Devious Resolutions

by Ashleigh Giannoccaro

  I squint at my reflection in the mirror, barely able to recognize the man staring back at me. He’s got close-cropped hair, menthol-blue eyes and full lips, but he’s a madman. A butchered, damaged, slightly gaunt and bruised psychopath who’s made it his life’s mission to spill blood.

  I stick my hand into the kangaroo pocket of my hoodie and remove the flesh from inside. Once unfolded, I place it over my face. It feels sticky, and cools against my cheeks and forehead. A crude Grant Miller stares back at me, pressed against my face like a cheap Halloween mask. My look is now complete. I have death in my eyes and wear the devil on my face. Whether I gave Grant the same treatment as he and the others did Lorelei because I wanted to avenge my sister or to understand the depravity of their act, I’m still not sure.

  I peel Grant off and stuff him back into my hoodie pocket, then turn on one of the faucets and clear away the grime.

  On the way out of the gas station, I stop by the old man’s corpse and pull out my knife. It takes more wriggling and yanking than anticipated, but at last, it comes loose. “Merry Christmas, scumbag,” I spit, gazing down at the raw mess where Grant’s face used to be. Now, his frozen eyeballs stare up at me in bug-eyed shock. Without his lips and flabby cheeks, Grant’s teeth are reminiscent of an anxious grin.

  I don’t even bother removing the blood from the blade before I shove the weapon into the pocket of my jeans. Carol of the Bells is still playing on the radio, and I wonder if the DJ has fallen asleep.

  Sir

  It’s like diving headfirst into a freezing meat locker when I step outside. The air stings my wet face and my nose instantly numbs. Perhaps the dirty rag in the bathroom would have been a good idea after all. Disease or not, at least I’d be warmer.

  I march across the asphalt parking lot towards my car, shoving my hands into my pockets. They’re still sore from my beat-down with Grant and the rough material of my jeans makes the pain worse. I grit my teeth and ignore the throb until it ebbs away.

  Something by my car halts me in my tracks. A little boy, no older than six years old and looking just as uncomfortable in this weather as I am, kicks the rubber of my back-right tire with his tiny sneaker. I relax my shoulders and sigh. It’s only a kid. My breath bursts in thick white clouds from my busted lips and I continue my approach to the car, looking around once to make sure we’re alone on this desolate stretch of road.

  “Can I help you, little man?” I ask when I’m a few feet away.

  The boy doesn’t look up at me. He continues to tap at my tire with his shoe. “This your car?”

  “So what if it is?”

  The boy shrugs. “It’s a piece of shit rust bucket.”

  Something inside me prickles. If there’s one thing I hate, it’s kids with foul mouths. “It’s Christmas, little man. Shouldn’t you be at home unwrapping presents and watching some godawful rendition of Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer?”

  “I ran away,” the boy mutters, finally looking up at me. He has feral eyes, the kind you find on stray cats keeping to the shadowed alleyways of big cities. “I’m not going back,” he adds. His tone is defiant, almost as though he’s pre-empting what I’m about to say next.

  I say it anyway. “Running away is a dangerous thing to do, you know? There are all sorts of bad guys you could run into.”

  The boy cocks an eyebrow. “You a bad guy?”

  I feel the clump in my hoodie where Grant’s face is stowed away. “The worst.”

  He’s not buying it. The kid has doubt scribbled all over his features. If only he knew … but it’s better he doesn’t. “No,” he says softly, still eyeing me up and down. “No, you’re not. You look like a superhero.”

  “You know nothing about me,” I scoff, then for some reason unknown even to myself, I ask him for his name. He simply shrugs.

  I frown. “Don’t remember, huh? That’s okay. Guess I’ll just have to give you one then.” I take him all in – dirty face, a blue, puffy, worn-out jacket, holey beanie and scuffed sneakers streaked with mud. “How about … ‘Dust Mite’?”

  The little boy giggles and I’m caught off-guard. There’s something about the way the sound flitters through the frosty air that puts me at ease, as though the horrors I left behind at the gas station have ceased to exist. It reminds me of a normalcy I haven’t felt in weeks.

  My eyes land on the loose rope around his neck, and the faded domino piece hanging from it. I point at the block. “What about ‘Domino’?”

