“Two hundred each?” she confirmed.
“Yes.”
She got into the car.
11
“On this tape, we’re going to keep things simple. We’re going to show you how to do a quick abduction. This is a great way to get your feet wet if you’re just starting out, and it also makes for a lovely little fix if you don’t have the prep time for something more elaborate,” Arty says.
“No shame in these little outings at all,” Jim chimes in. “They can be a damn good time. And as Arty mentioned, they’re a great way to find your groove when just starting out. Many a night Arty and I—after already logging countless plates of fine dining—have ventured out for a little fast food.”
Arty laughs at this. Then: “Basically, you want to target people nobody will miss. People cops won’t turn over many stones for. Runaways, whores, the homeless. In our experience, whores are the best. If your approach is right, they’ll happily get into your car without any bother whatsoever. If you happen to get spotted by the police or, God forbid, the whore you were picking up WAS the police, the worst you’re looking at is an arrest for solicitation of prostitution. No shame in that. Hell, Hollywood celebrities seem to get busted for it every day.”
Cut to Arty and Jim in a seedy part of the city at night, the camera zooming in on a dimly lit street corner where a young white woman stands alone. Her outfit is provocative.
Andy and Charlie were parked far enough away to avoid detection, yet close enough to take it all in. They’d taken Andy’s mother’s car after she’d passed out for the night.
“Who’s the guy she’s with?” Charlie asked from the passenger seat.
“Don’t know,” Andy replied, eyes out the driver’s side window. “Customer, I guess.”
“Maybe it’s her pimp.”
“Don’t look like a pimp to me.”
“You know what a pimp looks like?”
“Not like that. He could be our age.”
“What’s up with the van?” Charlie asked. “Whose van is that?”
“No idea. Let’s just wait and see.”
Arty narrates as the camera stays on the woman. “Now, you’ll notice she’s alone. This is important. The smart whores will stand together for safety reasons. If you pick one up from a group, and the police DO decide to pursue her disappearance, you’ll have the other whores as witnesses. Don’t need to tell you why that’s a bad thing.”
“And license plates,” Jim adds off camera. “Just to play it safe, you might want to start collecting a few license plates to attach to your car when you go hunting. IF, like Arty mentioned, someone does spot you, they’ll be giving the police the license to a car that isn’t yours.”
Charlie rubbed his hands, the fingers and knuckles cracked and bleeding. “That license plate was impossible to remove. My hands are fucked.”
“Can’t make an omelet…”
Charlie grunted. “Hope we can get your mom’s back on after.”
“We will.”
“Hope she doesn’t notice anything.”
“Like what?”
“Like it was removed and then put back on.”
“Nobody looks at their license plates. Plus my mom is sober one hour out of the day. She won’t notice shit.”
Charlie grunted again.
“Excellent point, little brother. Also a good idea to simply sit and watch for a little bit,” Arty says. “Just because she’s alone at the moment doesn’t mean a few other whores might not wander up and join her.” Camera pans over to the opposing street. It is empty. “And be sure to check out any surrounding streets. Whores have territories. Some as small as a simple street. Just because one is alone on one corner doesn’t mean there’s not others a stone’s throw away.”
“I haven’t spotted anyone else nearby, have you?” Andy said.
“No. Just the one guy, and he’s gone.”
“He didn’t take the van. I guess it’s hers?”
“Probably where she does her thing with customers.”
“We don’t want that, though,” Andy said. “We want her in here.”
“We’ll try.”
“And if she won’t?”
“Improv,” Charlie said.
“Now,” Arty says, “We’ve been watching this one for a while. It appears she is indeed truly alone.”
“Might as well put a bull’s-eye on her butt.”
They share a laugh.
A shaky image moving around the interior of the car before the image settles, the camera fixed on the dashboard so both brothers are now facing the lens. They are both clearly excited.
“You folks ready?” Arty asks. He looks at Jim. “You ready, little brother?”
“I’m very ready.”
“Sweet. We’re going to cut out for a minute while Jim attaches the body cam. Stay tuned.”
