Overkill

by Ted Bell

  Shit Smith, a child of the prairie, also had had it about up to here with living inside a fucking mountain. “Ain’t natural for folks to live like this, Uncle Joe,” he was forever saying to his new best friend. A man needs room to roam around in, air to breathe . . . and, ever now and then, a little strange pussy to tide him over till the snow melts and the cows come home. You with me on that, Joey?”

  “Can’t argue with that, Shit,” Joe said, hearing his own slurred words in his head.

  “Can’t argue with nothin’ old Shit says, Joe. Cause Shit speaks truth to power, goddamn it.”

  Joe looked across the table at the tall Texan. He was still pushed away from the old wooden table, leaning his chair back precariously on two legs, still smoking a Cuban stogie that Putin had given him after dinner the night before.

  “Bullshit, Shit,” Joe said.

  “What’d you say, l’il podnuh?” the killer said, although it took him almost ten minutes to get the sentence out, along with a cloud of blue smoke.

  “I call bullshit. You can’t sit over there philosophizing, telling me you kill people for fun.”

  “I cain’t? Well now, that’s weird. I thought I could. Who says I cain’t, Joe? You?”

  Shit slowly plucked the soggy mass of cigar from between his teeth, leaned forward nice and easy, and flicked his grey ashes onto Joe’s still-warm beef goulash. Did it like he was casually sprinkling a dish with a dash of seasoning for good measure.

  “Goddamn it, Shit!” Joe said. “What’d you go and do that for? I was just getting ready to eat that. Why are you always doing stuff like that, huh?”

  “’Cause I can, little brother, ’cause I can. Lemme tell you a little story, Uncle Joe, set yo wiseass straight about old Shit once and for all. Does that sound good?”

  “Go ahead,” Joe said, grabbing a passing waiter by the elbow and ordering them another round of beers and another order of ungarische gulaschsuppe.

  “Well, all right then. This was mebbe a few years ago, y’know, when I was living over to Folsom.”

  “Folsom, as in jail? Alabama?”

  “Keerect. So anyhow, there was this dude on my cellblock. You ever hear of something called Mara Salvatrucha?”

  “Who hasn’t? MS-13. Probably the most violently dangerous criminal gang in the world. Salvadoran, but sprang up in the Los Angeles barrios. Human trafficing, drugs, murder, torture, hit men, coyotes, et cetera.”

  “Well, yeah, that’s about right. One of the leaders of the MS-13 gang was a cat went by the name of Li’l Chico Perez. One of them light-skinned Puerto Ricans, he was, told me once he was one-eighth Haitian from his mother’s side. Forty-something, I dunno, tried to act like a younger cat. Big ole guy, bald-headed, with tats all over his damn face, like a circus freak. Not all that fat, y’know, but had a weird shape on him for a guy, kinda like a woman. Everybody said he was a switch-hitter. Either that, or that he liked little boys.”

  “Or both, probably,” Joe said, into it. Shit could work up a pretty good story when you got him liquored up, all right. Loosened his tongue.

  “You got it. One day out in the yard, I saw Chico chatting up a new boy. Fresh meat. Had his arm round the kid’s shoulders and was stroking his pretty blond hair, nice and slow, whispering to him, y’know, sweet-talkin’ him.”

  “Got the picture.”

  “So I walked over to where they was standing and introduced myself, nice and po-lite. Told Chico to get his hands off the boy. Asked him if he had a death wish. Said if I ever saw him do it again, I’d shove a knife so far up his fat ass, come out his nose.”

  “Damn.”

  “So a month or so goes by, Chico seems to be leaving the kids alone. Staying on the down-low. And then one night, all of sudden, the fat fuck sends me a message. Courtesy of my cellmate, a quiet type, white teenager from Norman, Oklahoma, all he ever did was read his books, ‘never said word one to nobody’ kinda kid, you know what I’m sayin?”

  “Harmless. An intellectual.”

  “Uh-huh, something like that, and under my protection. One night, Chucky—that was his name, Chucky—he comes back from the showers, he’s crying ’cause he’s got blood pouring out of his ass.”

  “Jesus, Shit, that’s terrible.”

