Tall Tales of Felony and Failure

by Warren Haustrumerda

  “Yes, I’m fucking awake. Quit harassing me. My head’s killing me. Have you made any coffee yet?”

  “No, and don’t blame me, either. Your lack of planning fucked us.” I keep my clever new way of drinking coffee to myself. He doesn’t deserve any this morning.

  “Are you eating dirt?” he asks. “You’ve got shit in your teeth.”

  “Fuck you if I was. It’s better than those burnt-assed chicken patties we had last night. The fire’s out, anyway, so we can’t cook anything. You’ve fucked this all up, brother. Don’t think I’m going to tell you where the tasty dirt is, either.”

  “Fuck you, I don’t want any of your goddamn dirt.” Tom rises and wanders off to piss. I wander off a few yards in the opposite direction to do the same, which helps clear my head. The morning horseplay complete, it’s time to get down to business and decide the easiest way to turn ourselves in to the closest authorities. A good piss seems like the best way to begin preparations.

  We collect a few a few more nips each from the booze pile. They might come in handy later. Out of excuses, we leave for the wreckage. We’ve needed the time away to get our heads together, but I think we’re now ready to best take advantage of our situation.

  My stomach’s starting to hurt. Probably the goddamn chicken.

  * * *

  Chapter Eight

  A human being can stand only so much callow wit, and Tom and I have reached the end of ours. With grit in our teeth and our guts, we plod on. Our moods darkening out of an attempted respect for our victims, we reach the crash site. The sincerity of our newfound depth rubs falsely.

  The wreckage starts at a line of torn earth and trees, three football fields long. What remains of the fuselage is crumpled, the still smoldering front end partially buried. There are plane pieces everywhere. We walk the length of the wreckage’s path, occasionally picking through the debris, staying clear of the charred remains of our victims, some whole and others in pieces.

  We make a good show of ignoring the other people here. These stern folk are performing their own investigation, albeit more professionally. They appear to have a great deal more experience in such matters.

  These other people are not ignoring me and Tom. They forget their tasks and watch us, waiting for the inevitable authority figure to approach and resolve this distraction so their work may continue.

  Some old Asian army officer-looking guy walks up to Tom and me, followed by two little jackbooted goons in fatigues. The old guy is bent and wrinkly in his crisp uniform. His goons are stern-eyed and metal-helmeted.

  The old guy starts jabbering something in Spanish. Jesus Christ. We trudge through this shit-swamped fucking Chinese jungle and the first jackass to talk to us can't even speak fucking English. "What about me looks Mexican, Colonel Klink?"

  Why is Tom looking at me like that? "Jesus Christ, Cran, do you have goddamn brain damage?" he asks softly through the side of his mouth. "That wasn't Spanish, and these men are probably ninjas."

  The older soldier nods at his henchmen, who draw towards us. Tom steps back and smiles calmly at everyone, slowly patting the air in front of him, palms out.

  Tom and I are soundly beaten, bound, and tossed in the back of a small pickup truck. I lose consciousness as we drive off.

  * * * *

  I wake in the back of some truck, in pain and crying, just a little. We pass by blurry street signs in some godless language I can't decipher. Tom lies next to me, staring accusingly. The gags prevent any conversation, thank God.

  We arrive at our apparent destination, a three-story white building that looks like it was built by stacking huge shoeboxes and is crammed between similar buildings on a narrow street. Tom and I are hauled off into the building, then each taken down different corridors from the main hallway at the entrance.

  * * * *

  I've been rotting in this filthy goddamn cell for at least a month. I haven't seen Tom.

  The funny thing about being able to step out of time is that it doesn't do you any goddamn good when you're locked in a goddamn cage. No one around here seems to carry keys. Even if they did, no one comes close enough to my cell for me to grab. Our goddamn plan is riddled with holes.

  I have been practicing my time trick, though. I've learned that I can sleep out of time, so I do this quite a bit now. If my jailers checked on me more often, they'd be floored by how little sleep I apparently need.