Cut to a slight upward angle of Arty’s profile in the driver’s seat as he pulls up alongside the girl and rolls down the window.
“How’s it going?” Arty asks her.
“Going just fine,” she responds, peering past Arty at Jim in the passenger seat. “What are you two boys up to?”
“My buddy and I were hoping you might want to hang out for a bit,” Arty asks.
“Two hundred,” she says.
“Each?” Arty asks.
“For both.”
“Done.”
The girl gets into the car.
The girl continued to loiter by the van.
“Here we go, man,” Andy said. “You ready?”
“Definitely.”
They pulled up alongside her. Andy rolled down his window and smiled. “How’s it going?”
“Better now,” she replied, smiling back.
“My buddy and I were hoping you might want to hang out for a bit,” Andy said. It felt natural. So far so good. No cause for alarm.
The girl peered deeper into the car, towards Charlie. Charlie smiled at her and waved back.
“One hundred,” the girl said. “Each.”
“Done,” Andy said.
She turned to open the van.
“Two hundred if we can do it in here,” Andy said.
She turned back. “Why?”
“Just feels safer, I guess,” Andy. He faked a nervous chuckle. “We’re kind of new to this, you know?”
“Two hundred each?” she said.
“Yes.”
She nodded and started for the car.
Before she got settled into the back seat, Andy leaned over to Charlie, smirked, and whispered: “Improv, baby.”
Cut to a scene in the interior of the car, Arty driving.
“Slow night?” Arty asks, glancing into the rearview mirror at the girl in the back seat.
The camera jumps and bounces as Jim turns in his seat so the body cam is on the girl. She could be in her late teens, maybe even twenty, but her lifestyle has prematurely tacked on the years. Still, she has a rough sort of beauty. Long blonde hair that is very likely a wig or cheap extensions. Fake eyelashes. Too much makeup.
“Yes,” the girl replies.
“You out all by yourself tonight?” Jim asks.
“Yeah, why?” she replies quickly.
“Kinda dangerous, isn’t it?” Jim says.
The girl shifts uneasily in her seat. “I can handle myself.”
The car pulls into a deserted lot. Arty kills the engine.
“That’s often true,” Arty says. Only he’s no longer addressing the girl; he’s talking to Jim. Talking to the camera. “Whores can be a handful sometimes. It’s not uncommon that they carry a knife or even a gun.”
“What did you call me?” the girl says.
Jim’s arm can be seen reaching back towards the girl. At first it is unclear what his intentions are until a short, quick buzz is heard, and the girl momentarily jerks in her seat, body going stiff for a second before she slumps, semiconscious, in her seat.
Jim sits back in his seat and holds up a handheld Taser for the
body cam on his chest to see. He talks quickly now, reaching under his seat as he does so. “It’s a common misconception that these Tasers render someone unconscious. They don’t. They just give them a hell of a jolt and incapacitate them for a few seconds. That’s why you need to work quickly and bring out something with a little more oomph to it.”
Jim pulls out a tire iron out from under the seat, holds it up for the camera, then turns back to the woman. His arm can be seen giving her two solid whacks with the iron bar, rendering her unconscious. He sits back in his seat and brandishes the tire iron before his body cam once again, panting slightly. The casual tone in his voice now might be that of a man explaining how to change a tire.
“Tire irons fit the bill perfectly,” he says. “Not only do they pack a wallop, but they’re a common tool found in any car. Sure, we kept ours under the seat and not in the trunk, but if questioned, you can merely say you recently changed your tire and forgot to put it back in the trunk. Just be sure to wipe it down after in case you drew any blood.” He holds up the tire iron again, talking slowly as he inspects the weapon: “Doesn’t look like…nope—we’re good.”
“Excellent,” Arty says to the camera. “Now, before beginning anything, it’s always a good idea to double-check your surroundings to ensure that you’re truly alone. Be right back.”
Arty exits the car. His silhouette can be seen taking a casual stroll throughout the dimly lit lot. He returns to the car, smiles for the camera, and says: “All clear.”
