by Mike McCrary
I can make out four of them, three men and one woman. They didn’t bother with masks. Hard to determine if it’s blood or dirt that covers their faces and clothes. A ragtag bunch. These people work wild. Restraint is not present.
Control? Not their thing.
The polar opposite of the dead, masked people I was previously negotiating with.
My conversation with my brother, Alex, comes back to me.
I wasn’t watching a great white eat seals.
I was watching a great white being eaten alive, pulled apart by something meaner.
Something that has yet to be defined.
34
“I have money,” I say.
I notice I still have my hands up.
Drying blood peppered across my face.
Piss in my pants.
The one holding the bloody pipe turns his head, letting his eyes slip toward me. The other three move my way. The woman pulls the axe from a dead, masked guy’s chest. It gives a sound I’ve never heard before, this thick slip of a sound as the blade leaves the meat and bone. Not unlike when a penis quickly exits a vagina.
The one gripping the pipe stares at me. Can almost see a binary decision being wrestled with inside his head. Kill me or not kill me. Pipe looks older than the others, maybe forty or so. The other ones are easily in their twenties.
Wild Eyes steps up fast and close as he asks, “Money?” He gently presses my hands down to my sides, flashing me a forced smile.
“Yes,” I say. “I was trying to make a deal with these fine, fine people. I mean, before you, ya know, slaughtered them.”
I didn’t see it coming, but I feel a fist crack my jaw, spinning me to the grass. Down with one punch. I’ve been in fights before—granted they were all in junior high, high school, and one in a bar brawl in college—but I’ve taken punches before and I have never gone down with only one. To say this is a different breed of fighter is a slight understatement.
The kicks and stomps begin before I even hit the ground. They rain down all over. Coming from every direction, landing on every part of me. Thick fwaps of whip-like feet connect with my gut, back, ass, and legs. They come so fast I don’t have time to identify the pain individually, just one large pulsing mass of hurt.
All air has left my lungs.
Blood fills my mouth. With jaws clenched, I’m forced to swallow it so I can breathe. My nose is useless at the moment.
A foot stomps my ribs with a hollow crunch.
My teeth gnash, grinding hard in order to cope with what’s happening.
Angry Eyes and Penny Kim have nothing on these people.
Then it stops as suddenly as it started. I’m pulled up to my feet, and something heavy and scratchy is pulled down over my head.
My world has gone completely dark. Gone is the starry night sky. Not a sliver of light is allowed through. Can’t process. Ears ringing. My head has taken a nosedive into a vacancy of thought.
Only the dull pulsing of what I’m guessing is my body swelling lets me know I’m still alive. I can feel the blood on my teeth as I run my tongue along them. One or two teeth give a little wiggle. As I’m lifted from the ground and carried away to God knows where, I can only produce one single collection of syllables.
Lips and tongue form a whisper of a name.
“Lucy.”
35
I hear the trunk slam shut.
Muted profanity penetrates the darkness. I have no idea what I’m lying on, but it’s no pillow-top mattress. The hard, jagged edges poke into my back and arms. Reminds me of how I woke up the other day in my bathtub. Lying on a wine bottle felt better. This situation differs greatly and I am not a fan.
The engine coughs then turns over.
We are moving.
No idea who makes up the we, not that it matters when you’re in the trunk of a car, hands bound, and your head is covered in something that smells of cabbage and ass. Every bounce of the road drives something metal a little deeper into my busted-up rib cage. The flow of blood in my mouth has slowed to a trickle.
At this point I have only simple hopes.
Hope that all of this is only them taking what they consider necessary precautions.
We are only going down the street for a chat.
Worst case…
They will dig a hole for me somewhere.
36
Light from some source is starting to peek through the seams of whatever is over my head.
The temperature is rising, and my sweat is starting to give it a go. Not sure how long I was passed out, but we are moving at a much faster speed based on the sound of the tires. The road has smoothed out.
