Poor Bastards and Rich Fucks

by John Bruni

  To Kevin Strange and Don Noble, two guys who took a chance on a collection of short stories from a guy they'd never heard of before.

  Prologue

  1

  Steve McNeil tossed his head back and felt cheap whiskey burn down his tongue and ignite his belly with a comforting warmth. Not enough to soothe the demons that lived in the wrinkles of his brain and the chambers of his heart. Not enough to drown the devils and anxiety that cavorted in the darkest depths of his guts. Not enough to peel his skin away and reveal a new person beneath. But he hoped it would set him down the path to forgetting about himself, if only for one lonely night.

  Lenny came by and filled his glass again. Not just a couple of fingers, like any other hole-in-the-wall bar; Lenny poured whiskey up to the brim. He knew how his customers liked it. Steve nodded his gratitude and stared at the amber fluid. He thought about his life as a reverse exorcism. He poured the liquid spirit into his body and waited for it to possess him.

  He knew the others in Lenny’s Tavern, but not as friends. Not really. They were just acquaintances drinking away their remaining lives. They drank, waiting for their livers to quit on them, or maybe their hearts. They recognized each other as society’s cast-offs, so far in the hole that they couldn’t even acknowledge each other.

  Not that Steve minded. No, he liked being alone. He’d been alone for what? A year? It couldn’t have been that long, could it?

  It didn’t matter. His uncle had always joked about how everyone died alone. Steve had made peace with this uncomfortable truth. Maybe he could even find comfort in it. But he doubted it.

  He sipped again and glanced to his periphery. A digital read-out of the time ticked away, second by second, at the very edge of his sight. He looked up and saw a notification of how much he had left on his credit chip. He had all the time in the world, but he didn’t have much money in his account. Not enough to afford the booze it would take to put him down into the merciful arms of slumber.

  Fuck.

  After all this time, he’d finally run out of money. He knew he’d spend the last of it here. By the end of the month, he’d be kicked out of his apartment. At this point, he wouldn’t be able to move into even the most flea-bitten motel on the Sleaze Strip.

  He tried to envision himself living on the streets with his hand out. How many bums had he rousted in his day? How many times had he brought homeless drunks downtown? This time next month, he will have joined their ranks. Just another alcoholic homeless guy. Another filthy face in a sea of the destitute.

  He took another drink and found that he cared less and less about it.

  “Holy fucking shit. Steve Mc-fucking-Neil, as I live and breathe.”

  Steve turned his head and saw a man he’d never seen in Lenny’s before. A light blue circle formed around the stranger’s head, and after he buffered for a moment, a name popped up next to the guy’s face: BOB WHITEMAN. That sounded kind of familiar. The icon next to the name asked if Steve would like to know more.

  Yes.

  Several social media sites popped up in Steve’s left eye, and he saw pictures of Bob’s life. Mostly whoring and drinking. Playing cards. That sort of thing. He flicked on Bob’s LiveStream and saw himself staring back. The image jarred him too much, made his stomach do a couple of flips. To save himself from losing the precious whiskey he’d imbibed tonight, he banished the stream.

  “Shit, don’t tell me you don’t remember me. It hasn’t been that long.”

  Steve blinked, trying to place him. Bob stood maybe five-ten and had a hell of a gut on him. He weighed maybe 240, but much of it had enough definition to suggest he could kick an ass or two, if needed. He wore a shirt that said PUSSY SATISFIES and ragged jeans over a pair of scuffed boots, heavy enough to stomp a head if the issue came up. Steve placed him at forty-five years of age with a shiny pate starting to show between the graying hairs on his head. A light scruff of whiskers covered his jowls, not doing much to hide a second chin.

  “It’s me. Bob Whiteman. We used to drink together all the time.”

  Déjà vu. A bulb went on somewhere in the recesses of Steve’s booze-addled mind. And then, he hit it. Back when he’d been on the job, he used to drink with a lot of his fellow cops. Just hanging out, talking shit about the scumbags they’d had to deal with that day. Maybe a card game here or there. Bob had been among them. Not a cop, just one of the guys who hung out at the same bar.

