“Good ones now, Homer,” Arty says. “Twenty good ones.”
The man begins. He manages the first three. By number five, his arms begin to shake, his form breaking, butt sinking. His face is one enormous grimace of effort.
“Come on, Homer!” Jim yells in a tone that curiously rings out as a genuine cheer of encouragement instead of the mockery it almost assuredly is. “You’ve got this, man!”
The man has hit seven, his entire body shaking, his brow dotted with sweat, face scrunched and contorted with effort like that of a man passing a stone.
“I…I can’t…” he mutters.
“So, you want your wife to die?” Arty says. “Is that what you’re telling us? Telling HER? You’re unable to protect the love of your life because you can’t do twenty lousy pushups?”
“I…I’m trying…” He’s crying now, sweat and tears coming together around his fleshy jowls.
“Try harder!” Jim yells.
“Please…” The man is seconds from collapsing.
“Please what?” Arty asks.
“Please…have mercy…”
“Fine,” Arty says. “You can stop.”
The man collapses onto his chest and stomach. He lies there weeping, ashamed to lift his head.
“Get up, Homer,” Arty says.
The man slowly gets to his feet. He cannot bring himself to look at his wife.
“You failed, Homer,” Arty says. “You lost the game. And with every game there is reward, and there is punishment. Now, you already know what your punishment is, yes?”
The man starts shaking his head adamantly, crying harder.
“No?” Arty says. “I thought we made the rules very clear.”
“Please, God, no—I’m begging you…”
Arty looks at Jim. “I do love it when they call us God.”
Jim smiles back, places the blade of the kitchen knife against the wife’s neck, and holds it there, stretching the moment out. The wife does not dare move for fear of getting cut, yet her panicked eyes strain down towards the blade against her neck. Her weeping now becomes staccato gasps into her gag.
“Rules are rules, Homer,” Jim says.
“I’ll do anything…” the man pleads.
“How about this then,” Arty says. “I want you to approach your wife. Jim, back away for a minute.”
Jim does.
Arty: “Homer, I want you to approach your wife. Stand next to her. Close.”
The man slowly approaches the bed and stands next to his wife. He still cannot bring himself to look at her.
“LOOK at her, Homer,” Arty says. “Look her in the eye, and don’t you dare look away.”
The man does. He immediately begins to cry that much harder. His wife’s sobbing equally grows.
“I want you to repeat after me, Homer,” Arty says. “If you do, we will grant you mercy. Do you understand?”
The man looks back at Arty with desperate hope.
Arty gestures back towards the woman with his gun. “Don’t look at me, look at Marge.”
The man does.
“What’s her name?” Arty asks the man. “Her REAL name.”
The man glances back at Arty. Clears his throat and says: “Janice.”
“At her, not at me,” Arty says.
The man turns back to his wife.
“Repeat after me, Homer,” Arty says. “I’m so sorry, Janice.”
The man clears his throat again and shakily repeats Arty’s words.
Arty goes on: “I am so sorry that I was unable to save your life by performing twenty simple pushups.”
The man turns back to Arty.
“I swear to God, Homer, if you take your eyes off her one more fucking time…”
But the man keeps his eyes on Arty. They project not defiance, but a confused betrayal. “But you said…”
“I said what?”
“You said…mercy.”
“And I stand by what I said,” Arty says. “But I have to be honest with you, Homer; you’re not making it easy. I’m only going to tell you one last time to look your wife in the eye—and KEEP looking—and repeat after me.”
The man looks back at his wife.
“I am so sorry that I was unable to save your life by performing twenty simple pushups,” Arty says again.
The man repeats Arty’s words.
“I have failed you as a husband and as a protector,” Arty goes on.
The man struggles, but ultimately repeats the words.
“Kiss her,” Arty says.
The man does, kissing her forehead, the couple sobbing into one another before, during, and after.
“Good boy, Homer. Mercy now, yes?”
