Stonedogs

by Craig Marriner

  … scene today of triple homicide.

  For an instant the sense of loss is devastating, and I consider moving toward Dusty …

  … until I realise I’m on my knees, head in hands, wanting to vomit or faint, to giggle or scream.

  Knowing there’s no refuge in any of it.

  Sunday, 12 March, 8.33pm

  Back against a tree trunk, GATOR stares into space, out across the river, gore from the head shot spread across his face in obscene streaks: the product of oblivious hands. In his lap he holds the pistol still, finger hooked around the trigger, but he is yet to reload; has barely shifted in half an hour. The corpses of his victims lie as his bullets left them, with DUSTY huddled alongside.

  The youth weeps steadily, trembling in the dark, but after a ‘request’ from BARRY, DUSTY dares not speak. From his relaxed position on the grass near the undergrowth, BARRY keeps a shotgun loosely trained on his captive. A Jack Daniel’s bottle is clasped in BARRY’s hand; he takes long pulls at it, eyes reddening steadily.

  Nearby, MICK’s squatting posture is far tenser, a pile of cigarette butts growing around him.

  MICK [frazzled]: I wish he’d say something!

  BARRY: He’ll be back on the job soon enough. Just let him mellow right the fuck out.

  MICK: I’m not sure if ‘mellowing’ is what he’s doing.

  BARRY: Well, that’s a strong possibility considering he just hugged the corpse of his oldest friend goodbye, and then made himself up in the brains of one of the fuckers who killed him.’

  MICK [exhaling smoke in a hiss]: Will you stop saying shit like that! As much as we’ve got the props for it, this isn’t a fucking Tarantino movie! [He breaks off long enough to haul more smoke into his lungs. Fidgeting, demanding] What the fuck are we gonna do? Eh? We are in sooo much shit and I’ve got no idea what to do next! None at all! We’ve got two … three fucking corpses on our hands, a prospect who knows too much, a pothead old hippie cunt who’ll nark on us to save his own arse, and a homie piece of shit who eye-witnessed the whole transaction!

  BARRY [unruffled]: ‘Let’s just wait for Gator to snap out of it a bit. Then we’ll assess our options.

  MICK [shrill]: Options? What fucking options? Our options were cut to zero as soon as Gator killed that fat fucker!

  BARRY [sharp]: And what would you’ve suggested he do?

  MICK: From this angle one or two other possibilities do spring to mind!

  BARRY: Yeah, well, that dose of retribution’s obviously wiped your memory then, mate. Our options became one as soon as we saw that fucking Commodore. For now just be glad we pulled it off, that it’s them not us. Because that’s all it boiled down to: them or us … and we kicked their black arses. And as to your eye-witness, pretty soon he’s gonna be telling tales to no prick other than the Fallen fucking Angel Himself.

  MICK [caustic]: What are you talking about?

  BARRY [downs a slug of bourbon before answering]: What do you fucking think I’m talking about?

  [MICK loses several appalled seconds.]

  MICK [high with incredulity]: We’re already in more shit than a hundred cunts encounter in their whole lives … and you’re actually gonna sit there and suggest we add to the body count?

  BARRY [matter-of-fact, the drink hoarse in his voice]: You can phrase or look at it any which way you like, but I’m telling you, one way or another, I’m gonna kill this little wanker before the evening’s out.

  [Looking up, DUSTY whimpers the beginnings of a plea.]

  BARRY [snarling]: Get your fucking head down, you poisonous little prick!

  [He’s rapidly obeyed.]

  BARRY [level once more]: In fact, if Gator doesn’t feel like talking soon I’m either gonna take Dusty into the woods and give him a practical on karma, or I’m gonna lock him in the boot of The ’Dan, climb that ridge, and haul down a load of blow. The night is a’wasting.

  MICK [marvelling]: Jesus Christ, how can you even think of the dope any more? I’d forgotten it completely!

  BARRY: How can I not think of it? It’s the whole reason we’re in this mess. We can’t just leave it here.

  MICK [to a dyslexic]: Yes it is the whole reason we’re in this mess, that’s why it no longer fucking matters! Don’t you see? Our Quenchless Cores proved just as hungry and fatal as any capitalist’s! We’ve got about one chance in ten thousand of getting out of this; we certainly can’t give priority to getting out of it at a fucking profit!

  BARRY [unconvinced]: Let’s just wait and see what Gator reckons.