My new friends are fans of classic rock. They are belting out Zeppelin in full throat and fucking up most of the words. I hate that. If you don’t know the words, then don’t sing, and certainly don’t make up your own. Pisses me off.
I’ve started to piece together the names of these people off little bits I’ve picked up by eavesdropping on their conversation. The topics are mundane and not that eventful, but as far as I can tell, their names are Ruby, Harry, Boone, and they keep referring to one guy as Choke.
If these animals aren’t going to kill me, I hope they had the decency to pick up my bags before we left. That may be the only reason I’m still alive. The money is what is going to keep me alive. That much I did figure out on my little yellow legal pad earlier.
I need to use the bathroom.
And I don’t mean #1.
That ship has sailed.
37
It must be night.
The temperature has dropped and it’s completely dark, again.
We’ve stopped.
Car doors open and shut.
I hear footsteps coming.
Open the trunk, assholes, and get a whiff of what I’ve dropped in my pants.
The trunk flies open, letting in a rush of cool night air.
It. Feels. Fucking. Amazing.
“Damn, boy,” a man says.
“What?” another man says.
“Motherfucker shit the trunk.”
I giggle from inside my covered head. Drink it in, dickheads.
Someone grabs my shoulders and sits me upright in the trunk with a squish. The thing covering my head is ripped away, letting a shaft of blinding electric light into my eyes. Must be more than a day since I’ve seen any form of direct light and this hurts. If I could sew my eyelids closed, I would.
A thick set of fingers grabs my face.
“Hey,” a man says. “Got you some food.”
I allow one lid to crack open. Hurts like a bastard but I can at least make out some colorful blobs in front of me. I count four. The older, bigger blob nudges a younger man.
“Give him the drink,” the woman says.
“He can’t hold it,” the young one snaps.
“You hold it and he can drink through the straw,” she says.
The younger man reluctantly holds the Burger King cup close enough for me to take a drink. It’s some orange drink, which I normally hate, but tonight it’s like aged, single-malt heaven. I gulp it. He pulls it back. “Easy, tiger.”
The older one, formerly known as the one with the pipe, is locked in on me. His eyes never leave me.
His stare is cold.
I’m in no position to feel this way, but I hate his icy stare.
The woman opens a paper bag and pulls out a burger from a grease-stained wrapper. She tears it into pieces and feeds them to me. My eyesight is getting better with each passing second. I notice this woman is not what I imagined while riding in the trunk. She’s no supermodel, but she is attractive in a very specific way. Unique. Carries unfiltered intelligence, hard to define correctly. This could all be the byproduct of my currently fragile emotional state, soiled pants, and so on, but this woman looks like a girl I could’ve gone to high school with. Dated in college. Her eyes hold a surprising amount of warmth, considering the first time I saw her was when she planted an axe into a man
’s chest.
I thank her. She nods, giving nothing and saying nothing.
“What’s with the money in the bag?” the older man asks me.
I swallow my burger chunk. “My bag?”
His eyes harden. Pauses, then says, “Yes, your bag—”
Wild Eyes cuts him off. “Yeah, fuckhead. Your fucking bag. What’s with all the fancy-ass cameras and, oh yeah, the hundred grand in cash? Who the fuck are you?”
His scrawny finger stabs in my direction before he gets in my face. What he doesn’t see is the older man calmly moving up behind him. The older man grabs Wild Eyes by the hair, places one hand under his jaw, and forces his mouth shut. Once his mouth has been closed, the older man shoves Wild Eyes to the side. Another guy hurries over, wrapping his arms around Wild Eyes before he does something stupid. It seems as if this happens a lot. No one looks surprised. I don’t know all the relationship dynamics of the group, but it looks to be somewhat strained. Definitely complex.
I can guess which one is Ruby, but Harry, Boone, and Choke are going to be more difficult.
