Random Acts

by Franklin Horton

  When he regained control of his breathing, Victor pushed himself to his knees. He’d crushed most of his mother’s petunias. He wondered if he might have been better off destroying the basement door. It might have brought less wrath down upon him than destroying a flower bed.

  He got to his feet and sagged heavily against the house. Sweat rolled down his face and he brushed it away with a dirt-covered hand. It was only then he noticed his condition. He would have to take a shower before he went anywhere. Despite his aversion to regular bathing, there was no way he could blend in looking like this.

  He retrieved the spare key from beneath the potted plant on the back steps and unlocked the back door. Entering the kitchen, he could see the locked basement door. He stopped in his tracks, imagining the perverse glee that must have gripped Stanley as he left this house with the knowledge that he’d locked Victor in the basement. Stanley was a sick bastard. One day he would pay too.

  Victor stripped off his dirt-covered clothes there in the kitchen. He unlocked the barrel bolt on the basement door and pitched his nasty clothes down there. He ambled naked through the house to the bathroom in the hallway. This was the bathroom he used most of the time, while his mother used the master. He didn’t like her bathroom with its fuzzy pink covers on the toilet and its fuzzy pink rugs on the floor.

  The hall bathroom was original to the house and still had 1950s fixtures. Everything was thick white porcelain and heavy chrome. Victor flipped the light on and shut the door behind him. He caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror and got sucked into his own reflection. There was a lot to see. He looked at the bulk of his body as if he’d never seen it before. He didn’t understand how he’d gotten so overweight. No wonder his clothes barely fit. It wasn’t that he had a goal of running around shirtless at the beach but it was too encumbering to carry all of that bulk around. He needed to do something about it.

  Then there was the dirt. From waist to face he was streaked and encrusted with potting soil from fighting his way out of the basement. As a person who didn’t do a lot of manual labor, and who had never engaged in yardwork, he was unaccustomed to seeing himself in such a condition.

  His eyes ended up at the reflection of his face. Besides the bulk of his body, his physical presence was half made up of hair. His hair was thick and coarse, but when it was wet it hung halfway down his back. Most of the time he put a thick gel on it to make it spike out in all directions. He wore it not so much in a style as in an un-style, intentionally shaping it into chaotic and frenzied constructions.

  Beyond the shape and sheer quantity of hair, there was also the coloration. He was forever dabbing at his hair and beard with bleaches, red and blue dyes, and other colorants. Like his weight, the hair suddenly felt like a burden, an unpleasant and unnecessary encumbrance. Maybe he would cut it. Maybe he no longer needed it as a mask. The again, maybe the bare face under it was the real mask, the unrevealing and disassociated shield.

  Victor started the shower and stepped in, watching the water spiral around the drain. He wondered who he would be when he came back home tonight. Would he be different? If he was, would anyone even notice?

  22

  It took Victor around twenty minutes to drive his rusty old compact to Konkoly Games. The video game store was a local chain with about a half-dozen stores scattered through the central region of North Carolina. Victor’s boss and the owner of the chain, Karl Konkoly, had his office at the location on the outskirts of Charlotte. It was in an upscale shopping center between a housewares store and a sporting goods chain.

  Victor found a parking place in front of the store but far enough away that there were empty spaces around him. He’d only been to this location once and that was to interview for the job. Victor was fully aware that with his bizarre appearance there weren’t many places he could just walk in and get a job. The owner of the chain recognized that a colorful character like Victor might lend a certain atmosphere to a store catering mostly to teenagers so he ended up hiring him. Apparently, Victor’s contribution to the atmosphere did not overshadow the fact that he was a poor employee.

  From his vehicle, Victor scanned the shoppers and tried to figure out who might be there for his knockout game. The place was busy with folks there to shop and eat at the variety of restaurants. Despite the heat and humidity of the North Carolina summer, Victor was wearing a black hooded sweatshirt. He wanted to disguise his identity as much as possible. He hoped covering his head might give him just enough anonymity to slip beneath the radar.

  At seven P.M. on the dot Victor gave two quick blasts of his car horn. It was the trigger he’d announced in all of the knockout game messages he’d sent out. Someone in a passing car turned and looked at him as if the honking was directed at them. They gave him the finger but Victor ignored them, staring intently at the entrance to the video game store. When nothing happened immediately, he cursed out loud and figured this was another failure on his part, just another screw up. He’d probably forgotten to even send the messages with his mind so scattered.

  Then a scuffle erupted on the distant sidewalk.

  While the two horn blasts were supposed to be the trigger, that single scuffle became the ignition point. At the first sign of chaos, more yelling and scuffles broke out. Victor pulled his hood on, hurriedly tying the string, and bolted from the car.

  No one paid any attention to the huge man dressed all in black jogging awkwardly across the parking lot. All eyes were focused on the growing chaos in front of the game store. More fights were breaking out. The scene was too crowded to see what was going on clearly but, as he got closer, Victor caught pockets of violence through his peripheral vision.

