Execution of Justice

by Patrick Dent

  Fat Jack's front yard was littered with beer cans, some in trash bags, most not. His push mower was partially disassembled and beginning to rust. Judging from the height of the sparse weeds and even sparser grass, it had been out of commission for months. Rain had splattered mud up on the lower three feet of the once white trailer. The only object of any potential value was the '57 Chevy Fat Jack claimed he was restoring. Apparently, he hadn't gotten around to the wheels, unless he intended to use cinder blocks. Three dogs looking like they had vacationed at Auschwitz were hungrily tearing at a small mountain of trash bags.

  John made his way through the refuse, wondering what he had ever seen in such an undisciplined slob. When he knocked on the edge of the screen door, it took Fat Jack several minutes to show his scraggly face. Fat Jack, like so many things in Beaumont, defied the laws of nature by not changing over time. He was wearing a sleeveless undershirt, stained with various bodily fluids and foodstuffs, a pair of cut off jeans, and bare feet. John strained to conceal his revulsion as he gazed into the hovel. Again, he wondered how this person had ever been his friend. Regardless of his business here today, John was still confused how such a morally and physically weak organism could ever have been his buddy and confidant.

  “Fat Jack!”

  “Soldier Boy, how you been?” Fat Jack bellowed, punctuating his salutation with a stentorian belch. He was on his second twelve pack of Budweiser. But, hell, it was almost three p.m. And it was Saturday, for crying out loud.

  “Good, but I'm going to be a lot better in a couple of hours,” John said, dangling the bottle of Jack Daniels in front of Fat Jack's face, “Up for some shots?”

  “What kind of stupid question is that? Come on in Buddy, tell me all about the Army.”

  John walked in and sat on one of the filthy couches, spreading out so that even an idiot like Fat Jack would get the message to sit on the other. He placed one fifth of bourbon in front of Fat Jack, and produced another fifth from his satchel for himself.

  “Why two bottles?” asked Fat Jack.

  “I'm challenging you to a drinking contest. One thing the Army taught me was how to drink, and I think you're losing your edge.” John winked.

  “Okay, you're on,” responded Fat Jack, not possessing the faculties to notice the label on John's bottle had already been broken.

  They drank toast after toast, reminiscing about every event that had transpired between third grade and graduation. John told Fat Jack all about the Army and Fat Jack told him all the town gossip. Apparently, John's friends were proud of his escape from Beaumont, a rarity in their social circle. A weaker man, a man without a mission, might have become sentimental at this rehash of the past, but not John. He never lost sight of his objective. There was no more anger. Where anger had been, now there was simply the mission. The part of his mind that generated emotions had gone dormant that day in the kitchen with Tammy, like boiling magma encased beneath frozen stone.

  As the afternoon progressed, the stories became less interesting and the bottles became emptier. When Fat Jack began to forget what he was talking about in mid sentence, John decided the time was right. “Fat Jack, you want to know the most important thing I've learned in the Army? Loyalty. That's it, plain and simple. You see, when you have to go into combat with a group of people, you learn to depend on one another, just like we depended on one another all the way through school.”

  Fat Jack, not quite sure where John was heading with this, merely nodded.

  “I could always depend on you, just like you could always depend on me. You know what the penalty is for betraying that trust in combat? Well, do you?”

  “Uh, they shoot you, don't they?”

  “You're damn right. But it's not like in the movies, where there's a court martial and a firing squad. Your buddies do it – the same people whose trust you betrayed. And you won't see it coming. You'll just be on patrol one day and when your turn comes to take the point, someone's weapon will accidentally discharge. And the next thing you know, you're laying there gushing blood from a perforated bowel while your squad leader removes your dog tags to give to the Lieutenant. You'll be screaming because you know you won't die before the gooks find you; but your buddies will just casually stroll away.”

  “Man, that's cold,” Fat Jack said. Despite his stupor, he felt intensely uncomfortable with this conversation.

  “Yea, it is. It's cold to violate a sacred covenant.” John emphasized the word 'violate'.

  “Oh man, I'm really getting sleepy,” Fat Jack mumbled, trying to change the topic. “The Army must have really taught you how to drink.”

