Poor Bastards and Rich Fucks

by John Bruni

Wayne whirled around to see a skinny little middle-aged man, his grin a black rictus, lacking front teeth. The bum pointed his supernaturally long finger at Wayne, mirroring the angel above. If not for the burning light in his eyes, Wayne would have thought him a walking corpse.

  But no, he knew Old Shit from the streets. Like Wayne, Old Shit would probably not be here next week. Cancer. It showed in his skeletal body, which stooped over as if hung on an invisible hook.

  Old Shit cackled. “Sorry, son. Saw the way you were looking up at this fella, and I had to fuck with you a bit.”

  Wayne turned and started walking away. Old Shit shuffled, but he managed to keep up. “Come on, Wayne. You know me. The Reaper’s got his finger on me, too. You gotta’ have a sense of humor about these things.”

  Wayne wanted to tell him to fuck off. Instead, he said, “Would you please leave me alone?”

  Old Shit stopped. “Sure. Okay. Sorry I bothered you.”

  Wayne watched him pull a tattered pack of cigarettes out of his pocket. The old man lit up and took a puff. He hacked it out almost right away. Wayne knew that SyntheSmoke was supposed to be safe, yet he thought maybe someone who had lung cancer probably shouldn’t smoke. Then again, by this point, what did it matter?

  Old Shit staggered away and sat down on a park bench. Wayne considered walking away again, but the more he thought about his predicament, the more he realized he needed help. Old Shit was a smart motherfucker. Word had it that he used to teach at the university. If anyone in this rotten, dying world could help him, it would probably be Old Shit.

  Wayne sat next to him. “Sorry about that. I’ve got troubles.”

  “We all have them. Smoke?”

  Wayne shook his head. “You mind if I use you as a sympathetic ear?”

  Old Shit grunted. “I’m not much good for anything else. Might as well give me a try.”

  Wayne took a breath and unloaded on Old Shit, telling him everything from the moment he’d been kidnapped until when he just woke up with his fecal pants. Throughout the story, Old Shit smoked constantly, stopping only to occasionally hack out a bloody piece of his lung. Ordinarily, something like that would cause Wayne to stop, but they both knew their own respective scores.

  Finally, after the story, Old Shit said, “So that’s what happened to Ring-Piece. I thought he’d just died.”

  “Me, too.”

  “That means these guys are serious about that billion dollar offer,” Old Shit said. “Something to consider.”

  “What about the cure for the Red Death? You think that’s real?”

  “Hard to say. Rich people have privileges the rest of us don’t have. But I lean toward yes. You never hear about one of these moneybags motherfuckers ever getting the Red Death, do you? It’s always one of us poor bastards.”

  Wayne nodded. It made sense, but he still didn’t put too much faith in the idea.

  “You think you’re going to kill these others to get that money?” Old Shit asked.

  “No. I can’t do anything like that.”

  “Then what do you have in mind?”

  “I don’t know.” But that didn’t strike him as true. He remembered back to his youth, before he’d even started going to school. He’d watched a lot of westerns with his father, all of them from a world long forgotten with actors at least two hundred years in their graves, but one recurring theme ran through almost all of them: the good guy, tough and tall in the saddle, would ride into town and get rid of the bad guys, who tended to be rich and well-respected in their communities. All his life, he’d wanted to be that good guy, fighting evil wherever he drifted, saving the communities the bad guys fed off of like parasites. He never understood the irony of that, considering how many scrapes his old man had bought their way out of, and somewhere in his teenage years of bitterness and depression, he’d lost that dream. He couldn’t pinpoint exactly when he’d become a bad guy—bad guys were always the heroes of their own stories—but knew for sure that redemption existed. It had to.

  Now? He looked anything but tough, but what did that matter? Maybe here, at the end of his life, he finally had a chance to be the good guy. He couldn’t piss that away, could he?

  “Actually, I do have an idea,” Wayne said. “The only problem is how to do it.”

  “You can always go to the cops,” Old Shit said. “You know Eddie’s name. That should get you the rest of his friends.”