  He noticed a woman with a stroller trying desperately to push her way through the thickening crowd. She was panicky. A tall, scrawny man came from nowhere and gave her a powerful shot to the side of the face. The woman staggered and dropped, her stroller rolling of its own accord into a decorative hedge. Victor winced, questioning just for a moment the beast that he had unleashed.

  People clustered around falling bodies and young men were trying to punch unsuspecting strangers. Everyone was wary now, aware something dangerous was going on, and people were running in all directions. The only people sticking around were those trying to care for their fallen companions. While Victor took in the scene he saw a young man with an evil grin on his face approaching an elderly couple who had wandered into the chaos, unaware of what was transpiring. The man drew back his arm in preparation for punching the old lady in the face. Victor turned his head, not wanting to see the result.

  There were several bodies on the ground and he stepped over them to reach the store. Through the plate glass window of the gaming store he saw Karl Konkoly gesturing and shouting at the horde pushing their way through the doors. The mere sight of the man who’d fired him, the man who’d started this snowball rolling toward its inevitable course, infuriated Victor. He joined the horde rushing the doors, shoving and using all of his bulk to clear people out of the way. Young men from a range of ages were ransacking the shelves, turning over displays, and pulling stacks of games from the shelves.

  Karl screamed at the looters, gesturing with one hand while he tried to dial his cell phone with the other. While he was distracted, Victor lunged toward him and unleashed a massive punch to the man's face, completely blindsiding him. Victor was not strong but he was big and the punch carried weight. Karl staggered and bounced off the wall behind the counter. Victor unleashed another, trying to keep the man from getting a clear look at him.

  Karl backpedaled, his attention going from his ransacked store to his attacker. He stepped on a plastic game case and his foot shot from beneath him. His phone went flying from his grasp and he went down. Victor raised a size 14 shoe over the man’s face. Karl raised his hands to defend himself but they were no match for the nearly four hundred pounds of weight on a collision course with his head.

  Victor stomped once and Karl screamed as the blow deflected down the
side of his face. There was blood running from Karl’s nose now and his nose had slipped from its normal location. The surreal nature of the entire experience almost sucked Victor in for a moment, almost distracted him, but he managed to stomp again. The blow stunned Karl and he let down his guard, his hands falling from his face.

  Victor grinned and lined up another shot with his boot, thinking Karl was losing consciousness. The man’s survival instinct kicked in and his eyes flew open. Karl’s hand formed into a fist and he threw a punch straight up into Victor’s groin. The blow connected and Victor bellowed. His knees went weak and he started to go down. Karl tried to punch again but missed, hitting Victor in the inner thigh.

  Victor powered back from his pain, raging like a cornered, wounded bear. He lashed out with his combat boot, kicking Karl in the side of the head. This time Karl’s consciousness faded, though for a second Victor saw recognition in the man’s eyes.

  Despite his pain, Victor stood there for a moment enjoying the first victory of his life. The screams, the yelling around him, and the chaos were lost on him. In that moment of calm, the ache in Victor’s groin surged. Whether from the pain or nerves, Victor doubled over and threw up, spewing the contents of his guts onto the unconscious man and the checkered tile floor. When he straightened, he staggered back against the wall, feeling lightheaded.

  Through his nausea and watering eyes, Victor saw the full panorama of what he had unleashed. A mother unconscious in the floor of the gaming store, her husband and son trying desperately to rouse her; a teenager lying in a pile of video game cases, his body rigid from the devastating effects of a blow to the head; a half-dozen young men shoving games into backpacks, trying to carry off as much as they could before order was restored.

  Beyond the plate glass windows, on the sidewalk, there was more chaos as some victims fought back. There was screaming and cursing. A body smacked against the window as a lanky young man learned a hard lesson about punching a Marine. The Marine’s wife was trying to pull him away from his attacker but the Marine appeared determined to deliver a life lesson.

  There was an explosion beneath Victor that stunned him and brought all activity in the store to a halt. He felt a burning in his forehead and shot a hand to his face. It came back bloody. He looked down, feeling like he was moving through molasses, and found Karl sitting up, a small handgun levelled at Victor’s head.

  Victor threw out a hand and screamed. “Nooooooo!”

  The gun fired and his bladder let loose, soaking his pants. The shot barely missed him, kicking up a puff of drywall dust beside his head. Victor launched himself across the counter, a move requiring such athleticism he probably could not have done it without the motivation of coming under fire. There was another shot but Victor didn’t feel any impact. He tumbled over the counter and sprang to his feet, running headlong toward the storefront doors. There were so many people Victor could only hope it prevented Karl from taking another shot at him.

  People were still moving in and out of the doors, but Victor did not slow down. He piled into the people in front of him, knocking them down like bowling pins. His balls throbbed and his head stung but he could see a clear path to his car now. He was going to run straight to it and get out of here. Sirens were wailing now and he probably only had seconds to get out there before the place was locked down.

  He cleared the store entrance without getting shot and found himself on the sidewalk, feeling like nothing could break his momentum now. He was home free. At least he would have been, if not for the thick, tattooed arm of a Marine who had seen him fleeing the store. It was the same Marine who had plastered the young man against the storefront a few moments ago. The same Marine whose parents lost their store to looters in the Los Angeles riots when he was a child.

