Figure out the best way to take him out.
Then he would finish his short course, making sure there was no one on his trail, law enforcement wise, and go to California.
To find the place, the car and that faggot motherfucker – Brad knew the best place to go.
As the best librarian FMC Devens ever had, he knew he could find most of what he wanted at the local library.
Virgil was smiling so broadly he looked like a horse cartoon, and every now and then he laughed with that dull expression on his face when the cartoons he was watching – on VCR still – did something his pigeon-sized brain found amusing.
“Hey, Virgil…” he said.
The dullard didn’t even hear him, engrossed in old cartoons recorded years ago on morning television.
Brad suddenly slapped Virgil on the back of his head.
The dimwit’s expression was a blend of pain and confusion.
“Fucking listen to me when I speak to you, dumbass. I need you to drive me to town tomorrow morning.”
“Okay,” Virgil said. And when he thought it was safe to do so again, he flashed Brad a smile. His bottom teeth were fucking disgusting.
Brad looked at the screen a bit. What was it in those stupid, low production value old cartoons that so amused this mule?
“Only…” Virgil said.
“Only what?”
“I don’t have no gas money, cuz.”
“I’ll give you twenty bucks. Fifty if you promise not to fucking annoy me.”
That seemed to please the idiot. He went back to his fat little smile and his shows.
Brad was not going to allow Virgil to treat him so dismissively.
“Turn of the TV and get on the floor. I’m taking the couch. I’m tired and I want to go to sleep.”
Virgil looked like a kitten that just fell in the pool, or a three-year-old whose toys had been taken away.
Brad suddenly jumped at him and feigned another slap, this time a good backhand, and Virgil got moving.
Then Brad got on the bunk.
Virgil fell asleep before he did, snoring away merrily. Every now and then his snoring became too loud, and Brad simply kicked at him where he lay curled up in front of the couch.
This close to real, deep winter, the little prefab was freezing inside.
What a crap way to spend your fourth night out of prison.
It didn’t matter.
He’d sort it out in the morning.
Instead of getting Virgil to drop him off at the library in uptown, he made the retard drop him off in Castleton instead. It was the perfect place to pick up the beater, because the place was full of lowlifes, minorities and indigents.
Brad walked the lots of the used car dealerships until he found one that was perfect. Looking for something that was not too ugly, he settled on an old Honda for $5,000.
The car was mobility, but it was also storage space. Perhaps living space, until he found himself something suitable. He wouldn’t need that much. Just something that looked and felt legit in case someone was looking closely at him… and other than keeping him away from kids, why would they?
He paid the dealer in cash and then drove himself to the Metro Library in uptown. He found himself a nice spot, the second to last in an empty row of computers – from where he could see the printers and the reference section, as well as everyone entering and leaving the library.
The logical thing to do would be to look for classified rooms for rent ads in the Fairbridge Times online listings.
As a registered sex offender, it wasn’t all that easy to find a place to crash. Especially the big branded landlords wanted everything up to and including a freaking urine sample and thorough background checks before they would let him move in.
But in the local paper’s classifieds, he could find some old lady who was too tired or stupid to look too closely at her prospective new tenant.
The way to get a place was to find a For Lease By Owner, then show up – dressed well but not extravagantly. To be presentable, even interesting – but not too chatty. Something like a small cottage in a back garden or an apartment built above a garage. Not places to share or communes – those were too temporary and transient.
Brad needed to fit in. A ‘this is where I live, I’ve been there a while, I don’t plan on going anywhere’ kind of place.
His enrollment at the V would also help. Old lady landlords loved students.
Students have money to pay for college, so there are funds available somewhere. They also have a mommy and daddy that could be shamed into paying up. Plus, there was something sweet about helping a student far away from home. It had to be the right student, too. Someone nerdy. People who won’t have their buddies over with beer pongs.
Brad stepped outside the library to catch some sunshine and call the owners. He explained he was a Masters Student from Utah and he needed a safe, clean and reliable place. He arranged to meet the owners for a little tour of the place. It was almost too easy.
Then he went back inside for the fun part.
Paul Draker.
All he had was the name. It was the only reliable information he had – but, armed with a library and an internet connection, that was all he needed.
His mother said Draker was rich and owned land. But, to the lowlifes who called the Creek home, anyone with front teeth had money.
He checked social media first. Nothing. At least, not any Paul Draker in Fairbridge, NC.
He did a broad internet search, also finding very little. There was one small article from a faggot website mentioning a place called Tina’s Saloon. The badly written piece mentioned Paul Draker in a string of names that were benefactors for some charity event. There was no picture.
Mother did say he owned land and ran a business.
Brad wanted two things: A picture of a face that he could tie to the name, and a current address.
Because he was a genius, he could find both before leaving the library.
