“Yeah, man, but not like you! I mean, I play guitar, but tonight God was in the house, you know what I’m sayin’? What I’m sayin’ is, I came down here from Chicago to study with you, man. If you’ll have me. I’ll do anything, pay anything to be able to play guitar like that.”
He had Fusillier’ attention. The eyes, so large and luminous behind the smoked lenses, like the rock they call Apache tears. “You would?” There was an unexpected intimacy in his voice. He hunched forward ever so slightly, the rubberized cotton creaking.
Mullen giggled. “I would. I mean it, man. You tell me you’re the devil, you want my soul, I’m ready to make that deal.”
It was like they were locked into their own little universe. A half dozen men surrounded them, no longer bothering to hide their curiosity. Hawkins, and the little bald janitor were there, serious men with serious faces waiting to see what would happen next.
“Well, brutha,” Fusillier said softly, “I understand you ready to make that deal. Now you sure you ain’t no government inspector, trahn to dig up dirt on the factory?”
Mullen’s smile wavered. What kind of shit was this? “What?”
“I said, brutha, this town depends on that factory, and we don’t lack it when outsiders come down here, act like they blues musicians, all the time they only want to git some dirt on the factory.”
The smile dribbled off Mullen’s chin. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I want to play guitar like you, man! I got nothing to do with OSHA, or anything like that!”
Fusillier nodded. “A-huh. Ah didn’t say nothin’ ‘bout OSHA. Luke, you hear me say anythin’ ‘bout OSHA?”
A big man, a fucking piano crate of a man, moved up right behind Mullen. “No suh, Baltazar. Ah shore din’t.”
“Stick out your hand agin.”
“Huh?”
With his left hand, Fusillier parted his long stringy hair and removed his glasses. He looked like a skull painted with fine pink ceramic that had begun to shrivel. “Minute ago, you offered me yore hand, ah din’t take it. They’s a reason. Now ah’d like y’all to offer me yore hand agin.”
Shaking, Mullen extended his hand. The piano crate moved up beside him and seized it in both his.
“Y’all want to play guitar like me, you gots to have a hand like mine.” Fusillier removed his right hand from his coat and reached forward to grasp Mullen’s hand with polished bone. From the third knuckle to the end of the finger on all four fingers the flesh was missing. Finger bones protruded. The thumb was almost intact except for a stub at the end. Mullen tried to pull back but the piano crate held his forearm firmly while Fusillier used both his hands to grip Mullen’s, shaking slowly.
“Acid’ll do that to ya. But I ain’t complainin’, and I ain’t sayin’ it’s the factory’s fault. All’s I’m sayin’, you want to play guitar lack me, you gots to have a hand lack mine. Merle? You got them cable strippers?”
Hawkins stepped forward with a device that resembled large pliers, handles covered in yellow rubber. That’s when Mullen began to scream.
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Goon #3
By Drew Hayes
Drew Hayes is an author from Texas who has now found time and gumption to publish a few books. He graduated from Texas Tech with a B.A. in English, because evidently he's not familiar with what the term "employable" means. Drew has been called one of the most profound, prolific, and talented authors of his generation, but a table full of drunks will say almost anything when offered a round of free shots. Drew feels kind of like a D-bag writing about himself in the third person like this. He does appreciate that you're still reading, though.
Drew would like to sit down and have a beer with you. Or a cocktail. He's not here to judge your preferences. Drew is terrible at being serious, and has no real idea what a snippet biography is meant to convey anyway. Drew thinks you are awesome just the way you are. That part, he meant. You can reach Drew with questions or movie offers at [email protected] Drew is off to go high-five random people, because who doesn't love a good high-five? No one, that's who.
