The Dead Parade

by James Roy Daley

  As James waited for the Elmer to supply him with an answer, he couldn’t help notice that the word ‘Steel’ had been used again. Things became clear: Elmer had lied. Truth be told, James knew it all along.

  “What’s the request?” Elmer asked.

  James shifted his weight; his shoulder throbbed. From where he was sitting, he could see his shotgun sitting on the table, next to his wallet, his keys, and a couple phones. Then he noticed a handgun on the table, and a knife. The weapons seemed so close. If he could break free of the chair, the gun would be in his hand within seconds.

  “What’s the request?” Elmer asked a second time.

  “Should I ask? Will you––”

  “If it’s reasonable,” Elmer barked. “ I’ll considerate it.”

  “Okay. Fair enough. I’d like a couple of beers, for me and Debra.”

  “Is that all?”

  “Yeah. That’s it.”

  “Why do you want beers, to ease the pain? Is that what you’re thinking? Because if that’s what you’re thinking, you’re fucking stupid.”

  “We’re talking about a beer or two each, like the condemned man’s last meal. How much pain can it possibly ease?”

  Elmer shook his head.

  “Not much,” he said. “Not much at all.”

  107

  Moore pushed a gun––a different gun, not the one sitting on the table––against Debra’s temple. Switch untied her, and re-tied her a moment later, allowing one hand freedom below the elbow. They did the same for James. Within a few minutes James and Debra were drinking what they thought to be, one final beer. As it turned out, they were offered a second.

  James thought things were starting to swing in his favor, at least a little. Then Elmer said, “Let the games begin.” And without hesitation, Switch re-tied their hands and Moore made a trip to his car. He returned with a large, black toolbox. The very sight of the box made James nauseous.

  “It’s getting bright out there,” Moore said. “It’s getting hot too. Looks like a nice day is brewing. What do you think of that? It rained all night long, now it’s beautiful. Strange weather, huh?”

  “Sure is.” Elmer said. “We’re standing on the edge of a wonderful, and memorable day. Are you guys ready?”

  James said nothing. Debra said nothing. Switch opened his mouth and then snapped it shut.

  Moore said, “Fucking right I’m ready.”

  And with that, Elmer began to laugh.

  108

  Elmer opened the toolbox and lifted a hammer. Turning to Moore, he said, “Do me a favor?”

  “What’s that?”

  “Can you gag this woman? She’s about to start screaming.”

  “Sure buddy. How about duct tape? We’ve got plenty of that.”

  “Yeah, whatever. But put a towel in her mouth, will ya? Duct tape alone won’t do.”

  “Listen guys,” Debra said. She knew she had nothing to bargain with, and they weren’t going to listen. But she had to try. She had to. This was it. “You don’t have to do this… I can give you money. I’ll do what ever you want!”

  “Oh God.” Elmer said, sounding bored. “Hurry up, will ya? She’s starting to gush.”

  “Yeah, yeah. Hold on.”

  “Come on!” Debra cried. “Don’t do this! You don’t have to do this! I won’t tell, or say anything! I’ll be good! I won’t––”

  “SHUT UP!” Elmer screamed, slapping her across the face.

  Shock claimed the room. Nobody was prepared for Elmer’s violence. Not James, not Debra, not even Elmer’s goons. Somehow––until that moment––everything seemed unreal, like a joke without a punch line. But now the punch line was revealed. Elmer wasn’t fucking around. He was planning on killing James and Debra, and he was planning on being mean about it.

  Switch said, “Hey Elmer, buddy. Take it easy. You don’t have to do this. Let’s have another beer. Let’s chill out a while.”

  Elmer spun around. His nostrils flared. “No! No! No! Don’t you dare pull this shit! I knew you were getting soft on me! And you knew what this was, you knew right from the start. Do you think I’m kidding, Switch? Do you think I killed those people and that stupid dog because I was joking around? Get your head out of your ass or I’ll tie you to that fucking chair as well!” Pointing at James, he said, “This is what we came here for! This pile of shit, right here! It’s time for this bastard to get what’s coming! And he knows what he did! He knows! Now hand me that fucking duct tape and a dish towel.”