  MICK: … If he ever reckons anything again. When I shone the torch on him before, tried to clean a bit of that shit off his face, I got a good look at his eyes, man, and I’m not convinced Gator’s still with us. He looked like an old soul that’s been here before; been here too often.’

  GATOR [A dead croak]: If either of ya’s have a fag handy, I could really murder one right now.

  [Though he’s on his feet, GATOR’s limbs seem too heavy. He slumps to ground between his friends, accepting a lit smoke. He drags on it greedily, three or four times. Its illuminance on his tainted face is demonic and MICK looks away every time GATOR puffs.]

  BARRY [at length]: Any ideas on what our next play should be, boss?

  GATOR [no concern in his voice, no sentiment, nothing at all]: I’ve been thinking on it for a while now.

  MICK [eventually]: And?

  GATOR: I’ve got one or two thoughts on the matter.

  [As if they’re already home and dry, BARRY breathes a luxurious sigh, a grin threatening to sever his face.]

  BARRY: You fucking champion! First things first, though: I’m gonna take care of Dusty. [But he waits for GATOR’s nod. As MICK waits for his ‘no’.]

  GATOR: Don’t be too long.

  MICK: [aghast]: You can’t!

  GATOR: Why not?

  MICK: You just can’t, man! We’ve seen enough brutality today to last us all lifetimes! Maybe what you did just now was merited, but any more and it’s murder, plain and simple. Real men don’t do things like this!

  GATOR: Then you’d better book me a Cosmo subscription.

  BARRY [climbing to his feet, swigging at the bottle before capping and dropping it]: And I’ll take The Sheila’s Weekly. Block your ears too, lads: he’s gonna be singing.

  GATOR: No noise, man, for fuck’s sake.

  [Plastered in tears and snot, DUSTY screeches for mercy. He’s hysterical beyond words; wails like a toddler.]

  MICK [distraught]: Look at him, Gator! Take a good long look at him before you decide to play god again!

  GATOR [miles away]: If I look at him any longer I’m gonna do the little cunt myself.

  BARRY [brightly]: Like fuck. You’ve ridden the Big One twice tonight. This ticket’s got my name written all over it.

  GATOR [offhand]: Bludgeon him or something, will ya? I can’t have any of your blood or prints on him.

  BARRY: Sorted. [Looming over a cringing DUSTY, he croons] The last song’s about to start, precious, and you’ve been promising me a dance all evening.

  MICK [to GATOR, frantic]: If you won’t stop him for the sake of his humanity — and yours — do it for practical reasons: a few years less on our sentences!

  [Moving as though his neck’s rusted, GATOR at last faces him, eyes vibrant as oil stains.]

  GATOR: Can you think of any way out of this?

  MICK: No, but …

  GATOR [Pancake flat]: Shut up, then. I’ve got something that might work — with a bit of luck — and it makes no provision for Dusty’s survival.

  [With one hand BARRY hoists DUSTY by the belt, torch gripped in the other.]

  BARRY: Say goodbye to the nice men, sweetheart. [Whistling, he lumbers into the forest like a Bram Stoker patent, deeper, and soon DUSTY’s wracking sobs have faded completely.]

  MICK [desperate]: At least have him do it quickly, then, for Christ’s sake!

  [MICK starts as GATOR works the bolt of the pistol suddenly; sends the empty shell-c
ase spinning into the night; chambers a live round.]

  GATOR [offering MICK the weapon]: Be my guest.

  [MICK turns away almost immediately, and at last GATOR shows some emotion: a shade of weary pity.]

  GATOR: Forget him, man. He’s fifteen-odd years and an evil piece of slime already. Look upon this as altruism.

  MICK [sickened]: That’s not the point and you know it.

  GATOR [uninterested]: Do enlighten.

  MICK [Pleading]: Can’t you see? You’re acting on behalf of a force you’re supposed to despise!

  GATOR [a dull scoff]: Get over it, bro. You’re about as capable of doing hard time as I am; it’s a case of him or us. You wanna probe souls when this is over, I’m there with the fucking endoscope, and so long as it’s not in Club Fed I’m pretty sure I’ll be able to live with what I have to live with. [Eyeing the forest around them] Right now we need dead wood and you’re gonna help me gather it.

  MICK [thrown]: Dead wood? What the fuck for?

  GATOR: Steve’s going to Valhalla.

  [When BARRY returns some ten minutes later the pair have amassed a substantial pile. Eyes glazed, BARRY lays DUSTY with expired associates.]

