Simple Things

by Press, Lycan Valley

  "Good enough?"

  Walt couldn't stop himself. His left hand came out of his pocket. He peeled off the pesos. More than enough for what she was talking about. He hoped enough to get what he'd come for.

  "Fighters. Where do men fight here?"

  She threw her head back and laughed. It was a sweet sound, but the passion it stirred in him wasn't sexual. Far from it. He knew this girl.

  "Men fight everywhere in O City," she told him, gesturing with her hand at everything and nothing. She brought one leg onto the bed, the robe no longer concealing anything. Her nipples stood at attention.

  "Here," she purred, patting the bed beside her. "I'll make you forget all about men."

  Walt crossed the room in two strides, grabbing the robe by the neck and throwing the bills into her crotch. He could smell her now, the damp tang of her.

  "A fighter's club," he demanded. "Where?"

  Her nipples flushed from peach to purple. She couldn't hide her excitement. One of the pesos clung to her thigh.

  "After we finish!" she teased, reaching for his shirt. Undoing a button.

  He backhanded her, sending her sprawling. She rolled away, dazed. When she faced him again, blood trickled from the corner of her mouth.

  "Fighters," he repeated. "Tell me."

  She spat at him, yanking open a drawer. She withdrew a bell and rang it, sneering. A moment later, the door banged open. Standing there, was the fat man in the white suit. His eyes opened wide when he caught sight of Walt.

  The left came first. The fat man stumbled, striking the door, slamming it shut. Concerned voices could be heard. Walt ignored them. His next blow was an open palm chop to the fat man's throat, driving him to his knees. He gagged, choking, gasping for air. Walt kicked him in the face with his military issued bootheel.

  The promoter's nose flattened, blood staining his crisp, linen suit. Walt kicked him again, driving the man's jaw up over his front teeth, dislocated. His Fatness dropped to all fours, trying to escape. The whore on the bed screamed. The fat man's servants pounded on the door. But his enormous ass was blocking it, preventing them from coming to his aid.

  Walt moved in close and knelt beside him. He grabbed the man by the hair and held his face so they could see eye to eye.

  "This is for Jerry," he said, and drove his thumb into the bug-eyed crook's throat with such force, it crushed his windpipe. Walt stood over him, watching him asphyxiate. He turned back to the whore, but his attention was drawn to something behind her. On the nightstand.

  "Here you go," Trevor said, and sat the tray atop the dresser, pushing aside the incense burner. Walt eyed him groggily. He checked the time. 4:54pm. But, Trevor? Trevor didn’t work today. Walt was confused.

  "Can you sit?" Trevor asked. The slender black man did not appear to be in a good mood. Walt nodded, and pushed himself up. Pain shot through his arm. He eyed his right hand.

  He'd slept through breakfast and lunch, and yet, no one on the staff had awakened him. It surprised him. That wasn't normal. He flexed his fingers. Noticed the black and blue line running between the knuckles on his thumb. Before Trevor could see it, he slipped the hand beneath the blanket.

  "Where's Lissette?" Walt asked, drawing a sour look.

  "Went home early," was all Trevor would say. Strange, Walt thought. Lissette wasn't like that. It just wasn't in her makeup. The well-built Latina took her work at the center seriously.

  "She must've felt terrible," Walt commented, drawing no response. Trevor set the tray table in place. He stared at Walt as if he wanted to say something. In the end, he begged off, unfolding a napkin and dropping it on the end of Walt's plate. Walt snatched it out of the gravy, watching Trevor's hasty departure.

  What the hell was going on?

  He ate mostly with his left hand, not bothering to spread butter on the roll, simply dragging it through the gravy. His thumb…what had he done to it? Snippets of the previous night came back to him in a haze, making it difficult to put things in order. All he could remember with any clarity was the whore, trying to get away from him. And the glow on the nightstand. Reaching for her while she lashed out at him, face contorted in terror. Her nakedness finally registering with him. The familiar swell of hip and buttocks. Hardly Filipina at all. The taste of San Miguel coated his tongue.

  What had happened then? Had he done something to the whore, too, and not just the fat man? Had he…?