Ironically, the man does not seem capable of taking his eyes off his wife now. He nods over his shoulder to Arty.
“Here’s the thing, Homer,” Arty says. “Jim was going to slash your wife’s throat. Have you any idea how horrible such an experience is? The panic that sets in as you struggle to breathe from a throat that no longer works? And never mind the pain.”
The man finally takes his eyes off his wife and looks at Arty. Arty does not mention it this time.
“The mercy we will be granting your lovely Janice is a quick death,” Arty says. “I think that’s more than considerate.” Arty approaches Janice, shoves Homer aside, and shoots her once between the eyes.
The man cries out and falls on his wife, squeezing and rocking her lifeless body in what looks to be a futile attempt at reviving her.
Arty approaches the camera, the man sobbing and holding his wife in the background. “I think that might conclude our episode here today, friends. Hopefully, you took away some very valuable tools on orchestrating a successful home invasion, but just as important, we hope you gained some insight into the elements of the game that truly make it wonderful.”
Jim puts the knife back into his waistband, approaches the camera and stands next to Arty. “Yup,” Jim says. “You go through the trouble of securing a home and then you kill them quick? What’s the point? You’re no different than an animal then. Take your time and enjoy it. Have some fun.”
A deafening screech behind them genuinely startles both brothers. They spin just as the man leaves his wife and charges towards them, blood lust on his slobbering face.
Jim catches the man’s charge and easily spins him around into a chokehold, his forearm tight around the man’s neck. The man flails wildly, screaming, crying, kicking.
Arty backs away and laughs as Jim secures his hold on the man. “Now THERE’S that adrenaline we were talking about, Homer!” Arty says. “Where the hell was that a few minutes ago?”
The man’s fight is short-lived. He eventually slumps in Jim’s grip and can only cry harder.
“Gimme the knife,” Arty says to Jim.
Jim, one powerful arm still around the man’s neck, reaches into his waistband and hands the knife to his brother.
“Let him go,” Arty says.
Jim throws the man to the floor, where he lands on all fours. Arty straddles him, places his hand on the man’s forehead, pulls his head back, and slits the man’s throat from ear to ear. The man drops into a fetal ball, wide-eyed, gasping and sputtering, clutching his throat, blood seeping through his fingers, the areas of the wound not compressed by the man’s hands arcing in crimson jets.
“Hurts, doesn’t it, Homer?” Arty says. “And the panic, yes? The panic of not being able to breathe no matter how hard you try? That’s the worst, isn’t it? Homer? Are you listening? That’s the worst, isn’t it?”
The man actually looks up at Arty with wild, excruciating eyes, as though acknowledging him.
“You see? We’re not all bad,” Arty says. “We saved your wife all that torment you’re experiencing now.”
The man eventually crumbles. Dead. No longer spurting in powerful jets, the blood still pulses heavily as the man’s hands slip limply away from the wound.
Arty considers the scene for a moment. “Ugh, what a
mess,” he says, cavalier. He faces the camera again. There is a small spattering of blood on his cheek. “Obviously, we were going to kill Homer before we left—gotta cover your tracks, after all—but it’s always nice to do it with as little cleanup as possible. Jim and I are going to have to sign off now. One of the unfortunate pitfalls of the game awaits us—waste management.”
Jim grunts in agreement.
The two brothers approach the camera.
“So, until next time,” Arty says. “I’m Arty…”
“And I’m Jim…”
Both together now, each pointing a finger at the camera, each with the same infomercial grin they donned at the start: “And we’ll see YOU…before you see US.”
• • •
The screen went black. The two pairs of captivated eyes exchanged a look of such wonder that neither dared speak; it felt both unnecessary and wrong, as though their like minds shared the precise notion that mere words held no chance of conveying their awe.
Finally, it was Andy who slid the cardboard box full of tapes over to Charlie and said, in what was all but a breathless whisper: “Dude, there’s like ten more of these babies in here.”
