Blood and Sawdust

by Jason S Ridler

  A plan hatched that stank as bad as a soiled comic book but he was shit out of ideas.

  Dizzy groaned. “Now for the littlest cub.”

  Malcolm put his hands behind his back and fished in his ass pocket. “If you can take me.”

  Dizzy chortled. “Dealing with Gallows Birds may be bad for your health.”

  “I’ve got nothing to lose. I got nowhere to go. Even if I walk out of here I’m fucking doomed.”

  “Who says you’re walking out at all,” Dizzy said, walking forward across the whisky and glass stained floor. His chest didn’t even look bruised.

  “If that’s true, then I’m taking you with me.”

  Dizzy grunted. “You talk worse than Penny Dreadful left on a shithouse floor.”

  He took a few steps back, close to touching the wall that he’d been pinned to, the black stain of the juice Dizzy had spat still hanging like a tarred black hole on a flecked concrete wall. “I’m going to kill you. Imperishable or not.”

  “You have a noble heart, cub.” Dizzy said. “I’ll enjoy chewing it.” Dizzy charged. Malcolm kept his hands up. But as Dizzy tore through the distance between them, that sour stench growing closer, he slowed…slow as watching the last round of a glass jaw exhibition match…Brown teeth growing closer…hands contorted to claws that had torn his mother away from him.

  A burning rage tore his muscles, the desire to strike out almost too much to stomach. Black fire burned in his marrow to move, strike, crush and kill this wretched shit heel, shatter that grin in a thousand places, break those teeth on his knuckles like a brick through glass…the animal desire in him flared through his eyes.

  No.

  Think.

  Suck it up, Slow Mo.

  He reined in the beast. How do you stop a freight train?

  You don’t.

  Dizzy leapt, mouth wide. Malcolm’s fists clenched, then he dropped on his aching ass, taking a sharp knee to the forehead, and he stumbled to the ground before hearing a godawful screech.

  He rolled out of the way. Just like Lash, Dizzy’s face was stuck to the tobacco tar black hole next to Milkwood, his muffled scream like a broken vacuum cleaner about to blow, jagged elbows jutting out, hands pressed against the concrete and pushing as he screeched, pulling off his face.

  Malcolm dug Milkwood’s teeth out of his pockets, shoved them between his fingers, and leaped on to the hideous curve of Dizzy’s back. Hands wailed above to reach him. Malcolm gripped a bony shoulder and jammed the teeth above Dizzy’s heart. Brown ooze spat out as he did it again and again, holding on to the thrashing form. Frantically, Dizzy’s worms began to mend the hole

  Malcolm took a massive, deep breath, and dropped his armed fist, slashing and punching and cutting and digging into Dizzy’s back, screaming profanities so vile and harsh his blood shook, everything he’d sucked up he drove into each gauging punch that buried itself fist deep.

  Dizzy snapped back from the wall, face torn to shreds but free, and ran around the room like a wild bull that Malcolm could barely hold on to. But the screeching from the dripping wet mouth was not half as loud as the scream of the bird in Malcolm’s hands.

  “Back! Put her back! Don’t you dare!” Dizzy screamed, hands raised as he slowed down, panting, juice dripping from his mouth, pooling on the ground. He stopped, bent over “Don’t! I’ll do whatever you want! Give you whatever you want, just don’t take my gallows bird. My word is ironclad. I am forever good to keep it. Just tell me what you want and it is yours a thousand times yours!”

  “What do I want,” Malcolm said, seething, feeling the bird pulse in his hand.

  “Yes, cub. Anything!”

  “I want you dead, dead, dead!”

  He yanked out the fluffy bird before Dizzy’s hands could find purchase and the room flashed white—

  For a floating moment, he saw the black bird in his hands. It looked like those birds who survived an oil tanker spill, slick and coated and a few breaths before death. Its eyes black, but shiny. In his grip, the thud of the little animal heart was set to burst.

  A distant voice cried out in his head.

  Free…

  The black bird looked at Malcolm, as if he was going to swallow it.

  No, Malcolm thought. Go home. If you have one. Get away from this monster if you can. He released his grip. Go.