  No, he refused to believe that. He'd still needed answers, that was all. Answers the scamster promoter could no longer give. Answers that—

  "Finished?"

  Walt jolted back to reality. Trevor stood in the doorway, the sour look etched into his face. Lissette, Walt thought. Was that it? The half-breed…hadn't she reminded him a little of Lissette? Trevor scowled. It was an expression Walt had never seen before. He nodded sheepishly, pushing away the remnants of his cold dinner. Trevor rolled the table out of the room without another word, and shut the door behind him.

  What the hell had happened, he wondered again, knowing something was wrong. Terribly, terribly wrong. Lissette leaving early. Trevor treating him like this. Worry welled up inside him. This wasn't how it was at the center. Not for him, anyway. He'd always been treated favorably by the staff. His needs were few. He wasn't demanding. He could get around without assistance. Was still able to see to his own needs. Could still control his bowels. The staff were always happy to see him. To help him out when he needed something. But now? Something had changed. And he was too frightened to ask why.

  Sleep. That was it. Tonight he would lose himself in slumber, and leave the past few nights behind. He shook the crumbs off the blanket and eyed the incense burner.

  The dome was askew, the base overflowing with ash.

  Walt slipped from beneath the sheets and undid the drawstring of the velvet pouch. Shook the contents into his hand. The number of cones remaining shocked him. He furrowed his brow. There were only five left.

  "Not tonight," he said, carrying the capsule into the bathroom and dumping the ash into the toilet. He flushed, watching the whirlpool carry the grey dust away. The scent, though. That was something the water couldn't cleanse. The stink of it clung to him like greasy sweat. Unnerved, he stared into the mirror, looking for something. A sign, perhaps. But there was nothing. Just a frail, old man staring back at him.

  He tucked the burner into the pouch, bit down on the drawstring and cinched it tight. He wondered if it might be best to dispose of it. Simply walk down the hall and drop it into the trash chute. Then, he wouldn't have to worry about it any longer. It seemed like the right thing to do. Chasing Goliath through a world of nightmares? Didn't seem like such a good idea any more. . His broken thumb and swollen face bore cruel testament to that.

  Trevor, though. He would be manning the halls until midnight, when Lana relieved him. Which presented a problem. Walt was loathe to cross paths with him again. Anger radiated off Trevor like body odor off a skid row derelict. Best to wait, he decided, leaving the pouch on the nightstand, dimming the lights and turning in early. Morning, he reassured himself. Come the morning, everything would be different.

  He awoke near Rizal, not far from Magsaysay Boulevard. It was late, and many of the shops had closed for the night. He tried to orient himself, but his head felt fuzzy. The taste of whiskey lingered in his mouth. He needed to find Gordon Boulevard. If he could find that joint where the Seabees hung out, everything would be fine. He didn't want to be walking around alone, though, not at this hour on this side of town.

  The liquor had taken its toll, though. He walked in circles, seeing the same shops, the same awnings, the same young girls beckoning from dark doorways so as not to draw the attention of the police. Olongapo was the sin city of the Philippines, but still, the authorities occasionally made an arrest, just to keep the gals on their toes. The locals thrived on the money that came from Subic Bay, but openly allowing Olongapo to become its whorehouse was considered…undesirable.

  Walt turned down a street
at random, encouraged by the presence of more people. It quickly became apparent why this stretch was so active. The girls here were much younger. As were the boys. Walt saw a woman usher a youth of about ten into the light, before taking a wad of bills from two men she'd been negotiating with. The men led the slump-shouldered boy up the stairs and through another door, where they disappeared. Walt looked away, not wanting to be confused with those seeking out such goods. Magsaysay, he thought. If he took another right and went a few more blocks…

  He stopped, unable to determine where he was, and equally clueless as to how he'd gotten here. The girl in the tank top might have been wearing panties, but maybe not. She was stunning, though, he could see that even in the dim light. The shirt didn't reveal much, and yet, was as sexy as boudoir lingerie Walt stepped to the door. She was so young. A teenager. Walt, on the other hand, was wrapping up his second tour. How many years did he have on her? When she offered her arm, though, he took it without hesitation. After all, he was a little drunk. Well, maybe more than a little. And, so what if he was? This wasn't San Diego or the Pearl. He was half a world away. This? This was nothing. Besides, who would ever know?

