Patrick bit down hard on his gag and forced his head towards his wife. He looked at her feet first. Then her lap. Then her face. But still no eyes, he couldn’t meet the eyes. His whole body quaked like a small seizure. When he finally did look into his wife’s eyes, she instantly cried and so did he.
And Arty threw his head back, opened his mouth as though a laugh was imminent, but began clapping his hands instead. “Bravo. Fucking bravo,” he said. “I mean this is what it’s all about, isn’t it?”
Jim nodded his approval, his grin matching his brother’s. “I think they can see the TV just fine, bro. They’re just being a bit overly dramatic with all the tears and stuff.”
“I agree,” Arty said. “Bunch of crybabies these two.”
Patrick’s head ripped towards Arty. The tears were still there, but now they burned his bulging eyes like acid. His skin was purple, his crazed breath machine-gunning out his nose, the nostrils big then small, big then small.
Arty pointed at Patrick and turned to his brother. “Look at the look he’s giving me right now. What the hell is that all about you think?”
Jim shrugged and leaned against the wall. Arty turned back to Patrick.
“You’re scaring me with that look,” he said. Arty stepped forward and jammed his index finger into Patrick’s eye. Patrick’s head shot back before dropping towards his chest where he began shaking it vigorously from side to side.
Jim pushed himself off the wall with a wild look in his eye. “That shit hurts doesn’t it?” he said. “The dirty fucker did the same thing to me the other day!”
Arty bent forward and kissed Patrick on the top of his head, began petting his hair like he would a dog’s. “Okay, you know what? I’m sorry. You were just scaring me there for a minute.” He gave Patrick’s head a final stroke that finished with a gentle pat. “Why don’t we watch some TV? You can use the other eye for now. Jim, you mind turning the television on?”
Jim did as he was told, and the black screen came to life. The image was from above and slightly angled, but it was a clear shot of the family room. Maria Fannelli sat with Caleb at her feet, and Carrie next to her on the sofa. The impact of seeing their children on camera caused both parents to cry out through their gags.
Both brothers ignored the muffled wails as though they never happened. Arty spoke over them with an even tone, like a teacher to a noisy classroom, refusing to resort to shouting in order to regain control.
“Our mother,” Arty said. “And your kids of course.”
Amy and Patrick both gaped at the screen. The silent movie showed their children entertaining the older woman, blissfully ignorant to the goings-on above their heads.
“Look how happy she is,” Arty said. “She thinks they’re her grandchildren.”
The couple’s heads turned simultaneously towards Arty, their confused frowns neon signs.
“The doctor called it dementia,” Arty said. “It’s not a specific diagnosis really— kind of like calling a flower a flower when it could be a rose or a tulip or something else I guess.
“We tried medicine but all it did was make her want to sleep. And when she’d wake up she’d forget where the hell she was half the time. It’s weird too, this dementia. Unpredictable. She’s got no problem remembering Jim and I, or shit she did when she was a kid, but recent stuff…” He made the motion of something spiraling down a drain. “There one second, and then…pfft! Gone.”
Arty walked in front of the television and stopped, blocking the couple’s view. “My brother and I love our mother. Deeply. And before you start running weird thoughts in your head, I can assure you there’s no Norman Bates shit going on here. We had a father, and we loved him a great deal as well. They were wonderful parents; a blessing to any child.”
Arty switched off the television and shuffled over to the opposite wall from where his brother was leaning. He took a seat on the wooden floor, his knees up, both arms resting on them.
“I’m an avid reader. Always have been. Being educated is unquestionably the single best weapon in one’s arsenal.” He paused. Waited for some reason. Then, “I read a lot about psychology. Especially the whole nature versus nurture thing when it comes to naughty people in the world.
“Some folks will tell you bad people are made through their environment. And then some folks will tell you it’s a hereditary thing—bad people give birth to more bad people. Makes sense right? It’s genetics; it’s in the bloodline.”