The girl starts to groan as she comes to. Jim reaches back and whacks her again. She goes out again.
Andy drove them to a deserted lot a few blocks from the bar and killed the engine. Both boys were palpably excited.
“Slow night?” Andy asked.
“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you,” she said.
Andy and Charlie exchanged a look.
“Bad?” Charlie asked.
“I’m not sure yet,” she said.
“You out here all by yourself?” Andy asked.
“I guess you could say that,” she said.
“Kind of dangerous, isn’t it?” Charlie asked.
The girl shifted uncomfortably in her seat. “I can handle myself.”
Andy and Charlie exchanged another look and burst out in nervous laughter. They couldn’t help it.
“It’s like we’re doing a shot-by-shot remake,” Andy said to Charlie.
“What the hell are you guys talking about?” the girl asked. “Are we doing this or not?”
“Oh, we’re doing this,” Charlie said. He reached back towards the girl with the Taser they’d acquired earlier in the day and zapped her. Her body went rigid, then slumped. She moaned, semiconscious.
“Get the tire iron,” Andy said quickly. “Get the tire iron. Hurry up.”
Charlie reached under his seat and pulled out the tire iron. Turned back towards the girl again, but she had regained her senses and saw his attack coming. Scooted back against the door and raised her legs, kicking and thrusting her feet at Charlie, deflecting his blows, striking out at Charlie’s face. One of the kicks landed flush, stunning Charlie. He dropped the tire iron. The girl immediately opened the passenger side door and tumbled out onto the ground on all fours.
“Fuck!” Andy yelled. He opened the driver’s side door.
The girl scrambled to her feet and started to run. Andy gave chase and caught her, tackling her to the ground. The girl fought savagely from the bottom, scratching, biting, punching. Andy was a panicked mess, trying to control her flailing arms as he sat atop her.
“Get the fuck off me!!” she yelled. “Get the fuck—HELP!!! SOMEONE, HELP ME!!!”
Andy’s panic climbed to a fevered pitch. He clamped a hand over her mouth. She instantly snatched up a finger and bit down hard. Andy howled in pain, tried to jerk his hand free, but her grip on his finger was impossibly strong with fear. Andy made a fist with his free hand and brought it down onto her face repeatedly, his own fear giving him enhanced speed and power, his fist like a jackhammer. One of the blows landed square onto the girl’s nose with an audible crack, the impact causing her to release the grip on Andy’s finger. Andy immediately wrapped both hands around her neck, keen, not so much to choke her to death—that wasn’t in the script, after all—but to choke her into compliance, to fix and control this colossal mess they were making of it all.
The girl bucked upwards with a powerful thrust of her hips and shot Andy forward; his hands preoccupied with her neck, he could not brace himself in time, and his face landed hard onto the unforgiving concrete, dazing him, showing him an array of stars.
The girl scurried out from beneath Andy and scrambled to her feet again. Her survival instincts were blunted by rage, and instead of running for it, she turned back to her attacker and began to kick Andy savagely about the head, giving Charlie time to come up from behind her with the tire iron…
Cut to a shot where the camera is now clearly back on the dashboard, Arty and Jim both mugging for the camera, the girl is still unconscious in the back seat.
“Now,” Arty says, “what you do next, is up to you, my friends. Just remember that this was a quick little abduction. ‘Fast food,’ as Jim called it. Don’t get carried away and stay there forever. Get your fix and then move on.”
“Don’t forget disposal,” Jim says.
“Oh right!” Arty says. “Hugely important. Jim and I already have several dump sites marked all over the city and its outskirts. YOU, however, are going to need to find your own. And we definitely recommend doing it beforehand. Don’t want to be driving around with a dead whore in your trunk while looking for one. Ideal spots are lakes and rivers—just be sure to weigh them down. If you’re not near any bodies of water, the woods are another good option. If you’re lucky, the animals will get to them, and there’ll be little to nothing left when they’re found. And if no woods are nearby? A good old dumpster can do the trick. Quite often, garbage trucks empty them without ever paying attention to the contents tumbling into their compactor.”
