Deadly Short Stories

by Carl S. Plumer

Urban Jungle Boy versus the Mighty Gorgon

  Even at the age of four, Urban Jungle Boy had the strength of 100 men. Not 100 weak men or even 100 normal men. But 100 strong men. Which is roughly the equivalent of 647 weak men or 4,622 sprightly octogenarians—or 110,789 newborns.

  But Urban Jungle Boy did not swing through the jungle canopy on thick and endless vines. Nor did he wail, while we’re on the subject, with a wild warbling song for his animal companions the elephant, the cheetah, and the monkey (who he named Cheeta).

  No, this Jungle Boy lived in the city and thus was known sometimes by his full name, Urban Jungle Boy. (Not to be confused with his famous father, known as Concrete Jungle Boy in his youth during the fifties.)

  With his incredible strength, his will of iron, and his flaxen hair flowing like waves of melted caramel behind his head, Urban Jungle Boy flew daily down 2nd Avenue and across 14th Street. His powerful dominant right leg kicked back to propel him and his scooter an entire city block with one bold stroke. His mother called after him in vain, in her cry of panic.

  “Stop at the corner! Do not cross against the light!”

  Here’s how Urban Jungle Boy approached his daily tasks, even at four years of age. He would lift the family car (barely breaking a sweat). Move it from its morning location on the north side of the block to its evening perch on the south side. Thereby dodging a ticket for his parents for parking on the wrong side of the road.

  He would pile all the family’s furniture on the tip of his finger, balanced without effort, while his mother danced about the room. Dusting and vacuuming, free from the frustrating roadblocks of apartment life.

  This year, Urban Jungle Boy turned five (gaining the strength of an additional 127 strong men).

  He was now ready to attend public school. To be with tykes his own age, height, and disposition. (But of inferior strength by a factor of x-10 or so, depending on how good your math is.)

  And this was where he encountered Gorgon.

  Gorgon, at 214 pounds, was the biggest kindergartener the school had ever known. In fact, the city had ever known. Even the state.

  He was legendary. The Legendary Gorgon. Sometimes referred to as the Great White Ape because when he was a toddler, he ate an inordinate amount of bananas.

  Oddly enough, as an infant, Gorgon wouldn’t touch banana baby food, mashed up in the little jars that POPPED open. And forget about homemade smashed-up bananas that turned brown before your eyes with rotten acceleration.

  Legendary Baby Gorgon would hurl across the room, with surprising confidence, the small, red plastic bowl bearing the likeness of Nemo the fish.

  Each time, it would crack into the plaster wall, over time creating a scale-like pattern on the plaster. Not unlike that on a fish, a fish like Nemo.

  Later, when given an un-smashed banana, Gorgon found joy. Ecstasy, to be precise. What was this firm, fruity thing, so unlike an apple or a raisin? It came in its own easy-to-open, protective yellow container as well.

  Gorgon made it his life’s mission to consume any and all bananas in his immediate and eventual vicinities. Or so the story went.

  This mission partially accounted for his immense bulk and also his contented temperament.

  Formerly contented, to be precise.

  For what was Gorgon now, if not a banana pudding of wrath? What neglected, grotesquely overweight child wouldn’t be, given the circumstances?

  His parents: dead, pushed together in front of the D train on the Herald Square platform. Arcing like synchronized divers into the unknown.

  His uncle, who adopted Gorgon shortly thereafter, left him shortly thereafter that. (Tromping off to Nairobi in search of the mythical horizontally striped Zebra, the Yebra.)

  The uncle, gone. Feared dead after all these months, or surely lost forever in those savannahs. Gorgan’s family was not big on geography, which no doubt contributed to his uncle’s downfall.

  But now, Gorgon had found one upon whom to unleash his smoldering disappointment: the young Urban Jungle Boy. And unleash he did.

  First, in a torrent of snide comments, whispered under his breath each time Urban Jungle Boy passed Gorgon’s desk.

  Then, events escalated.

  First with mocking calls across the cafeteria.

  Next, with pushing the lad whenever they were in line together.

