Pulling an over-ripe banana from the fruit bowl, he opened it and took a bite. The sweet and mushy flesh was a bit too sweet and a bit too mushy, and it made him heave. Looking at the flaccid piece of fruit, he then smeared the rest all over the black worktop in the shape of a huge penis, hoping it would harden before she noticed it. Spinning around, his stomach dropped as he saw the twins, Matilda and Michael, stood at the kitchen door, their little confused faces hanging slack by what they'd just witnessed.
Taking Action
Feeling like his stomach had been torn from his body, Chris bent over double, falling to the floor into a pile of bed sheets next to Michael. Like everything else in the room, they were freezing and damp, the smell of mold impossible to ignore. It took a few seconds for him to notice that Michael was shaking and fighting for breath. Having been a sufferer in his younger years, he recognized the panic attack for what it was. He understood they couldn't harm him, even if Michael didn't realize that himself, so Chris did what he thought was necessary and put his hand over his boy's mouth to silence his ever-increasing hysteria. Applying a pressure that pinned Michael's head to the floor, he watched his blue eyes flash wide, confusion and fear tearing through them in equal measure as he looked from one of his dad's eyes to the other, searching for justification for his actions. To be looked at like he was a monster made Chris' arm go weak, and he nearly pulled away. He hated how this new world forced him to do things that went against who he was as a person. He felt like he was losing sight of who he used to be. However, in spite of his guilt, he continued to overpower his scrabbling boy and kept his hand where it was, gritting his teeth as he pushed down hard.
After some time of staring at his dad, who looked like he was trying to kill him, Michael gave up and fell limp. Swallowing back the tears, Chris saw in that action that his boy was giving up--that he was accepting what he believed to be his fate. That, in spite of his dad's aggressive approach, he was acknowledging that he knew best, or at least that he couldn't fight him anymore. That he was prepared to die.
Chris' restraining hand remained, but he used the other to stroke Michael's hair and said, "Shh, little boy. I'm not trying to hurt you. You're having a panic attack. It can't harm you, despite what it may feel like. Everything will be okay. Do you understand?"
A ripple was sent up Chris' arm to his shoulder as Michael gave a curt nod, compliant through fear rather than holding confidence in what his father was telling him. The little boy then blinked and a tear escaped from the far side of either eye, running down each temple.
"I'm going to let go now, mate. All I ask is that you stay quiet, okay?"
Michael nodded again.
Letting go, Chris moved back. When Michael sat up, Chris hugged him tightly, the feeble boy in his arms shaking as silent sobs bounced through his tiny body. Glad that his face was hidden, Chris looked skyward as his own eyes watered and grief sat in his throat like tonsillitis. What had he become?
As he sat with his son, Chris realized that the drama inside had made him oblivious to what was happening outside. That thought seemed to make him suddenly aware of the sound of chaos coming in through their open window. He was sure it was there all along and that he'd just stopped hearing it for a time.
He listened to Frank bawling and shouting in a slathering indecipherable drawl, and Marie screaming like a banshee. He thought about Tommy and the imagery of his death that would be stamped in Chris' mind forever. He thought about how little time he had to make sure Michael didn't suffer the same fate. Rubbing his little boy's bony back, trying to both warm him up and calm him down, he whispered, much like he used to when Michael was a baby, "Shh, it's okay, Michael, just relax."
After about thirty seconds, Chris accepted that he wouldn't be able to sit with his son for as long as he'd have liked. Letting him go, he looked back out of the window again. The first thing he noticed was Dean. He was the kind of man that always took center stage. He had a strange charisma that was necessary for a leader, and although he clearly instilled fear in those around him, there was something about the way he held himself, or the way he moved, that inspired. He stared at the fallen boy beneath the wheel of the truck and then dropped down so he could get a better look. He used a claw hammer to fish around in the bloody remains. When he stood back up and looked around, every person was silent save Frank and Marie, and they all refused to look at him. Everyone that is except George, who was currently eyeballing the psychotic man like he wanted to rip his head clean off his neck.