  “It wouldn’t work. Come on. I’m homeless, and I’m dying from the Red Death. Those guys are rich beyond my wildest dreams. Who would you believe?”

  “What about your LiveStream?”

  “I don’t have a chip. They couldn’t ID me like that. Why trust footage from someone who technically doesn’t exist?”

  Old Shit nodded. “True.”

  “Besides, the cops are probably in their pocket, anyway. Remember, this isn’t the first year they’ve done this. But I do have some allies, provided they don’t want to kill me.”

  “You mean, the other contestants?”

  “Yeah, except I don’t know how to find them.”

  “Describe them to me again.”

  Wayne did, and when he’d finished, Old Shit said, “It seems to me that the easiest ones to find would be the two fuckslingers. You could probably find them on the Sleaze Strip. From there, if you manage to get on the same team, you can probably figure out how to find the others.”

  “That’s a big if,” Wayne said, “but I guess it’s worth the chance. I need them on my side. What should I say to them, if I find them?”

  Old Shit pitched the burned out butt of his cigarette to the ground, where it would biodegrade by tomorrow. “Tell you what. I’ll go with you. I’m good at talking people into things. I had a 95% passing rate in my classes, you know.”

  Wayne smiled. “Thanks a lot, man. I really appreciate this. I’m sorry I was an asshole earlier.”

  “Think nothing of it, Wayne. Those of us blessed enough to be doomed should stick together.”

  3

  A half an hour later, they made it to the Sleaze Strip. Despite the late hour, it still bustled with activity. Wayne and Old Shit had to go extra slow to make sure they saw every face as they passed. The blue circles offered no important info. About halfway down the Strip, Old Shit paused. “Hold up, Wayne. I have to get rid of some excess baggage.”

  Wayne nodded as he leaned against the wall. Old Shit disappeared into a nearby alley, where Wayne could hear him unzip his pants, then the resulting patter.

  A minute later, he could still hear the steady stream hitting the ground. “Jesus, man. How much longer do you have to go?”

  “I’m almost done,” Old Shit said. “Hold your horses.”

  “Is that normal?”

  “For me, it’s either a ten minute leak or a slight sprinkle.”

  “Thanks for the imagery.”

  “You asked.”

  Another minute later, the stream started petering out. Just when Wayne thought it was almost over, it became strong once again. “How much did you have to drink today?”

  “I got some coffee from a restaurant that was getting ready to throw it out. A whole pot full. I also got my hands on some rotgut.”

  “If you don’t finish soon, my head’s going to explode. Literally.”

  “Don’t say literally if you don’t mean literally.”

  Fuckin’ teacher. He looked at the countdown. 21 hours plus. “It’s pretty literal, Old Shit.”

  Finally, Old Shit’s deluge of urine stopped, and he emerged from the alley.

  “It’s about time, old man. I thought I’d have to leave you for—“

  A loud crack echoed down the Strip, and Wayne’s face felt suddenly wet. His vision filmed over with crimson. At first, he thought the Red Death had come back with a vengeance, but then he blinked the haze away and saw Old Shit on the sidewalk, his head jetting blood just like the naked and noble gods of the fountain shot water from their mouths.

  ~

  “Ha!” Willi
am shouted. He looked at Charles and shouted again, “Ha!”

  “This is stupid,” Charles said.

  “Pay up, Wingate.” William held out his left hand, waiting.

  Charles rolled his eyes and held his own left hand over William’s. He accessed his bank account and transferred the money over to William. “I shouldn’t even give this to you.”

  “A gamble is a gamble, a debt a debt.” As soon as he received confirmation of the transfer, he smiled and turned to his son. “I hope you’ve been paying attention, George.”

  “Sure,” the young man said. “Uh . . . why?”

  “Because this is an important life lesson. No matter how distasteful you may think it, you must honor all wagers. Right, Charles?”

  Charles sneered. “Don’t forget the other lesson. The one about being a gracious winner.”

  William ignored him. “Care for another wager? A million says Martin’s son gets killed next.”

  “No bet.”

  “Come on, Wingate. Be a sport.”

  “No bet.”