Arty paused, looked up at the ceiling for a moment. A wicked smile then slowly curled his lips, a light-bulb moment evident. He lowered his head, face alive with revelation. “Are you two Three Stooges fans?” he asked. “Jim and I are. Diehard. Absolutely love The Boys. We even like the Shemp episodes; Larry’s character was much more developed in those, and Shemp definitely had some serious skills—his ability to improv was brilliant.
“But Joe? Don’t even get me started. The pussy had some kind of clause in his contract stating that Moe was never allowed to slap him too hard.” Arty pursed his lips, rolled his eyes. “And never mind what a whiny little bitch he was on screen. Guy held the distinction of watching legends like Moe and Larry all but impossible. I swear if the fucker wasn’t already dead, Jim and I would find a way to pay him a visit.”
Jim grunted in agreement.
“I’m getting carried away, aren’t I?” he asked. “Okay. Anyway, there was an early short—one with Curly called ‘Hoi Polloi.’” He thought for a second. “1935, right, Jim?”
Jim nodded.
“Yeah, it was done in 1935,” Arty continued. “Over seventy years ago. You know what that means?” He chuckled. “Of course you don’t; I haven’t told you what the episode was about yet.”
Jim chuckled too.
“You see in ‘Hoi Polloi,’ two rich guys are having an argument. One guy says that environment is the most crucial factor in social distinction. The other guy scoffs at him, claiming that heredity is far more relevant. They go back and forth for a bit until they finally decide to make a bet for ten grand.
“Environment Guy bets that he can take any man and turn him into a gentleman after three months of proper environment. Heredity Guy is hesitant to take the bet, because back then ten grand was a shit load of money, right?”
Arty looked at both Patrick and Amy as if they might actually answer him.
“So, Heredity Guy asks to make the bet for three men instead of one. You know, to make the bet a bit more fair. Environment Guy accepts, and of course we know who those three men are gonna be right?”
He looked at the couple again, a silly grin on his face, then back to the show in his head.
“So The Boys are exposed to all this fancy, ritzy crap for three months. They’re learning to eat properly, speak properly, dance properly. Everything.
“The final scene is at this big dinner party with all these snooty rich folks. The Boys have to pass the final test by making their big debut into high-society; to prove they’re changed men so Environment Guy can win his bet.” Arty paused. “So what do you think happens?” A keen smile teased his face before finally erupting into a cheer.
“They blow it of course! They start breaking shit, slapping each other, just flat-out doing what they do best.”
Both Arty and Jim were laughing now, hands periodically going to their mouths to keep the noise at bay. Arty continued.
“So Environment Guy admits he lost and hands Heredity Guy a check for ten grand, but…as soon as Environment Guy hands over the check to Heredity Guy, all hell breaks loose at the party. It seems The Boys made quite an impression on all the proper people in attendance. The boys’ violence towards one another became contagious, and soon people are slapping faces, poking eyes, bonking heads, and loving every single second of it.
“The snobby pricks who were born into their perfect little environment only needed a whiff of violent behavior from The Boys for them to go completely ape-shit, and start mimicking that violent behavior by beating the hell out o
f each other. It’s funny; its slapstick; but that final scene tends to shadow the true message that everyone seems to miss…”
A deliberate pause.
“There was no true winner! While the Stooges’ heredity may have been too steeped in ignorance to be changed by environment, their primitive acts of carnage were enticing enough to make even the snootiest of dinner guests resort to naughty behavior! Who would have thought a fucking Three Stooges episode would carry such a message?”
Both Arty and Jim were laughing hard again, hands mashed over their mouths.
“And here we are now,” Arty continued. “Seventy years later and there’s still no definitive answer on the subject. One argument will hold true to the environment theory I just mentioned. That’s nurture. Bad people are made from bad parenting; bad environment. Parents who fucked them, beat them, or just plain neglected them; sent them off to fend for themselves in a cruel world. And trust me, there’s a shit load of studies to support those theories.”
