The Red Mohawk

by AnonYMous

  The desk was an exact replica of Bill Clinton’s White House desk and provided enough discreet legroom underneath it to fit two of the girls from The Beaver Palace at the same time. Unfortunately for Mellencamp, he’d had to deal with one phone call after another while keeping up to date with the criminal goings on in B Movie Hell so he’d had no time to get any girls under the desk. And now much to his irritation he had another unwanted visitor.

  The scruffy blond-haired young man who had taken up a seat opposite him had a broad smile on his face. His name was Cedric Trautman. Clarisse had showed him into see Mellencamp because he claimed to have “big news”. He had paid a visit to one of the girls downstairs first and by the look on his face he’d had a good time.

  ‘What can I do for you, son?’ Mellencamp asked. He took a puff on a big fat Cuban cigar and tapped the ash into a large ashtray on his desk.

  ‘I’m looking for a job and I heard that you might have an opening.’

  Mellencamp glanced over at his personal bodyguard Mack who was standing by the door. Mack shrugged apologetically. It had been a crazy day and he obviously hadn’t had time to properly vet all the visitors.

  ‘I was told you had some big news for me,’ said Mellencamp, leaning back in his chair and taking a large swig of cognac from a brandy glass that was always half filled. ‘You looking for a job had better not be the big news.’

  ‘It’s sort of about your friend Arnold,’ said Cedric.

  Mellencamp took another puff on his cigar and blew the smoke across the desk at Cedric. ‘Arnold’s dead,’ he said.

  Cedric coughed and attempted to wave some of the smoke out of his face. ‘I heard on the news that Arnold was chopped up by the Red Mohawk,’ he said.

  ‘That’s old news.’

  ‘Yes I know, and it’s tragic an’ everything, but I thought if I turned up here real early today and showed a bit of initiative, you might consider taking me on as his replacement?’

  ‘A replacement? Ha! You know Arnold did about a hundred different things here! You’re just a kid. How old are you?’

  ‘Nineteen, sir.’

  ‘Nineteen and you think you can replace Arnold, one of my oldest and most trusted friends?’

  ‘Not just like that, sir. I’m willing to work my way up from the bottom, but I figured you must be a man short now, and well, it’s always been my ambition to be a henchman for a local Crime Lord in B Movie Hell.’

  ‘Crime Lord? Who the fuck are you calling a Crime Lord?’ Mellencamp scoffed.

  ‘Um, well you do run a brothel. And I’ve heard that sometimes when people screw you around you have them whacked.’

  Mellencamp took another puff on his cigar and looked over at Mack again. Mack as ever, simply shrugged.

  ‘Whacked,’ Mellencamp muttered. ‘I think you’ve been watching too much television. And besides, the correct term round these parts is clipped.’

  ‘Clipped? Okay. I’ll remember that. I’m good at remembering stuff.’

  ‘You’re good at remembering stuff. Well that’s just epic,’ said Mellencamp sarcastically. ‘And I’m a Crime Lord, huh?’ He took another puff on his cigar. ‘I guess I kinda like that. And, you know what? I like the fact that you’ve got balls. It takes a lot of balls to come in here on the day my buddy Arnold gets killed and offer to take his place.’

  ‘Thank you, sir. My father always told me to show a bit of initiative, to be the first in line and all that.’

  ‘That’s good advice,’ said Mellencamp. ‘But before I agree to make you one of my trusted henchmen, tell me, what skills do you have?’

  ‘Skills?’

  ‘Yeah, you know, special talents.’ Mellencamp pointed at Mack. ‘Take a look at Mack over there. What do you think his special talent is?’

  Cedric peered over his shoulder at Mack who stared back at him without revealing any emotion. Mack was six-feet-eight inches tall and almost as wide. He had a shaved head the size of a beach ball. His biceps were huge too. His hands were clasped in front of his waist and they were the size of a couple of shovel heads. Mack had the biggest hands in town and when those babies were clenched into fists, they could break through walls.

  After staring at Mack for a few seconds, Cedric turned back to face Mellencamp who blew another puff of smoke into his face with impeccable timing.

  ‘At a guess, I’d say Mack’s special talent is that he’s good at lifting things,’ Cedric stated confidently.