  Still smiling, the boy shrugs once more. “S’cool, I suppose.”

  I widen my eyes in fake shock. “You suppose?” Then, I return his smile. “Well, Domino, let’s get you in my piece of shit rust bucket where there’s a heater, and I’ll take you home.”

  His grin turns into a frown. “No!”

  I’m getting annoyed. “C’mon, don’t argue with me – your parents are no doubt freaking out right about now.” No child should be away from his family on Christmas, and definitely shouldn’t be wandering anywhere near empty highways and soon-to-be crime scenes where God knows who could snatch them up.

  The kid – Domino, or whatever – beats his right foot against the ground. “I said ‘no’, you dummy!” He shakes his little fists at me and yells, “Fuck no!”

  “Watch your mouth, little man, or I’ll tear it off!” I snap, my tolerance wearing thin. I won’t stand here and listen to a tantrum when I should have been on the road already.

  Domino keeps his mouth shut, but his lower lip wobbles and his eyes water.

  I hang my head and take a deep breath. I need to get out of here. Every second I stay at this gas station is a second closer to a pig in blue showing up. And yet, the annoying brat I’ve found won’t let me go, or rather, it doesn’t feel right leaving unless I’m convinced he’d be safe.

  “Where are you going?” he pipes up. At least he’s dropped the crybaby act.

  I sigh. More clouds of chilly mist obscure the air in front of my face. “To the city.”

  “Why?”

  “I have a few old friends I need to visit.” It’s the most diplomatic way I can think of answering.

  Domino wipes his eyes and sniffs. “Take me with?”

  I shake my head, carefully pulling out the box of smokes and my Zippo. I light one up and take a long drag. “No way, forget it. Besides, I don’t need a kid dragging me down.” Even if I wasn’t on a sordid mission for payback – even if I didn’t have Grant Miller’s face in my pocket – I’m only twenty-five. What am I supposed to do with a child following me around like a lost shadow?

  Domino doesn’t back down. “Yes, you do.”

  I drop my cigarette to the tar and grind it under my shoe. “Why’s that?” I ask. Up ahead, miserable nimbus clouds gather. There’s a storm on the way, and it’s brewing trouble.

  “Because if you don’t …” Domino says matter-of-factly, his eyes suddenly burrowing into the back of my head with a look so intense he’s almost daring me to look away. It’s only now I see they’re both different colors – one is ocean blue and the other, russet brown. “… I’ll call the police and tell them you beat up Santa Claus in there.” He points his small index finger in the direction of the gas station and my blood chills. “I’ll tell them everything. I even know your number plate by heart. I’ve got a real smart brain.”

  Before I can stop myself, I grab the scruff of his charity-store jacket and hold him fast. I’m not playing around now, not when I’ve got a tiny witness on my hands. I won’t have a child get in my way, until every last one of the eleven are dead. But, I won’t kill a little kid either, no matter how calculating his disturbed little mind is. I’m not above scaring the shit out of him though. “Do you really think it’s wise to threaten the man who beat up Santa Claus?” I growl. “Who knows what he is capable of?”

  The boy remains still, at first. Then, despite everything I’ve said, his tiny mouth stretches into a wide smirk. I scowl, nearly letting go of his jacket and stepping away.

  Calcul
ating little bastard. He’s either the smartest, most reckless child I’ve ever met, or he’s simply possessed. “Superheroes shouldn’t go to jail,” he whispers.

  In the distance, somewhere further down the highway, the siren of a police car whines through the crisp air. I groan and let go of Domino, then run a hand over my face. Christ, I’ve run out of time. Worse, I’ve let myself be blackmailed by a devil-spawn who hasn’t even reached a double-digit age yet. Pathetic.

  I take my car keys out of my jeans pocket and unlock the passenger door. At first it sticks, then creaks open with a stiff crack. I cringe at the noise, grateful the door didn’t snap off its hinges and fall to the asphalt. The kid’s right – it is a piece of shit rust bucket. “Get in, little man!” I bark, opening the driver’s side. By the time I’m inside the car, so is he.

  Strapping the seatbelt over his tiny body, he turns to me with a look of nervous, almost manic excitement. “Thanks, Sir!” Then, he narrows his eyes. “Wait, what’s your name?”