  BARRY [through a crooked smile, drinking again]: Now that’s what I call a mind-fuck. You dudes should’ve been there. I just ripped off his shirt, wrapped it round his neck, then choked the living shit out of him. I held the torch in my mouth, so I could watch his face, and eased off the pressure when he neared the threshold. Did this about six times. Fuck, he was in a state by the time I flatlined him! Pissed himself, shat himself, bit clean through his own lip. Oh, yeah, mate, all the trimmings. I know a fair few cats down Vegas who’d’ve shelled out top dollar to see that but instead it was just me, an audience of one. I watched the lights go out, man. I watched the exact moment when his little soul moved on. Must see TV folks, I assure you of that.

  [In the darkness MICK can be heard choking on something.]

  BARRY [wistful]: Where do you think he’s gone, Gator? His essence, that is.

  GATOR [dead]: Fucked if I know. Or care. But I tell you what, if we get nicked for this, I’ll be finding out first hand.

  BARRY [almost eager]: Yeah, me too, dude. We’ll all do it together, eh? Convene the Brotherhood and climb the Stairway in full dress uniform.

  MICK [coughing]: You cunts have lost the fucking plot.

  BARRY: You just go on rationalising then, bro. Perhaps you had a right to be a sanctimonious cunt out there, but in case you haven’t noticed, we’re in the woods now. Deep in the fuckers. Your domain was left behind some time ago. Just keep on with your candy-arse reasoning and see how far it gets you.

  [But he stops abruptly, standing stock-still for several seconds, clearly losing himself. Then something shifts beneath his face, throws ripples without surfacing. A little too quickly, BARRY spins from his friends, suddenly interested in the darkness beyond the river.]

  BARRY [turning back at last, voice gruff]: W–, what’s with the wood, anyway?

  MICK [sarky]: Steve’s going to Valhalla.

  BARRY: In English?

  MICK: As if he hasn’t had a rough enough time of things lately, Gator wants to mutilate his best friend, and burn the guy!

  BARRY [taken aback]: You wanna burn him?

  GATOR: Cremate him.

  BARRY [frowning]: Won’t that leave a bigger mess than burying him?

  GATOR: Not if we do it down on one of those sand-bars in the river.

  BARRY: How will that help?

  GATOR: Because if we choose our site well, within a few hours it’ll be under water.

  [For a long moment BARRY remains blank. Then his eyes light up.]

  BARRY: Fuck, yeah! We can get rid of all of them like that!

  GATOR: I don’t think so. I’ve never given it a lotta thought, but, by my reckoning, with two of us working hard we can reduce Steve to ash in a couple of hours. But I don’t think we can rely on the rain holding off long enough to let us properly torch these other fuckheads as well.

  BARRY: What then? Do you wanna bury them?

  GATOR: I thought of that, but we ain’t got much in the way of tools, and it’ll still leave us with the car to dispose of.

  BARRY [nodding sage agreement]: The shallow grave method’s a mug’s game, anyway.

  MICK [ragged]: Will you two listen to yourselves! All you’re doing is digging the hole deeper and deeper!

  GATOR [quickening]: Give us an alternative, Mick. Please. I’m all ears.

  MICK [low, turning away]: You know what we have to do.

  GATOR [harsh]: Spell it out.

  MICK [a hopeless grimace]: It’s over, man. We’ve gone too far. People just don’t get away with murder … let alone multiple murder. If we go to the police right now, explain everything, we’ve got a chance of getting our lives back one day.

  GATOR [bitter as bile]: You fucking gutless wonder. First sign of strife and you wanna hoist the white flag, run and suck on the Juggernaut’s bell-end.

  MICK [incredulous]: Listen to yourself! This isn’t a couple of kids, smoking pot and fantasising anymore! This is actually happening! We are actually at the centre of a crime that’s gonna occupy headlines for weeks! And you’re still playing fucking brotherhoods? No one’s got any irony in their voice any more, Gator.

  GATOR [in time]: Yeah, well, maybe I just don’t give a fuck. Maybe I’ve decided the game’s worth playing without the irony. Maybe I wasn’t planning on pussying out when things got real.

  [Exasperation leaves MICK speechless for some while. Twice he seems set to reply, turns away in offended disbelief, and when at last he speaks it’s as one reasoning with a compulsive liar.]