Read or purchase more of his work at his site: DrewHayesNovels.com
* * *
“We are gods held by mortal chains, birds whose wings have been clipped by the flightless. We must rise up, my brothers and sisters, rise up and overthrow these yokes that the humans have clamped across our necks. They fear us because they know we are stronger than them, smarter than them, better than them. No longer should we suffer-”
Earl clicked off his radio before the news got into replaying the full swing of yesterday’s speech. There was nothing there worth listening to anyway. He’d heard it all before in one form or another. Grand speeches promising Supers the rights they thought they were due. It was just pretty words spoken by upstarts. Earl had seen what happened to those that took the movement beyond talk. He had the scars and quarterly visits to a graveyard to prove it.
Hefting himself out of his chair, he chanced a glance at the clock. It was still early, but he decided he might as well get a move on. He didn’t have much hope for the day’s meeting, that impulse had long ago been beaten out of him, but he was still going to do his best. Maybe this would be the time his luck turned around. It had to happen sooner or later.
The sink’s water was cold, damn near freezing, as he brushed his teeth. His water heater had busted two weeks back and there was no money to fix it. Landlord sure as shit wasn’t going to help either; that asshole only showed up if someone forgot to pay rent, and then he came with a baseball bat and some friends. The guy was a prick, but he was willing to rent to ex-cons, which meant he was the kind of prick Earl had to deal with.
After brushing his teeth, Earl looked in the mirror to see if there was anything he could do to improve his appearance. At this point he’d take any edge he could get. The yellow eyes that stared back at him from the mirror were unfortunately striking; they marked him as variant homo sapiens, and made hiding in plain sight much more difficult. Sure, lots of people wore contacts and colored their hair to look like Supers, but no one in his position would do such a thing, and the people he met with knew it.
Eyes aside, he was a plain looking man. Bald on top with a lingering ring of dark brown hair on the sides, simple features and an average build, he could have passed as a Little League coach nearly anywhere in the nation. If only it weren’t for those damned eyes. After a few more moments staring in the mirror, Earl gave up and headed to his closet. From it he produced his only suit, a threadbare chocolate-colored one he’d picked up at a swap meet in his first days out of the pen. At the time he’d considered it a sound investment, the tool he needed to get his life back on track. Now he wondered if the damned thing was cursed.
Still, he put it on carefully, all too aware that if it ripped or tore he’d have nothing to wear but old t-shirts and stained jeans. It was still crisp from the last time he’d had it pressed, despite being worn twice since then. None of the occasions had lasted very long, unfortunately. Earl carefully knotted the tie, then slid the jacket over his shoulders.
Looking in the bathroom mirror, he thought that the man staring back at him seemed almost respectable. Maybe this would be the time he finally got lucky. Even as the thought entered his head, Earl scoffed. He couldn’t believe that in the slightest. People like him didn’t have luck.
Earl turned away from the mirror and went to look for his keys. He didn’t like seeing himself in the suit, it reminded him of how many times he’d put it on brimming with hope, only to take it off dejectedly hours later. It wasn’t the suit’s fault though, Earl knew that. The suit wasn’t really cursed, after all.
Earl was.
* * *
“Look, you seem like a nice guy.” Mr. Mayflower didn’t look at Earl as he spoke, instead his eyes kept reviewing the single page resume that had been set on his desk. He was younger than Earl, but his physique spoke to a life in the construction business. The well-groomed beard on his face and rece
nt manicure on his fingers also told the story of a man whose edges were smoothed out by the money that came from a successful enterprise. Earl made note of these traits, then filed them away in the back of his head. He didn’t try to analyze every person he interacted with; it was just a skill left over from his time in prison. There, especially with other Supers, noticing key details was often the difference in getting clear or being caught up in a brawl, to say nothing of knowing how to soothe someone’s busted ego.
“I like to think I am.” Earl wished his voice didn’t sound so scratchy, but like the rest of his genetics, it was the hand he’d been dealt.
“Huh?” Mr. Mayflower looked up from the resume at last. “That you’re what?”
“A nice guy. Like you just said.”
“Oh, right. Yeah, you seem like a nice guy, but there’s the issue of your record.” Mr. Mayflower leaned back in his leather chair, legs in no danger of whacking the underside of his oversized wooden desk.
