Poor Bastards and Rich Fucks

by John Bruni

  Steve looked up to see a very tall, very muscular man standing at a window on the upper floor of the cabin. He aimed a shotgun down at them.

  “Jack! It’s me, Jimmy! I have a friend with me!”

  Jack didn’t lower the shotgun. “I know that! Who the fuck is he?!”

  “Steve McNeil. He’s the guy I told you about last night.”

  Jack disappeared from the window. Steve turned to Jimmy, wondering about the comment about last night. He figured he’d ask about it later.

  Jack reappeared at the door, the shotgun slung over his shoulder. He approached Jimmy and shook his head. “Good to see you.”

  “You, too. We finally have some information on these rich fuckers. Can we come in?”

  Jack raised an eyebrow. “Pardon me?”

  “I said—“

  “I know what you said.”

  Jimmy rolled his eyes. “All right, fine. May we come in?”

  “That’s better. Come on.” He turned to Steve. “I’m Jack LeCroix.”

  “Nice to meet you.” Steve nodded to the burnt crosses. “Visitors?”

  “Ah, just some kids. I think I hit one of them with some buckshot.”

  “Aren’t you going to do anything with the crosses?”

  “What am I worried about, my property value? Fuck that. Besides, maybe it will remind those cum rags of getting shot at last time, and they’ll think twice about coming back.”

  Jimmy laughed. “Catch any lately?”

  “No, but I know a couple of them stepped into my traps. I found them sprung and covered with blood. Too bad they got away.”

  “What would you do if you ever caught one?”

  “Kill it, stuff it and put it on my mantle.”

  They entered the cabin and followed Jack through to the kitchen. Steve had never seen such an old fashioned room, at least not in real life. In school, he’d seen pictures of a place where you needed to actually flick light switches on, and where appliances had to be touched in order to make them work. The walls seemed to be made of plaster instead of the phony stuff they used today, and the flowery wallpaper looked atrocious. There were actually spider webs in the corners of the room.

  Then, Jack pulled on the sink’s faucet, and a portion of the floor popped up. He pulled the panel to one side, revealing a set of stairs leading down.

  “After you,” he said to Jimmy.

  Jimmy went first, and then Steve, with Jack at the rear. He pulled the panel closed after he made it through. He heard a whirring sound and knew the carpet had moved forward to cover up the trap door.

  Once at the bottom of the steps, Steve whistled. Computers filled the entire room. Top of the line, not like the shit the PD had to use. All of them busily chattered information in a steady hum.

  “Goddam, Jack,” he said. “It’s like the fucking Batcave down here.”

  Jack ignored the comment. He indicated the table with a few chairs around it. “Have a seat. Tell me what’s going on.”

  Jimmy took out a pack of smokes and handed Jack and Steve cigarettes. Once they lit up, Steve began his story for the third time since he’d woken up outside of Lenny’s.

  Chapter 9

  1

  “It’s good to see you’re alive, Barry.”

  Barry opened his eyes and saw a grand, vaulted ceiling. It reminded him of church, but he didn’t recall ever going into one. He moved around and realized he lay in bed, dressed in silk pajamas and topped off with an old fashioned sleeping cap, tassels tickling his cheek. He hadn’t experienced such opulence in a long time. Not since . . . not since the download.

  He didn’t like thinking about it. In the depths of his twisted and overstuffed mind, he knew what had happened. He remembered being a smart kid in school, obsessed with knowing everything he possibly could. Everyone warned him, even the websites he accessed to pull it off, but he just couldn’t help himself. Besides, the human mind had more storage space than any computer in existence. It should have been able to contain all knowledge.

  He hacked around the legal safety protocols and managed to download the entire ‘net into his head. At first, it had felt like an orgasm, if he’d been old enough to know what that was like at the time. Except excitement didn’t flow out of him; it went in. He knew the entire history of humanity, and it broke his mind. He overloaded quickly and could no longer function as a regular person.