  He flipped through the records of his own social media and found some footage from back then. He froze the video and superimposed it over Bob’s face. Sure enough, they matched. Bob had more hair back then, and it had been darker, but the images were otherwise the same.

  “Bob,” he said.

  “See? You do remember. How the hell are you?” He held out his stumpy hand. Short, but beefy.

  Steve took it, and they shook vigorously. Both had four red spots on the sides of their hands when they drew away from each other. Only then did Bob pull up a stool and sit next to him. Lenny came by, and Bob ordered a beer. “And one for my old friend here.”

  Lenny filled a couple of mugs and put them down on the bar. He wandered away and stared off into space. His eyes flicked back and forth, evidence that he’d busied himself with reading something online.

  “Jesus, Steve. It’s been a long time. What have you been up to?”

  Steve gritted his teeth, committed to lying without even thinking about it. “Nothing much. Same shit as always. What are you doing around here? I thought you only drank at the Red Hand.”

  “Wow, that’s a name from the past. I haven’t been there for a while. How are the guys doing? It’s been ages since I saw them.”

  “I . . . they’re fine.” He suppressed his LiveBlog, on the off-chance that Bob had tuned in to it.

  “Good to hear. I’ve been trying to stay out of trouble. Not always successful, of course.”

  Steve laughed. “You got business in this neighborhood?”

  “Yeah. Thought I’d stop in and catch a beer, and look who I found.” He gestured a hand to Steve before downing half his drink in one go.

  Soon, the beer flowed, and the more they drank, the looser their tongues became. Before long, Steve let his façade drop, and if he’d been sober enough, he would have been horrified to hear himself unburdening his woes onto his old friend.

  He told Bob about what got him kicked off the force. About a quiet night and a dark alley, where he’d found a young man, gakked-out of his mind, beating the shit out of a woman who later turned out to be a fuckslinger. About how he’d given the punk back more than he’d ever given. About how the youth had turned out to be the mayor’s nephew. About the crucifixion the media had given him as a power-crazy cop. The dots connected to form a picture of Steve living on the last of his money, a pussy hair’s length away from living on the streets.

  “Holy fuck, Steve. I had no idea.”

  Steve sniffed. He hadn’t cried in a long time, and now he felt on the very verge. His eyes burned, and he pretended to rub at them out of tiredness. “I guess you haven’t been watching the news, then.”

  “You know me. I don’t give a tin shit about what’s happening in the world.”

  They sat in silence for a moment. Behind his closed eyes, Steve looked to the left and saw how late it had gotten. He thought about all the drinks he’d had with Bob, and his stomach froze over. No way did he have enough left in his account to cover his end. Lenny would probably let him slide, but he didn’t want to have to resort to that.

  “Last call!” Lenny said.

  The other patrons lined up to the bar, eager for one more round before they had to take to the streets and crawl back into whatever hell hole they called home. Father O’Ril
ey held an empty glass in his trembling, liver-spotted hands. John Kroger, who had to be over a hundred years old, gripped the edge of the bar as if he were afraid he’d fall over. Ted Bentley, who still wore the car accident that had killed his baby daughter around him like a shroud, stood by their side, trying to get his empty glass in front of the others.

  They all ordered doubles.

  “What do you think? A shot to round out the evening?”

  Steve nodded, unthinking.

  When the others had been served, Bob ordered a couple of shots, and when they got them, they clinked the glasses together. “To the future,” Bob said. “It’s more fucked up than you can possibly imagine.”

  Steve thought he detected an extra dose of bitterness in Bob’s voice, but he didn’t object to the toast. They drank fast and hard and clunked their glasses on the bar upside down.

  Lenny came by with his chip device, both of their bills loaded and ready to be paid off. Steve nearly choked when he saw how much his was. He’d spent more than double his remaining amount.