  Then, tripping him whenever they were at recess.

  Finally, Urban Jungle Boy had had enough.

  The battle of the century, between two legends, commenced spontaneously. Back by the monkey bars, over in the corner of the playground.

  Initially, Gorgon had the advantage. Rage gives you that. But rage wears out both the rager and the ragee.

  Soon Gorgon tired, puffing like an immense blowfish.

  Urban Jungle Boy saw his opening, and he took it.

  He hoisted Gorgon over his head, which for Urban Jungle Boy was akin to lifting a jumbo size bag of Stay-Puff’d Mini Marshmallows.

  Urban Jungle Boy sent him aloft, across the playground, and far out of the schoolyard.

  Back home that night, Urban’s dad, Concrete, asked Urban Jungle Boy, “So, son, how was school?”

  “The usual, Daddy,” said Urban Jungle Boy, heading for the kitchen to toast a Pop-Tart. “I learned more on the playground than in the classroom.”

  “That’ll never change!” said his dad with a wry chuckle.

  CHAPTER 8

  The Big Game

  BATTER UP

  “I have to tell you, Del. I never figured you for a snitch.”

  Conrad Bennett towers over us with the air and confidence of a preacher. He seems to think he’s beyond reproach, beyond sin. Yet, he’s more than ready to point out all of the sinners in the room.

  “There’s nothing to tie me to the Lachman murders, Del. Not one thing,” he goes on. “No one but you, that is. And your decrepit baseball hero here.” Bennett points at me.

  Del, who has returned to his apartment at my call, glances over my way, indisposed as I am.

  He says, “You hanging in there, Atram?”

  And to think I had called him at the “request” of this Bennett character, who at the time was threatening to break my ribs. One by one.

  “Except for where these ropes bind,” I say, not wanting to be a burden and feeling bad for summoning him here. “I’m doin’ all right.”

  Del stares back at Bennett and closes the apartment door.

  “See, Del?” Bennett blabs on. “When it comes down to it, you ain’t nothing but a weasel. The thing with little cowards like you, you’re easy to intimidate. But you also go squealing for help at the first possible moment. To some authority figure, such as—I don’t know—the cops, perhaps?”

  Bennett, affected by the power of his own oratory, starts to strut about the room, gesturing like he’s on stage.

  “No, it isn’t worth taking the risk. Can’t let some mild police questioning cause you to fold,” Bennett the Blowhard goes on. “To ‘do the right thing.’ Even though you know it means your own death.”

  Bennett stops and stares at Del.

  “So, instead, we’ll set up a kind of ‘accidental’ demise for you. A tragic death. Too bad, really. For me, I mean. I’m not the murdering type.” Bennett rubs his hands together with obvious glee. “But you’ve brought this upon yourself.”

  Del’s gone white. “What?”

  “It’s quite simple,” Bennett chatters on. “I just want what everyone else wants: to be left alone to enjoy life, riches, and rewards. A bit of happiness. Is that so damn wrong?”

  He raises his voice a couple of notches, which disturbs me. “Why did you have to be such an asshole and ruin it all?”

  Bennett stalks across the room towards Del. “Well, this will be easy to fix . . . ”

  At first, Del averts his face as if unable to look the man directly in the eyes. Del can’t seem to deal with the fact that the moment he has always feared has arrived. The moment where he will be asked to rise up, defend him
self and his woman. To justify his existence in a way he appears unprepared for.

  I am guessing he’s feared for a long time that this day would come.

  RUNNER HOLDS, AT FIRST

  Del stands his ground, perhaps for the first time in his life. It’s so unexpected, I wonder if the sun might fall straight out of the sky. If the earth shall cease its spinning.

  Del is forcing himself to stare his opponent in the eyes. Del’s eyes water.

  I can tell he wants to look anywhere else than where he’s looking now. To gaze up, down, left, right.

  Del appears determined. I’m amazed. He’s scared. I’m proud.

  Del keeps on staring—straight into the other man’s gaze. Bennett taunts him with a sneer. With a mocking raised eyebrow.