  His parents tried to reverse the process. They went to the best minds their money could buy, but no one could figure out a way to wipe his mind without losing the boy he’d once been. He rambled and raved paranoid screeds even at the age of ten. His dad tried to keep him home, tranquilized, but very soon it became apparent that something like that couldn’t work.

  By the age of thirteen, they had him committed quietly, where the doctors didn’t care about him, the nurses barely treated him and the orderlies mocked him and, on occasion, raped him.

  One day, a man calling himself John F. Kennedy befriended him in the institute. Without John, Barry wouldn’t have been able to make it through. A kindred spirit, John comforted him by telling him about how everyone, from his most powerful enemies to his most trusted friends, was out to get him. He could only trust his brother. That sounded very familiar to Barry, who couldn’t even trust his own father. How could a man condemn his only son to suffer in this hell hole?

  But that didn’t matter anymore. The hospital turned him loose on the streets, and he’d been surviving by wit and John’s help. Even when those strangers had come up to him and kidnapped him, John had tried to tell him to run. Run and not look back. If only he’d listened to the former president. Things would have been different.

  He dimly remembered the rich fucks behind the unbreakable glass. He remembered seeing his father back there. He remembered the game, but it didn’t concern him very much. He knew only that he had to get the fuck out of the city, or his father would kill him for sure.

  But how did he get here, in this bed? He rubbed his eyes, wondering if maybe he’d suffered another flashback in time. On occasion, a piece of history would engulf him and push him back into another era, where he would see famous events. He’d seen the Civil War first hand. The same for the crucifixion and the invention of penicillin and countless others.

  This didn’t feel right, though. He looked around again, and this time, he saw who had woken him up. He grinned. “Hot damn, Bobby! I’m glad to see you!”

  “Yes, and let me assure you that John is very proud of the control you maintain while under pressure. I share his sentiment.”

  “You’re my friends. I’d do anything for you.”

  “John would be honored to once more be in your presence, to personally thank you for your discretion in certain matters. We know you’ve been through a very trying ordeal, but he is eager to see you. Are you prepared for such a meeting?”

  “Shit yes.”

  “Excellent. You’ll find the appropriate attire in the closet. I’ll wait for you outside the door.”

  Barry hopped off the bed like a kid eager to watch cartoons. When Bobby left, Barry threw open the closet door to find a set of ceremonial robes. Would he be receiving an award?

  He couldn’t wait to see his old friend. John had been laying low because of a lot of government spooks looking to put a bullet in his head. Now, the two of them would finally be reunited.

  After he dressed up, he went out and walked with Bobby down a long, echoing hallway. They reached a giant set of double doors, so tall that Barry couldn’t see the top. They just kept going until they disappeared into the clouds.

  Bobby pushed one door open and waved his hand over the threshold. “After you, Barry.”

  Barry stepped into a room as colossal as the double doors. It was so long and wide he couldn’t see any walls, aside from the one behind him. In the middle stood a throne with an American flag at the top, and it struck Barry as a bit gaudy for someone as important as John.

  People stood around, talking with each other, and Barry
could recognize quite a few of them. Important figures, one and all. In their midst sat John, silent, nibbling on a thumbnail, staring down at the floor, lost in thought.

  “John!” Barry called out.

  John looked over the heads of his many advisors and saw Barry standing beyond them, nearly panting with excitement. “Barry! What a pleasant surprise! I feared you would prefer the comforts of your bed until your wounds ceased to be troublesome. I’m grateful for your presence.”

  “What’s all this?” Barry asked.

  “We’re discussing politics. To be honest, it was starting to get rather dreary.”

  A fat middle-aged man with giant muttonchops and a lazy sneer on his face stepped forward. “Who’s this guy?” A Southern accent as lazy as his sneer, yet as flamboyant as his sparkling jumpsuit.

  “Everyone, this is Barry Taylor. As I’m sure you are all aware, Barry has saved my life many times over, and my debt to him is more than I can possibly explain.”

  A skinny, longhaired kid with a giant beard and a swastika carved in his forehead rocked on his heels. “Then we’re sure glad to know you, Barry.”