  I turn the key in the ignition three times before the engine finally thunders to life. “Sir is fine,” I say, steering the car onto the highway and away from the gas station once and for all. “And don’t thank me. You caught me in a festive mood is all.”

  I look into the rearview mirror and in the distance the cop car is the size of an ant.

  It’s a while before I can bring myself to look at the boy again, and when I do, he’s fast asleep with his head against the window, clutching the domino in his right hand.

  My eyes return to the long stretch of road ahead of us. I shake my head.

  Hell, every superhero needs a sidekick, right?

  Domino

  The Present

  We have a saying here at The Red. If Regina Rump is pissed off with you, she’ll take it outside, but if she’s borderline and violently hysterical, you take it from behind. Which is why I’m less than impressed to be seated in her stuffy office at the back of the bar on New Year’s Eve, nearly two hours before midnight.

  While I wait for the mangy drag queen to arrive, I decide to poke around. The cramped space reeks of all things kitsch. There’s a marble statue of the Greek god Apollo in the corner behind her large oak desk next to a window, faux tiger skin is spread out on the pink carpet, and a dusty feather boa hangs from the chandelier above my head. An aged chaise longue rests below a painting of a beefcake jungle man strangling a massive anaconda.

  I squeeze past the desk and look outside at the street below. It’s started raining. Across the street, underneath a flashing neon sign screaming TITTIES AND TOMMYBOYS! a scummy hobo pushes a prostitute against a wall. She curses loudly and kicks him between his legs. The man crumbles to the pavement as the hooker gets into an old Chevrolet and drives off. In the distance, somewhere down the street, a solitary firework cracks the air with a loud pop.

  I jolt and take a step back from the window – it could be a gunshot, for all I know. Down these mean streets, sometimes it’s best not to ask. Something doesn’t sit well inside my chest and my palms start to sweat. I’m not an anxious guy, not usually, anyway. I prefer to take each day as it comes, unwilling to let anything burst my bubble. If I’m strapped for cash, I go get it. I have more than twenty suitors on constant speed dial whenever I’m in the mood to play. But tonight’s different. The air is charged and the hair on the back of my neck stands stiff, reacting to the nervous electricity around me. Something is coming. It frustrates me that I can’t see what.

  A pale, blonde man in a trench coat makes his way through the drizzle, chin tucked and collar up. He walks with a staggered gait, which isn’t uncommon on New Year’s Eve, anywhere in the world. But something about him is off, or maybe my anxiety is keeping me on edge. It’s only when the man seems to sense me staring at him from the window that he stops and immediately turns his head in my direction. The electricity in the air intensifies. I may be looking at him, but with a sense of dread, I know for certain that he’s leering at me. The stitches on the bridge of my nose pinch. Turning away from the window and the stranger beyond, I focus my attention on finding Regina’s minibar. I need a drink. Maybe more than one. Anything to tear my mind away from the escalating fear that I have no logical reason to feel.

  I find the minibar hidden in a tiny alcove behind the portrait of Beefy Tarzan. Leave it to Regina to treat her personal stash like it’s a safe – she’s so freaking stingy. I’m surprised there isn’t a grenade attached to the miniature fridge’s door when I open it, moving half-full bottles of whisky and rum aside as I reach in and take what I’m in the mood for. Her bottle of imported Serbian vodka. I’ve only ever tried it once; the night she promoted me from toilet boy to barman – or ‘bar wench’ – as she referred to the title.

  Somewhere behind the closed door, I hear the heavy click-clack of heels ascending the stairs to the back office. I take my time closing the fridge, then twist the cap off the bottle of vodka and take a swig. It sends a soothing burn down my throat and to the pit of my stomach. I’m not worried about Regina catching me. She’s already seeing red, why not mess with her a little more?

  I help myself to another mouthful of vodka, which is exactly what I need to dull my anxious sting. The door opens, but I don’t move. I remain facing Muscle Mary Tarzan, even when I hear Regina clear her throat in frustration behind me.

  I still don’t turn around, but that doesn’t stop Regina. “Well, suck my candy-coated chapstick and call me Lana Wachowski.” Her words are marinated in arsenic. “If it isn’t Baby Jane, back from the dead once again.”