  MICK: Well, if you won’t admit that our ‘pact’ was nothing but a stoned diversion, how about showing some sense for your friend’s sake? Does Steve deserve some anonymous cremation? Don’t his mum and family deserve to know what’s become of him? Does he deserve to be dismembered? I thought you fucking cared for him, man.

  [GATOR erupts without warning, snatching MICK by the shirtfront, wrenching him to ground.]

  GATOR [screaming into MICK’s face]: Do you think this is easy for me?! Do you think I wanna send my hero and guardian into oblivion without a single — fucking — obituary?

  [For seconds GATOR seems certain to strike at the friend slumped beneath him. But eventually his snarl fades to grimace and he lurches to his feet.]

  GATOR [croaking]: Don’t you dare use Steve’s image for your own ends. At least have the sack to do what you’ve gotta do candidly. I’m not gonna coerce you into anything: if you think it’s the right thing to do, go jump in The ’Dan and drive to the nearest pork-pen. Next to us, you’re guilty of fuck all; I’m sure you’ve considered that. Testify, and you’ll probably walk free.

  BARRY: Just remember what you said, though, Mick, and ‘reason’ a little further. As a story this thing is huge. Once the media get hold of it names are gonna fly … and the Rabble sure as fuck ain’t gonna take this lying down.

  MICK: [head bowed, vanquished]: We’re fucked. It’s over. For all of us.

  GATOR [implacable]: So sit there and cry about it. Some of us have work to do. Barry?

  BARRY: Yo?

  GATOR: I need you to mission back to Ronland.

  BARRY [gently]: And?

  GATOR [fighting for a business-like manner]: Talk to Ron. Tell him what we did. Had no choice. Tell him to fuck off home ASAP. Tell him we’re taking the stiffs back to Vegas for disposal, and that, so long as his end’s clean, there’s nothing at all linking him to things. Convince him we’re the only ones who stand to go down. It’s true, anyway. Unless we give him up for cultivating on a plea bargain, he’s home free — and what kind of deal can mass-murder felons cut with that to offer? Ron’s a sharp man: I’m pretty sure he’ll see things our way. Remind him that none of the Rabble except Hemi know him from a bar of soap. Say what you’ve got to, man — just make sure he won’t squeal. Threaten him if you have to, but only afterwards
.

  BARRY: And?

  GATOR: Take Steve’s map. Ask Ron to point out a spot in the forest, as far from here as poss’, where we can get a car off the road and where no one’s likely to come across it for ages. If no such place exists, find the next best thing, even if it means hitting the highway for a while.

  BARRY: And?

  GATOR: And bring Wallace back with you.

  BARRY: Dead or alive?

  GATOR: Alive.

  [BARRY flinches, frowning incomprehension.]

  BARRY: Alive?

  GATOR: Yeah. Work him over in front of Ron, but leave him in a state to ‘accompany’ you back. Use a club or something; don’t touch him with your own skin, whatever happens. Give him a torch and make him lead the way with the shooter up his arse. Put a load of pot on his back; the two of you should be able to bring the rest piece of piss — that’ll leave all of it at least at the cleft. And hurry.

  BARRY: Done like a kipper, Skipper.

  GATOR: You’ll have to change your clothes before you leave: we’ve gotta burn everything with their blood on it. We’ll wash our boots in the river and ditch them down the highway somewhere, when we bury those shotguns.

  BARRY: Sweet.

  [GATOR then shuts his eyes for a long moment. When they open he lets them rest on Barry only fleetingly.]

  GATOR [awkward]: And … ahhh … and I need to ask you a … another favour.

  BARRY: Name it.

  GATOR: Can … ah … can you do … can you do the … the work on Steve?

  BARRY [frowning]: Cremate him? You guys have got that covered, haven’t ya’s?

  GATOR [low]: Not that. The … the other job.

  BARRY [hesitant]: What is it?

  GATOR: Ah … [He tries to assemble the words, a parched man mustering saliva.] We … ummm … we have to … [In a grimacing rush] Some of him has to come with us. Come for a walk and I’ll show you. Bring your knife.

  [BARRY waits until GATOR faces him squarely. Holds his eye captive while a clear transaction takes place.]

  BARRY [grudging]: All right.

  [Rocking himself, head in hands, over the minutes he’s left alone it’s difficult to judge whether MICK giggles or weeps.]

  [BARRY and GATOR return some minutes later and, necessaries assembled, BARRY starts down the bank, toward the riverbed.]