I flicked the butt of the cigarette out the window and lit up another one. My brain hammered in my head like a jackhammer, as though trying to keep in rhythm with the falling rain.
Another deep puff and then silence.
The woman that the man upstairs she was arguing with, the ambulance . . . nothing. Just the unnerving silence and me. I flicked the rest of the cigarette out the small opening in the window and sank back down onto the couch.
I wiped the rain from my face and tried to steady my heightened senses.
A flash of white lit up the room followed by the distant rumble of thunder.
An angry sky at night and Peter Clayton sleeps just right.
I closed my heavy eyelids and let the overwhelming urge to sleep overcome me, the sound of thunder and falling rain a soothing lullaby as I dreamt of things to be and things not to be—of ghosts and ghosts to be.
* * *
“Turn right just up here,” Jason said as we drove further and further outside of the city’s limits. Thinning forests and empty plains unfolded before us as the dirt and grime of the city gave way to the soft greens and browns of nature. A river, whatever its name was, ran dark and fast to our side.
“You sure?” I asked. “We've been going this way for a good half hour now.”
“I'll know it when I see it, okay? Trust me, you will, too.”
The car mounted another hill and we spiralled higher and higher into the mountains overlooking the city.
It was then that we both saw it.
The mansion sat like a jewel perched on top of the hill, growing larger and larger as we drew closer. The mansion looked barely big enough to corral Tony's ego as he proudly made his appearance at the front door. I parked my car meekly next to one of Tony’s latest sports cars. My ’87 rust-bucket looked like a shitty, brown shadow next to it.
Tony led us into the interior with overly-exaggerated hand gestures, and wild boasts about how much the place had set him back. The inside stretched back further than the eye could see. The odours of wealth that the walls exuded were like a musty, golden sweat. A rolling carpet, as long as a giant's tongue, directed our attention towards the main room. Beyond the doors, it rose two levels high with a spiralling stairwell gilded in a palette of gold and ivory. The arching, vaulted ceiling defined a cavernous space of soaring columns and deepest contemplation.
Tony wore a dark blue sports tank top with matching white shorts. He proudly boasted about every item we passed, his broad hands swinging like giant exclamation points as he led us further through his mansion and out into a sprawling back garden. From there, my breath was taken away—a majestic panorama of forests, mountains, and streams, lay before us—the ugly stain that was our city in the far distance. He pulled out a cold beer from an ice bucket nearby and tossed one to Jason and then me. We took a seat each beside the pool that was covered in a fine film of fallen red and brown leaves.
“Let me get down to business.” Tony pulled back his dark sunglasses and flashed a charismatic smile.
“I want to organise one of these Playdates for myself—a private function, if you will.”
“Well, we usually do them as group events, Tony,” I said. “Safety in numbers, you know? That way it’s harder for the ‘date to go against any of us.”
“Money is not an issue, Pete,” he flaunted. “I’ve got more money than sense right now, and I’m a hungry, hungry man.”
Jason let out a laugh before taking another mouthful of beer.
“There are some competitors out there that have been, well, giving me a hard time and I want to send them a . . . message of sorts.”
“We don’t kidnap people, Tony. That’s not the way it works.”
“Fine then. Lure them. Seduce them. Blow them off, I don’t care—I just want to send them a message of sorts. The cost isn’t an issue, guys. Like I said, I’ve got more money than sense these days.”
Jason nudged me on the arm and raised his eyebrows. His face barely suppressed a wide grin. It took all his barely constrained willpower to not yell out ‘yes, dear God yes!” at that very moment.
“Well, if it’s just a message you want to send—”
“We’d be glad to help you send it,” Jason interrupted. “We’ll stamp it, fold it, and hell, we’ll even shove it in the damn mailbox for you.”
He flashed a devilish grin and annoyingly nudged me on the arm again.
“All right,” I surrendered. “What sort of message did you have in mind?”
Tony sipped his beer contemplatively, choosing each word as carefully as the many overly-expensive ornaments and collections from his mansion.
“Basically, guys, I’m angry. I always have been. I’m not ashamed of it nor will I ever be. I will not try suppressing it, there’s no point—it has made me who I am today. A lot of people say that I’m angry, bull-headed, and rather than get upset about it or promise to make a change, do you know what I do? I smile. I’m pissed off at people wanting to undermine me; to try and change me, to try to be better than me and the stupid few who try to threaten me. Me, of all people? Yeah, being the head of Echo Cigarettes is going to make a certain number of people hate me, but that’s not why I’m angry. I’m pissed off at people trying to destroy all the hard work I’ve done and, quite frankly, Pete, I wouldn’t mind the opportunity to let some of this rage go in a more productive way. You know? Sometimes I prefer to use my hands rather than my words.”
Jason and I smiled at the prospect. We didn’t need to discuss anything further with him. We had found another client for our product.