Not needing much provocation, Dean threw his arms wide and said, "What? Have you got a problem?"
Chris prayed for something to kick off at that point and hoped that an in-fight would distract the group long enough for him to get away. That was until he saw two men go around the back of the houses, removing the possibility of an easy escape.
George didn't reply, but he didn't back down either. He just stared at Dean, his dark eyes turning cold and hiding any hint of emotion.
Dean stared back, adjusting his hammer in his hand so it was ready to use.
The whole cul-de-sac, even Marie and Frank, were watching the standoff and holding their breath.
In a clear attempt to regain control, Dean then said, "Yeah. I didn't fucking think so." He then walked in Frank's direction, agitation twitching through him, straining for release.
Trying to talk with a jaw that was flapping loose seemed both painful and logistically impossible for Frank, who growled his intention at the leader and scowled hard. He then tried to spit at him, but the blood and saliva missed and rolled down his disabled chin. Looking at how quickly his broken neighbor had been rendered powerless scared Chris, and butterflies of anxiety danced through his guts as his burning throat dried.
Addressing the cul-de-sac again, the suited man looked around and shouted, "This is what happens to the one percent!" His already red face turned redder. "This is what happens when you actively deprive others because of your greed. When you push us down so you can stay in power!" Tossing the claw hammer in the air, flipping it so he caught the handle again, he then pointed it at Frank.
Seizing the opportunity, Frank leapt to his feet and delivered a well-aimed kick to Dean's groin that lifted the scrawny man a few inches off the ground. The three men minding Frank pulled him back and started kicking his already broken body. The blows, although fierce, didn't even seem to register. It looked like they were kicking a dead cow. That was until the looter with the tennis racket pulled it back and delivered it deep into Frank's thigh with a full-bodied swing. It ate into his flesh like an axe into soft wood, and Frank screamed. Pulling it out again, the huge wound belched dark blood like an overflowing drain, and the weasel of a man pulled it back for another swing.
Dean, who was curled on the floor in the foetal position, shouted, "Enough!"
They stopped, pulled Frank to his knees again, which seemed almost impossible for the huge man to maintain with his wound, and they were about to stand back until the man with the tennis racket took two more swings at him, one for each Achilles tendon. Chris was sure he heard them twang like snapping strings on a double bass.
Arching his head back, Frank roared at the sky as if calling down hellfire. As he tried to fall forwards, the two other men held him up.
Dean looked up at the man with the racket, his tight mouth locked shut. He then said, "What the fuck?"
The ginger weasel half smiled as he said, "I was just stopping him getting up again."
Getting shakily to his feet and lifting his shotgun, the end, which was now pointed at the ginger man, shook from the rage coursing through him and Dean said, "Did I ask you to?"
The man with the racket tried to reply but wasn't quick enough, so Dean asked again, louder this time. "Did I fucking ask you to do that?"
The man shook his head.
Keeping his gun pointed at the ginger sycophant, Dean then looked at the big man. "That was a very fucking stupid move." Shaking his head, he repeated, "A very stupid move."
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It was hard for Chris to ascertain who he was talking to, but Frank looked up at the hammer wielding Dean from behind his now swollen face and through his one good eye. He remained defiant despite the pain that must have been raging through him.
Lowering his gun, Dean laughed and said, "I was just going to smash your hands and then let you free." Looking at his hammer, he continued, "It doesn't look like you can be trusted though."
At that moment, the leader bit his bottom lip, pulled the hammer behind his head and delivered an almighty blow across the side of Frank's face. It was quick, brutal and sank into his temple with a wet squelch, pushing his left eye forwards.