  “Like I said, you're getting soft,” John replied, as he poured himself another shot of iced tea from his personal bottle. One of the many interrogation techniques the Army had taught John was that many drugs, such as heroin, had a toxic dose that rose with usage. The unique attribute of alcohol was that, although one's tolerance rose over time, the lethal dosage remained constant. According to John's calculations, the time was right. “So, you gonna match me, or what?”

  Fat Jack poured one of the last three shots from his bottle of Jack Daniels. Before he was able to slam the shot, he had to perform the Self Heimlich Maneuver on himself; to induce what John considered oral flatulence. After making room for another shot, Fat Jack raised his blood alcohol content to 0.40%.

  “Fat Jack?”

  “Yea?”

  “It's your turn to take the point.”

  “Wha…”

  “You got point,” John said, staring directly into Fat Jack's dull, bloodshot eyes. Fat Jack was drunk, but not too drunk to recognize the Grim Reaper.

  John saw a part of Fat Jack was relieved that his hour of atonement was at hand. Overcome with drunkenness and apathy, Fat Jack lay flaccid on the couch and closed his eyes for the last time.

  John lit one of Fat Jack's cigarettes, taking a few puffs to build the cherry. There was a pillow on the couch next to Fat Jack's unconscious hand. John placed the cigarette between Fat Jack's pudgy fingers, making sure the business end touched the pillow. He waited to make sure the chemicals and cheap materials used to build and furnish trailers were as flammable as the clichés. Once the couch was completely engulfed in flames, John strolled out to his Challenger. Taking a quick glance to ensure he was alone in the country, John fired up the V-8 and embarked upon phase two. He neither smiled nor frowned. He merely marked an item off his list.

  * * *

  As John entered the Beaumont Saloon, he paused just inside the door to allow his eyes and his mind to adjust to his surroundings. Little had changed about the place. In the front room, there were two pool tables, each with approximately seven ashtrays. A Budweiser light, the working class chandelier, hung above each table. Along the perimeter were wooden booths, with heavy wooden tables, designed to extinguish cigarettes with little aesthetic loss. Even though the booths were littered with ashtrays, the clientele tended to crush their butts into the nearest convenient surface, having little respect for anything other than the pool tables.

  John scanned the booths. The crowd was light for a Saturday night. There were perhaps twenty patrons, most from the local cotton mills, the rest farmers.

  “John!” cried Ron, the proprietor of the one and only white bar in Beaumont, “Soldier Boy! The first Bud's on me.”

  John waved to Ron and maneuvered toward the bar.

  “How've you been, Ron?” John asked.

  “Same as always. You know the story.”

  “That I do,” replied John.

  “So, how's Army life? I heard you were Special Forces or something.”

  “Ranger.”

  “Oh, yea. So, you going to 'Nam?”

  “Not if I can help it. Word is we may begin withdrawing troops any time now. If I'm lucky, I'll dodge that bullet.” Even as he spoke it, John knew the pun was wasted on Ron. “Where's Skeet?”

  “He's in the back, playing table hockey with Ann. You know, I still can't figure out why he hangs out her
e. Kool Aid drinking bastard. And I don't even sell that shit. He's the only guy I let bring his own drinks in here. I probably make about ten dollars a week in quarters off him. That's it.”

  “Ron, you've got a heart of gold. The good will alone should make you sleep better at night.”

  “Shiiit!” Ron replied; his most sincere attempt at wit.

  John gave Ron an obligatory smirk, and walked into the back room. The back room had no seats; it's primary functions being foosball and table hockey. In the unlikely event of overcrowding, the back room could also provide additional space for locals who couldn't quite face their doublewides yet. One of the things John hated about Beaumont was the redneck conundrum. The money the average citizen spent on beer and cigarettes each month could easily have bought them a middle class lifestyle, thereby eliminating the impoverished conditions that they blamed for their vice.

  “Skeet, you ugly sonofabitch, how've you been?”

  “John? Holy shit! When did you get back in town?”