  Mellencamp frowned. ‘Well d’uh. Of course he’s good at lifting things. Look at the size of him. The guy’s a fucking giant. That’s an obvious one. There’s nothing special about lifting stuff. But there is a story behind Mack and how he came to be here. You see Mack used to live in Arkansas but he had to leave because the cops were after him for murder. He was muscle for hire. He killed so many people he earned himself the nickname The Slasher.’

  ‘The Slasher?’

  ‘That’s right, The Slasher. Now guess why?’

  Cedric waved away some more smoke that was coming his way. ‘I suppose with a name like The Slasher he must be good with a knife. So I guess his special talent is slicing people up with knives, right?’

  ‘Wrong! He strangles people. Those hands of his can squeeze the life out of a man in a matter of seconds. I guarantee you when he slides his hands around someone’s throat, that someone is gonna be dead within ten seconds. It’s a sight to behold.’

  Cedric looked back at Mack then turned back to Mellencamp. His brow was furrowed into a confused frown. ‘I don’t get it,’ he said. ‘Why would a strangler be called The Slasher?’

  ‘Because he pisses on all of his victims.’

  ‘I beg your pardon.’

  ‘Mack urinates on all of his victims. That’s his calling card. Once they’re dead he whips out his Johnson and takes a slash on the corpse.’

  ‘But why?’

  ‘To get himself the nickname The Slasher. Keep up.’

  ‘And that’s a special talent? Pissing on dead people? Okay, umm, so I guess I could take a shit on some dead people if you wanted? That could be my special talent.’

  Mellencamp pondered the suggestion. ‘The Shitter?’ he said out loud, puffing on his cigar some more. ‘No, I don’t think I like the name. The Stain, that might work. You could be called The Stain. Or the Shit Stain. You look like a shit stain.’

  ‘Seriously?’ said Cedric. ‘You actually want me to shit on people?’

  Mellencamp laughed. ‘Nah, I’m just messing with ya. Pissing on people is Mack’s thing. You can come up with your own trademark later if you want, but for now I just want to know what skills you have that you think I might need. Why should I hire you to be one of my henchmen? What are your attributes?’

  ‘Well, I’m hardworking sir. I’m honest. I don’t steal and I know when to keep my mouth shut.’

  ‘Knowing when to keep your mouth shut is a minimum requirement, boy.’

  ‘Good. Because, you know, I’ve known about Baby for a long time and I’ve never said anything to anyone about it. And obviously if you give me a job I’ll continue to keep quiet about it.’

  Mellencamp had been about to take another puff on his cigar, but held off, holding it an inch short of his mouth as he took on board what Cedric had just said.

  ‘You’ve known about Baby for a long time?’ he muttered, glancing over at Mack momentarily.

  ‘Yes. You know, I know who she really is and stuff, but obviously I’ve never told anyone, and I never will….’ He was smiling at Mellencamp but the smile slowly faded as he took on board the look of displeasure on the other man’s face. He swallowed hard, then he added, ‘….even if I don’t get the job.’

  ‘That’s good to know,’ said Mellencamp. He looked back over at Mack and nodded at him.

  Cedric shifted uneasily in his seat, clearly sensing that he might have spoken out of turn. Mack snuck up on him from behind and with one swift tug from his giant hands he yanked Cedric’s chair out from under him. Cedric fell
back and landed on his ass. His head hit the floor and he found himself staring up at the ceiling. And up at Mack.

  Mack reached down and grabbed him by his hair. He hauled him to his feet, wrapped his huge left hand around Cedric’s throat, and lifted him up a foot above the floor. Cedric grabbed desperately at Mack’s hand and tried to free himself from his iron grip. It was a wasted effort.

  ‘Show him what you can do, Mack,’ said Mellencamp, swilling his glass of cognac around in his hand.

  ‘Look boss. One hand!’ Mack replied, grinning inanely.

  ‘Very good Mack. Very good.’

  Mellencamp watched as Cedric choked and fought desperately to peel Mack’s hand away from his throat. It took only a few seconds for his face to turn bright red, then slowly transform into a blue colour, his eyes bulging as the air was expelled from his lungs. Mellencamp smiled and chewed on the end of his cigar.