  A Marine who fucking hated looters.

  The Marine hooked Victor by the neck. Despite his bulk and momentum, the Marine stopped Victor in his tracks and tossed him over his hip. Victor hit the sidewalk hard and the blow knocked the breath out of him. While he gasped like a fish, the Marine rolled him onto his stomach and pinned him to the ground, one hand on the back of his head, the other twisting Victor’s arm up against his back.

  “Don’t you fucking move,” the Marine hissed into Victor’s ear. “I’ll break it.”

  To make sure there was no misunderstanding, the Marine pushed the arm against the limits of its movement and Victor cried out.

  “Let me go! Let me go! I didn’t do anything.”

  “We’ll see about that.”

  Around him, Victor could see the gunshots had ended the flash mob. Everyone who was able to flee had done so. There were trails of dropped video games going in all directions. Other young men like himself were pinned to the ground or beaten unconscious by their intended victims. There were some people receiving first aid from strangers and waiting on emergency medical care. It looked like the aftermath of a disaster.

  And it was his disaster.

  23

  Victor was transported in the back of a squad car to the Mecklenburg County Jail. Several times during the drive, the deputy attempted to engage him in conversation about what had happened at the shopping center but Victor remained silent. It wasn’t out of any observance of his rights, but rather that he was stunned at the outcome of events. He could not have been more shocked at finding himself in the back of a police car on his way to jail. That was not the plan. CamaroChick19 had warned him and he had not listened.

  Along with several others who were not able to get away, Victor was booked into jail. He was charged with an assortment of crimes from inciting a riot, to disturbing the peace, to mayhem, to vandalism. He didn’t think all of those charges would stick but what if some of them did? He hadn’t seen his old boss after the police arrived but he assumed it was only a matter of time before all the violence and all the property damage was tracked back to him.

  At the jail, Victor was handled in a way that made it clear there was a general distaste for either him or his kind of people. He was subjected to a rough and invasive search, including what felt like an unlubricated search of his deepest recesses. His hoodie and all things in his pockets, which didn't amount to anything more than a set of keys and his empty billfold, were bagged and taken away from him. The hoodie was essentially Victor’s armor in this world and he immediately felt its absence. He didn’t often venture into public without it. He felt naked and vulnerable.

  They took his combat boots and gave him a pair of thin paper slippers that looked ridiculous with his black clothing. A guard who was at least a foot shorter than Victor but was bulging with superhero-level muscles escorted him to a large general population cell. It was not what Victor pictured. Instead of being locked up with a single cell-mate there were dozens of men in this cell. His level of panic skyrocketed.

  There was a loud buzz and the door unlocked. The muscled jailer slid it open and shoved Victor inside. At the guard’s instructions, Victor waited until the door slammed shut, then turned and presented his cuffed hands to the bars. Because of his size, they’d had to link two sets of cuffs to fasten his wrists together. Once they were free, Victor rubbed the red marks and watched the guard walk away. He turned around to find himself alone with thirty or so general population inmates. They were all looking at him expectantly.

  There was nothing in their looks to show they offered him any deference due to his size. There was no fear and no respect. There was no look of camaraderie, an acknowledgement that he was just another dude like them finding himself in a shitty situation. No, these looks were predatory.

  These were desperately bored men ready for a little drama at Victor's expense. It was only a matter of who was going to start it. He felt a panic attack coming on. He had to do something. He looked for an empty cot and saw one against the wall. He ambled boldly in that direction, trying to give off an air of toughness and street savvy but failing miserably. His fear showed. All of these men had seen it before. They knew tough and they knew fake tough.
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  He passed several stainless steel toilets that sat along the wall and offered no privacy whatsoever, hoping to God he was out of here before he had to use one of those. He reached his cot and sat down, rested his face in his hands, and took several deep breaths.

  Why hadn’t he listened to CamaroChick19? She wanted him to keep his nose clean and stay out of trouble. If she somehow got wind of this, it was unlikely that their relationship would go anywhere. She would break up with him.

  Still, it was unlikely she would have any way to find out he had gone through with the knockout game and gotten locked up. He assumed it was probably on the news somewhere, but only locally. There could be a database of inmates he was being added to at this very moment. If there was, maybe she’d find it and locate his name. He tried to remember if she even had his real name. He didn’t think he’d used it in his videos. Since he’d gotten hers, what if she had the resources to find out his? He had to admit he’d fucked up big time and now it was too late to do anything about it.

  Victor was staring at the concrete floor between his feet when another pair of paper slippers scuffed into his field of vision. He didn’t acknowledge the visitor, hoping he’d go away if he ignored him. It didn’t work.

  “Hey.”

  Victor forced himself to raise his eyes. In front of him, he found exactly the kind of person you might imagine confronting you in the general population cell of the county jail. He wasn’t a big man, but he looked strong. He had enough jailhouse tats to show he wasn't a stranger to this environment. There were scars on his face that showed he’d taken a beating or two in his life. His eyes were hard but held a glimmer that might have denoted amusement. Under these circumstances, finding amusement in the man’s eyes was not comforting to Victor. He felt like a mouse looking into the face of a cat.