  “Today,” John replied, closely studying Skeet's wiry frame, the filthiness of his lanky hair, and the complete lack of discipline and motivation in his pathetic but short life. He had the ever-present bottle of cherry Kool Aid in his left hand. He looked into Skeet's eyes, trying to catch a glimpse of the monster he knew lurked within. There was none to be had. John mentally recorded the exact shape and size of Skeet's Kool Aid bottle.

  “So, how's the Army treating you?”

  “Skeet, I'm about up to here with the Army. Let's talk about something interesting. Hi Ann. Long time no see.”

  “Hi John. Aren't you supposed to be in uniform?” Ann asked.

  “Only within fifty miles of base.”

  “So, what is this interesting thing you have in mind?” Skeet inquired.

  “I gotta take a leak. How about you?” John asked.

  “I'm drinking two gallons of Kool Aid a day, what do you think?” Skeet replied as he walked toward the bathroom with John.

  Once they were alone, John asked, “You still think that Duster can take my Challenger?”

  “Think? Shit, I know it can! You know, it's not so much the car as the driver,” Skeet replied with a challenging smirk, “Besides, you've never raced me when I'm sober.”

  “Skeet, I'm not up to it right now. I think we should both be sober.” John lied. He couldn't be the last person seen with Skeet, “Are you still working Sundays?”

  “Yea, Man. Can't pass up that time and a half.”

  “Okay, how about tomorrow, right after you get off work? I-77?”

  “Okay,” Skeet said, “Just don't tell Ann about it, all right?” Skeet spoke the magic words.

  “Well, if you don't want Ann to know you're racing, you ought to keep your mouth shut at work tomorrow. You know how small this town is.”

  “Good point. I'll meet you at five fifteen, at the head of I-77. How about a hundred bucks?”

  “A hundred sounds fine. See you then, Skeet. I've gotta get some rack time. I'm still a little tired from the drive. We'll catch up tomorrow after I smoke your ass.”

  John and Skeet zipped their pants and parted ways for the evening.

  * * *

  “So, do you plan to join us for church?” Gloria asked John over the traditional Sunday breakfast of scrambled eggs, grits and bacon, with homemade buttermilk biscuits on the side.

  “Mom, I'm twenty years old now, with a family of my own. You know I don't like church.”

  “Well, like it or not, it's the right thing to do. When you have your feet under my table, you should abide by my rules.”

  John wished he had stayed at a hotel. He had vowed never to set foot in Beaumont again, much less his parents' house. But he knew the appearance of a family visit was essential to his cover. Witnesses would place him in Beaumont at the time of his friends' closely spaced deaths, and he needed an official purpose to be there. His parents certainly didn't mind that he was visiting without his wife, who thought he was at Fort Bragg. As he considered it, being seen in church wasn't such a bad thing.

  “Sure, Mom, I can wear my dress uniform.”

  “I'll be so proud of my boy.” Gloria smiled.

  * * *

  Sunday afternoon, John waited at the head of the I-77 construction site. For those who were willing to move a few pylons, there was highway access about five miles before the public traffic began to merge. John knew Skeet despised reading, especially newspapers, so he was confident his old friend hadn't learned of Fat Jack's untimely demise.

  Skeet showed up at five twenty. John figured he had two options. He could hand Skeet a complimentary bottle of Kool Aid, or separate Skeet from his own bottle for just a few seconds. One thing the Army had taught John was that combat was a highly fluid situation, requiring contingency plans and the ability to adapt. Sergeant Peter's mantra was that no battle plan ever survived contact with the enemy.

  “Hey, Man. You ready?” Skeet asked John, as he pulled up alongside.

  “You bet. But I gotta take a leak first.” John knew Skeet peed constantly, a side effect of the Kool Aid habit that had replaced all his other oral fixations.

  “Oh man, I'm with you!” Skeet proclaimed.

  After they had romped into the woods a bit, they unzipped their pants and voided their bladders. John finished first, and walked rapidly toward the cars. Now for the tough part, he thought, I just need five seconds. When he reached Skeet's Duster, he hopped behind the wheel, noticing peripherally that Skeet was trailing him by about fifty feet. Perfect, John thought as he switched the Kool Aid bottles. As a cover, he turned over the engine and revved it up to eardrum shattering volume.