  “Broom handle. I ask him who did it. I ask Chucky what happened. He says he got caught in the shower by three cons. Two held him down while the other ripped up his asshole pretty good. I asked him was the one who did that a fat Puerto Rican who looked like a woman, and he said, ‘Yes, sir, Shit, he sure was.’”

  “Chico.”

  “Chico. So the next day I see that lard-ass waddling into chow around lunchtime, getting his tray. Guards weren’t paying any attention, shooting the shit with the women working the chow line, serving. Chico’s back is to me. I walk up behind him with a shiv in my right hand, real slow. Got close enough to touch and told him to turn around.

  “‘Hey, amigo, how you doin’?’ I asked him.

  “‘Wha—’ he said, just before I cut him a brand-new smile just below his fucking chin. His head stayed on, I was surprised to see that, I remember. I thought I’d really done a number on him. I picked up his tray and walked over to get in the mystery meat line, all them MS-13 cons of his giving me the evil eye. I dint pay ’em any attention. I had my own gangbangers, inside the joint and outside the joint, you understand, just as bad as the Salvadorans were, if not worse, and Chico’s crew wouldn’t touch me. But the warden did. He slapped me into solitary and left me there in that black hole to rot.”

  “How long?” Joe said, eating his goulash and signaling for another round of lagers.

  “Long enough, long enough. When I got out, he says to me in his office one day, he says, ‘Shit, I cain’t get anyone to tell me they saw you kill Chico. I cain’t prove it. And I’m not sorry you did it. But you and I both know you did it.’”

  “‘I don’t recall,’ I told him.

  “‘Don’t fuck with me, Shit. I’ll throw your ass right back in the hole, you do this again. You just can’t go around killing folks in my prison.’

  “So time goes by, I don’t kill anyone else in particular I can think of. But then I come back into the cell one night and find Chucky sitting on the toilet with a book in his lap, dead. Eyes staring wide open and his severed dick stuffed halfway in his mouth. Next day, out in the yard, I helped three MS-13 spics enjoy a one-way ticket to the afterworld.”

  “What’d the warden do?” Joe asked.

  “Warden didn’t do shit. Warden had left the day before. He was takin’ two weeks off. Had him a cattle ranch down there yonder in central Florida, town named Ocala, near Orlando, you know. Disney World, like I was saying earlier? That old cracker fancied himself a cattle baron. He was real proud of his stock. But when the warden got down there, I just knew that old boy was bound for some major disappointment.”

  “What?”

  “Seems that someone, far be it from me to say just who, had somehow broken into his stables the night before he arrived, see, and decapitated his prize stallion, Boomerang. And his herd of prized stock? Well, that same person had . . . culled the herd, so to speak. Like every other one . . . damn. Must have galled him no end, right?”

  “What did he do when he returned to Folsom?”

  “What the hell d’you think he did?”

  “Fuckall, I’d guess.”

  “Nothing, exactly. I goddamn ran that prison ever after that. Mara Salvatrucha? Shit, model citizens. And nobody was butt-fucking any youngsters either, nossuh, not after that, I can damn well promise you.”

  “Damn, Shit. You were a hero,” Joe said, suddenly full of admiration.

  “Hell, I ain’t no hero, Joe. Something like that, though, I guess.”

  “But you didn’t kill those cons for fun, Shit. Think about it. You killed those men for a reason. Revenge. Isn’t that right?”

  “Tell you what, Joe. ’Stead of me telling you how the old Shit feels about stuff, why don’t you do all my thinking fo
r me, huh? Yeah, you do it. Tell me what’s fun and what ain’t. Okay? How about that?”

  Joe noticed that after all this time Shit still had the big knife in his hand . . .

  “Shit, c’mon. I was just kidding you, man. Playing around. You can’t take me seriously when I act like that . . .”

  “You know what, Joe. I can’t take you seriously when you act like a pussy. You get busy and grow a pair, you and Shit will be bosom buddies. Until then, amigo? You familiar with the old expression ‘Go fuck yerself’?”

  And then those two black eyes . . . twin tunnels straight to the fires of hell. Joe stood up, looking around the dimly lit bar.

  “Will you excuse me, Shit? Gotta hit the latrine, man.”

  “Ain’t no excuse for you,” Shit mumbled as Joe got out of his chair. His eyes closed and he was off in Shit Land somewhere.