  He knew Lenny would be okay with him promising to pay later. The others asked for this favor all the time. Old man Kroger would walk out of here tonight without fulfilling his transaction. Why not Steve?

  Bob must have seen something on his friend’s face. “I’ll pay for both.”

  “You sure?” Lenny asked.

  “No,” Steve said. “You don’t have to do that. I can—“

  “For old time’s sake,” Bob said.

  “I can’t. I won’t accept charity. It’s—“

  “Enough. I think I owe you from back in the day, anyway. Consider us even.”

  Steve felt the urge to argue the point, but he simply couldn’t remember if he owed Bob or not. A part of him—a weaselly part he didn’t like—knew for a fact that he owed Bob.

  He didn’t stop Bob from running his left hand over the chip reader.

  “Now that that’s settled,” Bob said, “you look like you could use a ride home.”

  “I’ll be fine.” Steve stood up, and when the world shrank away from him, he began to doubt his statement. However, the booze had indeed possessed him, and he could never admit being wrong, not even as he leaned against the bar to keep on his feet. Already, he felt the blackout creeping across his mind.

  Bob looked into Steve’s eyes. Twin blue circles analyzed them and came back with some kind of medical term Bob didn’t know. Also, an estimated blood alcohol content of 1.9 appeared. It asked if he wanted to call 911.

  No. He banished the system and said, “Come on. My van’s right out front. It’ll be no problem.”

  Steve opened his mouth to object, but his numb lips decided to not help him form the words.

  Bob helped steady him, and the two of them walked past the other poor, desperate bastards, all nursing their final drink before their nightly hibernation from their selves began. Only old man Kroger looked up and nodded.

  Outside, Steve leaned up against Bob’s van and waited for his friend to unlock the door. Bob accessed the van’s security system, and when it asked if he wanted the door unlocked, he said, Yes. The rear door slid open.

  “In you go,” he said.

  Steve stumbled, and Bob had to help him get into the back. At this point, he knew Steve wouldn’t be conscious for very long. He debated not using the needle after all, but he knew he had to play it safe. Richard Coppergate paid him very well to play it safe, and although he led a questionable life, he always considered himself to be a professional.

  He slipped the needle from his pocket and thumbed off the protective cover. All he had to do was stick it in Steve’s ass, and that would be it. His obligation for this night would be over. Yet he held back. He’d never had to do someone he knew before. He actually liked Steve, and unlike everyone else in this rotten city, he actually believed the story about how he’d lost his job.

  Fuck it. If he didn’t do this, he’d never be able to work for Coppergate ever again, and that motherfucker paid better than anyone else Bob had ever known.

  “Sorry, Steve,” he said.

  “Huh?” Steve collapsed in the back seat, face down on the cushion.

  Bob stuck the needle in and depressed the plunger. Three seconds later, Steve didn’t wonder anything anymore.

  Bob stood there for a while, staring at Steve’s unconscious body. He thought about all the horrible shit Coppergate had in store for the poor bastard. Granted, there was always the possibility that Steve would come out on top, but that rang false even to Bob. The only people who ever came out on top were Coppergate and his rich fuck friends.

  He slid the door shut, and then he climbed into the passenger seat. The driver—a long-haired, bespectacled man with an impressive set of buck teeth—glanced over at him. He didn’t say a word.

  “Let’s go, Tim,” Bob said.

  Time paused, and in the glance he gave to the backseat, Bob could see the frustration and remorse his partner felt building up inside for so many years.

  “Fucking go, would you?”

  Tim’s regret folded into him like a pair of bat wings. He pressed his thumb into the ignition. The van roared to life, and after a moment, the track in the road caught on the undercarriage and carried them out into traffic at a brisk 30 mph. Neither spoke again for the rest of the ride.

  2

  Neither Bob nor Tim saw the man a half-block away. He stood in the shadow between streetlights, and he had seen everything as Bob had herded Steve into the backseat. He’d seen the needle. He’d seen the van glide away into the scuzzy night.