The men behind Frank let go of him as if he were diseased, allowing his heavy body to fall face first onto the pavement. It was clear he was dead, but this didn't stop Dean. Looking at the man with the racket he said, "Don't disobey my orders again." He then swung at Frank's head like he was trying to crack a rock, maintaining eye contact with the redheaded looter for the entire time. "I swear, Boris Becker, if you do, I will pull every fucking fingernail from your girly hands." He then swung again, and again, and again. Every swing threw up blood and pulp, adding more to the crusty layer on his suit. On every upswing, he paused at the pinnacle, looked at the man with the racket and then drove his hammer down harder than before.
Within minutes, all that was left of Frank's head was a pulped mess of bone, hair and brain matter. Dean had done more damage to him than the truck had to Tommy. Spinning around, Chris vomited all over the bedroom floor, the thick fruit salad he'd eaten for breakfast clogging his throat and making him bray like a donkey as he fought to breathe.
Michael watched his dad in silence, his pale face washed out from the recent panic attack.
When Chris recovered, the floor was a mess, the back of his nose was burned by stomach acid, and he was sweating like a racehorse. Looking at his son, he saw that his eyes were still wide and glassy, like marbles. The shock had paralyzed him. Stroking his son's fine blonde hair and wiping his tear-sodden cheeks, Chris wanted to comfort him but felt like he had to look out of the window again to see what the looters would do next.
The twitching curtain must have given him away because when Chris looked outside, he made eye contact with the huge black man in the sheepskin jacket. Pulling back from the window, he sat with his back pressed against the cold radiator, and for the first time in his life, he held his hands together in prayer. As he listened to the conversation outside, his heart beat like it was trying to escape his chest.
"What is it, George?" Dean asked.
The big man had a booming voice, and he replied calmly, "Nothing, I was just looking in the houses to see if there was anyone else here."
The silence was prolonged, and scenarios started flashing through Chris' mind that all resulted in him and his son being captured. He wanted to look, to see if they were communicating non-verbally, but he knew that if he did, then they'd see him.
Just before he went to another window, Dean finally broke the silence and addressed the cul-de-sac once more. "Well, if there are people here, we'll find them, and if they try to hide from us, it will be ten times worse for them than it was for 'He-Man' and his family."
Chris pulled his son into his arms again and pressed his lips against his small head. When he closed his eyes, he saw a pulped mess of blood and blonde hair outside in the street and squeezed Michael tighter.
Continuing, Dean addressed the cul-de-sac again. "I wear a suit because the men in suits have been fucking me for years." His voice broke as he growled, "Well, 'one percent', now it's my fucking turn, and I will be as ruthless as you have."
Chris started to cry again and hated himself for not leaving sooner as he thought about the conversation he'd had with his boss six-months previously.
Severance
The force with which Dick sucked barbecue sauce from his fingers made it look like the skin and flesh would come off with the marinade. Imagining him on his knees in a public toilet, Chris smirked and said, "You seem to have quite a talent, Dick."
Maxine, Dick's secretary, raised an eyebrow and a half smile at Chris' comment as she walked past him after placing an envelope on Dick's desk.
The combination of the feeding frenzy and Maxine's wiggling bottom robbed Dick of conscious thought, of which there was little to begin with. Looking up at Chris, he said, "Huh?" his mouth slack.
Wondering whether a sharp jab to his potato nose would help bring him into the present moment, Chris shook his head and said, "It doesn't matter."
Looking at his white-haired underling, Dick then glanced at the letter placed on his desk and quickly looked back up at Chris. The internal memo was obviously from the board and was obviously something Dick clearly didn't want to draw attention to. Chris sighed, thinking his boss was about as conspicuous as a hippo hiding up a tree.
