The Sapphire Express

by J. Max Cromwell

  It didn’t take long to find a show that fit my purpose perfectly. It was called the Tiger Gun and Knife Show, and it took place at a recently remodeled civic center about fifteen miles from my new house. It was a midsize show, and the organizers were giving free gun cases to the first one hundred customers. I didn’t care about the cases, though. I needed something that could kill—kill effectively and kill fast.

  I was eager to get to the show, so I ate a quick breakfast, put on some fresh clothes, and cleaned my fake eyeglasses with my left sleeve. Then I jumped into the Econoline enthusiastically and started driving toward the civic center with murder and the consultant circling on my mind like a matador and his doomed Miura. The die had been cast, and nothing could stop the events that where about to take place. There was going to be blood, and someone was going to die. That much was guaranteed.

  I found the civic center without any major problems and was soon faced with the largest collection of deadly weapons I had ever seen in my life. It was a much bigger show than I had expected, and the number of different ingenious inventions to kill men and beast—or men who had turned into beasts—was simply sobering. It was all good, though, because I was there to buy the best killing tools in the world, and the knowledgeable vendors in fatigues and thick beards were going to help me to do that. It was, however, a little disturbing to see with my own eyes how easy it was to turn a suburban pajama man into a lethal predator who walked hand in hand with the Grim Reaper.

  I didn’t know much about weapons, but I figured that I would at least need some handguns, a shotgun, a stun gun, a bag of ammunition and some very sharp knifes. The tiger show definitely had all that and then some, but the problem was that the options seemed almost limitless, and had no idea where to start. It was like walking into a pizzeria that had two hundred different pizzas on the menu, and after twenty minutes of unproductive browsing, I fell victim to decision paralysis. The only way forward was to consult the professionals and let them guide me through the deadly labyrinth.

  The strategy worked beautifully, and with the kind help of a retired Navy SEAL, I was quickly able to amass an arsenal of weapons that consisted of two 12-gauge Remington shotguns, two Sig Sauer military-grade pistols, two Cheetah 2.5 million-volt Cyclone stun guns, a Condor Kukri machete, a Gerber Air Ranger super-duty knife, a camouflage hunting bag, and a razor-sharp field skinner for a purpose I hadn’t yet figured out. I went overboard with the machete—there was no question about that—but the knowledgeable man at the knife booth had convinced me that a machete might come in handy one day. I figured that he had made a good point because the fact was, after all, that I was going to jump into the unknown, and at least I didn’t know anyone who didn’t want to bring a machete to the unknown.

  The other reason why I bought way more guns than I needed was that I knew that a reliable secondary would save my life if my primary went down, or if the enemy somehow managed to wrestle my weapon from me. I was a math teacher, after all, and I knew that it was a statistical fact that guns failed and people made mistakes. I wasn’t going to find myself in a precarious position just because I hadn’t prepared for a mathematical certainty—that was for damn sure.

  The buying experience at the gun show was pleasant and hassle-free, but I was still somewhat taken aback at how easy it was to build a one-man army, and I started wondering why no one had even asked for my ID when I purchased a bagful of weapons that could kill scores of innocent people. I really wanted to know the answer to that question before I left the show, so I approached one of the happy vendors cheerfully and asked, “Hi, can I ask you a quick question, sir?”

  The vendor gave me a smile that was brighter than the Fayetteville sun and said, “Sure, of course. How can I help you?”

  “Uh, I was just wondering why no one asked for my ID when I bought a gun here.”

  The vendor gave me an even bigger smile and said proudly, “Ah, the beauty of the Second Amendment and the right to keep and bear arms. That’s the simple answer to your question, my friend.”

  I looked at him incredulously and said, “So any crazy cat can buy these guns and go on a shooting rampage at a local high school?”

  “Well, we just sell guns here. We can’t control what people do with them. We are businessmen, not babysitters.”

  “Babies don’t shoot people,” I said.