“My name’s Harry. This one we call Boone,” says the one holding Wild Eyes. “That’s Ruby, and we call the angry old man Choke.”
Not that difficult at all. Who thought they would be following proper party manners and including introductions along with kidnapping?
Harry releases the seething Boone. Choke doesn’t even bother looking in his direction. Nope, he’s still locked on me. Deadpan face. Expressionless. Makes a corpse look like a stand-up comic. Boone spins away from Harry and paces off to the side, away from the pack.
Ruby feeds me another torn piece of burger.
Harry puts a palm up toward Boone, letting him know to stand down. Harry is the better looking of the crew. He carries a bit of bad-boy charm with him. Probably has served him well over the years. My guess is he’s nailing Ruby or Ruby is nailing him or—who the hell knows? These people are either going to kill me or throw me back in the trunk. No need to stress over the fuck schedule of these animals.
“You were about to explain your bag,” Harry says.
Control the money. Adapt to the situation at hand.
“I’m a filmmaker. I was trying to work out a deal with the people you killed.”
“What kind of deal?” Ruby asks.
“I wanted to join them and film their lives.”
Choke keeps staring.
Harry and Ruby start to laugh. Boone joins us and asks, “What? What’s so damn funny?”
Putting an arm around him, Harry says, “Our new friend here—I’m sorry, what do we call you?”
“Jasper.”
“Jasper here was just explaining that he makes movies and he was going to hang out with the Shaw gang and do—what were you going to do?”
“I was going to film their lives.”
They all roar with laughter. All of them except Choke. That fucker keeps on staring at me, looking like a broom handle is stuck firmly up his ass.
“So glad you’re entertained,” I say.
Harry smiles. “Look, Jasper, was it? Let’s assume Shaw’s people weren’t going to kill you—and they were, believe me, brother—but let’s assume they were not. You realize those people are—sorry, were—not nice people. Their lives, the ones you were going to film, are filled with a lot of dirty, dirty, nasty little habits.”
“I realize that. That’s why I wanted them.”
“Do explain,” says Ruby.
I have their complete attention now. All eyes on me, not just Choke.
“I wanted to make a documentary about criminals. I wanted to be in the middle of their lives, as well as their crimes. I wanted to film real-life crime as it happens.”
“Like an embedded war correspondent,” says Ruby.
Smart girl.
“Like that documentary in Afghanistan I just saw. I forget the name, but the guy won awards. So good,” she says.
Dumbass.
Un-fucking-believable. I’m sitting in a trunk with hands bound, parked in a Burger King parking lot in the middle of I don’t even know where, hoping I’m still in America, and I still can’t escape W. fucking Gains.
“Something like that, but better. Much better,” I say, covering my disdain.
Harry steps in. “Okay. That explains the cameras. What about the hundred sticks?”
“Sticks?” I ask.
“Sticks. Thousands. The hundred thousand in the bag. What’s that for? You buying them off?”
“Down payment.”
Now I really have their attention.
“What was the rest of this installment plan of yours?” asks Ruby.
“Depends,” I say.
“On?” she asks.
The hook has splashed in the water. I don’t know what I’m going to reel in, but this is it, all I’ve got. Almost all out of moves here. Quiver is empty. I can still salvage this project if I play the next few minutes correctly. What do I know? I know they are money driven. What do I not know? I don’t know what these people do. Are they criminals similar to this Shaw gang, or are they just a pack of psychos who roam around parks killing people in the name of Jesus like some fucked-up cult from the ’70s?
Life comes down to a few moments, and this is one of them.
This is it. Time to make a deal with mass murderers who have killed, in front of my face, approximately twenty-four hours ago.
Breathe in deep—this is me breathing.
Wish I were drunk.
38
Information is needed here.
I have to ask the stupid question. Not a lot of options on how to phrase it. So I’ll go with…
“Are you criminals? I know you’re killers. I don’t need straight-up psychos. I need filmable crime. Do you commit crimes I can film in order to create an entertaining narrative?”