  He let her help him inside, to the narrow room with the sagging twin bed. A ceiling fan spun lazily, barely moving the heavy air. Walt didn't care. He took all the cash from his wallet and placed it on the nightstand beneath the smoldering incense burner. The girl smiled at him. A wide, beautiful smile that broke his heart.

  “If I was ten years younger," he said, pulling her close. Inhaling the scent of cheap soap on her hair. He didn't finish the thought. He'd what? Take her away from all this? Yeah, right. Like that was going to happen. He couldn't picture his commander approving a request to transport an underage Filipina whore stateside, even if Walt got her to lie and put a ring on her finger. Shit, he'd be lucky just to avoid the brig.

  She crossed her arms, grabbed the oversized tank top and peeled it off. As he'd suspected, it was the sole article of clothing she had on.

  "Hurry," she whispered, pressing her full breasts against him.

  He wasn't a teenager any more, and he'd been in enough ports of call to have grown accustomed to the appeal of exotic working girls. Still, he had needs, and this girl, this exquisite beauty… Their ages didn't matter. He wanted to do this. Realized he'd wanted to for a very long time.

  "H-hurry!" she pleaded, breath hot in his ear. "Soon they will come," she explained. "They'll come and they'll stop you!"

  Walt didn't know what she was talking about. He wasn't due back on base 'til oh-eight-hundred. But now, now she was struggling. Pushing against him. Trying to force him off her.

  Stop it! "They're coming!"

  No, they weren't. Not yet, he thought, reaching into the drawer and pulling out the bottle he knew would be there. Sure, maybe he was being rough. Nothing a little hair of the dog wouldn't cure. He fumbled with the cap. Amber gold splashed onto her heaving chest. He stifled a laugh. Tried to get a swallow, but most of it just spilled down his shirt. That didn't stop him. Booze was cheap enough at the PX. The sheets were getting soaked, though, the more she struggled. He made a game of it, tilting the flask over her face, moving it back and forth, trying to get some in her mouth. He chuckled. He'd get it in her mouth later, all right, no two ways about that.

  She cried out, the whiskey stinging her eyes. Walt pressed his forearm into her cheek. Her hair was sticky.

  He slapped her hard, getting her attention. He saw her mouth open, stared down her throat. Saw the scream begin to form.

  He balled his fist. Drove it into her perfect face. No, he wasn't going to allow that. He had unfinished business here. And when he was done with her, he would wait. Wait for the giant he knew would come for him.

  She shook off the blow. Took a deep breath and tried again.

  This time, only a squeak came out. Walt's fist loosened her teeth, closed off the airway before she could sound the alarm and summon help. Blood mingled. His knuckles. Her mouth. She looked ready to try once more. Walt pounded her, making her gasp. Then he struck her again. And again. And…

  The pillow shifted, hanging off the bed. Walt's fist throbbed, his broken thumb numb. The whore was whimpering now, pleading with him. He wrapped his hand around her throat. Stared into her remaining, undamaged eye.

  "Ten years. If I was just…just ten years…" he whispered, the glow brightening on the nightstand. The flame spreading quickly, the heat on his face like the hot summer sun. The kind of sun that beat down on him a lifetime ago, on the shores of a distant island. A sun so hot it made you feel like you were melting.

  The door burst open. Walt shoved the whore away, expecting to see Goliath. Heat raced up the side of his face. Two of the moneychangers entered, garbed in thick, black vests. This time, though, he had the advantage. Victory would be his. His fists were engulfed in flame as he hammered them with blows.

  It took three men to bring him down, pinning him to the floor, covering him with blankets to restrain him. There was no sign of Goliath, though. Just a swarm of men. Some in uniforms, some in street clothes. Some he recognized. Most, he didn't. That was when Walt came to the grim conclusion. Staring into the glow of the burner on the dead whore's nightstand, he understood. His fate was sealed.

  Goliath wasn't coming for him.