CHAPTER 9
Most of Tony’s arranged Playdates went that way. He named competitors and we lured them back to the housing lot or other various locations and beat them around a little bit with Tony and sometimes a few others from our group. Tony would always pay the full amount for the group and everyone left pretty damn happy. Most of the Playdates got the message and fled town the next day. Some were smart and kept their mouths shut. One tried pinning the event back to Tony in which case we just beat him down again for free a few days later. Just like that, he decided to drop all charges against us.
I couldn’t have one of my carefully-selected clients in danger and risk missing out on future rage sessions. As much as I tried to deny it, I needed them as much as they needed me.
I’ll never forget it: the guy who had tried to pin it back to us was so easy to find. Tony had all his information from an old company card the man had given him a few months back. All it took was a few internet searches and then bingo.
We got him just as he was leaving work and about to get into his car. I’ll never forget how he tried to run the moment he saw me. I’d never seen such a deep fear in a human being before. His fight or flight instinct had never been more one-sided.
His terrified eyes never left me as he ran a perfect straight line, right into Jason. The two tumbled to the ground in a mess of limbs. As soon as he looked at Jason, I thought his eyes were going to pop out of his head and flee for their own safety for they had gotten so wide. Tears were streaming down his cheeks before we had even done or said anything.
We beat him around for a good minute or two. Just a few punches and kicks here and there. Nothing too heavy. Just a relaxing ‘rage hit’ like it was a casual beer on a sunny afternoon. There was no foreplay, no pretext, and no real build up behind it. Hell, we didn’t even really need the rage hit. We were there to do the deed and then leave.
It was one of our uglier Playdates in its simplicity. Jason even stopped hitting him after a minute and begged him to hit back or do something. Instead, the man whimpered and pissed himself. Jason looked at me, but all I could offer him was a shrug. We both felt a strange disgust at this man. Here was one of the brave few who had ever went against us—lying at our feet, almost kissing my shoes as he pleaded for mercy.
It felt too weird for us to continue. For some, the drug is just too overwhelming. Too real, or just simply too strong.
Every drug h
as its motto, some helpful piece of advice to remember: You gotta cough to get off. Beer before liquor, never sicker. LSD will set your mind free.
I wanted to give him something to remember, something to make the trip seem more pleasant for him. He was a pure rage virgin. Most of our victims had some previous experience, but this one—he was a first-timer. Sure, he’d had a hit with us before, but maybe that just seemed like a bad trip he chose to suppress—a black-out-drunk kind of night that only comes back in fragments and recollected stories. He was so innocent and naïve about how it all really worked.
Drug-free is the key, I thought about telling him. Instead, I gave him a tender smack across the cheek.
Love saves lives; drugs take lives.
Another smack.
He pressed his wet, snotty nose against my shoe and whimpered something that I will never know. I prodded him away with the tip of my shoe.
Shoot for the stars and not your arms.
By now, someone from his company had seen him, curled up in a ball at my feet, sobbing, weeping, and pissing himself. I tried to move away from him, but he wrapped his hands around my leg and wept even harder onto my jeans.
Stand up to drugs or fall to your knees.
Jason looked amused at him and then me and said something about how it was probably best we left. I looked over to my right and saw a woman, frozen in fear as she looked directly at us. I shrugged and tried to shake my leg free like he was a disobedient dog. The man finally let go and flopped to the ground. I prodded him with my shoe and took a step back just in case he tried to latch on again.
Drugs kick you when you’re down.
“Sorry about him,” Jason said apologetically. “It’s his first time.”
The woman looked more perplexed than scared. Her mouth hung open as words failed to form. He flashed a devilish, knowing grin at her, which almost seemed to suggest she might be next if she tried asking any questions.
“So, was it good for you, too?” Jason asked as he lit up a cigarette. The man sniffled, but had finally stopped crying. His fingers opened and closed like a new-born child wanting a bottle. His red, puffy eyes looked up blankly at us.
“I mean, this was fun and everything, don’t get me wrong, but I’m sorry to say that I’ve had better.”
Jason took a deep puff and flicked the ashes down onto him.
“You understand why this had to happen, right?” I asked him. He still stared up blankly at us. The rational part of his brain had shut down entirely.
“It’s pretty simple really. Stay away from Tony Garcia and drop all these accusations, otherwise, well . . .”
The man flinched. His eyes started to water up again.
“Don’t worry,” Jason said. “Be a good little boy and you won’t have to see us again. Oh, and don’t even think about going to the cops. Oh boy, you would not like that.”
The man tried to say something, but the words caught in his throat. He stifled a cry and wiped his nose with the back of his hand. We were about to walk away when he whispered something as quiet as a mouse. When we turned back around, he had an open palm stretched out.
“Unbelievable . . . Flops around like a dead fish and still expects to get paid.”
Jason knelt beside him. The man retracted his hand. He hid it in under his chest, trying to hide it shamefully from him.
“Not this time,” Jason said. “But who knows? Maybe next time we’ll buy you dinner before we show you a proper good time.”
By now, more people were starting to gather. Someone yelled for security. They all looked at Jason and then to me as if I somehow held the answer. All those eyes were looking at me. There was so much that I wanted to say, but where to begin?
