And then he stopped.
Giant fist suspended in the air, head now turned to the left, Gene was staring at Andrew…who was filming us.
Gene screamed: “What the fuck ya doing!?”
Still filming, Andrew said, “This is awesome!”
“Don’t film my face, ya fucking dickhead!”
Gene’s outrage at Andrew’s idiocy had momentarily taken his attention off of me, and I used that moment to frantically search for a means of escape. I had felt this means all along but had failed to register its presence as the worry of Gene’s fists superseded all. Now, that means was presenting itself with wonderful clarity as it continued its constant jabbing into my leg. It was Gene’s machete. Why he never pulled the thing out and used it himself I’ll never know and I didn’t care, but it was there, dangling on his hip, poking me in the leg, and the blessed thing was even unfastened.
In one swift motion, I jerked the machete free. Gene immediately took his eyes off of Andrew and looked down at me. Before he could react I gripped the machete handle with both hands and plunged the big blade deep into his belly.
Gene grimaced and groaned as if taking a painful shit. He rolled off of me and lay on his back, grimacing and groaning some more, periodically clutching at the machete standing tall from his abdomen.
I wasted no time. I scrambled to my feet, yanked the machete from his gut, and brought the thing whistling down into his skull.
I stood panting, staring down at Gene, the machete stuck in his skull, eyes open and lifeless, blood beginning to pool beneath his head. One of his massive legs twitched involuntarily.
I then felt something thud into the back of my head. It wasn’t too hard, more annoying. I turned to find Andrew squared up to me in a lame fighting stance, his pigeon chest heaving with fear. The scrawny prick had taken a cheap shot at me.
I can’t be certain, but I’m pretty sure I was smiling when I cracked him. One shot, a right cross on the point of the chin, launched him off his feet and onto the deck in an unconscious heap. His body went rigid as it seized, and he made that gurgling sound the recently-knocked-the-fuck-out often make, the one that sounds like a snore.
I rushed towards the edge of the boat. The girl was still on the hook, still dangling a good five feet from the water.
“I’m going to help you!” I shouted. It felt good to say. I said it again. “I’m going to help you! Just hold on, okay?”
She nodded eagerly.
I hurried to the cranks. I flipped the lever, gripped the handle with both hands and glanced over my shoulder at her. “You ready?”
She nodded eagerly again.
I turned back and completed one full crank.
An explosion of water, the screeching sound of wrenching metal, and the handle jerked violently from my hands, knocking me back a step. I immediately spun towards the girl. Only the top half remained.
“No,” I whispered to no one.
I ran to the edge of the boat. Chunks of flesh and blood fell from the girl’s severed torso, splashing lightly into the sea. I peered over the boat’s edge. The ocean was already turning a dark red. A huge dorsal fin sliced the red water.
“No!” I screamed at the water, as though it had betrayed me.
I looked at the girl again. Her head now lolled to one side, eyes still open but seeing nothing. The color of her skin was already beginning to gray from the rapid blood loss.
I knew I had to dump her remains overboard, but I took my time about it. Crazy as it may sound, the longer she hung from that harness, the less I felt I had completely
(what?)
failed.
(You did fail.)
No, I—
(You waited too long.)
I brought both hands to my head as though trying to crush it, screamed “FUCK” until my throat seized.
Quickly, blocking every thought banging on the door to get in, I turned my back on the girl, went to Gene, pulled the machete from his head, went to the cranks, and chopped the connecting ropes that supported the girl. The splash of her torso into the sea behind me was like a gut kick. I heard more splashing shortly after, and I suspected (knew) what it was, and a second gut kick was my prize.
I glanced at Gene.
What had he said about working them into a frenzy? Keeping them interested until they get a proper meal?
I rolled Gene’s big body overboard. “A proper meal,” I said to his floating corpse. “How’s that for a slice of irony, ya big fuck?”
I heard a sudden moaning behind me. I spun and saw Andrew coming to. I couldn’t remember if I’d smiled when I’d knocked him out, but I am absolutely positive I was smiling—no, grinning—when I grabbed the scrawny prick by his hair, dragged him towards the edge of the boat, and pitched him overboard. Couple that with the fact that he’d regained his senses by the time he hit the water, and I was all but giggling as I watched him scream and flail in that sea of red.
“Dun-dun-dun-dun…!” I called to him. I then bent, snatched his camera, smashed it repeatedly on the deck, and tossed it overboard. “Here’s your camera, man.”
Andrew’s fear was electric. He bobbed and choked, head whipping in all directions, desperate to locate the monster beneath.
“Oh he’s down there, man,” I said. “He’s down there.”
“I’ll give you whatever you want!” he cried. “Anything!”
I resumed singing as I turned my back on him. “Dun-dun-dun-dun…”
* * *
I’d seen a few of those disaster films where regular folks had to land planes when the pilot got sick or died or whatever, and I can distinctly remember thinking, God, that would suck. Well, although a boat may not be as dire a situation as a plane, I can tell you that steering, and especially docking one still sucks pretty hard when your knowledge of boats goes back to when you played with one in the tub.