2
Philadelphia, Pennsylvania
Hours earlier
Andy Franklin and Charlie Hall sat against the wall of the parking garage, passing a Gatorade bottle (pure Gatorade it wasn’t; more than half was vodka) between them. Initially, they’d been far too eager to sit, and instead paced in small circles, passing the bottle, swigging generously, treasuring the vodka’s warmth in their bellies against the cold. Treasuring the vodka’s ability to numb any initial apprehension. Sure, they’d met with the man before, had purchased from him before, therefore their apprehension shouldn’t have been as strong as the first time.
Except this time was much, much different.
He’d contacted them via instant messenger the night before. Well past midnight, as he always did. And they were of course awake and together, on a school night, as they always were. Andy Franklin and Charlie Hall were seldom apart. Outcasts, they clung to one another like lifeboats, the raging sea their high school life, their family life, their life-life.
The instant messenger exchange, signaled by the familiar bu-beep! from Andy’s PC idling on his bedroom desk as the two boys lay on the floor, staring up at the ceiling, discussing their hatred for the world and all those who inhabited it, went something like:
HA490312: You boys awake? I got something you’re definitely gonna want. Trust me.
They had exchanged looks. He’d sold them more than enough treasures in the past to make them happy, but always with an indifferent salesman’s ploy. Take it or leave it, he’d all but said in past exchanges. To hear him sound downright anxious, well, it made Andy and Charlie downright eager.
Andy had responded quickly, fingers clacking hard on the keyboard.
AF5/23/75: Yeah we’re awake. Why? What do you got?
One might assume at quick glance that AF5/23/75 was a combination of Andy Franklin’s initials and birth date. Except the math didn’t add up. If Andy had been born in 1975, that would have made him forty-seven and not the eighteen years he was.
Still, the date was a birthday, just not Andy’s. And the initials? Technically accurate, except anything but his own. No, the “AF” in Andy’s handle stood for Arty Fannelli, the date of May 23, 1975, that followed Arty Fannelli’s presumed birthday (the actual birth date of Arthur Fannelli, privately adopted, was unknown). It was fitting to Andy that his instant messenger handle (though in reality, it was only really he and Charlie who chatted on it) be an homage to his idol. Just as Charlie’s handle on his PC was JF3/7/77—Jim Fannelli, March 7, 1977 (like his brother, James Fannelli too was privately adopted, his actual birth date unknown).
HA490312: Don’t wanna say on here. You just gotta take my word that you boys are gonna want this BIG-TIME.
They’d exchanged looks again, eyebrows raised with cautious optimism. The man (he never gave them his full name in past exchanges, just told them to call him “Hank”) was a slimy type, the kind of man who never tipped and was proud of it. But Hank had always delivered in the past…for the right price, that is.
AF5/23/75: How much?
HA490312: How much you got?
They’d exchanged looks once again. Charlie confessed he had about forty bucks to his name; Andy, about fifty.
AF5/23/75: Ninety bucks.
HA490312: No fucking way. This is easily worth ten times that.
AF5/23/75: How the fuck you expect us to get 1000?
HA490312: Not my prob. All I’m saying is that you two freaks will cream your fucking pants over this shit. Hell, you’re lucky I’m coming to you first. I could probably sell it to the media for one hell of a tasty price.
Back to the take it or leave it ploy. Except his bluff about the media was bullshit, and Andy and Charlie knew it. After a past exchange, when Charlie had decided to ask why Hank was selling to them and not to the media or the like, Hank had confessed, and with no great subtlety (an oily little smile had preceded the confession), that his past made it advisable to stay under the public’s radar. Couple that with the fact that the means by which he’d acquired past items for them was anything but legal and you had yourself a grown man who was now forced to bluff a shitty hand with teenagers.
Charlie had told Andy he could almost assuredly steal a few hundred from his dad’s dresser tomorrow morning after his father left for work. Andy had said he could likely grab whatever was under his mother’s mattress in the next room, grab it tonight, in fact; the drunken bitch wouldn’t stir.