“Doing rage will soon be all the rage!” I announced to the crowd with a grand sweep of my hands. Nothing but a sea of confused and shocked faces looked back at me. The man at my feet groaned quietly. We took that as our queue to leave before any more attention was drawn to us.
“Call me!” Jason blew the man a kiss and laughed as we quickly got back into my car and drove off before the cops or security showed up.
“Doing rage will soon be all the rage?” Jason asked with a lopsided grin.
“It sounded much better in my head,” I sighed.
We never did need to have another one of those awkward Playdates. The man never made another peep and soon Tony’s company, Echo Cigarettes, became the largest in several states across America.
FROM THE DIARY OF PETER CLAYTON
It probably comes as no surprise to hear that businesses need to be aggressive to survive, right? It’s just something we all grow up hearing, only the strongest survive. Hell, they don’t even try to hide a shade of the fact that they’re aggressive. It’s pretty much accepted as the norm nowadays and expected if anything. They call these tactics aggressive or offensive strategies. It’s all about squeezing others out of existence. “Kill off the competition,” they say. They talk about price wars, power struggles, survival, marketing warfare, headhunting, guerrilla marketing, and then wonder why we are a society of violent people.
They call these four strategies: prospector, defender, analyser, and reactor. When I dealt rage, I always considered it a prospector strategy. I’d of course never call myself a businessman or an entrepreneur though—I was always a dealer. This was just something that I done, something that I needed. I saw a market and went for it. That’s what my father always said about being CEO of a big international business: ‘you need to be aggressive if you want to win. Kill off all the competition.' The funny thing about rage—it was never a new market. Rather, it was something that had always existed and was just waiting for someone to seize it. The real value is being the first in an industry ‘first mover advantage’ after-all.
I’d probably call my ‘clients’ the analysers. They saw what I had to offer and willingly joined in. They did not want to be the first movers, and the product seemed close to their core beliefs anyway. It’s not a surprise considering what this city does to people: it either turns them into a monster or a survivor.
Society is a reactor. We are too afraid to admit that we are aggressive anymore, so we just simply react to external factors, to the more aggressive and either side with them or rally to the next person aggressive enough to go against them. Always reacting to other factors, and in relation to the other four strategies, it is the least effective, the one without direction or focus. Sounds like most of our lives, doesn’t it? And you wonder why corrupt and evil people rise to power.
That’s how it has always been. We simply respond and frown and side with the more aggressive because we believe they have a goal in mind. A grand plan for us all. They must be if they are that focused, right? That’s what made rage such a simple and yet effective drug. You take a hit of rage, and you don’t think or react.
You just act.
CHAPTER 10
Morning had come too soon. I woke up with my forehead covered in beads of sweat and my limbs throbbing with numbness. A thin shaft of blinding light traced its way through the blinds and crawled across the floor before finally coming to rest on my face. An epic adventure surely, considering how tiny my studio apartment was.
I checked my watch.
11:30 am.
Still plenty of time before my job interview. It was my first one in the past six months and I was determined to look my best to raise my chances. I peeled myself off the leather-bound couch and realized I had forgotten to change before falling asleep. My damp clothes stank of cigarettes and rain. After a refreshing shower, I decided that I should call Jason and let him know about the plan for later. I’d come to the realisation that the Playdates were simply not enough for him. He needed another outlet.
Jason was always a very blunt person from the first day I met him. When he was sad, he was sad and when he was happy, (however rare that seemed) he was happy. There was never any grey area with him; he was always as easy to read as a book. Hell, if someone wrote a book about him then I i
magine it would be an angry little pop-up book that would reach up and smack you every couple of pages.
It was one of the things that I liked about him. One of the things that made him a friend.
I let the phone ring until his answering machine finally picked up.
“Hey, it’s Pete. Just letting you know, I booked us into the local boxing club, the Maldon down on 34th. It starts at eight just after group session.” I was about to hang up when I picked the phone back up.
“Be sure to show up and don’t be late.”
I pulled out a cigarette and was about to light it up when I paused. I decided it would be best not to dull the senses before the interview. My mind always worked best when it was sharp, when the rage and all other emotions were allowed to flow free.
The street outside was as dry as a bone. Little evidence of the heavy rains from the night before remained. The ambulances, the police cars, the sirens, the ghosts, even the woman—all gone. Now a different kind of silence had descended upon the neighbourhood: the working silence. That silence where everyone is stuck behind computer desks or school tables or in some way silenced until the workday ended. Once it did, the noise would come pouring back into the world with a frustrated roar of traffic and chattering school kids. That scornful, subdued silence we all must endure until we can scream and yell and drown it all out with noise and distractions for another few hours.
* * *
“So, why do you want this job, Mr. Clayton?”
I sat contemplatively for a long moment. Truthfully, I didn't really want the job. It was a supervisory role for some cardboard manufacturing company; a humble, simple job supposedly give me a sense of achievement, of accomplishment, that I could steer my life towards—a blueprint for the life and death of Peter Clayton, design trademarked by Box life Inc.
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