do care. I for one believe there are much better places for drunken souls, such as your nigger, than walking the face of this earth.”

  “I won't argue with that.”

  “But are you willing to do something about it?”

  “Trust me. I'd like nothing better than get my hands on the son of a bitch who killed my family, but it's out of my hands.”

  “Is it?”

  “The fucker is in jail, where he should be.”

  “He should be six feet under.”

  “True.”

  “However, that nigger made bail.”

  “What the fuck are you talking about?” James yelled.

  “Exactly what I said. Keenon Charles Mason, also known as K.C. Mace by his drinking buddies, is out on bail.”

  “No fucking way.”

  “He will plead involuntary manslaughter. First offense. You'll be lucky if he serves more than a couple years.”

  “He destroyed my life! He killed two people! You've got to be shitting me!”

  “I wouldn't lie to you, partner.”

  “How do you know all this stuff anyway? How do you know his name, that he made bail? Why should I believe you?”

  “Let's just say I have an interest in such matters.”

  “God damn.” James pulled from his beer. He didn't know what to think. In fact, thinking, with the room spinning mildly, proved hard to do. He longed to pass out, forget his troubles for a while. What would his life be like now that he was alone? It didn't seem right.

  Stan said, “Don't let it eat at you. You've got to release that negative energy or it will drive you mad.”

  James merely grunted then finished off his beer. Stan slapped the bar. “Another round, Bruce.”

  James said, “Gotta hit the pisser. Be right back.”

  “I'll be here.”

  James nearly fell off the stool standing up. He used his arms for balance as he made his way back to the hombres room.

  “Watch it.”

  “Sorry.”

  “Asshole.”

  He pushed through t
he door into the room. A man stood before the lone urinal. The door to the toilet stall stood open. It took two tries to make it through the opening. The stench of piss and shit filled the small space. The commode hadn't been flushed recently. James didn't dare flush it himself, afraid it would overflow. So he freed himself and let go a healthy stream. It took real concentration to keep his balance and aim at the same time. As the stream churned up excrement and dissolving paper, the image of fragmented skulls, his daughter's lacerated face hanging limply out the smashed window of their Ford Taurus, etched in his mind. They had been driving along, minding their own business, when the full-size pickup had ran the stop sign, headlights off, and T-boned their car. A hellishly perfect collision. Sharon had never seen it coming. Brenda, however, had died suffering from massive blood loss before reaching the hospital. James could imagine the carnage, despite having never seen it. He had, however, witnessed the bloody remains for the Ford at Wilson Brothers Salvage the next day.

  The thought of his family, and the sight of mess floating in the porcelain bowl, proved too much for a stomachful of alcohol. He finished pissing just in time to lean forward, grabbing the handicap rails, and spray the stall. After emptying his stomach of its contents he stumbled weeping to the sink. Rinsed his mouth, splashed his face, washed his hands. The reflection in the mirror looked like hell. He didn't care. James left the bathroom without another thought. Stan awaited him with more beer. James dutifully drank to get the bad taste out of his mouth.

  “See that bitch over yonder?” Stan said, nodding in a woman's direction.

  “Yeah, so?”

  “So, isn't she a fine piece of ass? She's been checking you out all night.”

  “God damn, buddy, I just buried my wife and child today. Show some respect.”

  “Don't be putting words in my mouth. I didn't suggest you go ride her. I'm simply giving you a heads up.”

  “Well, I don't appreciate that.”

  “If you're not interested, maybe I'll go tell her howdy, see if she bites.”

  “Knock yourself out.”

  “She looks the type that could suck a man dry and be hungry for more.”

  “Shit, man, I said I'm not interested.”

  “Not talking about you, partner. I'm talking about me. What say we bet a round. If I can get her to please me in the restroom within, say, the next ten minutes, you buy the next round.”

  “You're on.”

  Not that James cared one way or the other. Hell, the old cowboy had bought a few rounds already. So what if he paid for the next.

  He watched Stan swagger over to the woman. A brunette in her early thirties. She wore cut-off shorts, gingham top tied off under two ripe melons. Her sweet thighs, flat belly, and thin arms were nicely tanned. A beautiful smile spread across her face as she talked to Stan. Briefly she looked James's direction. Then she followed Stan to the hombres room, where they disappeared long enough for James to finish his beer. During that time he thought about what Stan had told him. The man responsible for his loss walked free for the time being. If that were true, and in his clouded mind he saw no reason for it not to be, only a small window of time remained before Keenon Charles Mason would be locked away safely for a too-brief period of time.

  James pounded his fist down on the bar top. “Fucking nigger. It's not fair. What did I ever do to you? God damn you, you bastard. You deserve to die.”

  “Whoa there, Jim. I think you've had enough,” Bruce said.

  “I'll never have enough. Not now. Not ever. You don't understand! How could you possibly understand.”

  “Settle down there, Jim. Maybe I'll never understand, but I sympathize with you.”

  “I don't need your sympathy. Shit, man. Fuck!” His fist pounded down again and again. Bruce quickly removed the empties from the immediately vicinity.

  “That's okay,” Stan said, having returned. “We've got him.”

  “Get him outta here. Take him home.” Bruce looked disgusted, which further infuriated James.

  “Hang on, god damn it. I owe my friend here a beer,” James slurred. “I've got to pay up.”

  “It's on me, tonight.” Cowboy whipped out his wallet. The woman stood beside him, watching everyone but not saying a word.