  The vendor looked irritated but didn’t say anything.

  I decided to push his buttons a little more and asked, “Well, would you support the right to carry pocket-sized nuclear bombs if someone started selling them here at your gun show? You know, just little ones, powerful to kill, let’s say, five hundred people or so. Would you allow your neighbor to have one of those bombs in his house—a neighbor with a slight crystal meth problem and raging paranoia, a neighbor who just wants to protect his property?”

  “Maybe I would,” he said sternly.

  “What about the Declaration of Independence?” I asked. “Doesn’t that little piece of paper concern you guys at all?”

  “What do you mean, man?”

  “I mean that it grants the right to life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness to all of us, but now you are saying that any idiot with a gun can take my right to life away from me.”

  “Uh, I don’t think you are interpreting the text correctly, man.”

  “If you say so.”

  “What are you, some kind of activist? I don’t know if I appreciate your questions or your tone.”

  “I am no activist, and I don’t give a rat’s ass what you think about my tone. I came here to buy guns because I need them. But I also wanted to ask a couple of questions that I thought were fair and relevant. I am sorry if you are offended by the fact that a man is still allowed to have an opinion in this country.”

  “Look, man. I’m busy. I need to go back to work and sell these guns to someone who actually appreciates them, OK?”

  “Please, go to work, man,” I said and walked away.

  After my shopping for the dinner party where murder was served as the main course by an inexperienced chef was successfully completed, I drove straight to Johnny D’s. I needed to find out a little more about my upcoming assignment and allow the soothing flow of a perfect godfather to massage my tired organs and numb the parts of my brain I didn’t want to keep active anymore.

  Johnny D’s home street was quiet, and I stepped out of the van eagerly. A solitary bum and his blind cat were sitting on the corner under a broken streetlight, waiting for something to arrive, something that would never come. I said a polite hello to the bum and the cat and started walking toward the bar. Then a glue-stained plastic bag flew past me like a poor man’s kite, and a crippled crow cawed at me loudly like I was a filthy intruder. There was something terrifying about that scene, and I decided to ditch walking and run to the bar.

  I knocked on the door hard, like a group of bleeding zombies were breathing on my exposed neck, and after thirty long seconds, I heard Ramses shouting angrily through the door, “We are closed, motherfucker! Come back in two hours.”

  “It’s me,” I said with a voice that had a hint of panic and desperation riding on the sound waves like an unwanted stowaway.

  I heard the deadbolts moving, and the door opened just enough for the daylight to sneak into the dark bar. Then Ramses’s red nose appeared from the crack, and he said, “You are early, man. Come in.”

  I followed the grumpy man into the abyss of the unholy temple where madness was the only celestial being and ordered two godfathers and a glass of ice water.

  Ramses started fixing the drinks apathetically, and I couldn’t help noticing that he looked like he had just woken up. I picked up a stale peanut from the greasy bowl and asked, “Did you sleep here last night?”

  “Yeah, as a matter of fact, I did. I’m not sure where you slept, though, or didn’t sleep. I can’t believe you left with that bird. She was, uh, something that you don’t see here very often, let’s just put it that way.”

  I d
idn’t say anything.

  “Don’t wanna to talk about it, huh?”

  “No.”

  “OK. But I need to talk to you about something else.”

  “The consultant?”

  “Yeah.”

  “OK, shoot, that’s why I’m here.”

  “Well, OK, my employer knows quite a bit about the man already, and I have some ideas how to get to him. Tomorrow would be a good day to do it.”

  “Tell me where he lives, and when he will be home alone. That’s all I need to know. I’m not going to do any recon or engage in other surveillance bullshit that will just get me busted, OK?”

  “OK, that’s fine with me. Here’s the file,” Ramses said and tried to hand me a black folder full of papers. “The address in on the second page, I think.”

  “I don’t need the folder. I just want the address.”