  ~

  Though Wayne could hear screams all around him, he couldn’t pay them any mind. He heard a few more shots, and a couple of fuckslingers around him fell, crawling for cover. None of the chaos mattered, though. His world filled with the image of Old Shit’s death. He’d been willing to help Wayne, and now he didn’t exist anymore. He hadn’t even known the old guy’s real name. What would go on his tombstone? He hoped it wouldn’t be Old Shit.

  Wayne fell to his knees and touched Old Shit’s shoulder, feeling blood soak his own fingers. “Oh God, man. Don’t die. Please, don’t die.” Except he knew Old Shit was gone already.

  Tears cut through the streak of blood on Wayne’s face. He remained hunched over the corpse until a shot ricocheted off the wall behind him, mere inches from his head. He instinctively ducked and rolled into the alley. Only then did he realize that whoever had fired those shots was aiming at him.

  He didn’t know how many shots had been fired, but he thought the shooter might be reloading. He peeked out from around the corner and saw a familiar face hovering over a gun, trying to pull the clip out.

  Stacy Bartlett, the blue circle informed him.

  Stacy had killed Old Shit.

  Stacy.

  Wayne screamed as he charged out of the alley, around the building, and toward Stacy’s cover. As he approached, she managed to find the lever that shot the clip out. She could see Wayne getting closer, so she dropped the clip and scrambled for the next. Her fingers shook so badly that the fresh clip fell to the ground to join its predecessor.

  She had no time to grab it. Wayne slapped at her hand, knocking the gun away, skittering down the alley. She roared as her other hand pulled back in a punch.

  Wayne blocked the attack with his arm, and his own hand went back. For a moment, Stacy looked like Simone, one of his girlfriends from back when he’d had a real life. The only time he’d ever hit a woman was when Simone accidentally hit his car with a shopping cart, putting a dent in the driver’s side. Wayne had reared back and slapped her as hard as he could. She bled a little, yelled, and walked out of his life. Still, it had been a gruesome incident, and it haunted him, not quite like David Nelson, but at least in the same direction. He’d sworn to never hit a woman again.

  But he couldn’t stop his hand from coming down on Stacy’s face, not in a slap, but in a punch. Stacy yelped as she fell back, holding her inflamed cheek. A yell caught in his throat as he realized what he’d just done. Sure, she’d just killed a friend, but, well, he couldn’t think of any rationalization for his reluctance to attack her, other than how his father had always taught him that hitting a woman was wrong.

  “Asshole!” Stacy yelled. She brought her foot up and planted it into Wayne’s groin. He fell to the ground, clutching his genitals as pain crawled up into his belly. He curled up into a fetal position, trying desperately to draw a breath.

  Stacy stood, looking down at Wayne’s pain-wracked body. He’d be a much easier target now. The old man had gotten in the way at the last second, but now nothing stood between her and offing this scumbag.

  Then, it hit her. She’d just killed an old man, someone who had nothing to do with this game. She’d just aimed, pulled the trigger, and blew someone’s candle out. A human being who would never again draw breath, or laugh, cry, love, fuck, anything. She’d ended someone else’s life.

  Tears began to flow, and she couldn’t stop them, no matter how hard she tried. She wanted to steel herself to continue the game, but she lost it. She fell back onto her ass and brayed out her sobs. “I didn’t mean to shoot him. I’m sorry. God, I’m so sorry.”

  The pain slowly diminished as Wayne listened to her cry. When he could move, he sat up, and she instantly scuttled away from him in a crab walk.

  “Please don’t kill me. I didn’t mean to shoot your friend.” Her eyes shifted around, looking for the gun.

  Wayne tried to speak, but he croaked instead. He cleared his throat, and this time he sounded more comprehensible: “I’m not going to.”

  Stacy paused, sniffling. “Why not?”

  “I need help from people in the same boat as me. I want to take down the rich fucks behind all of this.”

  ~

  Coppergate laughed. “There’s one every year.”

  ~

  “What about your friend?” Stacy asked.