“We cover everything?” Jim asks quickly. Breathlessly. His tone and manner are not unlike an anxious boy’s, impatiently listening to do’s and don’ts from a parent before he’s allowed to dash off and play.
Arty smiles. “Looks like my brother is eager to have some fun of his own. Well, it looks like that’s it for this episode, friends. Until next time, I’m Arty…”
“And I’m Jim…”
Together now, pointing their trademark fingers at the camera, smiling their trademark smiles: “And we’ll see YOU…before you see US.”
It was over. The girl was dead. Though the first blow from the tire iron had rendered the girl unconscious, Charlie had not stopped there. Like Andy’s, Charlie’s attack was not fueled by the planned need to end the girl’s life, but to simply stop and control the chaotic mess they’d made of their first time.
And so he’d brought the tire iron down repeatedly, likely killing her after the second or third blow. And Andy, who’d since gotten to his feet and looked on with equal parts alarm and wonder at his best friend committing his first murder, soon regained enough composure to take the tire iron from Charlie and take his turn, bludgeoning the girl more so—it was, after all, supposed to be their first time, not just Charlie’s.
After disposing of the girl’s body (they’d scouted an industrial-sized dumpster in advance, hopeful that Arty and Jim had been correct in their statement that most garbage trucks empty the dumpsters on their route without ever paying attention to the contents tumbling into their compactor), they drove back to the lot behind the bar, parked, and sat silent, breathing heavily, taking it all in.
Their emotions were, as was typical, in sync with one another. At first there was disappointment. It had not gone as smoothly as they’d hoped. Had not gone even remotely as smoothly as they’d hoped. In fact, the whole thing had gone off like one astounding clusterfuck.
But as the minutes trickled on, and they sat in the dark
interior of their car within the dark interior of the lot, they shared a sort of forgiveness towards one another, this forgiveness triggered by nervous chuckling that ultimately became nervous laughter, the type of shared laughter that was all but accompanied with dramatic wipes of the brow and rolls of wide and still frightened eyes. The type of crazed laughter from two men who’d stared death in the face and had only emerged on the other side by the barest skin of their teeth.
And, in a way, they had stared death in the face. It was messy, very messy, but they’d assured each other that things would go much better next time. And there would be a next time, they once again assured each other. Like the fledgling alcoholic who winces down their first taste of whiskey, yet somehow knows right then and there they’ll be hooked for life despite its bite, so too were Andy and Charlie hooked. And in time, each sip would become that much smoother. It was only a matter of time. A matter of getting their hands on more subjects to taste.
12
Amy and Allan lay in bed. Allan had tried to discuss Caleb’s earlier behavior, yet Amy hadn’t been ready. Wouldn’t have even known what to say, if she had been. The earlier prospect she’d ruminated over—as to what the trauma in Caleb’s life had conceivably made him into—now haunted her to an extent that made the notion of voicing it frightening to her. It was almost a superstitious type of notion. The type of notion that one feared would come true if the cruel gods who governed such superstitions were to hear it spoken aloud.
So she kept it in, curling up to Allan, occasionally crying. Occasionally turning on the TV as a form of distraction. For now, Amy only wanted to be held and assured that the Lambert family et al, in spite of all the bumps—hills, fucking mountains—they had hit over the years, would eventually find the road leading to recovery.
Except that was a laugh, wasn’t it? Recovery. Amy frequently found herself going back to her “casualties of war” expression when defining her family. The audience watching—and there was an audience, for whom she could blame no one but herself, at least for the staying power of such an audience—wanted a happy ending. They wanted the Lambert family and, by extension, the Brown family, to come away from their decade-long horrors not only triumphant, but unscathed. They wanted them to thrive after surviving their countless ordeals. The word superheroes had even been thrown around in various mediums of news coverage. To not only survive what they’d endured, but to have conquered their sinister antagonists was the work of superheroes. And everyone knew that superheroes were invincible.
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