Blank stares.
It was if I asked a twelve-year-old boy how to properly work a clitoris.
Three of the four look to Choke, who just keeps looking at me with that dead-eyed gaze. He breathes in deeply, blinking only as necessary. Time seems to crawl. Seconds take minutes. This is taking too long. I’m starting to feel normal again. Feeling normal is not good right now. Normalcy leads to rational thought, and rational thought has me thinking of the insanely dangerous situation that is presently staring at me. It is not out of the question that I could die right here in a shitty Burger King parking lot. Choke here could simply put a bullet in my brain, dump my body, and move on. Every molecule of my being wants to scream out, Please don’t kill me.
“We’re the only animals that make bargains,” Choke says.
I don’t say anything, but my face must have expressed what?
“People. We’re the only animals that make bargains. Other animals do not. They simply handle things as they see fit, based solely on wants and needs,” he says.
The other three look to me. I guess it’s my move now. What the hell am I supposed to say to that?
I clear my throat. “With that understood, I am wanting to make a bargain with you. I have access to funds that I can and will turn over to you in exchange for allowing me to join you and document your lives and activities. I have no interest in contacting the police. I have nothing to gain from that.”
“How much?” Harry asks.
“A goodly amount.”
“Goodly, you say?” asks Boone. This is where I left off last time. These types of people seem to get hung up on that word.
Choke shows a knife. Not your average steak knife either. That thing is a bowie knife, I believe. The killer in my first film had one just like it. Well, not just like it. The one in the film was rubber, and based on the little I know about Choke, this one is far from rubber.
Choke taps my nose with the tip of the blade. “Define goodly.” He allows the slightest of smiles to crack. Did he overhear my previous conversation? Is he fucking with me? Letting me know he’s not that other guy?
“You can have the hundred sticks in the bag.
Take it,” I say.
“No shit,” says Boone.
“Yeah, that was kinda understood, Jasper,” Harry says.
“And I have another two hundred sticks in cash. I’ve got it stashed.”
“Where?” asks Harry.
Have to find some balls here. Protect the money.
“That’s just flat-out fucking insulting. How dumb do you think I am? I tell you, you kill me. No, I’ll give you the two hundred when I feel like I’m getting what I need. And then once we’re done, and I say when we’re done, I can wire another seven hundred sticks to an account of your choice. I’m guessing somewhere in Belize or some shit.”
Ruby nods. I can see the gears cranking behind her green eyes. She’s a thinker. Noted.
“A million altogether?” asks Boone.
Boone is not a thinker, but he does get credit for working out the math correctly.
Noted.
Choke slaps the flat side of the blade against his tongue. A lot going on behind those cold eyes as well. I can only assume they are different thoughts than Ruby’s. I fucking hope they differ from Ruby’s.
Nonetheless, he’s a thinker.
Noted.
Harry asks, “What do you have in mind? I mean, as far as what you fucking want for your fucking little movie?”
This guy carries a bit of a tone when he talks to you. Talks at you. Aggressive. Not stupid, but aggressive. A man slow dancing too close to a trip wire. I’m starting to get a picture of these people. I can talk to him but have to work with a guarded tongue.
Noted.
“I don’t have a shot list or anything,” I say.
“What I’m getting at, Jasper, is what types of criminal behavior would you like to capture on film?” Harry says.
“I…”
“You might want to answer him,” says Ruby.
“She’s right. An answer would be a huge help in our decision making on this thing here,” Harry says.
“Yeah,” adds Boone.
“I don’t know. What do you do?” I say.
Harry moves in close to me, too close. “You know. You damn well fucking know. When you dreamed this little plan up, what did you have in mind? You had to think of something, right? You didn’t think you were going to film the Shaw tribe having tea and playing motherfucking cricket. Tell me you didn’t want to film them having tea and playing motherfucking cricket, Jasper.”