  ‘Mack,’ he said, blowing smoke towards the ceiling. ‘Try not to piss on the carpet this time.’

  Twenty Seven

  ‘What the hell is going on in here?’

  Milena Fonseca spun around. Standing at the entrance to Dominic Touretto’s room was Linda Carter. The doctor looked wide eyed and baffled at the sight before her. Touretto was stark naked on his knees cradling his balls with one hand, and he had a deodorant stick wedged up his asshole. Fonseca was standing behind him with her cell phone in her hand.

  ‘Were you taking photos of his ass?’ Dr Carter asked. ‘And what has he got wedged up there this time?’

  Fonseca glared at the doctor. ‘Why did you lock me in?’

  Dr Carter frowned. ‘What are you talking about? I didn’t lock you in.’

  Fonseca pointed at Dominic Touretto. ‘He said you locked the door behind you when you went out.’

  ‘And you believed him?’

  ‘Did you lock the door?’

  ‘No. Why would I?’

  ‘Because you’re a patient here. You’re not a real doctor.’

  Dr Carter raised her eyebrows. ‘I’ve only been out of the room for two minutes and you’ve gone insane. And why is he naked?’

  Fonseca took a deep breath and tried to collect her thoughts. She thought back to when Dr Carter had left the room earlier. She couldn’t recall hearing the door lock. It was Touretto who claimed that Carter had locked it, but she hadn’t actually heard a key turn in the lock. The sight of Touretto stripping off, with plans of sexually assaulting her had scrambled her brain. She hadn’t had time to consciously process what was going on. She had been too preoccupied with defending herself and ramming the deodorant up his bum.

  ‘She stuck a deodorant up my ass!’ Touretto shouted.

  Fonseca stood up straight and swung her right foot hard at his backside. The toe of her shoe connected with the end of the deodorant stick and kicked it further up inside him, out of sight.

  ‘Oh FUCK!’ Touretto slumped forward, his face thudding into the floor.

  Dr Carter rushed over and grabbed Fonseca by the arm, pulling her away from him. ‘HAVE YOU LOST YOUR MIND?’ she yelled. ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘He tried to assault me. He told me that you had locked us in. He said that the asylum had been taken over by the patients and that you were one of them, posing as a doctor.’

  Dr Carter let go of her arm. ‘I did warn you he was a fantasist!’

  ‘I know, but for a minute there, he had me convinced. It seemed to make sense.’

  ‘This place will do that to you.’

  ‘Fucking hell.’ Fonseca felt embarrassed, although she was still trying to work out if there might have been any shred of truth in what Touretto had said.

  ‘You looked me up on your phone just now, didn’t you?’ said Dr Carter. ‘Surely there was a picture that will verify that I am in fact a doctor and not a patient here?’

  Fonseca thought about it and nodded. ‘Yes. The picture was very old. You look different now. And you’ve had a nose job.’

  ‘Thanks for noticing.’

  ‘It was mentioned in the file.’

  Carter peered around Fonseca and took a look at Touretto who was still on his knees with his face pressed into the floor. ‘I’d step aside if I was you agent Fonseca,’ she said. ‘He’s about to ejaculate on your leg.’

  Fonseca looked down. Touretto was masturbating furiously with his right hand. And he was aiming his erect penis in her direction. This guy was unbelievable. She put her right foot to good use once again. This time she took a longer back-lift and ploughed the meat of her foot into his jaw. His head flew back, and his neck made a cracking sound. The blow knocked him unconscious straightaway. He fell onto his back. His eyes rolled up in his head and his hand slipped off his penis. Not a moment too soon by the look of it.

  Fonseca turned back to Dr Carter. ‘I think I’ve seen enough of this place now thank you,’ she said.

  Dr Carter leant down over the body of Dominic Touretto and rolled him over into the recovery position. ‘How did he get you to stick the deodorant up his bottom?’

  ‘He didn’t get me to do anything. It was self-defence. I rammed it up there to teach that rapist sonofabitch a lesson.’

  ‘Okay. One problem with that though.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘He loves having stuff shoved up his ass. You’ve played right into his hands there. One of his favourite sexual fantasies is to be dominated by a woman. I hope you didn’t squeeze his balls too.’ She looked down at Touretto’s balls. ‘You did, didn’t you?’

