Mondo Crimson

by Andrew Post

  “I wouldn’t do that.”

  “Fine, the story will be you didn’t partake before now. This will be your maiden voyage. Drink up.”

  Mel did not.

  “Go ahead, I’m sure he’ll taste great. Not only was he in a lot of pain due to having his face burned off, but they must’ve had him on a whole pharmacopoeia of feel-good stuff at the hospital. A mix of organic and synthetic. From now on, we’ll call this cocktail a Buckley.”

  She had a sudden burning question completely non-salient to what was going on. “Who are they?” she asked the bowl of red.

  Felix’s voice said, “Who is who, dear?”

  “The people dressed up like mosquitoes and leeches and bats.”

  “That’s a new one. I’m sorry, Melanie, but I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  Her anger woke, warming the thick shell of dullness she felt had been poured hot over her brain and, allowed to cool, had hardened impenetrably. Cracks formed, leaping bolts of black lightening that from their fractals let memories trickle in long strings that still felt like they belonged to someone else, but she could start to see them more clearly as they flowed together into tributaries, and soon ideas about who she was and where she’d been and what had brought her here weren’t so dulled and blurred but gave, instead, glimmers of sense despite this place being the kind where making sense was something abhorred.

  “You killed him,” she said.

  The bowl of red said with Felix’s voice, “It was Buckley’s turn. I may have pulled the trigger for him, but he knew what he was signing up for.”

  “Not him.”

  “Then who, Melanie? Who did I kill?”

  “Craig.”

  “Sorry, I got nothing. Can I buy a vowel?”

  “My uncle. Craig Williams. You killed him. You killed him.”

  “Melanie. Sugar. That was so long ago. I’m surprised you even remember that,” the bowl of red told her.

  “How long have I been here?”

  “Let’s not worry ourselves about things like time right now. Tell me, if you refused to eat your green beans or broccoli, would your parents make you sit there at the dining room table until you finished them? Even if those green beans or broccoli went cold, even if it got dark out, even if your favorite show was going to be on soon, did they make you sit there and stare at those nasty things until you ate every last bite?”

  “Yes,” she said, watching the bead pink bob and turn.

  With a pass of his hand, Felix set the cylinder spinning. It buzzed like an insect. He snapped it shut. The buzzing stopped. He thumbed back the hammer and directed the barrel at her – lazily, from the hip, as if the revolver was too heavy for him, in his present state, to hoist any higher.

  “Same deal applies,” he said. “I’ll go track down a spoon if you feel you need one. Or you can just lap it up like a dog like you did last time. No judgment. We’re not fancy around here.”

  Interstice Two

  Felix was finally catching up on his voicemails, of which he had nearly a hundred with a vast majority being threats or people demanding to know why he was doing this to them or saying how they’d get even with him or Merritt Plains giving the next batch of chapters in the audio log of his mental unraveling. He listened to maybe a third of the messages before getting bored and hitting save on the rest.

  He thought about his kids. His work kids, as he liked to think of them. He didn’t have any of his own. None that he knew about anyway, nudge-nudge, wink-wink. But his work kids, his original set, his Adam and Eve, Merritt and Brenda.

  Felix was still a junior associate at Rogers & Rogers & Rogers when he’d met Merritt. The story, at the time, was that Merritt, this chubby eight-year-old, had just lost his father to suicide on a camping trip together, though he might’ve killed two other people in addition to his own father, one of whom was his brother. The DA was still convinced Merritt, more than he let on, shared the personality traits of a character from a Nick Cave song, so there was going to be an investigation into the boy’s story, a deep dive, no stone left unturned.

  In Felix’s view of things, it seemed like the DA didn’t have enough to keep him busy so he was pestering Merritt, because if he were to get the kid to tell the truth it might make keeping his job marginally easier. Something like that, an eight-year-old boy killing his own father, in a day and age long before doing such was so popular, would make headlines. So, always one to cheer for the underdog, Felix said he’d like to represent little Merritt and there’d only be a fee if they won the countersuit against the state of Wisconsin. Sheila, Merritt’s mother, was thrilled at the idea of making some money out of her whacky little boy’s possible misdeeds – or lack thereof, as the boy’s story went.

  Naturally, to get their story straight, Felix had to spend some time with Merritt.

  It took less than ten minutes before Merritt told Felix exactly what happened with all three: the boy he and his brother killed with a rock down at the creek, then his own brother to prevent him from tattling, and then his own father less than six months after that. The kid was like a lizard. He’d only move or say or do something when it proved necessary. The little shit made eye contact like he was trying to read your mind. Didn’t caterwaul and beg for forgiveness, didn’t plead for Felix not to tell anybody. All Felix had to do was explain the concept of attorney-client privilege and out came all his horror stories, boom, boom, boom. This is what happened, this is how I did it, this is how I convinced people I didn’t.