  “Boo!” Bennett shouts.

  Del blinks.

  Bennett laughs.

  I can tell that Del has flexed every muscle in his body. I’m guessing the only muscle in Del’s body that is not tense is his brain. Del’s response, I mean, is neither fight nor flight, or he would have been, by this point, long gone. Or thrown a punch by now.

  No, Del’s response is similar to the opossum’s “freeze-and-play-dead” strategy. The game Del plays is more “freeze-and-get-pummeled-to-death.” To the casual observer, indistinguishable. Unfortunately for Del, it’s not a game that he has any chance of winning.

  He takes a deep breath and a step towards Bennett.

  I imagine Del hopes the move is, if not threatening, at least a demonstration of manly confidence. Bennett is comfortable with confrontation; practiced at it, enjoys it.

  So he meets Del’s bravado squarely in the nose, which is known in the trade as a “sucker punch.”

  MAN OUT AT SECOND

  Del’s head snaps back like a punching bag hanging from a hook in Gleason’s Gym on Front Street, but without that rapid tumbidy-tumbidy sound of leather against leather. His right leg juts out behind him to brace himself in an attempt to prevent him from toppling over.

  An untrained fighter, Del’s arms fall away from his face as his nose and cheek absorb the blow. So, inevitably, a second strike joins the first. This one, from Bennett’s left hook, catches Del on his jawbone.

  The punch twists Del’s head to the left. In doing so, the harsh movement pulls on his neck muscle. Bennett takes one more powerful swing at Del’s face. This jab creates a gash above Del’s right eye, that now matches the cut on his cheek and bloody nose.

  Then the real pummeling begins as I struggle to help Del, to do something at all. But I’m useless because I’m an old man now. But more than my age, it’s mostly because I am tied to a chair and unable to move.

  The blows rain down first across his left cheek. Bennett’s right fist smashes once, then again, against the side of Del’s face. What Del is no doubt seeing are stars, as well as the blurring of his sense of what is going on.

  Bennett takes a few breaths, beginning to get winded from the exertion. The physical act of laying down a beating is good exercise, if you examine it without prejudice. I struggle against my ropes. Not sure what a man in his eighties can do, but I’m still a man, and I feel useless here.

  “Stop!” I shout. “Leave the man be!”

  But Bennett doesn’t even glance my way. Just keeps on talking to poor Del.

  “I don’t appreciate getting my shirt splattered with your blood, Del, nor do I . . .” Bennett takes a few seconds to catch his breath, his hands on his knees. “Whew!”

  When he’s able to continue, he says, “Nor do I appreciate the wear and tear this beating has taken on my knuckles.”

  Bennett stops talking, which has become a wheezing monolog anyway. He concentrates on his aim, as if deciding where to place the next blow.

  Bennett delivers a left hook, followed by a right uppercut. If one of this combination isn’t the killing punch, it will certainly be the final one of the battle.

  Del collapses to the ground like a jacket falling off a hanger. He’s crumpled and unconscious, on his knees, head flopped down.

  Bennett bends down and gets close to Del’s pulpy, swollen face.

  “Del? You in there? If you can hear me, this ain’t over. If you can’t, maybe you’re dead. In which case, this is over after all.”

  Bennett rises and wipes his bloody knuckles on the back of Del’s shirt. He stands and seems suddenly cognizant of the fact that there has been a witness.

  Bennett steps around Del, bends his knees, and crooks his arms under Del’s armpits. He drags the sack of bricks representing Del’s body and soul from the center of the room.

  He drops Del’s body harshly enough that Del’s head bounces once off the floor. Fortunately, the beating Del suffered has left him unconscious. Or perhaps he is dead.

  “One down,” he says to himself. “One to go.” He spits.

  “Hey, old man,” he says, looking my way. “That would retire the inning, wouldn’t it?”

  BASES LOADED

  It’s always struck me how a man, when having to defend only himself, will sometimes fight like a weakened lab animal.

  By that, I mean he acts sedated, disoriented. As if he’s strapped to an examination table, altered.