Arty took a deep breath, exhaled and continued.
“So just when it starts to make sense, and you’re thinking, Yeah, that seems pretty logical, some other hotshot will come along and make a damn good case for the heredity factor. Nature. Serial Killer Stanley’s father was a fucking whack-job, the father’s father was a fucking whack-job, and his father’s father was a fucking whack-job…” Arty spiraled both hands around as if trying to hurry up his own story.
“And even though Serial Killer Stanley may have been raised by good-old-loving mom—and whack-job dad was out of the picture from day one—the kid still has daddy’s naughty genes, which explains why little Stanley used to like to torture animals and start fires when he was an aspiring psycho.
“And of course more case studies would follow to support this theory, making you go, ‘Hmmmmm…that makes damn good sense too.’”
Arty then jumped to his feet, suddenly and remarkably excited.
“And when I stopped and took all of this in—the countless case studies; the countless theories; the fact that there is no definitive answer—and I digested it, it made me feel like my brother and I were so…special. We were something that actually breaks the rules of nature and nurture. Exceptions to the rules.” He looked as if he might squeal before his next comment. “And there are two of us! Not one exception, but two! What are the odds? I mean really, what are the fucking odds? We had perfect parents and a perfect environment. Mom and Dad never beat us, or raped us, or neglected us. Hell, we were never even grounded. If anything, they were too nice.”
Arty walked back to the wall he had leapt from and leaned against it. He scratched his head and cleared his throat before continuing.
“So we weren’t born to bad people and we weren’t raised by bad people. But it was there. It was always there. It was…” He stopped for a moment, took a sharp intake of breath, seemingly overwhelmed by his own admiration. He shook his head quickly. Regrouped.
“After Dad died our school shrink tried to analyze us. Find out why Jim and I were in denial about the whole thing. Why we refused to show emotion and mourn and weep and sniffle and sulk and blah-fucking-blah-blah.
“But I guess it was safe to say that it was after Dad’s passing that we knew there was something different about us. We couldn’t quite put our finger on it, but we sensed it. Sensed something remarkable. Exceptions to the rules.” He whispered the phrase now, as if it appreciated in value whenever spoken.
His posture then changed. He straightened up. “And Mom? Mom’s our anchor. Our blessed anchor that keeps us from drifting into a place we could probably never come back from. Without her innocence and love to keep us grounded I couldn’t even begin to imagine how far my brother and I could drift.” He then frowned and instantly added, “Don’t get me wrong; we have the discipline; we have the control. We’ve proved that countless times. But Mom…she just sews it up tight; makes it perfect…”
Arty trailed off again with that last word. There was a moment of silence where subtle sounds were loud. Sniffles from Amy’s nose. Heavy, labored breathing from Patrick. The muffled, unmistakable voices from the children below.
Arty eventually blinked and came back. “We get no pleasure out of just killing. Hell, we didn’t even want to kill that old couple you were hanging out with back at the lake. We just kind of… had to.” He walked over to Amy. “You see this…” He wiped her tears with two fingers and gazed at the wet pads of his fingertips. “This is what we truly love.” Arty stuck both fingers in his mouth and sucked gently. When he pulled them out he licked his lips and said, “And we’ve never regretted a single day in our lives.”
45
July 1986
Marsh Creek State Park
Downingtown, PA
Sam Fannelli cut the engine on the small fishing boat and used the oars to guide him and his two sons into the spot he was aiming for.
“What do you think, boys? This good?” Sam’s thinning brow was already beaded with sweat as he put a hand up to shield the sun.
Arty and Jim looked out across the giant body of water that was Marsh Creek— smooth green water held together by a strong perimeter of trees and more trees.
“Will we be able to catch fish here?” Jim asked.
“I hope so,” Sam replied. He stood, causing the boat to sway and both boys to grip the sides of the boat. “Should have brought a baseball cap,” he said, bringing his hand over his eyes again before looking off in all directions. “Still, it looks like we’ve got a nice stretch to ourselves. I had a feeling it would be more peaceful on a weekday. You boys are lucky you’ve got such an awesome dad who takes a day off work to go fishing with his boys.”