  “OK, whatever you say, man,” he said and pulled out a sheet of paper from the folder and put it on the counter in front of me.”

  I took a careful look at the document but didn’t touch it. Then I said, “OK, I got it.”

  “You sure you remember it?”

  “Yes, I am sure, and I need you to burn all the papers in that folder, right now.”

  “Uh, OK, I guess I can do that,” Ramses said pensively and pulled a little yellow lighter from his pocket and threw the papers into a small metal sink next to him. Then he lit them on fire and said, “The consultant will be at his house alone tomorrow evening from seven to nine. His wife and kids will be visiting the in-laws who he hates more than anything. The fucker ain’t gonna leave his crib for that crap. He will be drinking, too, and that should make your job a little easier. I have more information and a couple of good suggestions and practical tips if you need them.”

  “I don’t need anything else.”

  “What about guns and shit?”

  “Negative, but give me another drink, right now.”

  “Jesus, man. You already done with those two?”

  “Just give me the drink, all right?”

  “OK, but I think you should at least know that the target is a big fellow, and he has a black belt in something that I can’t remember right now. Aikido, or some shit. Just keep your distance, OK?”

  “OK, but can I get the drink now?”

  “Yeah, sure,” Ramses said and started fixing the godfather briskly.

  We didn’t talk for a couple of minutes, and I was fully enjoying the peace and quiet that was truly a rare commodity at Johnny D’s. Then Ramses broke the sweet silence cruelly with his hoarse voice and said, “By the way, I learned today that there is no God.”

  “What? What do you mean?”

  “I said that there is no God.”

  “OK, explain.”

  “Well, I just saw in the paper today that a child molester who is about to get released from a prison in Virginia won four million dollars in the state lottery. I mean, what the fuck? God would never allow that to happen, right?”

  “Maybe it was the devil who gave him that money, Ramses. I think it’s pretty much proven that he has his days, too.”

  “I guess,” he said and took a shot of rye and lit a cigarette.

  “You seem awfully concerned about the world today, Ramses.”

  “Nah, man, I just get so goddamn angry whenever I read the paper. This world, man…”

  “What else is happening in the world that makes Ramses angry?”

  “Well, some stupid school in this fine city of ours wants to become gender-neutral because some harebrained parent threatened to sue them.”

  I looked at him with confused eyes and said, “I didn’t understand a word you just said, man.”

  “Yeah, I know. I didn’t know what it meant, either, but I looked it up. It basically means that boys aren’t boys anymore. All the kids are just children, and they all play with same toys and do same things. No cars for boys, and no dolls for girls because that is discrimination. Fucking morons. What are they going to do next? Cut our dicks off because they aren’t gender-neutral?”

  “That sounds like a bad science fiction movie,” I said. “You know, where some cult leader brainwashes his followers to believe his horseshit, and then they finally all jump off a cliff because they would rather die than accept that they were idiots. Well, I guess truth can be a nasty thing if it ain’t your truth.”

  “Doesn’t that worry you, though?” Ramses asked.

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because that sort of thing doesn’t represent the views of the vast majority of people. It doesn’t represent the fucking laws of physics and nature. What I mean is that there is this invisible behavior standard that hovers above the modern world, and we are all collectively scared shitless to speak against that model because there are real-life consequences if we do so—consequences that are imposed by cowards and slaves of that invisible master. We are terrified of those cowards because they might fire us and ruin our lives. They simply can’t tolerate such reckless creatures that have opinions that they don’t agree with, so they must destroy us before the cancer spreads.”