  Jimmy Monaghan couldn’t believe what he’d just witnessed, but he knew he had to tell Jack about it right away. He forgot about the quick pint he was planning on having at Lenny’s. Instead, he climbed into his own car and let it drive him back to his apartment at top speed.

  The car parked itself, rattling into his reserved spot. He popped the door open and jumped out as it finished the process on its track. The car closed behind him and shut itself off, locking all entryways. Jimmy slapped his hand on the key plate just outside the building, and as soon as he heard the lock disengage, he rushed in and up the stairs to his own apartment. Just outside the door, he accessed his online security system, and he waited until it recognized his social security number and granted him access into his place.

  He didn’t waste time kicking off his shoes or shrugging out of his trench coat. He rushed to his tech station and stabbed a cigarette in his mouth. As his unit powered up, he squeezed the end of the cigarette, and it ignited in a gentle glow of SafeFire. As soon as calming nico-fresh filled his lungs, he riffled through his pill drawer until he found the one he needed. He popped it in his mouth and dry swallowed it, waiting for the wifi to kick in. Then, he cut off his LiveStream. Even though it couldn’t follow him into the ‘net, he didn’t want to take any chances. There were too many freaky drugs out there, and they were capable of almost anything.

  His consciousness ate through his face, and he soared into the ‘net, where he shot through social media and pirate sites and streaming products until he found himself in his very own corner of the virtual city. Here, he had access to all of his technology, where messages and updates waited for him from all of his friends and fans. They clouded his vision over with flashing lights and icons and other various notifications, so he pushed them all away and stepped through to his contact list.

  Then, finally, he found Jack LeCroix, and he sent a message to him and waited. Soon, the pill took over and melted the virtual landscape around him. The city dripped in waves, as if he looked at it through a very old, sun-distorted window. Jimmy left the ‘net behind and entered the world that exists beyond tech and flesh. He felt data flow through him like energy as he abandoned tangible reality. Yet even here, he felt vulnerable, and not just for the empty body he left behind in the real world. No, even here, where form gave way to energy flow, he didn’t feel safe. Zeroes and ones rushed through him in a constant stream, images broken down to cold numbers, a
nd yet he felt more alive than he ever felt in the real world.

  His digital flesh gave way to a cobwebbed network of nerves, and he sent out psychic pulses from his mind, seeking out his companion. He detected Jack logging on from his cabin in the middle of nowhere. He felt his friend dissolving through flesh and data until he’d joined this metaworld, rushing through space that didn’t seem to exist. Soon, Jimmy saw Jack’s gossamer shape approach, gliding through nothingness; far away, yet so very close.

  “Jimmy.” Jack’s voice, smooth and ephemeral, eased from a closed mouth deep into Jimmy’s skull.

  Jimmy breathed fire, and it swept its way around the two of them, a burning wall against anyone who might want to spy on them. Such a device could never be 100% perfect, but whoever tried to break through it would have their work cut out for them.

  “It’s happening,” Jimmy said. “We got the fuckers.”

  Though he couldn’t see it, he could feel Jack’s eyes growing wide, even though in the corporeal world, they were separated by maybe fifteen miles. “How?”

  “Steve McNeil,” Jimmy said. “You remember him?”

  He could see a halo of information swirl around the bundle of nerves that served as Jack’s brain. Soon, an image of Steve McNeil formed from the ones and zeroes. “You wrote a column about him.”

  “Right.”

  “It didn’t work. Your friend still wound up getting kicked off the force.”

  “Perfect fodder for Coppergate’s game.”

  Jack saved the information about Steve and accessed another program. “What happened?”

  “I actually saw the fuckers kidnap him right outside Lenny’s. Check it out.”

  He gave Jack access to his memory, and soon his friend watched video footage of the incident. Jack paused it at the moment just after Steve had been shoved into the back of the van. He cut the image of the kidnapper’s face from the video and enhanced it in another program. As soon as he could see the guy’s face clearly, he ran it through the police wiki and came up with a name: Bob Whiteman.