  “Hey, Man. Take it easy on my car!” Skeet joked.

  “I just wanted to get a feel for it. It's been a while, you know.”

  “Are we gonna do this, or what?”

  “She's all yours,” John said, opening the driver's side door. John walked around to his car, grateful for the existence of Isabue Gibson. That guy could get his hands on anything, from black market cigarettes to the special chemical he had requested. Apparently, there were those who extracted the pure compound from rat poison, and Gip somehow knew at least one of them. Last night, after seeing what type of bottle Skeet had been using, John had bought an exact match. The sole difference was that Skeet's new bottle contained one gram of a white, granular substance. The Potassium Cyanide was odorless, tasteless, and would produce the desired effect within sixty seconds of consumption.

  The race began just before six p.m. John knew Skeet would be chugging the Kool Aid as a conditioned response to stress. As John looked to his left, he saw Skeet knocking back half of the bottle in one swig. Good old Skeet, as predictable as a Swiss watch, John thought. Race time.

  John had modified his emergency brake to lock only the front wheels of his Challenger. He yanked the brake and stomped the accelerator, causing the rear wheels to spin as the car fishtailed slightly. When he released the brake, he shot out in front of Skeet's Duster. Skeet, a savvy racer, dumped his clutch and closed most of the gap. Within seconds, the white needle on John's dash had passed 100mph. John deliberately remained parallel to Skeet, keeping the race tight to egg him on to higher speeds.

  * * *

  At first, Skeet thought it was adrenaline. Sweat gushed from his pores, soaking his shirt and stinging his eyes. After a few more seconds, he noticed he couldn't catch his breath. He heaved his chest, trying to take in great gulps of air, but it felt as if a python was wrapped around his ribcage. Looking over at John, Skeet saw he was gaining ground. For the first time, he was actually about to beat John's Challenger! He risked a quick glance at the dashboard – 120mph. Just a touch of nitrous and his victory would be complete. Skeet flipped a switch, dumping nitrous oxide into the carburetor. Seconds later, his lungs collapsed. His heart would continue to beat until the residual oxygen in his bloodstream was exhausted, perhaps as long as four minutes.

  As Skeet's Duster passed 140, he began to convulse. Every syn
apse in his body was firing uncontrollably. He felt like he was on fire, but this was no ordinary fire. More like being bathed in the flame of a giant welding torch. His chest was concave. Now, a dancing elephant had replaced the python squeezing his chest. He was in a universe devoid of oxygen. Although his eyes were open, the world went black. As he fell onto the steering wheel, the car lurched sharply to the right. John braked hard enough to avoid collision, but not hard enough to leave skid marks. Skeet's speed gradually declined from 140 to 105 miles per hour over a period of six seconds. From 105 to zero took less than a millisecond.

  The medical examiner would later determine that Skeet was alive at the moment he wrapped his Duster around a South Carolina pine. Since the cause of death was obvious, he ordered the lowest level blood work, screening only for marijuana, heroin, cocaine and alcohol. All tested negative.

  * * *

  John knocked on Patch's door for the first time in nearly two years. Patch answered the door with an incoherent, bewildered look on his face. He stared at John with his one good eye, obviously surprised by John's presence. After a few seconds, Patch had to look away. John's eyes expressed a hardness forged by pain.

  “Well, are you going to invite me in, or what?” John asked.

  “Sure, Buddy, come on in,” Patch responded in a stilted tone.

  John stepped into Patch's house, and surveyed his environment as he had been taught. He noticed a steak knife on the kitchen table. He walked over and placed the knife and the three glasses on the table in the sink. Now, all potential weapons were centralized, and away from the living room area.

  “What are you doing?” Patch asked.

  “Habit. Army trained me to be a neat freak,” John replied casually, “Got any beer?”

  “Does Beaumont suck?”

  “You know, Patch, you should have gone into stand up comedy,” John responded with a broad grin that belied his intentions.

  As they sat in the living room, sipping Budweiser long necks, Patch eventually brought up the dreaded topic of their friends' deaths.