  Without hesitation, Moore tossed Elmer the tape, along with a rag he found under the sink.

  Debra, still stunned by the slap in the face, looked James in the eye.

  “Oh shit,” She said. “Don’t let them do this to me! Help me! Do something! Do something!”

  James struggled in his chair, cursing and swearing. He would have given anything to be somewhere else at that moment, and he would have given anything twice over to bring Debra with him. His place, Debra’s place, they both seemed like a dream now, a dream that was slipping away.

  It was then, at that very moment, as Elmer was wedging a dirty fingernail into the duct tape, trying to find a corner, when James wished––with all of his heart––that he didn’t love her. Love was doing nothing for him––nothing good, anyhow. Love stinks, love is a drug, love is for suckers, love is the enemy––and all the rest of it. If James didn’t love her, his heart wouldn’t be getting tossed into the wood chipper and his thinking wouldn’t have been clouded and diluted with forthcoming bereavement. But the fact of the matter was this: He did love her. Oh yeah, he loved her always and he loved her forever. She was his everything––his reason to get up in the morning, his reason to smile. He would have traded places if he could, not that it would have mattered. After those bastards had their way with Debra, James would be next. And by that time, they would be all warmed up and ready for more.

  James struggled, noticing that the ropes were not as tight as before. For some reason, unknown to him, Switch had left them loose.

  “Easy there son,” Moore said. The rasp in his voice was like ugly on a gorilla. “Don’t struggle that way or you’ll be dealing with me sooner than expected. And you don’t want that, son. I’ll rip off your head, open up my ass and shit down your neck. I’ll drink gasoline and piss fire. I’ll slit your throat and call it happiness. Don’t think I won’t.”

  “Oh please don’t do this!” Debra kept begging, “I’ll do anything! I’ll do anything!”

  Elmer swiftly and crudely stuffed the rag into Debra’s mouth. Then he ran the tape around her head, making it tight, making it hurt. He said, “Of course you’ll do anything bitch. You’ll do anything I want. But it doesn’t matter, ‘cause your time is up.” He punched her in the face once, which dazed her. It became a little easier to roll the tape around her head, finish what he was doing.

  “You fuck!” James shouted, twisting and kicking and thrashing about. His insanity seemed to be coming and going in waves now. Love, hate, fear and anger swirled together improperly. His feelings were all over the road. “Leave her alone,” he said. “YOU LEAVE HER ALONE!”

  Elmer reached inside the toolbox and pulled out a hammer. “Are you ready James? You ready for a little payback? Huh? Are you? Are you? You ready motherfucker? Watch this!”

  James felt the ropes give, not completely, but some.

  Escape seemed possible, perhaps likely.

  109

  Elmer swung the hammer around in his hand. The double-claw end was face down, like jaws of a rattlesnake. And for a brief moment, before the hammer came speeding through the air, before Debra closed her eyes, before she felt the pain, before James screamed and Moore laughed and Switch wondered why he couldn’t stop what was happening, Debra felt her bowels twist into a knot and release. Her muscles, which were as tense and rigid as a painted door hinge, unexpectedly loosened and relaxed. She felt faint. She felt the room spin and her eyes flutter, and she became aware of a warm, wet sensation ru
nning through her legs and onto the chair. For the briefest of moments she felt embarrassed, but the feeling was short lived. The hammer came rushing down with terrible mind-numbing speed and precision. And as the hammer fell, her knees never moved, never flinched, never flexed or pulled away. They just sat there, waiting for the violent and blunt amalgamation between tool and flesh.

  The rounded claw hit her left knee. It tore through her jeans, skin, muscle, veins, cartilage, and snapped her bone––making a SKQUAT sound as it hit. And although her legs never moved during the course of this union, the rest of her body did. Her shoulders jumped and her fingers clenched; her stomach flipped and her eyes tore open as her head fell back. Debra’s mouth, which was a good size, turned into a gapping O that an eagle could had nested in, if not for the rag that was stuffed inside her mouth. Her teeth snapped after she screamed. Then she whined and gasped. And the room continued swirling. Hair clung to her head. Blood mixed with urine began draining to the floor, like she had sprung two leaks at once, which was not a far cry from the truth.