Earl should have known when he saw how fancy the offices were. This wasn’t a place that took chances on people like him. The minor benefit to having him on board would never outweigh the perceived risk. He could have saved everyone’s time and just walked out as soon as he saw the setup of Mayflower Construction . . . except that this was the first interview he’d scored in a month. He had to try. Options were running short.
“Sir, I was a dumb kid who knocked over a liquor store. I’ll own that mistake, but I’ve also paid my debt on it. I didn’t even use a gun to hold the place up, just a finger in the pocket. It was one screw-up, and I’m trying to get my life back on a legitimate track. Hence me looking for a job.”
“Hmmm.” Mr. Mayflower looked at the resume again, then glanced at Earl’s eyes. “You wouldn’t have really needed a gun though, would you?”
And there it was. Earl didn’t sigh, or groan, or even tense up. He’d known this was coming. It was always coming. While it was illegal to ask most job applicants if they were Supers, that courtesy wasn’t extended to ex-cons. Supposedly it was so an employer had a full sense of the risk they were taking on by hiring a Super with a record, but Earl always suspected that it was just one more way lawmakers had found to push them down.
“I do have increased strength and toughness,” Earl admitted. “It’s very low-grade though. I couldn’t use to take down a building, but for manual labor it’s a great asset. None of which is relevant to the crime I committed. Like I said, I had a finger in my pocket and pretended it was a gun. My powers never came into play.”
“Sure, sure. Okay.” Mr. Mayflower put the resume down on his massive desk, then slid it over to Earl. “Listen, I’ll be up front with you: if it was just one thing, I could probably justify giving you a shot. My uncle did some time; I know how hard it is to get a gig out there. But you being a con and a Super . . . that’s more than my insurance or my workers are going to be okay with. I’m sorry; I just don’t see this working out.”
“Sir, I promise you have nothing to worry about. All I want to do is work. I don’t care if the others hate me, call me names, even pelt me with materials. I’ll ignore all of it. The only thing I want is a job where I can get my life moving the right direction again. Please.” Even as Earl pleaded, he still took the resume from Mr. Mayflower’s desk. Paper was cheap, but not free, and it looked like he’d need it again soon.
“Tell you what; I’ll put you down on the substitution list. If someone calls in sick or gets hurt, we bring in someone off that list. You get called in and show me you can work with everyone short term, we’ll revisit regular employment.”
It was a shitty deal, but it was the best one anyone had given Earl in a long while. “Yes, sir. Thank you very much for the opportunity. I’ll try not to disappoint.”
* * *
“There’s the working man, coming forth triumphantly!” Asher’s voice rang through the pub, and he didn’t give a hot damn who he disturbed. Earl pushed down a roll of his eyes as his friend hopped off his stool and came over to greet him. They went through this every time Earl had an interview. It was a ritual of commiseration and drunkenness.
“Got turned down.” Earl said. Asher nodded, his green eyes twinkling with empathy as he embraced Earl in a hug, then led him to the table where three empathy pint glasses were already waiting to be cleared. For most people that would indicate that they’d been there a while, but Asher was known for his legendary thirst.
“You really ought to report one of these dicks,” Asher said, sliding back into his own seat and lifting the half-empty fourth glass. “It’s illegal to discriminate based on someone being Super or not.”
“Yeah, but having a criminal record is fair game,” Earl reminded him. From across the bar he could see the usual waitress trudging over. She was the owner, the main worker, and the head bouncer as occasion demanded. There was no sweetness or courtesy left in her service after years of running a pub, but she was quick and fair, plus took a shine to regulars.
“Usual?” Edith tapped on her pad of paper as she spoke, staring at them with a lukewarm glare. They counted themselves lucky; most folks got an icy one.
“I don’t have-”
“I’ll have four more of these,” Asher said, gesturing to the now drained pint glass. “And my friend will have a well whiskey soda, on my tab.”
“Got it.” In spite of her ever-present pad, Edith didn’t bother to jot down their orders, nor had she ever done so. Earl occasionally wondered what it would take for her to actually have to write an order down. Whatever it might be, he’d yet to see it.