  None of that came out at trial. Merritt was a champ on the stand. Didn’t give that whole team of fucks with their fancy tricks the time of day and by the end, Merritt Plains vs. the State of Wisconsin was dropped and the countersuit netted a cool two hundred thousand, twenty per cent of which Felix took back with him to Rogers & Rogers & Rogers. Sheila had Felix over to the house for dinner a few weeks later to thank him, saying that because of the suit she now owned the home they were standing in. It was humble, it was small, and the roof leaked, but it was all hers, hers and her son’s. She served Felix fried bologna on Wonder Bread and mashed potatoes from a box and after Merritt was in bed, Sheila and Felix killed a box of wine and she proceeded to give her son’s attorney a blow job that was so phenomenal the memory of it would serve to keep him company in later years when he’d occupy a six-by-eight in Joliet.

  Into the mental Rolodex Merritt Plains went. It was like even back then Felix knew what line of work he’d finally settle in and was already preparing far in advance, making his picks, putting dibs on folks he might want to work with in the future.

  Dr. Thomas Tomlinson was this hot-shit shrink in the world of child psychiatry out in Boston but would take five thousand bucks under the table for the file of any child he’d determined to have signs of certain personality defects that would be, a few years down the road, useful to Felix. See, Felix wanted to get in on the ground early, think ahead, hook them when they’re young as they say in Big Tobacco marketing meetings, secure your replacements early, plant seeds. Brenda Susannah Forrester, this being decades before she met Mr. Steve Stockton, exhibited signs of alexithymia and possible psychopathy. Her brain was still developing so it might be a minute before her true self, in all its crossed wires, could possibly show, but Felix still sent the good doctor his money and put Brenda Forrester’s info in the back of his mental refrigerator, so to speak. Do not open until Christmas.

  Then a chance meeting that certainly was not by chance – though only one of them knew it at the time – and less a meeting and more like Felix hitting his mark, an imaginary X of masking tape on the floor of that bar in Boston, where, having done his homework, he knew Brenda liked to go with her friends after class. She was in college and beautiful and smart as a whip and if you had read her file before watching from afar as she interacted with people, you could see she was doing the exact same thing Felix was doing – acting, playing alon
g, trying every second to keep people believing that her hamster was just running on its wheel like anybody’s, not at all huddled in the corner foaming at the mouth overcome with the question of what people meat might taste like.

  She thought he was trying to hit on her when he asked if he could buy her a beer. He had more hair back then, but not enough that a young woman with a beauty of her caliber would be willing to overlook it because he was funny but not crude, chewed with his mouth closed, didn’t stare at her tits, and he could quote Gloria Steinem, but Brenda knew what she had and knew he was not up to snuff for it and wasn’t afraid to clue him into this fact. So, he decided to get down to brass tacks. He leaned in close, told her that the man the police found with his throat cut in that alley downtown last week was, in his armchair detective’s opinion, done by a woman. Due to the angle of the cut, it suggested the person must’ve been shorter than the victim – and the guy was no giant – which meant it could’ve been a woman.

  She said she was going to school for marketing not for forensics and – get this – she said she had no interest in ‘talking about sick stuff like homicidal maniacs’.

  Yeah. Brenda said that.

  Changing tack, Felix asked her if she knew anybody who would be capable of doing such a thing. Not because he wanted to send them to jail – “if the cops would have someone like me as a cadet, I’d quit” – but, rather, he wanted to shake that woman’s hand, make friends with them. “The why doesn’t get my motor running, you see. The how – as in how did it feel – that’s what I’m interested in.”

  She claimed to have no idea what he was talking about, though he could see it in her eyes, she knew exactly what he was talking about – and that he’d better leave her alone. No threat of getting the cops involved, no mention of any big, strong boyfriend that’d do the dirty work at her beck and call. She’d left the threat ambiguous. You’d better leave me alone, followed by a cold, empty stare. The same stare she refilled with false life before going back over to her friends to laugh and talk and hold up the façade that she was living the completely normal life of a completely normal college student.

  So he arranged another less-than-chance meeting at a house party. It’s amazing what doors it’ll open if you just say you’ll shell out for everyone’s booze. And after keeping out of her eyeline until she’d gotten a few shots in her, Felix approached her again.

  For round two, she was more accommodating, even willing to come out and sit on the swings they had behind the house and talk the big, dreamy talk of young people with their whole lives ahead of them when it’s late at night and those kinds of conversation come more natural – helped by a moderate blood-alcohol level, of course.

  He dusted off his A material for her.

  How most people are just going around unaware of their own pointlessness.

  How in a hundred years it won’t matter who lived or died or how they died or who made it happen because by then we’ll all similarly dead anyway.

  Imagine if you had seven billion dollars – billion with a B – and then imagine someone said they took one of those dollars, just one, and burned it. How would you feel? You still have a lot of dollars left. And it’s not like that one that you no longer have ever had any real significance to you, because how could it when you have so many?

  Or think of it like this: how there has never been any hard proof of an afterlife, let alone any reason to be afraid of a concept as ridiculous as eternal damnation?

  You know, all of this being the stock shit one would spin when trying to convince a college girl you’re pretty sure is fucked in the head to take the leap and murder somebody, try it on for size, see if it floats her boat any.

  It seemed to work because that’s when they agreed to do it, that very same night, for her to get in his car so they could go into the city and find a homeless person to murder. This being long before the implosion, the homeless were a bit harder to find back then, but Felix and Brenda eventually came across one asleep in a doorway.