  ‘He gave me no choice.’

  ‘Of course. You should count yourself lucky. Squeezing his balls is usually enough to get him off. He’s always asking the female staff to kick him or punch him in the balls. And there have been numerous times he’s asked for anal examinations in the hope someone will stick a surgical tool up his anus.’

  Fonseca wiped her hand on her shirt. ‘So he really is insane?’

  Dr Carter looked surprised. ‘This is an asylum, of course he’s insane. He might not have multiple personalities in the way he convinced the judge and jury in his trial, but he’s definitely not normal. I, on the other hand am most definitely a doctor.’

  ‘Yes. I can see that now. My apologies.’

  ‘It doesn’t matter. Now, was there anything else you wanted from him? Or can I get someone up here to revive him and remove that deodorant from his bum,’ she paused before adding. ‘Although not necessarily in that order.’

  ‘Yes. I’m done here. Could you have someone call me a cab please? I need to get to B Movie Hell to meet up with my partner.’

  ‘Certainly. Come on, I’ll escort you back to reception if there’s nothing else you want here.’

  ‘There is one other thing I need,’ said Fonseca.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I’d like to wash my hands a few times.’

  ‘Obviously. I’ll show you to the staff washroom where the good soap is.’

  Dr Carter walked out, leaving Fonseca to look around the room one more time. For good measure Fonseca kicked Dominic Touretto hard in the balls and then grabbed his copy of Gone with the Wind. There were no two ways about it, she was taking that book with her. And the photo of the girl with the blue birthmark that was tucked inside it.

  Twenty Eight

  Munson cruised down the highway until he came to the dirt track on the left roughly a mile down, just like Luke the Fed Ex guy had said it would be. He steered the Mercedes off the road and onto the dirt track. The surface was uneven and full of potholes, but even so, it had to be better than driving across the field like the cops had done. He followed the dirt track for about a mile until he saw a cottage up ahead.

  The police patrol car that he had seen driving across the field earlier was parked outside. A red door at the front of the cottage was hanging off its hinges, swinging slowly back and forth in the wind. If this was Litgo’s house, then it looked like it had seen some recent violence.

  Munson slowed his car to a crawl and pulled up next to the squad
car. He killed the engine and waited to see if anyone poked their head out of the cottage door to see what the noise was. The place looked eerily empty, in spite of the open door and the police car parked outside. There was no sign of any movement anywhere. Something felt a little off. But that wasn’t uncommon in B Movie Hell. Nothing seemed right about this town. He pulled his bottle of rum out of his jacket, unscrewed the lid and took another swig. A sip here and there was just about keeping his hangover at bay. He cursed the fact he’d been drinking the night before. If he’d known he’d be called into action he would have stayed sober, probably.

  He slipped the bottle of rum back in his jacket and drew his pistol from its holster under his left arm. He opened the car door and climbed out onto the grass and stone beneath his feet. A gust of wind blew across him. The evening would be drawing in soon. It was already turning cold. He crouched down, concealing himself behind the police car, just in case there was any trouble ahead. A bunch of cops had already been gunned down by Joey Conrad. He had no intention of joining them in the morgue any time soon. He peered over the trunk of the police car and shouted out in the direction of the cottage door.

  ‘This is Munson from the FBI. Anyone there?’

  The door continued to swing slowly in the wind, ignoring him. No response came from within the cottage. He shouted out one more time.

  ‘Anyone in there? Hello! Anyone?’

  Still no answer.

  He stepped out from behind the police car, pointing his pistol at the open red door of the cottage. And he edged forward. If someone was inside pointing a gun at him, he would be an easy target. But this was what he got paid so handsomely for, sticking his life on the line to hunt down killers.

  He squatted down into a crouched position and made a run for it. He hurried up to the side of the cottage, making far more noise than he had intended to. He pressed his back up against the wall, right by the open door, ready to make a move to go inside. This was quite a predicament. On the one hand he wanted to take one more swig from his bottle of rum, but on the other hand, that was just a fucking dumb idea. And he shouldn’t even be thinking about it. He needed to focus on the mission in hand.