Fortunately, I did eventually find a dock in some obscure spot behind someone’s palatial home. I didn’t even bother trying to tie the fucker up, just hopped off while it was still moving. This, of course, resulted in the boat colliding with the dock and its supporting structures, which, in turn, resulted in a very pissed off homeowner storming out of said palatial home and towards yours truly.
The man approached, screaming and hollering. “What the hell do you think you’re doing, you dumb son of a—”
Without missing a stride, I knocked the guy clean out with a left hook and kept on walking. Dick move, I know, but I was in no mood.
38
I was in a cab, headed back to San Francisco International Airport when I decided I couldn’t wait. I had to call Angela.
“How’d it go?” she answered.
“Not too good.”
“Why, what happened?”
“I couldn’t do it.”
“So who did?”
“Nobody.”
“Nobody?”
“That’s right—it didn’t get done.”
“I see. And Gene and Andrew were okay with that?”
“Gene seemed a little upset. It’s irrelevant now though.”
“Irrelevant, huh?” A pause. “They’re dead, aren’t they?”
“Yup.”
“You killed them?”
“Yup.”
“What about the girl?”
I clenched my teeth and took a deep breath through my nose to steady myself. God, how I wished she was still alive. Alive and sitting next to me. I’d put her on the goddamn phone. Have her say hello to the old ringmaster herself.
“She’s dead,” I eventually said.
“So something did happen?”
“No—not like you think. It was an accident.”
“Some people say there are no accidents, Calvin.”
“Yeah, well those people have obviously never seen a great white shark leap out of the water and bite a girl in half before.”
The cab driver shot a nervous glance over his shoulder.
“Wow,” Angela said. “Did you get it
on film?”
“Nope—tossed it overboard,” I said with what little joy I could summon.
Another pause. And then: “So let me get this straight. Gene and Andrew are dead.”
“Yup.
“The girl is dead.”
“Yes.”
“And we’ve got no tape.”
“Correct.
“So we’ve got nothing.”
“No, you’ve got nothing. I’m done. I am fucking done.”
“You’re done, huh?” she said. “Just like that?”
“Just like that.”
“So I guess you’re not afraid of prison anymore.”
“Fuck you, bitch. Send your little tape to whoever you want. I’ll take my chances.”
She chuckled. “Sorry, Calvin, it’s not that easy. You can’t just—”
“Easy? I killed four-fucking-people this week! I—” I stopped suddenly, a realization hitting me like a horrible memory once forgotten. “Holy shit…you only need to kill three people in order to be officially labeled a serial killer…I’m a fucking serial killer!”
The cab driver glanced back at me again. He looked like he was about to shit himself.
“Relax, Calvin, okay? You need to calm—”
“Stop telling me to relax and calm down! I’m done, you hear me!? I am fucking done!”
“Okay, okay, I’m sorry…” She stammered, incredulously stumped for words. “You can’t just…you can’t…” She shifted suddenly, making a weak attempt at regaining the advantage by targeting my psyche. “You know what? I don’t think you are done.” Even over the phone I could tell her words weren’t loaded. “I saw something in you. I saw—”
I barked out a laugh, cutting her off.
“What you saw was depression, Angela—plain and simple. I think, and I say things that are conceivable only in the safety of my own fucked-up head, and that’s all.” I shifted the phone to my other ear as I started building momentum. “I used to think there’d be no significant transition if my depraved thoughts ever crossed over into reality, but you know what? There’s a big one. A big-fucking-terrifying transition. And now, thanks to a sick bitch like you, I know that as an absolute fact.”
A long pause. When she finally spoke she sounded so vulnerable, I wondered if it was even her. “Please don’t do this. I’ll tell you everything, okay? Just please don’t leave…Please.”
“You had your chance to talk to me. I’m done.” I snapped my phone shut.
(Impressive.)
Shut the fuck up.
I leaned forward in my seat. “How much further?”
“Not far, not far,” the cabbie said quickly, probably counting the seconds before we hit the airport.
“Good. Hurry up. And don’t mess with me; I’m a serial killer.”
PART EIGHT
The Tooth Shall Set You Free
39
It felt good to stand up to Angela. All that pride and defiance, telling her to fuck off, despite her pleading.
Her pleading. What was all that about? I’m no shrink, and if you haven’t guessed by now, I’m the reigning champ of cynicism, but it felt like there was something sincere in her tone that, for a record first, was not the starts of a mind fuck. She truly seemed upset about something, and I know it wasn’t the prospect of losing me as a lover; in addition to holding the Cynicism Belt, I am also number one contender for the Lack of Self-esteem Title.
So what was it then? What did she seem so upset about? And more importantly—far more importantly—what to do about the tape? Angela seemed upset on the phone, but how soon until that sadness turns to anger? How soon until she follows through on her blackmail threat and FedExes copies of that tape to every precinct in the Philadelphia area?
I stuck my key in my apartment door.
Do I run? Could I run?
(Or maybe you could eliminate the problem at the source.)
She wouldn’t give me the tape.
(You know that’s not what I meant. Your body count is all her fault anyway. What’s one more?)
No. No more…
(It would be even more justified than when you killed the freak in self-defense. It’s all about self-preservation.)