  The flutter of oily wings sent a dark cascade of colours across the whiteness, pumpkin orange and Christmas red; tie-dyed pyramids and sheer black sphinxes cluttered a diamond landscape that began to slowly bleed away…

  The black bird’s cry pierced the darkness like a gash and Malcolm fell to the saw dusted ground as Dizzy’s body collapsed.

  Breathing in the sweet and rotten taste of sawdust he thought. I did it, Mom. He’s dead. The grey faced man is dead.

  Two thuds came from behind.

  Lash was on her back, gasping.

  Milkwood was on his knees, staring red daggers at him.

  Shit, shit, shit.

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  MILKWOOD STOOD, HAIR torn from the roots still on the wall. The fear and exhaustion in the kid’s eyes. Milkwood gripped himself. “Kid?”

  He took a step back as Larissa came to her feet. “You stupid shit!” She tore the brown goo from her face, leaving pink, sick looking skin. “You have no idea what you’ve done.”

  Malcolm dropped Milkwood’s old teeth in his hand, then wiped his hands in a bucket of sawdust, peeling back the foul stains. “Besides saving your life, after you tried to sell mine?”

  “You’ve unchained more beasts than you’ve slain, you dumb fuck.”

  “Because that thing was hunting you,” Milkwood said walking toward her. “Noble thing would be to die and save the world.”

  “Shut up, you ungrateful fucktard,” Lash said as they circled each other. “Wonder is going to start bleeding into the world again. Soon, that tubby frame won’t be able to waltz through anyone like acid on toast. There’s going to be worse things in the world than you and me.” She stared daggers at him. “And they’ll do far worse things to us than I ever did to you.”

  Milkwood’s eyes flared. “I doubt that, Larissa. I doubt that very much.” His lips twitched.

  Above them, a Klaxon called out “Main Event.”

  “Out of my way,” she said. “I’m done slumming with pathetic Halloween throwaways.”

  Milkwood raised his hands, face bitter, and she stormed past him—as he snatched her purse.

  * * *

  “Don’t!” She tore after him and in Malcolm’s eyes the move was played out in perfection. Milkwood pulled her reaching hand toward him, flipped her over his shoulder, and landed on her back like a trash can Buddha giving her a bum splash.

  She squirmed, but could not get up.

  Milkwood dove into the purse like a junkie looking for a lost dime bag until he pulled out a flask. “Ah…Daddy’s private stash. The last blood of your ancient sire.” She tore herself against the ground, screaming at him to stop, her face still scarred and gooey.

  He tore off the top and drank deep.

  The taste was between a mouthful of aluminum and thunderbird: it shot through his body with a sickening speed as every wound flared, and Milkwood rolled off Lash with a gasp, shaking on his knees.

  * * *

  Milkwood’s whole body glowed for a grey instant, the day’s wounds knitting themselves to full flesh; then the grey went pink.

  He crushed the flask as Lash ran at him. “No, you bastard!” She clawed his face, punched his nose, kneed his balls until her blows slowed, weak and thin, and she fell before him, gasping for air.

  He dropped the ruined flask and she dove for it, licking the torn edges until the blood was bright and dripping from her mouth.

  Above them, the Klaxon called Milkwood’s name.

  But Milkwood stood there, breathing, flesh almost pink and sweaty. He looked healthy, if fat, and breathed in so much you figured he’d choke on the sawdust. But the pink faded.


  “Relax, Kid. I’m full. Sort off. And without her thermos of old stuff, she’s going to have to troll for weak meals. I think we’re good. Just gotta do one thing.” He tore out his teeth, gave them to Malcolm, and left the bodies behind them.

  “C’mon,” Malcolm said, red and gummy. “Didn’t come this far to forfeit by being late.”

  Malcolm took one look back and gasped

  Dizzy lay like a husk, but in the black spot where the bird had nested was something white.

  “Fuck.”

  A little white egg cracked. And from it something flew out, something brown and slick. It darted up, into the darkness, on wings that hissed. Below, the body of Dizzy Colt turned to chunky brown juice that bled into the sawdust.

  Lash, licking her flask, paid no mind as the door shut behind them.

  * * *

  The crowd was reduced to hushed tones of anticipation as Milkwood adjusted his sling and Malcolm led the way to the ring.

