Mac shook his head.
“Funny shit, man. Funny, funny shit. He points out all kinds o’ bullshit in those movies. Like in the second one how Anakin Skywalker kills the sandpeople’s children, and his girlfriend Padmé is okay with it. But then in the third one Obi-Wan Kenobi goes an’ tells her that he’s seen security footage of Anakin killin’ children at the Jedi Temple, an’ Padmé’s all like, ‘No, I won’t believe that, I can’t!’ Strange, stupid, an’ just plain bad writin’ in those movies, man. Total fuckin’ disgrace. How much is that gonna be?”
“Seventeen eighty-five,” Mac said. While Spencer went fishing for his wallet, he cleared his throat and said, “You ever get with the police about what happened earlier?”
“What happened earlier?”
Mac made a face. “C’mon, man, don’t bullshit me. Them two girls got taken earlier tonight.”
“Oh, them?” Spencer handed him his last twenty-dollar bill. “They’re dead, my friend. Believe that.”
Mac reached out to take the money. “How you know that?”
He touched his temple with one finger. “Intuition. They both died tonight.”
The big man opened the register and got out his change, handed it back. “You saw what happened tonight, man. You coulda done somethin’.”
“There’s nothin’ you or I could’ve done that those two couldn’t have done themselves. Can I get a bag for all o’ this?” Mac watched him another heartbeat, then moved to get the paper bag. He dumped all of Spencer’s goods into the bag carelessly, and then pushed it across the counter to him. “Thanks so much.” He pointed to the TV. “Enjoy those shitty movies.” He turned and started to leave. As he approached the door, Mac called back to him.
“Do me a favor, man,” the fat man said. “Don’t ever come back in here. I don’t wanna see you ever again. Ya feel me?” Mac’s gaze was even.
Spencer smiled at him. “You’ll still be the only man I ever loved, Mac. But don’t worry, ya won’t see me ever again. It’s better to burn out than to fade away.” He winked, and walked out.
The streets were still empty. Spencer felt a little lightheaded. He staggered the last few steps to the car. He took out the bottle of water and flung the paper bag and the rest of its contents into the back seat. He cranked it up, and sat there for a moment. He was slightly aware of the police car that had pulled up behind him. He was also somewhat cognizant of the two police officers that hopped out of the car and were moving quickly into Dodson’s Store. Maybe Mac had made a quick call, or maybe he’d pressed the button behind the counter as soon as Spencer stepped inside. But Spencer didn’t think so, because they walked in and started chatting, and didn’t have their hands resting on their guns as one might expect of officers ready for action.
Probably comin’ back for some routine questioning. Mac’ll probably rat on me, tell ’em I was just here. I’ll need to switch cars again soon. It was time to move.
“Seasons don’t fear the Reaper,” he sang, and spat out another gob of blood onto the seat beside him. “Nor do the wind, the sun or the rain.” He put the car in drive, checked his rearview once and let a truck go by before he pulled out onto Beltway. He did an illegal U-turn in the middle of the street, despite the cops in the store. “We can be like they are. Come on, baby…don’t fear the Reaper…”
Only two cars past him, as did a crack zombie out looking for another fix, as did a woman carrying a baby in one arm and guiding another pantsless child by the hand, as did a police chopper overhead.
Soon, a swift sunrise was ahead of him.
He still had the fake IDs that the Sasquatch had given him, and if he was lucky he just might be able to get the medical help he needed and then get out of the country before the IDs became completely useless.
“Come on, baby…we’ll be able to fly…come on, baby…don’t fear the Reaper…baby I’m your mannnnnnnn…”
AUTHOR’S NOTE
While much of the Bluff’s description and the information on its crime and statistics mentioned here are true, much of it was obviously (and necessarily) changed to create the story. To any lifelong Atlantans who say, “Hey, Terrell Street isn’t a real street,” you may rest easy knowing you are absolutely correct.
To those of you who found parts here endlessly disturbing, I have news for you that you may find even more disturbing. The Rainbow Room is actually based off of a real group of child pornographers that, thankfully, the good people at Interpol and various police agencies around the globe brought down back in 2011 through careful investigation, cyber-tracking, and coordination. Kaley and her sister Shannon are not based on anyone in particular, but hopefully they served as monuments to those that suffer these horrific ordeals and die alone in some monster’s basement, or else live and struggle to find some way to carry on in life.
Spencer Adam Pelletier, I’m a little frightened to say, is a creation of my own. Birthed out of reading countless accounts of psychopaths and how they think, this personality eventually emerged. Spencer was a playpen for this writer to hop into, allowing one to do and say and think some of the most despicable things that would never cross the mind of your typical protagonist.
If there were parts you had difficulty reading, just remember that I wasn’t too pleased to have to write them. Spencer’s world and philosophy are harsh, and I’m not sure I agree with any of his lessons, but if you have any grievances, please, take them up with him. J
Chad Huskins
February 26, 2012
Psycho Save Us Page 40