  Chapter Sixty-Three

  Falcon’s Lair

  Well, the stage was finally set for the first of what would be many orientation meetings for what Joe had taken to calling Putin’s High Command here at Falcon’s Lair. Now taking their seats in the screening auditorium was Putin’s highly prized brain trust, comprised of men and women of all stripes, from every strata of Russian society.

  Assembling in the ornate and gilded screening room, stadium seating, now reconfigured as the war room, were the newly reconstituted Putin loyalists, as they called themselves. The room was very luxurious, complete with fifty maroon velvet armchairs and a screen to rival IMAX.

  These were men and women secretly plucked from the top ranks of Russian industry, Kremlin operatives, KGB intelligence and military operations officers, including some of the country’s most revered military commanders on the ground and in the air.

  Fifty handpicked men and women, a new Russian warrior class that would now gather intelligence inside Russia and out, analyze it assiduously, formulate an invasion strategy, plan the attacks, and lastly, implement phase one of Putin’s ultimate objective: his triumphant return to power at the Kremlin in Moscow.

  Joe Stalingrad, Putin’s newly appointed chairman of the operations committee, and today, master of ceremonies, was backstage, peeking through the curtain as the room filled up. The space was buzzing with energy and curiosity about what many felt was sure to be a seminal event in the annals of political history. But what would it be and who had invited them all here? That was still the big mystery.

  At one end of the room, there was a small stage. A gleaming mahogany podium was emblazoned with the solid gold Russian coat of arms, dating back to the fifteenth century: the imperial double-headed eagle.

  Joe was a tad nervous about the wardrobe he’d chosen for today’s grand event, to be honest. The president wanted this meeting to go off without the slightest hint of a hitch. And he’d made Joe run all the arrangements—the audiovisual stuff, the order of presentation, all that—by him. Even the place cards for the evening banquet.

  But Joe knew showmanship, if nothing else, and he knew getting the audience revved up simply demanded you push the envelope a little, go above and beyond, as they say. And so he had decided not to run what he planned to wear today by the president. Privately? He thought Putin was a bit of a whack job. A conundrum wrapped in a mystery wrapped in bacon.

  Besides, he’d wanted to wear something dramatic today. What was called for today was something that was . . . what was the phrase he was looking for? Showstoppery?

  Yeah, that was it.

  Showstoppery would do nicely, he told himself, trying to relax. Besides, he thought he looked rather dashing in his chosen costume. It was something that might even appeal to the lovely Miss Emma Peek, who’d had her left hand on Joe’s thigh all through her dinner with Putin over on the island at Villa Seegarten last night . . .

  Putin had noticed. Irritated, jealous, all night long, staring at the two of them across the table, watching the gorgeous woman (whom Joe knew Putin believed he was entitled to, droit du seignure and all that). Emma making goo-goo eyes at him all night. Joe knew he’d have to watch his step down this lovely road to love.

  Joe Stalingrad’s last picture, Little Patton, had been pitched to the media, Deadline Hollywood, Variety, et cetera, as a “star vehicle” for Joe’s rising star. But it had never been released to the cinema, never seen by anyone other than crabby airline passengers packed into sardine class on Delta.

  But, but, but. Some good had come out of it, he thought, checking his action in the full-length mirror.

  His wardrobe mistress had forgotten to pick up his Little Patton costume after the film had wrapped. It was quite striking—namely, a khaki shirt, dark brown jodhpurs, and knee-high, mirror-polished riding boots. And, last but not least, on his head a highly polished chromed parade helmet!

  All that were missing were the Sam Browne belt, the swagger stick, and the gold-plated Smith & Wesson .357. Those beauties he’d left on his bed back at Seegarten. A little over the top, maybe. What the French call de trop, too much, even for Joe.

  So he’d wow ’em, all right, the audience, but how would the boss react to Joe’s brand of Hollywood showmanship? That’s the question he had on his mind as he prepared to part the lush velvet curtains and Little Patton stepped out into the spotlight.

  De trop, certainly for Putin.

  “What the fuck, Joe?” the wide-eyed president said, finding him backstage just before he’d gone out, mouthing the words so that only Joe could hear them. “You can’t go out there looking like that! A Patton lookalike? What kind of a signal does that send, Joe? Tell me!”