  A red tracer warmed Malcolm’s cheek and he froze on one side of the cage while Milkwood made the last stretch alone.

  They had no honey pot. Lash had welched and now the best they could do was walk out of there broke but free. It was as good a prize as Malcolm had ever seen in the circuit. A lemony hand patted Malcolm’s head. “I’ve gotta tell you, Malcolm,” the Judge said, “you’ve helped make this one hell of a circuit night. Blindness, torture, and now a grudge match from yesterday. Jackson Lord himself could not have boasted such a macabre tour de force.”

  Another red dot flickered on his eye until he covered it with his hand. “I promised nothing less.”

  “Let’s talk at my office. Don’t worry, the match won’t start until I give the signal. We have some new business. C’mon.”

  They went back to the empty bar, everyone crushed around the cage for the main event. The Judge leapt over the bar, as if trying to prove he was still the young shooter who’d terrorized Montreal in the 1960s, when the Fringe circuit was just a handful of freaks slugging it out in parking lots. There was nothing but peeled rinds on the cutting board next to a glistening serrated knife. “Looks like you might even leave with a winner’s purse. And all the fixings.”

  Malcolm sat on a barstool, knowing his bet was nullified and wondering if the Judge would thank him for winning nothing. Nah, he thought. Let’s have some fun. “That’s up to those two in the ring.” Kudor stared in the crowd, face bruised, and his arms up. But he would not face Milkwood, eyes rolling.

  Milkwood took off his sling, wincing as he laid it down, and the crowd was cheering.

  Holy humping shit, Malcolm thought. What the hell did he do to them? Hand out handjobs?

  “Purists are a dying breed,” the Judge said. He took the knife while Malcolm covered his eyes from the red dots. “But everyone needs to know they are getting their money’s worth. Or else they look to other things to spend their blood and treasure on. Do you understand me?”

  Malcolm’s intestines wrenched. “Milkwood’s going to win,” he said. “And he’ll do it without ruining your money belt.” The red light swam over his face like a starved and drunk mosquito. “Any reason I’m getting the red gnat treatment?”

  The Judge opened a drawer and stabbed down hard. He yanked up the blade and stuck in the end was Malcolm’s passport. “You’re not as smart as you think you are, Malcolm. Wisdom comes with age, and while you may think these morons are loving Milkwood as he flukes his way to the top, none want him walking out with his neck attached to his head. If he wins, you lose.” He dropped the blade in his drawer. “Do you follow?”

  “That ain’t fair.”

  “Whoever told you life was fair was an idiot.” The crowd was going mad. “Natives are restless,” the Judge said. “Better tell him to lie down and be good or else you should be putting on a Kevlar helmet.”

  Malcolm actually growled, then stopped himself. “I can’t believe this. You’re rigging your own fight?”

  “Good thing no one can hear you or I’d be feeding Samson your tongue.”

  “But why?” He looked back at the fans, hands in the air, screaming for Milkwood, then back at the Judge. “Hold up. You’re full of it. They want him to win. He’s made them cheer.”

  The Judge snapped at him. “I won’t have some freak son of a no good goddamn wrestler winning my tournament. Now run along, Malcolm. Tell your bad boy to lay down his arms. Or else you’ll be stuck in this town like tar, six feet under. I’ll have the bell rung when you’re done.”

  Anger closed his hands to fists, but lashing out at the Judge wasn’t going to help them any, so Malcolm lanced through the bodies and banged the cage, then gripped the chain links to scurry in front of the capacity crowd, cigarettes burning his ear and hair, drinks spilling, but he clawed and clawed until he got to the door, ignoring the insults and death threats and dirty hands. Milkwood saw him and came to the door. “Any last requests?” He smiled, toothless, holding his drooping left arm like it was broken.

  Forever was too short to describe how long this day had been, how different that moment at the cage was compared to when Malcolm first rushed through the crowd the night before and saw Milkwood walking to the sawdust as if asking to have his head caved in. In less than twenty four hours he had seen more blood, death, and bizarro shit in this nowhere city than in all his time running the circuit for Rob. Everything seemed brighter, lighter, and that dreadful pull of knowing no matter how far away he was he’d yo-yo right back to Troy…it snapped.