  A blonde-haired beauty in a white dress that kept trying to blow up from her legs pooched her lips and blew Barry a kiss. Others nodded their agreement, and Barry started recognizing a lot more of them. Some were iconic actors and musicians, others great scientists and even more famous politicians. He saw the guy who bombed the White House in 2045, a World War III general and even the guy who found a way to implant the ‘net into everyone’s heads.

  “Glad to know you all,” Barry said.

  John looked to his advisors. “I need to speak with Barry alone for a moment. We’ll finish our discussion later.”

  After they left, John turned to Barry. “Before we continue any farther, I feel it is incumbent upon me to inform you that what you are experiencing is nothing more than a dream.”

  Barry cast his gaze around. “You mean, this is all fake?”

  “No, these proceedings are not false. What I have to tell you is quite real and very important. I cannot stress how vital it is for you to pay me heed. However, this realm is not physical. We are now on a mental plane of existence. Your corporeal self is presently resting on a sidewalk just outside the park where you usually sleep.”

  Part of what John said made sense, but there were too many mental blocks in Barry’s head to fully understand it. His brain overload had fried a lot of connecting points. “Okay,” he said.

  John must have seen the confusion on Barry’s face. “You have saved me many times over, and now it is my turn to save you. Do you understand that?”

  Barry nodded.

  “Your present tribulation is the most precarious event of your life. If you don’t do as I say, you will die. This is not speculation. I purvey truth. Once you awaken, I will not be able to provide you with assistance, so you’d do well to hark my words now, when I say the very first thing you need to procure is a firearm.”

  “A gun? What for? How?”

  “By any means necessary,” John said. “If you don’t, this man will terminate you.” He held out his hand, palm up, and a picture materialized out of nowhere. A middle-aged man stared back at Barry. He had short hair, but it looked like it had grown out from a crewcut. A handlebar mustache took up much of his rock hard face. His flinty blue eyes showed no emotion, just a hint of cruelty. “You’ve already encountered this iniquitous cad. His name is Samuel Maxwell Barnabas, III, and he is hunting you. And, not to distress you, but you’re running out of time. We’ll have to expedite these matters.”

  Barry waited, still barely comprehending anything John had told him.

  “As soon as you have procured a firearm, you must find an adequate refuge, at which point you must prepare for the arrival of Samuel Barnabas. I cannot stress this point enough: you must terminate him upon first sighting. To neglect his immediate murder would be to invite your own.”

  “What about those other rich folk?” Barry asked. “What about Daddy?”

  “The other contestants are busy saving their own lives. They are not out to kill you. As for your father, I . . .” John trailed off, and his eyes grew distant, as if something had grabbed his attention.

  “What?” Barry asked.

  A panicked look poured over John’s face. “FUCK! We’re out of time! There’s one last thing I need to do! Are you ready?”

  “I—“

  John didn’t give him enough time to think. He leapt off the throne and shoved his hand into Barry’s head. He could feel the president moving things around, gathering as much of it as he could. Just as he pulled back, Barry blacked out.

  2

  Barry’s eyes opened, and he squinted into a streetlight overhead. He sat up, pain throbbing dully at the back of his head. Looking around, he didn’t recognize anything about the neighborhood. He tried to remember anything at all, and then he remembered his plan. He wanted to download all human knowledge into his head. Had he started that process yet? He didn’t think he felt any smarter.

  He ran a tongue over his teeth, and his stomach nearly fell out of him. So many of them were missing, but he didn’t remember that happening. He remembered playing basketball with one of his friends last week, but there hadn’t been any injury. He touched the gaping holes in his mouth and shuddered. He didn’t even want to see himself in the mirror.

  And then he felt a scraggly beard on his face. It couldn’t be. How could an eight year old kid have a beard?

  Don’t forget me.

  Who had said that? He looked around, wondering, but he didn’t see anyone else on the street. But then again, it had seemed to come from inside his head, hadn’t it? He could still hear the familiar, Boston accent . . .