Calling after his secretary, Dick said, "Thanks, Maxine love. Thanks, honey." It was Dick's way of being overly friendly with women. He'd do it to anyone female--the girls in the bakery, the post woman, even his employees' wives directly in front of his employees. Chris had once spent an evening at a dinner party watching Diane giggling at all of Dick's pathetic jokes. He didn't really care; the only downside for him was that they hadn't run off together afterwards. Chris had seen this kind of behavior before with fat men like Dick; they'd behave in a way that pushed the boundaries, playing on the fact that they were unattractive to the opposite sex. He posed no threat, so he thought he could say whatever he liked. Chris could see that the deluded man genuinely thought all his smarmy comments were making the women feel good, but the fact was, most of them looked like they wanted to run a mile when he verbally pinned them down. They looked like they'd crawl free of their own skin to be away from him.
Stood in the lavish office, the smell of mahogany and cheap meat throwing off a contradictory aroma, Chris watched the fat man tilt his head sideways and continue to stare at his secretary with rapist's eyes. He chewed furiously as if this would suppress his urges--as if his mastication were masturbation.
Once she was out of the room, he heaved a heavy sigh and took another bite from one of the ribs on the tray in front of him. "What a woman, eh?"
Chris thought about Maxine. She was pretty, there was no doubt about that, but she was stupid, and Chris had spent too much of his life around pretty, yet stupid women. He shrugged.
Dick sneered and said, "I'd just like to bend her over this desk right here." He then thrust himself forwards, his wheeled chair aiding his pelvic smash.
Well and truly put off eating for the rest of the day, if not the entire week, Chris shivered as the sharp air-conditioning bit into him. Having noticed Maxine's pert nipples as she left the room, he suddenly realized why it was so cold in here. Keen to be out of the office as soon as possible, Chris said, "So what's up, Dick? You said you wanted to see me."
Stroking some barbecue sauce from his newly cultivated goatee, and using the same napkin to dab his sweating neck, Dick looked at his lap, his chin disappearing into rolls of fat. He then released a hissing belch that sounded like it burned on the way out. When he looked back at Chris, barbecue sauce still clinging to the corners of his mouth, he said, "I'm sorry to say this, but we're going to have to let you go."
Burnt out from working fourteen-hour days for the last six months, Chris' already jangly nerves started to wobble. When combined with the frosty air, he began to shiver, his stomach clenching like a fist. Scowling with such force that it hurt, he said, "You're letting me go?"
Lifting his pudgy hands, Dick replied, "I'm sorry, Chris, I truly am." Taking another bite of his ribs, he spoke with his mouth full, a piece of pork falling onto the leather desk. "These rogue countries leaving the Euro Zone have totally fucked us. Spain, Italy, and Greece are bankrupt economies now, and we're too interconnected with the world for it not to have an impact. Germany has gone into recession, and the smaller countries are descending into total anarchy. The civil unrest is barbaric, an
d we need to do what we can to prevent that from happening here."
Frowning like he was battling a migraine, Chris said, "So to prevent civil unrest here, you make people unemployed?"
"I'm sorry. I don't even know if I'll have a job at the end of this."
Looking at the picture on the desk of Dick with his fat wife and fat son, Chris' lip lifted in a snarl, and he said, "You'll be okay. You'll do what you've always done..." Clearly expecting a compliment, Dick's heavy face fell limp when Chris said, "You'll live off Daddy."
Slapping his chubby hands onto his desk, Dick pushed himself to his feet, his chair scuttling out behind him. He then leant forwards, his little blue eyes boring into his worker.
Clenching his jaw, Chris' eyes narrowed. "You don't intimidate me, fat man. Especially as I no longer work for you. You're a sad man that sits in here with your finger up your arse all day thinking that you do something important. You don't. You're a puppet for your daddy and the rest of the board. They employed you to do their dirty work. That's it. It's not because they think you have something to offer. You follow their instructions to the letter because you're not capable of making your own decisions. I wouldn't mind betting that you don't even understand half of the things you say to people."
"How dare you?"
"Shut up, Dick, you fat loser! Sit your fat arse down and listen to what I have to say--you may learn something."
For a moment, Chris was surprised that Dick did as he was ordered to. Then he remembered that he spent his whole life following orders.
Crash Page 4