  I squeeze my eyes shut, even though the bruising makes it difficult. Nothing Regina Rump ever says makes sense. “Why do you always have to be a weird and vulgar queen?” I drawl. I’m suddenly in need of a painkiller, or three.

  “It’s all part of the act, hunty. Didn’t you receive the memo? Life’s a stage, according to our girl, Willy S. We’re either props or characters.” When I don’t respond, because to be frank, I have no idea what she’s on about, she clicks her tongue and adds: “I’m referencing Shakespeare, dipshit.”

  I open my eyes, blinking away pinpricks of light. Bringing the cold bottle to my lips, I enjoy another sip. “Never read him.”

  Regina groans dramatically. “Are you going to keep me in suspense while you audaciously drink my vodka? Jorge already told me what you look like tonight, Mister Face. Says it’s some real Grindhouse shit.” She pauses, and I hear her scratch one of her spindly arms. “Let me see. Don’t be shy, I’m sure I’ve seen worse.”

  I sigh. May as well get this over with. It’s not that I’m scared of Regina Rump; I doubt anyone is. But there’s something about disappointing the craggy bitch that doesn’t sit well with me. She can be a hard-ass and irritating to the maximum at the best of times, but she’s always had my back, sort of, even when I’ve made a run for it, like I’ve done for the past four days. But this time, it wasn’t my fault. I just couldn’t bring myself to be seen by anyone, and Regina’s about to find out why.

  Rolling around on the balls of my feet, I take in Regina’s tattoo-covered scrawny arms, worn red evening gown, Dolly Parton wig and gunky make-up, while she studies my split lip, bruised eyes and broken nose.

  She doesn’t hide her disgust. “Goddamn, that’s nasty. Does this have anything to do with why you haven’t been at work this week?”

  “Sort of.” I run a hand over the back of my neck. It’s hard looking her in the eyes. “Yes.”

  Regina purses her lips and raises a sharp eyebrow. “Reckless bitch! You actually paid the IT Guy a visit, didn’t you?” Her voice raises to a shriek. “When I told you to steer clear of that sicko! How stupid can you be, Domino?”

  “I needed the money,” I say with a shrug, dropping the bottle of Serbian vodka on the chaise longue. It rolls off of a cushion and drops to the carpet, sending up a cloud of dust.

  “Yeah? Well, I need a face to pull in customers,” Regina barks. “How am I going to do that with Quasimodo behind the bar?” She shakes h
er head and crosses her arms over her well-padded chest. “I should fire those tight little yams of yours.”

  There’s no chance Regina ever will – she needs me more than she cares to admit. The Red is a hole in the wall, tucked away and lost within the labyrinth of alleyways in our city. No one wants to go to a gay bar run by a tatty RuPaul’s Drag Race reject, where the clientele is as scummy as the bacteria found on our floors. I’m her saving grace, the night-light Regina can rely on to always attract moths of every kind. Sometimes it’s a burden to be gorgeous, but it’s one I don’t mind carrying on my shoulders.

  Although, since my encounter with the IT Guy, I’ll admit I don’t look my best. And while it took me four days to get over the humiliation and literal pain of my visit, I’ve come to terms with the fact that bones and bruises heal, and I’m five thousand dollars richer for it.

  “I won’t look like this forever,” I say, brushing Regina off. “All I have are a few shiners and a tweaked sniffer. Give me two weeks and I’ll be fine again. Promise.”

  She doesn’t seem convinced. If anything, she looks like she wants to strangle me. Finally, after glaring for a few moments, she relents. “Two weeks, hunty. That’s all you get to recover.” She lifts a talon-like finger to the ceiling. “Because, I swear to the busty goddess in the sky, if you aren’t back to looking like your usual Adonis self, I’ll break your fucking ribs.” With that, she places both hands on her bony hips and struts out the door, forever working a catwalk to nowhere. “Now, stop with the attitude, hit a bump from Ray-Ray if you can even snort that shit with a broken nose, and start serving drinks,” she yells from the stairs, every word punctuated by the click-clack of her heels. “It’s New Year’s, hunty! Time to put all the dumbass mistakes we’ve made this year behind us and pop some bottles!”