Arty rolled his eyes. Sam caught it and laughed at his son. “Oh, I see—fifth-graders are too cool to hang out with their old man? How ’bout you Jimmy? Are third-graders too cool to go fishing with their dad?”
Jim shook his head no.
“Well one out of two ain’t bad,” Sam said. “Trust me, Arty. You’re gonna enjoy this more than you do blowing things up on that Nintendo of yours.”
“I’m having fun, Dad,” Arty said without a smile.
“Good,” Sam said. He was smiling enough for both of them. “I’ll tell you what, why don’t you boys crack yourselves a soda from the cooler, and I’ll bait our hooks for us.”
* * *
The boys were now shirtless save for the orange life jackets strapped to their torsos. The parts of their shoulders that were exposed had reddened considerably from the relentless sun.
Empty soda cans and potato chip packets were scattered about the wet wooden floor of the boat, and all three fishing rods were cast and left floating nibble-less for the past two hours.
“Should we go somewhere else, Dad?” Jim asked.
Sam propped his rod up along the edge of the boat and slid over to where his youngest son was sitting.
“We can if you like,” he said. “But catching fish isn’t really the point is it?”
Jim looked blankly at his father.
“Well the point is to spend time together. Father and sons. Male bonding stuff in the great outdoors and all that. Living in the city, we don’t get to do this kind of stuff too often. I thought it would be a nice change of pace.” He put his arm around Jim and squeezed, then turned and smiled at Arty.
Arty smiled back because it felt like the thing to do.
“I love you boys you know.”
“We love you too, Dad.”
Sam Fannelli then slapped both hands down onto his thighs and said, “Well! Having said that, I think we’ve been doing the ‘great outdoors thing’ long enough, don’t you? What do you say we pack it in and head back to the city for a late lunch full of grease?”
Jim’s eyes lit up. “Yeah.”
“Sound good, Arty?” Sam asked.
“Yeah,” Arty said.
Sam clapped his hands together. “Let’s do it.”
Jim bent to pull his fishing pole free from the wooden plank he�
��d nestled it under, but gave up after a few tugs and grunts.
“Stuck?” Sam asked.
Jim gave it one more useless tug then glanced at his father. “Yeah.”
Sam removed his life jacket and got down on both knees to get a good look beneath the plank. “You got it jammed in here pretty good, pal,” he said.
After a few jerks and grunts of his own, Sam managed to wrench the pole free from beneath the plank, nearly tumbling backwards from the effort. “Eureka,” he breathed.
Sam got back to his feet and stretched his back before noticing his rod twitching at the opposite end of the boat. “Hey!” he yelled. “Hey, I think I’ve got one!”
Sam’s enthusiasm launched him towards the rod before consideration for the boat’s stability under his sudden shift in weight had a chance to register. Before he could even make an attempt to right himself, he’d plunged face first into the lake.
When Sam Fannelli gasped to the surface, the look of panic on his face was exceptional. He was a man who had been raised in the city his whole life. A man who had never had a single swimming lesson in all his forty-seven years.
And a man who had just recently removed his life jacket.
“Boys!” he coughed, spitting out green water. “Boys, help me!”
When Sam had fallen overboard his momentum had pushed the boat back several feet. In Sam’s condition, it may as well have been a mile.
Both Jim and Arty were on their feet, balancing themselves on different sides of the boat. Their expressions were equal to that of their father—fear and panic.
Sam went under for a second then fought to surface again. Between sputtered gasps he cried, “ARTHUR! THE OAR! THE OAR!!!”
Arty spun, grabbed the long wooden oar along the edge of the boat’s floor, whipped back around, looked at Jim…and then froze. His younger brother’s expression was different now. It had gone from fear and panic to something else entirely.
Bad Games Page 17