He searched land records and came up with a reference buried in stacks of official documents on some badly designed government website that had a registry of titles. He couldn’t access the full details without subscribing and paying a fee, but he got all he needed.
The entry read:
Parcels 574-547. Business and residential. Cro’s Post, LLC. Paul Draker, USAF (Ret).
That gave him the business details – enough to get the listed physical address and Draker’s Date of Birth from a different government site.
He also searched for the business on some databases he read about in the legal textbooks he read while in prison. It turns out the Cro’s Post did north of $25-million a year. It controlled a lot of real estate – not just where it was based but around uptown Fairbridge as well as Loveday. It also had multiple revenue streams from what the listing described as ‘Equities, Securities and Other Financial Instruments”. As for its main areas of daily business, at current levels, it would earn way north of a million dollars a year running training contracts for the US Military.
So now, after about fifteen minutes, Brad had the actual street address where Paul Draker lived. He also managed to confirm that the guy was seriously loaded.
But he still didn’t have a face. Paul went to the Air Force magazines and searched Paul’s name. And hit gold.
There was a picture of a man about Brad’s age. He had brown hair, brown eyes. A strong face with a smile that beamed and very intelligent eyes. Even though the photograph was a portrait, Brad could tell that the man in the photograph – the man who killed his brother – wore combat fatigues.
Air Force types were usually Nancy types. They wore show uniforms and most of them had well-funded, high-tech office jobs. Combat fatigues seemed out of place.
There was a whole article beneath the photograph.
The headl
ine read: “A Legend In His Own Time”.
Underneath that came the subtitle… “Combat Rescue Officer Paul Draker is to retire at the end of 2018. We wish him all the best.”
Brad quickly scanned the article, catching phrases here and there.
“… over one hundred and fifty missions in enemy territories or combat zones, from Asia to Africa…”
“… responsible for developing the interservice curriculum on SERE…”
“…two Bronze Stars, an Air Force Silver Star and an Air Force Medal of Honor.”
Brad spoke to the old lady librarian, who wore – rimmed spectacles – and not the cool retro kind. The kind that hadn’t been replaced since the last time they were in fashion.
“Excuse me, ma’am. I would like to print some documents from Terminal Nine.”
She smiled, but only pointed to the price list.
“So, I just press…”
“Just press print, it’s on the keyboard.”
Real nifty, that they put a key for printing on the keyboard like that. The old desktops at Devens never had that.
Brad went back to the terminal and printed out the photo and the article.
Then he searched for the term “SERE”. Survival. Evasion. Resistance. Escape.
“Fucking A,” Brad said quietly to himself.
It all seemed a bit too perfect.
How does a special forces type suddenly make millions of dollars?
Like a freaking superhero… skilled in combat, and loaded with cash.
There was an actual, real life guy like this… and he was a fag?
This shit was unreal.
Brad felt giddy as he stood up.
That the plan dawned on him, of all places, in the Fairbridge Metropolitan Library.
Here was guy that was invulnerable.
Big money. Big balls. Killed a little kid, and took out James McKay. At least Alex died at the hands of a fucking ninja. At least it wasn’t some pussy who killed him.
His whole life, everything, was about the military and his business. Which sounded shady, maybe even corrupt.
He was a fag, and fags in the Military still know how to keep it shut. Or at least those who had been in it long. Those who’d been there since the good old days.
How do you take out a guy like that? A guy who was likely to have unlimited resources, powerful friends. A guy who could handle himself in a fight. Enough to get numerous medals for bravery and combat.
You couldn’t take that head-on.
Yet it was so simple.
Brad was sexy as fuck. He wouldn’t kid himself about that.
You catch them where they aren’t looking. You catch them when they let their guard down. You catch them… and then you really catch them. You make them fall for you. You make them happy and you give them butterflies and you get them to soften up. And open up.
And then you reach in there and you catch hold of their most gentle parts. Their souls.
And you grip your fingers like a vice, squeeze it into a fist, and you rip their fucking guts out.
That’s how.
Brad moved quickly now.
He trashed his list of places to live and directed a new search, looking for a place in Loveday.
He left the library and went to the strip mall to get himself some clothes.
He bought himself good quality clothes. Something subdued, military fags won’t like the flashy ones. Good pair of jeans. Some black or gray t-shirts. All with good designs, although nothing with too much color. Some office type collared shirts, chinos. Stuff that would show off his body, and make him noticeable to perverts like Draker.
He also bought himself some toiletries. Gel for the hair. A mid-range designer fragrance that smelled deep and masculine.
Faggots.
What was the kick, for them?
Brad got pussy. But what exactly was it that made dudes appealing to other dudes?