  With a grunt, Elmer pushed the hammer towards Debra’s belly carelessly. He looked like he was trying to remove a stubborn nail from deep inside her knee. Then he pulled the hammer towards himself, wiggled it back and forth several times, and eventually, yanked it free.

  To say that Debra felt pain would be an understatement. Debra felt pain, more than pain in fact. She felt a taste of hell.

  Debra was in hell now, and James had a front row seat. And his ropes were loose, but not loose enough. Escape seemed possible, but it wasn’t happening. At least, not yet.

  A furious and senseless look passed through Elmer’s eyes as he raised the object a second time. He looked as though he was having a religious experience. It was terrifying; he seemed more animal than man.

  As the hammer went up a string of blood quivered between the claws and Debra’s head came snapping forward. She knew what was coming; she recognized the motion. Silently she begged and inaudibly she screamed.

  The creature that Elmer had become didn’t notice, didn’t care.

  She begged for mercy with her eyes, knowing none would be received. And she continued begging as the hammer came roaring down, like it did the first time, with sick precision and a noise that was nothing short of ghastly. The claw hit the same muscles, crunched the same bones and mulched the same veins and arteries. But this time, her feet kicked and her legs slapped together, blood shot across the room and pooled around the chair. Her face dripped sweat. She turned as white as the glue she used as a child, during those pre-school Arts and Crafts classes. What she wouldn’t give to be there now.

  Elmer pushed the claw back and forth until he yanked it free. A piece of meat fell into the expanding shores of the fresh red pond. He swung the hammer again, grinning like a lunatic as he hit the same knurled spot––again. And again. And again.

  In the back of regions of Debra’s mind, she thought the hammer felt like thunder and sounded like a wave crashing against a rock. She wished she had never come. She wished she were dead.

  James couldn’t turn away.

  He had been screaming, cursing, begging, threatening, all the while, fighting the ropes that held him. But the ropes were too strong. They were strong and loose at the same time––and he couldn’t break free. Lying, he told himself it didn’t matter. It didn’t matter now, because all this was happening; he couldn’t change it. Nothing could change it. Debra was suffering and quietly screaming and it didn’t matter––but it did matter. It did. Debra was being murdered one kneecap at a time and it was his fault. His reckless behavior created the situation, created the terror. And now he was strapped to a chair. Watching. Oh God, he couldn’t stop watching. His eyes were glued to the hammer––and the hammer kept going, and going, and going. And he loved it. That was the strangest thing. He loved it, even though he was the next in line and Debra was his girl. It didn’t matter. He screamed like he hated it but was lying to the world. He loved it, oh God. It was making him hard.

  What else, he wondered, would the son of a bitch do? Chop Debra into pieces? Pull out her eyes? Boil her alive? Drill a screw into her forehead? Cut a hole in her stomach and remove her intestines, one bloody loop after another?

  “FUCK!” James screamed. He blamed himself.

  And he loved it.

  He didn’t need hostages. Oh no. He didn’t need hostages and he didn’t need to threaten strangers with a shotgun. He didn’t need to pull the trigger two separate times, kill two separate people, destroy lives and property and God only knows what else. But he did. Oh yes, he did it all. And this was the punishment. But it wasn’t being handed to him; it was handed to the woman he loved: Debra.

  It wasn’t fair.

  He wanted to be the one that killed her. He wanted to chop off her head.

  Debra stopped fighting. Stopped watching. Stopped feeling the pain––at least for the moment. But the hammer kept coming, and coming, and coming.

  How many times? Ten? Twenty? Fifty? Two-hundred-and-fifty? She didn’t know. Her body was in shock now; her internal motor had turned off, like her mind, her thoughts and all of her survival intuitions. She was on other side of the violence now, not seeing, not listening, not caring or knowing.

  James watched the claw as it made its way through her leg; it began hitting the chair. Wood splintered. Lumber cracked.

  James and Debra were in hell.

  110

  Switch didn’t like it. He didn’t like it at all.