“You don’t have to do that,” Earl said. It was a lie and they both knew it. If Asher wanted to drink with Earl, he had to pick up the check. Earl couldn’t afford luxuries like liquor in his current economic state. Luckily enough, Asher never had money troubles. Of course, he’d also been less inclined to get on the straight and narrow once he was released from prison.
“Come on, it’s the least I can do for an old cellmate. Our kind have to stick together.” Asher might have meant ex-cons, or Supers, or the all-too-common breed that were a little bit of both. He and Earl fit all three profiles, after all.
“This one at least said he’ll call me if someone gets sick and they need a sub.” Earl tried to look on the bright side of things whenever possible. Life seemed to respond to this by filling his life with as much darkness as possible.
“Well, that’s something.” Asher tapped his fingers against the stained wood of their table, a fidgety motion Earl had learned meant he was about to break an awkward subject. “How are you though? I mean . . . the end of the month is coming up.”
Earl gave a slow, somber nod. He was keenly aware that rent on his shithole would be due soon, and there was no way he could float through another month. Awful as the place was, it was still his, and Earl had precious few things he could say that about anymore. Thugs and a landlord with a bat weren’t an issue for him, but one call about him refusing to vacate to his parole officer and Earl would find himself with a permanent place to stay: the local prison.
“Things aren’t great,” Earl admitted. “My savings from . . . before . . . are pretty much gone. I’ll probably be out on my ass soon.”
“You know I could loan you the cash,” Asher offered. “Or you can crash on my couch if you need to.”
“No. Thank you, but no.” Drinks and occasionally food were one thing, but Earl couldn’t accept that kind of charity. Maybe if it had been an actual loan, but they both knew there was no way Earl could pay him back. It had been six months since he got out of jail, and his situation had only gone from bad to worse. As it was, he was staring down the barrel of being homeless, which he suspected wouldn’t help his job hunt much.
“Figured you’d say that.” Asher paused as Edith brought the tray of drinks, four for him and one for Earl. Once she was gone, he took a long drink from the first one, then picked up the conversation. “There is another way, though. I’ve got a job coming up soon. Nothing high profile, but
it requires me to work with some people I don’t know very well. I can easily get another guy on, and it would mean a lot to have someone I trust in there with me.”
“Asher . . . I’m not . . .” Earl hesitated; he couldn’t find words that seemed right. He wasn’t what? A criminal? The state had a record that proved otherwise pretty conclusively. He wasn’t desperate enough to break the law? Things were teetering sharply on the edge as it was, choosiness was one of many luxuries he didn’t have. He wasn’t willing to risk going back to prison? Hell, at least there he had guaranteed food and lodging.
“I don’t know if I can do that sort of thing,” Earl said at last. Even without a good reason to protest, his gut still screamed at him that this was a line he shouldn’t cross.
“You didn’t even let me tell you what you’d be doing,” Asher pointed out. “We need people to quickly lift some heavy cases from one truck to another. You don’t have to hurt anyone, make any threats, heck you don’t even have to talk to anyone besides me. Just a loading job, and it pays enough to cover your rent for half a year.”
Earl took a sip of his cocktail, wincing at the cheap taste of the well whiskey. It would be nice to afford decent stuff, to not lean on Asher for everything. He’d be happy just to feel like he was doing something, anything, with his life again. Being shit on day after day was draining. It would be nice to feel like a winner, for once.
“That’s it? Just unloading and loading?”
“Well, that’s not all there is to the job, but that’s all you have to do,” Asher clarified. “Plus have my back in case anyone decides to get greedy.”
“You’ve always handled yourself fine in a fight,” Earl pointed out.
“Yeah, but the two of us together were a force to be reckoned with. That’s all I’m asking for, a little lifting and a little insurance. Think of it as a favor to an old friend, if it helps.” Asher smiled, highlighting the cheekbones that had made many a woman decide that perhaps she was due for a turn with a bad boy. It didn’t have the same appeal to Earl, but the words hit home for him.
The Good Fight 2: Villains Page 6