  Joe just waved this off and gave the boss a big smile just before parting the curtains and stepping onstage and approaching the podium. He grabbed the microphone dramatically, saying, “Cue the music!” with a signal to the AV guy up in the booth at the top of the steep steps.

  Speakers everywhere boomed. Wagner’s “Ride of the Valkyries” exploded inside the auditorium and the audience suddenly came alive, all eyes on the man in the strange costume at center stage.

  “And good morning, everyone! Great to be with you!” Joe said with enormous gusto, speaking directly into the microphone. “For those of you who don’t know me, I’m Joe Stalingrad and—”

  A ripple of applause coursed through the crowd, rising to a swell as more and more recognized the president’s formerly powerful henchman and aide-de-camp.

  “Thank you! Thank you!” Joe said, with a smile a mile wide. “Thank you! I do see some familiar faces out there! How’s everybody doing?”

  More applause.

  “For those of you I’ve not yet met, I’m the former Kremlin senior counsel and aide to our beloved president. Ladies and gentlemen, let me first take the opportunity to welcome you to Falcon’s Lair. You have the honor of knowing you were handpicked to be here today for this historic conference. You’ve read all the materials. And the endless memos from yours truly. You know why we’re here: because, ladies and gentlemen, we are going to make Moscow great again!”

  A surge of laughter and applause that was music to Joe’s ears. He hoped Putin was catching all this.

  “Because, folks, we’ve got what it takes. We’ve got the skills to achieve something heroic here. We’ve got the talent. We’ve got the will. And we’ve got the epic courage that will be necessary to . . . take our country back! That’s right. You heard me. What are we going to do?”

  “Take our country back!” they screamed in unison. “Take our country back, take our country back!” they chanted until he waved them silent.

  “But you know, there’s just one thing missing, folks. One piece of the puzzle . . . and that’s someone who is uniquely qualified to bring us all together. Tough enough to see us through the darkest hours. And see us on to victory!”

  “Make Moscow great again!” they roared. “Take our country back!”

  “And so now, ladies and gentlemen . . . are you ready for this?”

  “Yes!” to the rafters.

  “Are you really ready?” Cue the orchestra
. . .

  Cheers, whistles, and shouts.

  Joe walked back to the velvet curtains and grabbed a handful, waiting for the suspense to reach the breaking point . . .

  “Ladies and gentlemen, true Russian patriots all, it is my very great honor and privilege to introduce you to a man the whole world believes they’ve seen the last of . . . But! Guess what?” Joe said and cupped one hand behind his ear, waiting for the crowd to answer . . .

  “What? What?” they cried, now on the edge of their seats. Joe grabbed the mike.

  “Ladies and gentlemen! . . . He’s baaaaack!”

  That did it. The crowd lost it completely. Screaming and cheering for the hero they all thought they’d lost forever.

  “You heard me right!” Joe said, grabbing a handful of velvet and whipping the curtain back. “Let’s give it up for our beloved leader and great president, Vladimir Putin! Please come on out here, Mr. President, and take a bow!”

  He stepped from behind the curtain and into the spotlight . . . and there he was, bathed in glory.

  At first there was shocked silence. It took a moment for them all to process that the fallen leader was actually alive! Not only alive, but here. Was it possible? Was that really him? Here?

  In their midst!

  That’s when Joe had his moment of inspiration. He stepped to the microphone and—

  “Shall we ask him to say a few words, ladies and gentlemen? I know he’s going to be back here on stage in a short time, but . . . Mr. President, the microphone is yours.”

  “My dear friends and comrades, it is the greatest honor of my life to stand here before you here today. And I will tell you this much. Our enemies think they’ve won this battle. But they have no idea what they’re up against! Because . . . We have not even begun to fight!”

  A woman screamed. The next instant, the roar of the crowd was instantaneous and it filled every cubic foot of space in the room as they leapt to their feet. A standing ovation, everyone cheering and clapping as loudly as they could. Putin, unaccustomed to this kind of outpouring of heartfelt affection, was taken aback. He turned and faced them, raising his hands for them to stop, but not really wanting to . . .