  The realization could not have lasted longer than a heartbeat.

  Malcolm exhaled, his body feeling both light and strong. Dizzy was dead. No PI needed. No mystery to solve. It was done. Done. A clarity strengthened in his eyes.

  “Do me one favour?” Malcolm said.

  Milkwood leaned in close.

  “Don’t kill him. Break him. Let him leave here like a busted nobody.” Malcolm said. “Turn his rep into a lie and let him loose.”

  Milkwood nodded. “Too easy.” He took his corner of the cage as the ref checked his boots, ignoring the broken glass.

  Malcolm turned. The Judge gave him a thumbs up. Malcolm returned it with a big, happy smile that the Judge seemed to love, then hand-signaled.

  The bell rang.

  Both men rushed each other.

  And Malcolm, staring with a big grin, gave the Judge the finger until the old man’s face puckered worse than if he’d eaten a billion lemons.

  Like flame eating tissue paper, it was over before you could get excited. Even for Malcolm, the moves were fast and furious as Milkwood dodged a jab and broke Kudor’s knee with a snap kick before kidney punching him so hard he staggered on his bad knee and screamed. Then he gripped the large throat as the big hands punched and cuffed and could not break his hold.

  “Remember, me, faggot?” Milkwood screamed, then tossed him against the chain before drilling his liver with a punch that forced Kudor’s whole body to spasm.

  Two red dots burned on Malcolm’s head

  It wasn’t even five seconds.

  A bang tore through the air like the world’s loudest firecracker. Followed by another.

  And the lights went out for Malcolm.

  * * *

  Milkwood had been smiling, about to finish Kudor off with a wimpy wrist lock until the big guy begged for release, when the darkness flashed twice with white light—

  Malcolm was smiling outside the cage as two bullets snapped at his skull and shot him in the darkness…

  Milkwood’s heart slowed while the kid flew at the cage, bloody face mashed against the links, before crashing chest first on the ground, hoody covering the back of his head so he couldn’t see what he knew had happened to the back of his head…

  Milkwood’s heart stopped. The massive crowd was pulsing like a bucket of maggots. And behind him, at the desk, the Judge was declaring the match forfeit on the mike.

  Kudor stepped in front of him, hobbling. “You’re…dead, freakshow—”

  Milkwood gripped hi
s neck, and drilled him straight between the eyes with his left hand, then, as the bloody rivers flowed, he tore a strip of his neck off so that the artery blasted a wild splatter. He drank deep as bullets thundered into him, healing the damage as it occurred while Kudor screamed and writhed and then dropped like an empty sack, eyes wide with terror.

  The crowd was trampling over the kid’s body.

  Anger became movement. Milkwood tore through the cage, shoving handfuls of spectators deep in the crowd. He picked up the kid as a bullet cut through his body.

  Blood covered the young, bruised face.

  A breath pushed blood bubbles from his nose.

  Alive?

  More gunshots rang and Milkwood tossed the kid over his shoulder, tearing a path to the only possible destination—

  The bar. The Judge behind it with a sawed off shotgun—

  Milkwood ran, leapt over the bar, and pounced down on the old shooter’s chest, hearing the bones snap with a satisfying crunch. “Where is his passport?”

  “Ffff fuck you, you fffreak. You’re dead in the circuit. Dead.”

  “And I’ll be strangling you with your own intestines if you don’t give me that passport. Now!” He gripped the man’s abdomen, surprisingly muscled, and tore out a chunk with his fingers.

  The Judge screamed. “Front pocket! Get off me!”

  Milkwood tore through the man’s pants until he had the little book with the eagle on the cover. Bullets cracked through the wood. “Now tell them to stop firing or I’ll eat your liver while you watch.”

  “Stop! Cease fire! Cease fire!”

  The munitions stopped buzzing through the air as Milkwood stood, the crowd running wild and scared behind him.

  “You’re dead, you little shit bastard,” the Judge said. “You and that stupid kid.”

  “Kid’s tougher than you, you washed up shooter.”

  “Better than a wrestler’s son!”

  Milkwood dropped his fist like point-blank cannon shot and the Judge’s brain shot through his fractured skull. Milkwood leapt over the bar, through the crowd, praying that the kid was still breathing.