  Which is, if you ain’t in the veterinarian or research fields, the polite way they say “without balls, ball-less.”

  Yet, that same man, when called upon to defend his family, becomes a beast. A feral thing. A creature in the mist, growling and clawing and gnawing. Such as to make his Homo erectus and Homo sapiens ancestors proud. (Which reminds me: I haven’t been to visit the dioramas on the origins of man at the museum in quite some time. I’m overdue.)

  Bennett approaches me, puts his hands around my neck, and squeezes. I struggle, try to fight back. But I can’t even kick ‘cause my ankles are tied to the chair, too.

  The first thing I imagine Bennett thinks when a large leather ottoman flies through the air and strikes him in the back is likely something along the lines of: What’s a large leather ottoman doing striking me in the back? Did I just say, “ottoman”?

  The second thought he has, I’m guessing, is something along the lines of: How long have they been making floors this rock-solid? This inflexible? This excruciating?

  Del leaps on top of Bennett. He’s pounding Bennett’s skull with a stainless steel toaster. (When and where he grabbed hold of that appliance, I can’t say.)

  Slam!

  Smash!

  Crash!

  It occurs to me that Del should have been a jazz man. That boy can improvise!

  But Bennett is bulkier than Del. He seems to be made out of granite (like the countertops here). Because, despite the initial furniture attack and the subsequent pounding with the four-slicer, he’s still able to rise and smash Del against the wall.

  Bennett takes the advantage of regaining the upper hand to prepare a haymaker for Del.

  For those of you without experience in the fighting game or even a passing acquaintance with its colorful lexicon, you may be unfamiliar with the terminology. So allow me to describe.

  A haymaker is a punch wherein the deliverer pulls back and sends the blow to the deliveree with his (or her) full body weight. It’s an effective punch, usually resulting in a knockout.

  One drawback to this punch is it should be delivered promptly. This is due to the way it calls attention to itself, which is via its wind-up as it gathers momentum (the key to its effectiveness). This is known as “telegraphing the punch.”

  Perhaps “texting the punch” would be better in these modern times. But that doesn’t carry quite the same meaning, from where I sit. Which, by the way, is tied to a damn uncomfortable wooden chair.

  Del, in his heightened “fight-or-flight response” state, receives the telegraph (or text, if you prefer). It arrives well in advance of the haymaker.

  As Del’s booted foot digs its way up sharply into Bennett’s crotch, I can only surmise what must be going through Bennett’s mind:

  What!

  �
�The!

  ——Fuck?!

  The pauses between these words are, of course, filled with mind-numbing, excruciating pain.

  Then, I imagine he might be pondering something similar to this as he crashes to the ground at the moment before Del kicks him in the head:

  I had the upper hand. There was already a “W” in my column for this game. How did—? Where did he—? What the f—?

  You get the idea.

  GRAND SLAM

  Bennett rolls across the room, his cries muffled by the plush ply of the carpet. Then he’s standing again, holding his wounded privates with both hands. His face is cut in twenty places from the toaster. He runs to the door and out. Castrato.

  For a minute, Del stands, watching where Bennett had been. Then, like Mr. Hyde returning to the more reasonable Dr. Jekyll, he calms down. His face releases the flush tones.

  It’s like watching an inverted bottle of cherry Kool-Aid being drained down the sink. His bugged-out eyes bug back in. His tensed muscles relax.

  “Del, when you get a minute—a little help . . .” I call out. Don’t want to be overlooked, y’know.

  “Sorry, Atram,” he says to me. His voice is oddly relaxed, not the stressed voice I expected after all these goings-on.

  He unties me and says, “Call the police. And an ambulance.” He collapses on the couch.

  But I’m already picking up the phone and punching 911 before he’s finished talking.

  “No, I don’t think calling the cops is what you’ll be doing. Not the fuck at all...”

  Bennett stands at the door, a gun in his hand, pointed at me. He must have gone down to his car to get it. I hesitate until Bennett waves the gun at me and I hang up and put the phone on the counter. Then he aims the weapon at Del.

  “You and me got some unfinished business.”