  Wayne inhaled deeply, trying to hold back any anger that might rise in his throat. Part of him wanted to kill Stacy for what she’d done, but he needed her. He needed help badly. “He was dying anyway. He probably preferred it quick, like you gave him, instead of long and drawn out, like the cancer would have done. I know that’s how I feel about myself.” The words didn’t feel right in his own mouth, but he knew they’d have to be right.

  Stacy thought about the billion dollars again. “What if I tell you to go fuck yourself?”

  Wayne saw the gun within arm’s reach, behind a pile of garbage. He leaned over and scooped it up, hoping he looked tough enough to deliver his line. “I guess I’ll have to kill you, then.”

  “You wouldn’t. You need me, like you said.”

  Fuck. He couldn’t ever let her be too sure of that. She looked too snaky to know everything. “There’s five others who can help.”

  Stacy nodded. “Okay, then. What’s in it for me?”

  “The satisfaction of doing something right?” Wayne asked.

  “Can’t buy anything with that.”

  “Then maybe you can steal a bunch of their shit. Besides, I’m sure they have a billion dollars, ready to be paid to the winner, the transfer all set up. Maybe we can make them give it to you.”

  Stacy thought it sounded like a good idea to team up with Wayne. Not only that, but there was the old saying about how two heads were better than one, especially when it came to finding people. If the others didn’t want to join up, they’d probably have to kill them. If, on the other hand, they all teamed up, and if things didn’t look like they’d work out in their favor, Stacy would be able to kill them all at once. She did, after all, still have two clips left.

  She thought about how Old Shit’s head had shot blood out from the hole she’d put in it, and she wondered if she could do something like that again. She remembered how sick she’d felt mere minutes ago over having killed someone. Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad the next time.

  Could she kill Wayne? Probably. Why not team up with him? What better way to keep an eye on him?

  She shrugged, hoping she looked indifferent. “I guess you can count on me, then. Now that we’re a team, what do we do?”

  “We need to get the others on board with us.”

  “Sounds like a plan.”

  Wayne could hear sirens in the distance, and they were getting closer. He turned the gun around and handed it to Stacy butt first. “Grab your clip and let’s go.”

  As Stacy bent down to pick up the full clip, Wayne took one last look at Old Shit’s body. He felt his eye
s sting as he watched the remainder of the old man’s blood pour out of his broken head. “Goodbye, friend.”

  “They’re coming!” Stacy said. “We have to go!”

  They both walked away quickly, leaving the scared fuckslingers to howl for help in competition with the sirens.

  “Walk faster!” Stacy grabbed his arm and pulled him along with her.

  By the time the police came to a stop by Old Shit’s body, Wayne and Stacy were nowhere to be seen.

  Chapter 6

  1

  Unlike Stacy and Wayne, when Skank woke up, she remembered everything with stark clarity. Her eyes zipped open, and hatred burned its way through her heart immediately, and she didn’t have to think things through. She knew right away what she needed to do.

  She pulled herself to her feet and rubbed her temples. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw the Nutmobile. A classic car from about a hundred years ago, it had been made to drive its own path on whatever road it wanted to. Maybe fifty years ago, some previous owner had converted it to be compatible with the road tracks that now dominated America’s landscape. That had not stopped Nutsack from making it his own car. Etched onto every inch of its paint job were either penises of various shapes or lyrics from his favorite punk bands.

  Behind her stood the Mudhole, where she’d been just before being kidnapped by Coppergate’s henchmen. She remembered the show, one of the best she’d seen in a long time. The Two-Fisted Nunfuckers had come to town, and they’d torn the shit out of everybody. The lead singer had fucked the bass player on stage, wiped his dick with the American flag and had slapped his patriotic cum rag on a lucky member of the audience. The drummer cut off his own dick during a guitar solo and stapled it to his chest. A classic. By next show, he’d have a new one, maybe with two heads like he’d had on the tour from five years ago. Skank remembered sucking Nutsack’s dick while they waited in line to shoot up in the bathroom. Nutsack had popped some T after, and his dick got sucked up into his body, transforming into a temporary vagina, which Skank fingered the fuck out of with all six fingers on her right hand.