AF5/23/75: We can probably manage five hundred.
There had been a lengthy pause in Hank’s reply, Andy and Charlie sitting in excruciating silence, eyes never leaving the monitor. Occasionally, the screen would flash an ellipsis next to Hank’s handle, signifying that he was typing his reply, only to have no reply appear, indicating almost assuredly that Hank had several times typed his answer and then changed his mind, deleting his response.
Finally…
HA490312: Get six hundred together and it’s yours.
They hadn’t exchanged a look this time. And when Andy immediately typed his reply, Charlie had said nothing. Somehow, they would find the money.
AF5/23/75: Deal.
HA490312: Same place as always. Tomorrow night. 11.
AF5/23/75: See you then.
Except now it was past midnight. The bottle of Gatorade and vodka was nearly gone. The initial excited pacing had transitioned to slumped, dejected seats against the parking garage wall, fearing that Hank might have found another buyer who was willing to pay more, the six hundred dollars they had managed to scrounge up sitting in Andy’s pocket little consolation, their vodka buzzes becoming headaches.
They stood, Andy dumping the remainder of the booze, then angrily tossing the bottle as far as he could, the sound of hollow plastic hitting then skittering across concrete echoing in the distance of the mostly empty garage.
And then, like a final, unnecessary slap to a beaten man, the bottle began to roll back towards them, as if telling Andy—reminding him—that he could not even do that right. Do anything right. And by God didn’t that rolling little bottle have his mother’s voice now? Slurring in her drunkenness? Rattling off such constants that it was his fault his father had left? That it was his fault she couldn’t find a decent man? That it was his fault she barely ever got laid? And, for those times when she actually did bed a man, and the man inevitably never called again, that it was his fault for ruining her vagina (her “cock pit,” as she so charmingly put it)?
And of course the one night when he was eleven, while she’d been so inebriated and frustrated with her lack of success at acquiring a mate earlier at the bar, that she’d stumbled into the house and insisted that the least his useless little ass could do was pleasure her, only to be beaten and berated more so afterwards for doing such a poor job, to be told that he damn well do better nex
t time. And there were next times. Things getting especially horrific when puberty set in at thirteen and Andy Franklin’s penis had grown significantly.
Andy did not let the bottle finish its rolling descent back towards them. He ran after it, meeting its return halfway with a definitive stomp, crushing the bottle once and hard, and then again and again, and again after that.
Charlie looked on, likely assuming disappointment at Hank’s no-show was the impetus for his friend’s raging display right now. And why not? While Andy and Charlie kept few secrets from one another, there were still some that would stay locked away forever.
Squealing tires and a sudden blast of headlights approaching in the dimly lit parking garage stopped Andy cold. He stood stock still, eyes transfixed on the approaching headlights like the metaphorical deer—had the deer been stomping a plastic Gatorade bottle flat while envisioning his mother’s skull, that is.
The car, an ugly green late model Oldsmobile, patchworks of rust spilling into one another on one side, pulled sharply into a spot and sat idling for a moment. Blue-gray smoke plumed from the corroded exhaust pipe to add to the visual of the car’s neglect.
Andy and Charlie knew the shitty car well. Knew its owner as much as they cared to. Hank was a friend to them like a drug dealer was to an addict. And like the addict who was jonesing for his fix, Andy scowled and splayed his hands when the driver’s side car door creaked open and Hank, all three hundred slovenly pounds of him, lumbered out.
“What the hell, man?” Andy said. “You said eleven. It’s past midnight.”
Hank, breathing heavy—always breathing heavy—looked at Andy and gave his own splay of the hands. “You want I should go, Cinderella?”
Andy spotted a ketchup stain—or some kind of red sauce, salsa maybe—on Hank’s beige tee, and a blob of the stuff in the spindly scruff of his blond goatee. Had to stop first and get your tenth meal of the day, didn’t you, you fat fuck?
Bad Games- The Complete Series Page 94