  “Oh God, this isn’t happening,” Barry said. His eyes filled with tears, and he cried out into the night. “Daddy! Please help me! Where are you?!”

  ~

  “Something’s wrong,” Martin said. He stood and went to the control panel. “Which one is Barry’s sound feed?”

  Coppergate nodded to his assistant, who handled the task for them. It turned on just in time to hear Barry’s cry for help.

  “Why is he shouting like that?” Martin said. “It’s almost like . . .he’s . . .”

  Edward felt a flush of impatience hammer at his heart like a dwarf with a pick. “He’s what? Spit it out, already.”

  “Oh Jesus,” Martin said. “He’s a kid again. He doesn’t have that shit in his head anymore. He’s cured. He’s . . . no! That bastard’s going to kill my son!”

  “Please,” Coppergate said. “Shouting is not necessary.”

  The image on the screen flashed back and forth, and although everything blurred together, Martin could see Samuel in the midst of it all. The hunter drew closer. “No! We can’t let him! We have to stop him!”

  William stood by his side and grabbed his arm. “Don’t.”

  Martin yanked his arm away. “Don’t you dare touch me!”

  William grabbed his arm again. “Stop! Pull yourself together! What are you, some kind of animal? There’s nothing to be done, old boy.”

  Martin’s eyes widened, and tears streamed down his cheeks. His knees gave out, and William grabbed his other arm to hold him up.

  When Martin spoke, he sounded as if his soul had been cored out. “He’s going to kill my son. My only son. We can’t have any more kids. Barry would have been my heir.” He drew in his breath and let it out in a moan. “Oh God. It’s not him. It’s me. I killed my son. Me.”

  “No, you didn’t,” William said. “Just sit down.”

  Martin sat down, but he couldn’t look at the screen. He buried his eyes into the palms of his hands. Elizabeth patted him on the back, but he didn’t notice.

  ~

  “Barry Taylor?”

  Barry looked to his left to see a middle-aged man with a handlebar mustache. He looked very familiar, like maybe he’d seen the guy recently. Nothing certain clicked, though.

  But he s
aw the weapons, and he couldn’t help but feel fear clench down on his asshole. The stranger held a shotgun in his hands. There were holsters under his arms for handguns, and strapped to his waist were more guns. A large Bowie knife hung from his belt, along with a blackjack. A quiver full of rifles rested slung across his back.

  Not him, Barry. Run.

  Maybe this guy was a police officer. Only cops could have that many guns. Maybe he could help.

  “That’s my name, sir. I’m lost, and I’m wondering if—“

  Samuel paused, confused. “You’re lost?”

  “I’m looking for my daddy. Could you help me?”

  No, he can’t. He’s going to kill you.

  “Help you?” Samuel’s brow furrowed. He flicked his eyes up and double checked the dossier Wingate’s people had given him. He lined up the picture next to the man who stood before him. All points of recognition matched. But this didn’t make sense. He checked his LiveStream feed and selected Barry’s. Sure enough, he could see himself through Barry’s eyes.

  “You’re a police officer, right?” Barry asked.

  Of course he isn’t. You have to leave. Now.

  Samuel shook his head. “What the fuck is wrong with you, boy?”

  Barry didn’t think cops could use profanity. Worry wormed its way into the back of his neck. He thought maybe he should listen to the voice in his head.

  For God’s sake, Barry! Run! Now!

  Barry suddenly wanted to pee very badly. He swallowed, hoping his nervousness would dissipate.

  “Ah fuck it,” Samuel said. He aimed the shotgun at Barry’s face, and before the man could so much as flinch, he squeezed the trigger. Barry’s head vanished in a hail of buckshot and a spray of blood. His jaw remained attached at the ragged stump of his throat, clinging like a barnacle.

  ~

  “NO! GOD NO!”

  ~

  The corpse fell to the ground and shuddered. Samuel fired into the chest, and all movement ceased.

  “Fucking schizo,” Samuel muttered. He reloaded the shotgun and slipped it into the quiver on his back. Pleased with himself for fulfilling his promise to Martin, he ambled into the night toward his next kill.