  Unfortunately, the only notice they pay me is when they come to push a tray of food through a slot at the bottom of my barred door with a broom handle twice a day. I think it's twice a day, anyway. The relativism of my relationship with time is starting to confuse the issue. I do my best to mark its passage by making a new etch in the cinderblock wall every meal with my spoon.

  My only dream now is of the talking head. I lose the details upon waking, but retain the feeling that I'm being directed. Subconscious seeds resulting in conscious actions I'm fooled into thinking are spontaneous. I'm probably just overreacting. I'm tightly wound, lately.

  I miss Tom. All this time with myself only highlights my incompetence.

  I've started snapping my fingers and pointing a lot. Truth be told, if I were one to admit to being afraid, I'd do so right now.

  * * * *

  Eventually, two FBI agents, necessary because of our infamous Hawaiian Bouncer Murder, arrive to take us into custody and arrest us.

  After Tom and I are handcuffed and beaten by the agents, we all depart what I finally learn is the city of Phnom Penh, Cambodia and head for the airport.

  Tom and I are too bruised and sore to take in much of the city as we drive through. He and I brood individually. I have words on my mind, but will keep them to myself until opportunity presents. I'm content that my head hasn’t opened back up during any of the beatings. Pretty soon, I'll be able to start picking at the scab.

  Tom seems serene, thoughtful, with the beatings and solitude effecting as expected.

  At the airport, we're prodded through the dirty, sour-smelling terminal to the ticket counter. The FBI agents fancy everyone with their badges and papers and are given our boarding passes.

  From the ticket counter we all head straight to our plane. This requires leaving the far side of the building and trotting a hundred yards across the tarmac to a small Malaysian Airlines jet.

  We wait in line with the other passengers on the tarmac while two baggage handlers toss everyone’s luggage into the compartment located in the nose of the plane. Once done, the baggage handlers put on their pilot hats, trod up the steps and disappear into the cockpit.

  Everyone starts to board. A cute stewardess stands at the bottom of the steps and greets the passengers as they pass. She even greets Tom and me, who look roguish.

  Seated in the back of the plane on either side of the aisle, each with an agent at our side, Tom and I settle back. We aren't too concerned about experiencing another crash. Not because the chances of such are very slim, statistically, but because we're both pretty convinced that we don't need to worry about such things anymore.

  The initial leg of the flight is to Bangkok, Thailand. We see none of this Promised Land, vexing us to no end. The next layover is in Osaka, Japan. I accidently piss myself a little because my guardian agent refuses to let me go to the lavatory unattended. My pants eventually dry.

  "Guess what, you little fucks," the smaller agent says about an hour into the flight from Osaka. "You're going to Hibbling. No stop in Hawaii for you two. Straight to the PVC, you fucking terrorists." He seems very pleased with himself.

  PVC. The Patriot Verification Center in Hibbling, Minnesota. I can tell that the smile I flash at this news is not the response the agent expected. "Will they give me a clean pair of pants?" I ask.

  I'm not concerned with the Patriot Verification Center because I know we'll never see it. I'm just pleased that we're going directly to the mainland, and will be spared an inconvenient escape from Hawaii.

  I hope Tom's of the same mind. I intend the next
layover, presumably Los Angeles, to be murderous. I want to use the words I've been saving.

  I look over at Tom, who doesn't seem to share my optimism. I can't risk speaking to him to calm his nerves, though. He'll just have to stew for a while longer.

  * * *

  Chapter Nine

  When I think of the house where I was raised, I shake. I vibrate. I don't understand why. I barely remember it, but just imagining it makes me bigger then my skin. This feels terrible because my skin is not elastic.

  * * * *

  I stop time as we're walking between terminals at LAX. I'm handcuffed but my arms are in front of me, making it relatively easy to fumble through both agents pockets until I find the right keys.

  It takes some time and some fumbling but I'm finally able to remove my handcuffs. I roll my stiff and sore wrists for a bit to loosen them up, then pull Tom out of time with me. All of my practice in the Cambodian jail seems to be paying off. I'm getting pretty good at this.