  She didn’t get out of the car right away but sat there looking out at him, her soon-to-be second.

  A little murder between friends, our secret, our inside joke, something to do just for shits and giggles. Then we’ll go find a gas station so you can wash your hands and I’ll take you back to the party to meet back up with your friends for more liver damaging. He supplied her the knife and watched from the car as she did her thing, watched her natural-born aptitude come out. When she was done, skin glistening in the streetlight, catching her breath, that complete lack of anything in those baby blues, Felix knew he’d found his girl. The Eve for his Adam.

  Problem was Merritt and Brenda got along about as well as frogs and firecrackers. By the time Felix decided his kids should have their blind date, Merritt had formed some pretty strong stances about women, let’s say, and seemed to only want to talk about his preferred method of killing cats and music no one liked anymore. And Brenda, well, she was not delicate about the fact she was more into guys that look like Hasselhoff and she only liked talking about how marketing firms could trick you into buying just about anything with a few clever phrases even if those things were potentially hazardous to your health. Her goal for a cover life nine-to-five was to one day become head of Mega Deluxo’s corporate marketing team. When Felix asked Merritt if he’d like to go next and share with Brenda here what his life goal was, the big galoot shrugged his slumped shoulders and muttered this and that about maybe working at a gas station or a library or something. Brenda pointed out that you need a degree to be a librarian and Merritt said, quote, “Screw that then.”

  So, maybe not the one true pairing complete with a happily ever after of murderous wedded bliss Felix was hoping for, but at least he had his first set secured, as unwed professionals but professionals all the same. They couldn’t have been more different on the outside but where their interests did align, it was with only one thing, and their passion for that shared interest matched exactly. They both were very interested in taking Felix up on his offer of having them do what it was that they didn’t want anyone in their day-to-day lives to know about and also get paid to do it. Luckily for them there was no shortage of people who wanted other people dead, so they hit the ground running, busy from day one. And off to the races they went.

  And now it was coming to an end.

  An abrupt one at that. A big decision, certainly, and one Felix had thought long and hard about and slept on not just one night but many, but it had to be this way. It was time. His kids were old, he was old. Before it became embarrassing, it was time to pull out the stopper, let this whole thing circle the drain a few times, and be gone forever.

  The dance music was still going at top volume in the library, like it had been for the past however many days it’d been, but buried somewhere in all that clicking and buzzing and thumping he heard a familiar two-note chime. It wasn’t part of the music, he realized, but someone ringing his doorbell – the service entrance, he determined, because that was two chimes not three like it was for the front. Not that there was any getting in through there anymore. And the guest must be someone he was expecting if they knew which doorbell to ring.

  He’d heard that long-term mondo use could make one a little dim upstairs but here he was, living proof to the contrary, he’d remembered which doorbell made what sound all on his own.

  He blinded himself turning on the lights in the garage. Putting on his wraparound sunglasses, he navigated on bare feet through the Ferraris and Range Rovers and Hummers. Among them, parked by itself behind red velvet ropes, was James Dean’s restored Porsche 550 Spyder, better known as Little Bastard. It was said to be cursed, though Felix didn’t go in for that woo-woo shit. He unlocked the service entrance door and stepped outside.

  He’d had forgotten what fresh air smelled like and was repulsed by it. At least it was dark out, sunshine being far more intolerable than fresh air. Among his guests’ cars arra
yed about the front yard, the Rolls-Royces, the Bugattis, Aston Martins, a Pagani or two, there was one vehicle Felix didn’t recognize: a beat-up Ford Explorer that was still running, pale dust on its sides. And before him stood a scrawny idiot whose name Felix didn’t know if he was supposed to remember, dressed all in black, looking like he hadn’t slept in days and hadn’t eaten in much longer. On the driveway before him were two ice chests. The big ones, the kind people take for long camping trips that you can fit several days’ worth of beer and hot dogs in.

  “Can I help you?”

  The scrawny young man said, “Felix, it’s me. Josh.”

  It wasn’t setting off any alarms. “Okay. And?”

  “I’m here, like you said to do when I got done. I decided to just do the whole drive in one go. Raleigh and Chicago are really far away from each other. I never thought about that before having to drive it. Are you having a party?”

  “What’ve you got here?” Felix said, knocking one of the coolers with his toe.

  “Behind door number one,” the scrawny young man said, flipping open the first cooler’s lid to reveal several medical bags full of red skillfully organized, “we have one-point-five gallons of Johnny Jade and one-point-five gallons of Dentist Ricky.” He lifted the second cooler’s lid, revealing more bags of blood. “And behind door number two, we have one-point-two gallons of Kerry Kerosene.”

  Felix looked at the steam rising out of the ice chests and all those refreshments for his party guests. It’d hold them over for the next couple days.

  “I take it this means you work for me.”

  “Yes, sir. Five years this coming February. You said I’m a top-notch performer and because of that, you decided to let me stay on with this new venture of yours while everybody else gets, well, you know, put out to pasture.”

  “Did I now?”