  And he never had been.

  Doc Mercer bade the police farewell, having turned over everything they'd asked for. They'd get it in the end anyway, they always did. Besides, it had all been archived. Nineteen years’ worth of records hadn't filled half a flash drive. And Lana's information? Poor Lana had been summed up in less than a megabyte.

  "What now?" Director Vaughn. She and Mercer had been answering questions for the better part of eight hours. Now, the hullaballoo was over. Walt was on his way to county general, third degree burns covering sixty percent of his body. Lana had been taken by the medical examiner hours ago.

  "County'll keep him," Mercer said. "He won't be coming back here."

  They looked at the carnage. The bloodstained walls. The scorched bed and nightstand. The melted flask. Trevor arrived with a cardboard carton. He looked to Vaughn.

  "Pack up everything," she instructed. "The police took what they needed. Take it...and just get it away from here."

  "Do you want me to—?"

  "I don't care," she said, cutting him off. "Just…get rid of it."

  When they'd gone, he emptied the dresser, disposed of the old bastard's toiletries and cleared out the nightstand. There wasn't much. Old photos of a very pretty woman, some in color, some black and white. A yellowed newspaper clipping about some boxing match from back in the sixties. An obituary. A bible, its pages curled by heat from the fire. Trevor tossed it all into the trash.

  On his way home, he pulled into the thrift store parking lot, took the carton to the door, and left it there. The old Korean man who ran the place brought the box into the back, and examined the contents. The clothes that were in good shape, he put on hangers. The rest he tossed. The shoes he would pass along to the bums. The pouch with the incense burner he placed on his desk, emptying the stubs into his hand. Four remained. He appraised them, deeming them worth keeping. He went to the safe and entered the combination, removing a hard shell leather case. Inside was the face of a North Korean girl, freed from her skull while still she breathed. That would bring a pretty penny, he suspected, even an old man who did not believe in change. From a small plastic container, he took a handful of dried out fingertips, the nails having already been extracted. These he examined carefully, replacing those with wrinkles one might identify. Satisfied, he dropped the nubs into the pouch, and carried the burner back to the shelves. He sat it beside the box, where it had been the week before. The box…perhaps he should fill it with candies. Chocolate Kisses, maybe. It hadn't left his care for quite some time. He put that on his To Do… list.

  The face. He needed to examine it again. It had appeal to a very diverse clientele, with many possible uses. As well, the number nine
had significance in several different cultures. Something he could use on the darknet.

  He returned to the office, waiting for his nephew's call. A policeman, conveniently on duty the previous evening.

  The bloody panties of a twenty-five year old white woman, and one shattered tooth. Not much, but they, too, had their market. That Kim hadn't been able to secure the missing eye? Well, that was how things went sometimes. And in truth, he wasn't worried. He'd just scheduled a visit from a nearby retirement home for the following week. What was there to complain about?

  After all, business had been very good lately.

  This next piece was also originally from the Orient. Yes, sealed inside that plastic bag is exactly what it appears to be – a pair of women’s red panties.

  Author Sheri Sebastian-Gabriel brought this to our attention. She spins her tales from New Jersey where she lives with three peculiar dwarfs and a Hellhound.

  STRANGE BLOOD

  Sheri Sebastian-Gabriel

  THEhot, odoriferous crowd closed in on Jōji, and a fat lady shoved him into a mackerel stand. His chest heaved with the familiar onset of an anxiety attack.

  Tsukiji on Friday afternoon rumbled with hand trucks carting fish from the docks, customers shoving from merchant to merchant, and a thousand conversations. It was not a good time to shop, but Himeko needed two kilograms of haddock before her parents’ arrival Saturday.

  He shoved himself off of the fish crate and shuffled to the next stall, weight pressing his chest and forcing his breath out in shallow bursts.

  Genjiro waved him over to his stand.

  “Evening, Jōji. Fresh today, I have tuna, perch, and mackerel.”

  Jōji waved his hands and shook his head. Sweat puddled in the cup formed by the small of his back. His dress shirt clung to the moisture.

  “No, no. Haddock. My wife’s parents want Haddock.”