  "Gah, ah...what?" Tom stammers as he stumbles, his orientation adjusting. Steadied, he holds his cuffed hands out to me. "Get these off. They're chapping me."

  I oblige and give Tom time to work out the kinks in his sore wrists. "Are we going to kill these fucks?" he asks.

  "Oh my, yes." I find myself rubbing my hands together. This is going to be fantastic.

  I need to be careful with this revenging, though. If I kill everyone who's ever wronged me, Tom and I will be the only people left on the planet. Actually, Tom's a bit of a question mark in that respect.

  I'll enjoy it just this once, then, and be more practical in the future.

  Once Tom and I are positioned and ready, I pull the smaller of the two agents out of time. We immediately lay into the man but don't cross into impropriety until the agent's on the ground, lying on his side with his arms pinned behind his back, shoulders dislocated. I'm kicking him in the throat as Tom stomps on his arms, snapping bones. I don't think I'll ever forget the sound of those arm bones breaking, it was that exhilarating.

  The throat eventually offers little resistance and starts to tear open, grossing me out. I move down and start kicking the agent's stomach.

  We're panting and sweating by the time we finish. I'm pleased that, during the assault, I'd found time to use the words I’d been saving since our car ride in Cambodia. I remove the dead agent’s slacks, which are much fresher than mine, and clumsily put them on after removing my own. This pleases me to no end.

  I may be too winded to kill the remaining agent, though. Tom, staggering and appearing as spent as I feel, lands a blow squarely on the still-frozen agent's nose, then jerks his hand away, clutching it to his belly. "Oh, mother...Christ," he grunts. Apparently, old Tom didn't expect the significant resistance to movement expressed by this still-frozen agent's skull. The still-frozen agent's nose now rests in a very odd, flattened position.

  "Shit...goddamn, let's just go," Tom says, still gulping air.

  "Okay. Pussy."

  Satiated and avenged, we leave the airport. I marvel at how easily we'd just remorselessly killed a man. I'm pretty sure that it'll become even easier with practice.

  I'm pleased to find that I didn't overly enjoy the murder, meaning I have no significant psychopathic or sadistic tendencies. I'm just a man getting by.

  * * * *

  I lost the coin toss deciding who would drive the motorcycle we stole at the airport, so happily sit behind Tom, squinting out at the desert flying by on either side. We've just stepped, actually driven, back into time, feeling far enough away from the airport, and are looking for a suitable location for our first robbery.

  The first town we find after crossing into Nevada looks as good as any. Indianapolis, Nevada is surrounded by encroaching desert, with loose sand traveling about its streets and collecting in front of peeled-paint storefronts. A pair of terrible, old whores sit in wicker chairs in front of one of the town’s surprisingly numerous bars.

  We park the motorcycle in front of a head shop, the stink of incense wafting out the open front door. We see a rode-hard hippy inside, leaning over a counter between Grateful Dead t-shirts and a water pipe display, staring at nothing. Tom mocks the man. I understood Tom’s derision.

  Following behind Tom, I'm trying hard to be clever and scheme. I want to come up with something that will knock Tom’s socks off. I want to be the Big Thinker, for once.

  We walk down the town’s main street in silence, sizing up the businesses and the people. This takes about fifteen minutes at a slow pace.

  Tom nods to the old whores out of professional courtesy as we return to our motorcycle. Once there, I sit on the curb and have a cigarette. Tom straddles the bike, hunched over the handlebars with his chin resting on his folded arms, gazing at the ground.

  “We can stop time, run around and steal as much as possible, ride off and start time again once we’re far enough away,” I say.

  “Sounds good. I can’t come up with anything better.”

  I sit on the curb and maintain my composure. Inside, though, I'm bursting with pride.

  “You’d better get some different pants while we’re at it.” Tom continues. “Those old man slacks clash with your filthy t-shirt.”

  I sigh, deflated, but Tom's right, as usual. I'll change my pants again, but I'm not throwing these slacks out. They're fucking sharp.