Never mind the shit in prison. That you do out of sheer boredom, the need to just get your rocks off, or the need to make a point.
But out here, where they had their choice of pussy, what was it that faggots needed from each other?
What was the appeal?
For now, he decided to play it safe, and slow.
He went to a motel and paid for two nights up front, giving him a base of operations before he found a place and yet without the annoying, grating presence of that moron Virgil and his smelly apartment.
It really was amazing how much someone of his own superior intelligence could find out after just a few minutes on the net.
He knew where all the fags hung out, for example. In a little hood called Loveday.
Brad had a quick shower and then left the motel to go check out the area.
He was surprised that there were quite a few cars parked there, and that a big joint called Tina’s Saloon was open, even on a week night.
Some young, effeminate looking guy came up to him with a big smile. “Well hello, handsome.”
Brad saw his name tag on his chest. Adam. Ironic that such a pansy ass weakling would be named after the first man.
His first instinct was to slap the hell out of the fairy.
Instead, he bit down on his lips, looked at his feet, and swayed shyly.
“Oh my God, you are actually adorable!” the fag squealed in a high-pitched voice. “Here, welcome, please have a seat. Can I get you a drink right away, or would you prefer a menu?”
“Just a Coke,” Brad answered, keeping his voice low.
The young guy seemed to study Brad’s face. “Oh my God, you really are new, aren’t you?”
When Brad looked up, the fairy was being friendly, but not too familiar.
“No one has Coke, darling. At least not by itself, not around here. Cocktails, beers, wine. Shooters. Tequila. Not Coke. But since this is your first night with us – I assume – I’ll get you that Coke. Welcome out, friend. If you need any help or advice, you ask Tina.”
The fairy pointed at some ugly-ass bitch dyke in the corner. Then he dropped his volume, mercifully, and spoke as if he was giving Brad some very important information.
“Seriously, dude. Helped me a lot, when I first came out.”
Brad decided to give his charm a try. He looked right into the young guy’s eyes, smiled, and said: “Thanks for being so nice to me. I’d love that Coke.” He bit his lower lip, just a bit.
The kid’s eyes followed his every motion, Brad could tell.
The kid actually blushed.
This was going to be real easy.
Chapter 13
Out Of The Blue
All the perils of dating. First, finding someone compatible, or compatible enough – either online or on an app. Then to meet them – somewhere public, for a quick cup of coffee. Somewhere well lit with good escape routes in case it turns out to be unpleasant. And then also something that wouldn’t break the bank – dinners and shows and fabulous outings can quickly add up to something expensive.
Then you meet them. You have a few minutes, maybe an hour or two to explore the totality of someone else.
Are they attractive? Could they be considered attractive in a pinch?
And once their physical appearance is considered, there’s the matter of their minds.
Are they pleasant people?
Friendly, open? How much baggage do they have? Which is another way to consider are they batshit crazy?
These are just the gatekeepers – the basics, the things that will mean the time at the coffee shop wasn’t completely wasted.
Then after that comes more complicated matters.
Would they fit into Paul’s life? Would he fit into theirs? Does their baggage go with his?
When you meet someone for a quick cup of coffee, both of you knowing why you ar
e meeting, a whole hell of a lot of life has to be condensed into just a few minutes.
No one arrives perfectly. They have a history, they have a life, they have their own hang ups.
What seems so incredibly simple – meeting a potential suitor, if that’s the term – suddenly becomes pretty complex.
Would Paul get along with his friends and family?
What are the complications? Do they have kids? Are they out? Are they gainfully employed, upwardly mobile?
All of this makes the dating environment a minefield. The odds change from being a sure thing to something potentially astronomical.
It seems a selfish way to look at things. Too strategic – with too many requirements, as if Paul is judging the person based on some list of criteria.
And he knew they had no choice but to do the same to him.
Nice guys that aren’t attractive. Attractive guys that aren’t nice. Average guys who are sweet, or codependent, or mentally unstable, or emotionally immature.
Guys that are too young. Guys that are too old. Guys who seem great but aren’t. Guys that would be perfect for the long term but want one-night stands… guys who would be good to have a quick tryst with that will stick around like Velcro or superglue.
And provided all of this is taken care of, what about other things?
Do they turn you on? Can they keep you turned on? Can you keep them turned on?
It’s hard as hell on a good day to make sure business is taken care of, responsibilities and deadlines are met. Add to that the needs of another person, and everything they bring with them.
Paul hadn’t been back on the dating sites.
Perhaps, where he was with the flashbacks coming back, dating someone right now would not only be unhelpful, it would be completely unfair to them. He saw he received one more message from FREEinJC – but considering the amount of crazy he could tolerate right now, it was best not even to look at it, or to respond.
If it was meant to happen, it would happen.
Brimstone Page 13