  He stepped outside and walked along the driveway, away from the cottage, the blood, Elmer, and that goddamn hammer that came crashing down on that poor, unfortunate woman. He felt absolutely terrible.

  What Elmer was doing was wrong. Not a little wrong, like telling mom your homework was finished when you had four pounds of it waiting in your room. It was really wrong; Charles Manson wrong; Ted Bundy wrong; John Wayne Gacy wrong.

  Switch had no idea that Elmer was a lunatic. He always considered Elmer a friend, another misunderstood soul that rolled the dice and came up shy. He thought they were alike.

  He was mistaken.

  It was no secret that Switch had killed a man and went to prison, but it had been… well, different. Refined. Gentleman like. Not like this.

  This was madness.

  * * *

  Richard Tokay was the man’s name, the man Switch had killed. And Richard Tokay got what he deserved, which was punched out and left in a parking lot. The only problem was, he suffered too much, timing was wrong, and Richard froze to death on a cold February night. This happened nine years ago.

  Switch had just turned twenty-four; he had spent the night getting drunk with his buddies on the east side of town. Club Crow Bar, it was called. The bar showcased local bands for almost ten years before it finally went under, like so many venues before it. Switch was a musician back then, and his band Skulls & Daggers had played there many times.

  At 2:30 a.m., Switch walked to his car with a guitar in one hand and a girl he almost considered his girlfriend in the other. The girl’s name was Carrie Holbrook; she was a real cutie. Red hair. Tight body. Soft voice. Full lips. Great personality. A woman like that––no wonder Switch was smitten.

  Switch and Carrie had been drinking for hours. They were both loaded, and Switch shouldn’t have been heading towards his car with driving on his mind, but that was beside the point.

  Richard Tokay, who enjoyed picking fights and was considered the town asshole, followed them outside. He asked for a ride. When Switch said no he took it personal. He called Carrie a whore and began suggesting that she had slept with half the men in town, including him and all of his friends. He also called her a band-slut. He said the only reason she liked Switch was because he played guitar. This didn’t sit well with Switch, who feared it was the truth. He had been harassed by Richard twice before, and this time he wasn’t having it. Words were spoken, followed by pushing and shoving. The guitar was dropped. Then came the fists. The fighting went back an
d forth violently. If a referee had been present he would have called it a draw. But then fate stepped in; Richard slipped on a patch of ice and went down hard. He banged his head off the bumper of a rusted-out Plymouth and Switch put the boots to him, kicking the man more times than he would like to admit.

  After that, Switch and Carrie jumped into the car and drove back to Switch’s apartment worried about drinking and driving and rehashing the fight. And if memory served them correctly, five minutes after they arrived home Switch passed out on the couch, blowing what was otherwise, a night of drunken smutty sex.

  The next day he realized that he left his guitar in the parking lot. It was a four thousand dollar Les Paul in a twenty-five dollar case. He never forgave himself for losing it.

  Two days after that the police came calling. They arrived at Switch’s front door with cuffs in hand; Switch was arrested. After a short trial, the sentence was dropped from second-degree murder to manslaughter. But with the admittance of drinking and driving, plus a few other misdemeanors, Switch was sentenced to six years, which seemed high to both him and his parents, who not surprisingly, loved him very much throughout the ordeal and never lost faith in their boy. He ended up serving three and a half.

  And that brings us here.

  Yes, Switch had left a man out in the cold, and yes, the man had died. Richard Tokay turned into a human Popsicle the night Switch tried to beat the shit out of him. But no, Switch was not a killer. He didn’t have the killer’s mentality, the killer’s instinct. He always wanted to do right, and yes, he made a few mistakes along the way. His prison time, mixed with his upbringing (which wasn’t bad, but wasn’t illustrious or thick with wealth by any means) hardened him. Made him rough around the edges. But all that is neither here nor there. What it comes down to is this: Switch was in the wrong place at the wrong time on that cold February night, making the wrong moves under the wrong set of circumstances––nothing more, nothing less. He could have been someone you know. He could have been anybody. Which is why––as Switch stepped off Debra’s driveway and onto the wet and mucky dirt road––he released a sigh of relief.