  We pick the town clean. We begin with the bank, a small franchise branch from one of the national chains. A short time inside forces us to admit that we have no idea where the safe or vault was, or if either even exist here. Regardless, we make the best of it and empty the registers, stuffing our pockets.

  Next is the drug store, the bars, the liquor store, the hardware store and, finally, the head shop. I find a pair of hemp shorts in my size and take them. We've collected so much loose cash that we need to go back to the head shop and take a backpack Tom had seen behind the counter to carry it all.

  The take isn't just cash. It's also all of the cash and jewelry we could find on the locals. We don't put any of the jewelry in our bag, though. Wanting to be beautiful, we wear it all.

  Job done and swag collected, several thousand dollars richer with a backpack close to bursting, we ride off like conquerors. Adorned in necklaces, bracelets, and thirty seven rings on four hands worth of fingers, we sparkle back toward the highway. We leave Indianapolis, Nevada, with its small stores and old whores, behind.

  Immediately outside of the town, we pass the usual satellite strip malls full of churches, discount stores, and fast food restaurants. They're failure's sprawl, and I hate them all.

  Twenty miles out, our cycle hits a pothole. I'm startled and accidentally restart time. There's a near miss with a couple of now-moving vehicles next to and in front of us, but Tom maintains and soon we're adjusted and moving smoothly on.

  Tom curses me for not warning him. I pretend I'd restarted time on purpose, but am concerned about this lack of control. I feel the fires of wrath behind us, pairing nicely with the burning road ahead. The flames keep pace, staying consistently distant. I want an extinguisher, a full one this time. I know we'll eventually be overcome.

  I hold onto Tom with one hand and drink stolen whisky with the other, until debt and inevitability are forgotten. Tornados of flame periodically rise up then diminished on either side. Tom never sees the flames, which is fine. I'll be mindful enough for the both of us, when the time comes.

  * * *

  Chapter Ten

  Tom and I ride into Las Vegas, heroes on a stolen motorcycle, and pawn all of our jewelry.

  At a mediocre hotel a few blocks off of the strip, Tom watches a roulette table for a while then wanders off. I'm wearing a new fedora at a jaunty angle, mostly to cover my dried and flaking scab and bald spot but also because it matches my smile. Tom returns and hands me a key card. I touch the brim of my hat in acknowledgment, hoping for a compliment. Instead, he stares at me for a moment, turns, and wanders off again.

  Days become a blur of free liqu
or, lights, gambling, and whores. I’m cracked out on energy drinks and scotch, like every other high roller.

  I stop time and lift wallets and purses. Money goes quickly, so I have to do this a few times each day. I don’t rob at our hotel, because you don’t shit where you eat.

  Tom spends most of his time feverishly browsing porn on a stolen laptop, periodically stopping to scream about commitment. Maybe he’s losing his mind. I empathize.

  * * * *

  You're supposed to be able to redeem yourself with a prostitute. Unfortunately, my conscious is beyond repair, past what even a whore can redeem. Jesus, but thinking about how damned I am makes me grin.

  After ten minutes of grunting, we retreat to separate sides of my hotel bed. The sheets and blankets are stiff, hopefully with cleanliness, and uncomfortable.

  "Do you mind if I smoke?" she asks.

  "No. I'll join you."

  We smoke for a while in silence. I'm pretty sure I've paid for several more hours.

  "So what do you do?"

  I've been staring off. "Not a whole lot. Gamble, lose money."

  "That's too bad."

  "No, I'm really rich."

  "I know that, baby. I'm very expensive. How did you make your money, before you started losing it?"

  "Fighting terrorists. My friend and I were paid a lot of money by the government to hunt them down after they nuked Chicago."

  She's staring at me, her facade fading. "Did you catch any of them?"

  "Of course not. We'd already been paid."

  My lady love lost her last hint of friendliness. She mashes out her cigarette, leaves the bed, dresses quickly in what little clothes she'd worn in, and walks to the door. Before leaving, though, she turns back to me, her face soured. "My brother was in Chicago, you fuck. Fuck you. You're not funny. You're not cute, either. You're a fucking cunt. I hope they kill your family next time."