  “Nah, you can't do that. You won the bet. I owe you a beer.”

  James stood up, nearly falling. Cowboy grabbed one of his arms, the woman his other. Fumbling with his wallet, James somehow managed to get it out of his back pocket. He withdrew a few bills, unaware of their denominations, and slapped them on the bar.

  Stan said, “Fine. Here's the difference. Plus one round each for the road.”

  Grimacing, Bruce served them three longneck bottles of Budweiser. “Now get out.”

  The pair helped James stumble out of the bar. Stan surprised him with his strength. For a tall, thin fellow he seemed strong the way he gripped James's arm in an iron grip. The woman also seemed remarkably solid. No frilly Lisa. She struck him as a country girl, born and bred. A sweet vanilla smell followed her. Outside he breathed in cool night air.

  The woman handed him a beer bottle. “I'm Gretchen,” she said.

  “Pleased to meet ya, Gretchen. I'm Jim.”

  “Yeah, Stan told me all about you.”

  “Well, I best be gettin'. I've got a long walk home.”

  “What?” Stan remarked. “You are walking?”

  “I'm in no shape to drive. Hell, I can barely stand.”

  “All the more reason to sit your ass down.”

  “I dunno 'bout that,” James slurred. “You've been drinking, too.”

  “I'm not talking about me giving you a ride.”

  Gretchen appeared the least intoxicated of the group.

  “All right, you care to give me a ride? I don't live far,” James asked Gretchen.

  “I was hoping you'd give me a ride.” Her tone rang seductively.

  “God damn you two, my family was just killed by a drunk driver. What's your damage?”

  “No damage, partner.”

  “Well fuck the both of ya. I'm gone.” James slugged his beer, took a wobbly step forward.

  “Now hold up.” Stan's iron grip stopped him cold.

  “God damn you!” James swung the beer bottle intending to bust it over Stan's head. But, intoxicated, he proved no threat. The bottle, slipping away, shattered in a sudsy pool on the sidewalk in front of the bar. Cowboy twisted James's arm around behind his back.

  “Now don't go doing anything stupid. I just wanna show you something.”

  “Well, shit, show me already. Let loose, okay?”

  “Are we going to have a problem?”

  “Hell no. No problem.”

  Cowboy released his arm. James glared at him. The parking lot tilted and Cowboy's twin stood beside him. Gretchen and her twin stood waiting too.

  God damn, he'd drank enough to blur his vision. He followed everyone out into the parking lot.

  “This, my good friend, is what I wanted to show you.”

  For a second James wondered how he had missed it. He blinked things back into focus. Before him, backed in to a parking space at the far end of the lot, awaited a jet black Dodge Charger.

  “Holy shit. Is that a '69?”

  “You know it, Jim.”

  “Sexy, ain't it,” Gretchen said in a Southern drawl.

  “Oh my Lord, this is one sweet ride.”

  “Cherry.”

  No blemishes or signs of painted-over rust could be seen. It looked like it just rolled off the assembly line, with the exception of the flat black push bar protecting the grill, custom wheels, and red fuzzy dice dangling from the rear-view mirror.

  “Is this yours?”

  “Bet you'd like a ride in it.”

  “Hell yeah. Wish I wasn't too wasted to enjoy it.”

  “Trust me. You aren't too wasted to enjoy this vehicle.”

  Gretchen giggled.

  “440 Hemi, with a six-pack, automatic tranny. This car has got enough torque to
make your balls draw up into your throat.”

  “Cars like this turn me on,” Gretchen stated. She lovingly caressed its highly-polished sheet metal.

  “That makes two of us,” said James.

  “I mean, it really turns me on.”

  One second the woman was admiring the car; the next second she hopped up to sit on the hood. She sprawled out, stretching seductively like a model in an auto-parts calendar.

  “I do believe that vehicle is making her wet.” Stan elbowed James, making him stumble.

  “You know, I had a car like this years ago. It had a 383. Wrapped it around a telephone pole, I did. Nearly died, nearly lost my wife – my girlfriend at the time – in the process. That's when I decided to stop drinking. Haven't had a drop since, until tonight.”

  “Because of that god-damned nigger.”

  James nodded.

  “Out on bail.”

  James fumed.

  “After killing your family.”

  James imagined Detroit steel colliding into the family Taurus.

  “Bastards like that deserve what they get.”

  “Damn straight.”

  “They deserve worse. He's getting off too easy.”

  Stan's arm wrapped around James's shoulders, then Stan whispered into his ear. “A car like that will get a fella all the pussy he wants.”

  “I want my wife back.”

  “Those are the breaks. You should bring that up with your friend K.C. Mace.”

  “Fuck you.”

  “Suit yourself.”

  Gretchen, lying on her side, said, “So, we gonna go for a ride or what?”

  “Go on,” Cowboy said, “check out the interior.”

  James shook his head. “I dunno about that. I swore I'd never get behind the wheel drunk again.”

  “Come on, partner. You're just checking out the interior, that's all. It's not like you've got the keys or anything.”

  “Well...”

  “You know you want to.”

  Gretchen said, “C'mon, let's do it.” Her words rang like a double entendre.

  “Get the door for him.”

  “Sure thing.” Gretchen hopped off the hood, swung open the driver's side door. With a sweep of her arm she offered him the seat.

  Reluctantly, he slid in. A new-car smell hung in the air. James breathed deeply.

  Cowboy peered down. “Nice, isn't it?”