  Ramses looked at me with a perplexed face, and I continued, “When we are alone with our family and friends, we mock the invisible master and say that it is the stupidest thing in the whole world. And we are right. It is the stupidest thing in the world; a thin bubble full of fool’s air that tries to suffocate the real world—the world where all of us actually have to live every goddamn day. The whole thing is like the Emperor’s New Clothes two point oh, but we refuse to see that because the collective bullshit bubble has powerful friends, and the media tries to make people believe in it and convince us that anyone who tries to pierce the holy bubble with an opposing thought is a prejudiced, narrow-minded caveman. But do not worry, Ramses. The bubble will burst soon. It is just a corrupted offspring of the modern times and something that will die a quick death when cooler heads prevail. We are living in this posttraumatic era now where some undeniable injustices are finally being remedied and discussed, but we have overshot the target so badly that everyone is now confused and scared of his or her every word. We have become a nation of drama queens because we believe that being a drama queen is a safer option than being an honest caveman who at least understands the laws of physics and nature. It is better to be an oversensitive fake than a realistic original because honesty always carries the risk of offending someone or something, even the goddamn aliens—sorry, fine extraterrestrial beings—that live in Vega.

  Ramses shrugged and said, “Well, if they ever invent a machine that can read our minds, we are all screwed.”

  “Yeah. The good thing about that is that when everybody is screwed, nobody is screwed.”

  “I guess. I need to take a piss, man.”

  I raised the godfather to my dry lips and took a massive gulp that almost swallowed the poor thing entirely and said, “Well, enjoy the men’s room before the government replaces it with a ‘person’s’ room.”

  Ramses looked at me and said in a voice that expressed reluctant defeat, “Yeah, just imagine how many different restrooms we will need at the airports in the future. I just wonder who will pay for that shit. It ain’t going to be me, that’s for damn sure.”

  “Well, maybe the people who believe that progress is still progress even if things turn out worse than they were before will pay for it,” I said, but Ramses was already too far to hear me.

  After about two minutes of silence, the dirty man came back from the bathroom, and I looked at my watch and said, “I gotta run, man. I have a couple of things I really need to take care of today. I’ll probably see you in a couple of days. Have my money ready, OK?”

  “It won’t be ready.”

  “Why not?”

  “Well, there is this fourteen-day grace period when it comes to things like this. My employer wants to be sure that everything went as agreed before they pay you, if you know what I mean.”

  “Fine,” I said and got up. Then I fi
nished whatever little was left of my drink and said, “Before I go, could you bring me a couple of those bratwursts? Uncooked this time.”

  “Yeah, sure, man,” Ramses said and disappeared behind the wall of colorful bottles and dusty wine glasses that had probably never been even used.

  I went to the bathroom and washed my face with soap and cold water, and when I came back with a relieved look on my face, Ramses was standing behind the bar with a Ziploc bag that had two gorgeous sausages in it.

  “Thank you, sir,” I said as he handed the beauties to me. Then I walked out of the bar and left Ramses at the mercy of the crazies who would soon start arriving at his door with their crumbled dollars and unsolved medical issues.

  The street outside Johnny’s was still quiet, and I hopped into the Econoline with a victorious smile on my face. A clear plan had formed in my head, and I felt like I had just solved a dangerous puzzle. The entire mission was playing in my private movie theater like a well-directed thriller, and all I needed to do was to bring it to life.

  The first part of the plan was to drive to Home Depot and get some material for a box that would accommodate a grown man, a big fellow with a black belt in some shit. I also needed an aluminum hand truck, some power tools, a sturdy metal chair, latex gloves, some nails, premium wood screws with serrated tips, a bag of strong nuts and bolts, plastic wrapping, and some other useful knickknacks that might come handy on a date with murder.

  I had had some experience in building small wooden furniture for my own personal pleasure, and I knew that it was going to be really, really fun to start a nice little craft project again. It was just so wonderfully rewarding to see an old man turn a pile of soulless lumber into a tangible thing that was actually useful. There was something timeless and precious about that humble skill, and knowing that I was capable of doing something so beautiful and productive warmed my heart like the sweet chamomile tea that my grandmother used to make me before levodopa lost its potency and allowed her little blue porcelain teapot to fall on the teak floor and shatter in hundreds of sad little pieces.