NO. Besides, she made it abundantly clear that she’s not the only one with a copy of the tape. If anything happened to her…
(She said you have no way of KNOWING if someone else has the tape. That you’d be taking a big risk. She could have been bluffing.)
Drop it.
I entered my apartment and Pele rushed towards my shins, meowing incessantly as he rubbed against them—a hello and a where the fuck have you been?
I bent to pick him up, but he moved out of range. He circled then cast me a look with another meow that was English to me: Fuck you; you think I’m forgiving you so quickly? Get on my dinner, bitch, and MAYBE I’ll let you pet me later.
I headed to my kitchen with two objectives: feed Pele, and whiskey Calvin.
Pele was soon nose deep in a bowl of Friskies, and I was soon nose deep in a healthy glass of Beam. I leaned against my kitchen counter as I drank.
Run or wait? That’s what it all comes down to, doesn’t it?
(Or…)
I said drop it—it’s not an option.
I downed the remainder of my Beam, poured myself another, and then headed towards my sofa. Although I knew I wouldn’t pay attention to program one, the simple act of channel surfing might be cathartic in a let’s-figure-out-how-to-get-out-of-the-snuff film industry-without-going-to-prison kind of way.
I set my drink on the arm of the sofa and leaned forward to grab the remote from the coffee table.
I froze, my hand suspended in air, hovering over the remote.
What…the fuck…are those?
I needed a better look—because they couldn’t have been what I thought they were. Slowly, steadily, I lifted the remote by its sides, keeping it horizontal so as not to spill anything.
I brought the remote closer. Yup—two blood-stained teeth resting on the remote like capers on a biscuit.
I dropped the remote as if it had just burned me, the teeth scattering across my rug. Pele approached one of the teeth, sniffed, and then started batting it playfully.
“No! Pele, no!” I leapt from the sofa and shooed him away from the tooth. He hissed and swiped at my foot before darting off.
Everything felt like a scene in a movie, where the camera does a dizzying 360 around the main character as he desperately clings to sanity.
A sudden knock at my door stops the camera’s orbit cold, and now it’s a shotgun zoom in on my panicked face with the classic tilted frame to convey my instability.
I faced my door, chest heaving, mind spiraling. “Who is it?”
“I need help.” A female voice. Soft and weak.
“Who is it?”
“Please let me in.”
I inched cautiously towards the door as if it might burst open at any second. I placed an eye on the peephole. It was Angela. Her head was down, and she had something pressed to her mouth, but it was her.
“Angela?”
“Please let me in, Calvin.”
A trick. Was it a trick? Were there freaks with her, flanking her, far enough away so I missed them through the peephole? Would there be no blackmail after all? In its stead, a sweeping under the rug, like I had been tricked to do with the freak for having a big mouth?
“Are you alone?” I asked.
“Yes.”
I looked through the peephole again. Strained muscles in my eye I’d never used in order to gain the widest scope possible. She did seem alone. And if she did have goons with her, wouldn’t they just kick the door down? Kill me and be gone before neighbors started to wonder what all the commotion was about?
I opened the door. The thing covering her mouth was a white rag. At least it used to be white. Now it was mostly red. I pulled her inside, shut the door and locked it.
I gestured towards the rag. “Are you hurt? What happened?�
�
She pulled the bloodied cloth away from her mouth, winced and raised her upper lip. I now knew whose front teeth were on my remote.
“Jesus Christ. Who did that to you?”
“My—” She stopped, sighed, and then corrected herself. “Our boss.”
40
Angela sat on my sofa. The bleeding had more or less stopped, so I tossed the bloodied rag and gave her a damp washcloth from my bathroom. She nodded her appreciation and periodically dabbed the cloth on the raw gap, wincing each time. I sat on the coffee table, across from her.
“So you’re saying you answer to someone,” I said. “This isn’t just your gig.”
Cloth to mouth, she nodded slowly.
“So this is what you meant when you said you had no choice in doing this kind of work. I wasn’t misunderstanding things.”
She nodded again and lowered the rag. “I may be a bit wild, Calvin, but I’m not a psychopath. I was fucked…just like I fucked you.”
“Blackmailed.”
“More or less.”
I stared at her, refusing to blink, lips pursed in contempt. Start talking, I hoped my face read.
She took a deep breath and let it out with a long sigh. “Okay…you ready for the after school special?”
I nodded.
She dabbed her mouth with the cloth and let out another long sigh. “I was an addict and I lived on the street. My life sucked and I wanted to die. So I OD’d. But then some Good Samaritan comes along, scoops me up, and dumps me off at the hospital. Saves my life.
“A few days later I’m released, and as I’m leaving I’m greeted by a limo. The guy inside tells me he was the one who saved me. Tells me I was so beautiful with all this potential and that if I let him, he would take care of me.” She dabbed her mouth again and winced. “My life is a big fucking zero so I figure I’ve got nothing to lose, right? So I go with him, and for a year he’s like Mr. Johnny-on-the-spot with the luxury and spoils. I’m living in a palace, new clothes, jewelry…I don’t even have any desire for smack anymore.
Hair of the Bitch - A Twisted Suspense Thriller Page 13
