by John Bruni
“A bunch of punks, sir. We don’t know why, but this whole thing’s almost over. There’s just a few people still rioting. We’ve got it under control.”
Skank. Of course. A very interesting tactic. But then, he laughed, remembering that she’d been killed.
“Are you all right?” the cop asked.
“I’m fine. Just fine. I’ll be better when you move this barricade.”
“Oh! Right. Of course. Sorry.” The cop moved the barrier, scraping it across the pavement.
Samuel blazed past, driving parallel to the roadtrack as he zipped down the street, headed for his place. He thought he’d drop the motorcycle off and then walk to Elizabeth Drake’s home, where he would finish everyone off. The walk wouldn’t be long, and he didn’t want them to hear the motorcycle. It was a sweet ride, but it made more noise than two cats fucking in a bucket of water. They didn’t know about his wheels, of course, but better to be safe.
As he drew closer to his gates, he noticed something missing. The hydrant in front leaked water, as if the firefighters had just been here.
Then, he saw his gates, broken from their hinges. Beyond he saw what remained of his mansion: rubble. Nothing more. It had burned completely to the ground, and nothing would be salvaged.
A gnashing sound filled his head, and it took him a moment to realize he’d been grinding his teeth. He tried to force himself to stop, but he couldn’t. Years and years of hard work, now reduced to dust. All his trophies, destroyed. The animal heads, nothing. The relics he’d collected over time, ash. All he owned he now carried on his person.
He didn’t have to wonder who did this. He knew it had to be his . . . that cocksucker, Randall fucking Marsh.
When he found that fudge-fucker, he knew he wouldn’t just kill him. No, he planned to tear his fingernails out one by one, and then he’d move on to Randall’s teeth. He’d perform an autopsy on him before he died. He’d feed parts of him to dogs and make him watch. Then he’d cut off Randall’s head, skin it, stuff it and put it on his mantle. No, wait, he actually wanted to skin Randall’s head when he was still alive to feel it. And then he’d—
“No,” he muttered. “Don’t.” He couldn’t let Randall get to him. It would make him sloppy. He breathed deeply, hoping to calm down.
It didn’t work. He still felt the anger burning in his head, searching for a way to steam out and kill something. Anything. He drove the motorcycle through the trashed gates and hid it behind some bushes. Then, he made sure his weapons were loaded, and he started walking toward the Drake mansion, eager to see his son once again.
3
By twelve-thirty, the news put a fork in the riot. They stopped showing footage and made no more mention of it. Outside, the sirens and gunshots stopped. They heard nothing but silence in the ravaged neighborhood.
Randall looked at the others. “I guess we won’t be getting more reinforcements, then.”
“I told you,” Mange said. “None of my group made it. The cops got us a couple blocks away. Me and Cooze were lucky just to make it here.”
“We’ll need a new plan,” Stacy said. “I don’t think we alone could take on those rich fucks.”
“We’ll wait until the cops abandon the east end entirely,” Randall said. “Then we’ll take Mange and his wife to the hospital. From there, we’ll have to start over again.”
“We have fourteen and a half hours left.” Stacy glanced over at Cooze, and she knew she didn’t want to waste time with a hospital run. “We don’t have much time left.”
“We’ll have enough. We’ll have to.”
“Speaking of time,” Wayne said, “Kelly’s been gone for a while.”
“I’ll look for him,” Randall said. “I have to piss, anyway. Be on guard, okay? I’m sure he’s fine, but you never know.”
Stacy nodded as she patted the gun butt concealed by the front of her shirt.
4
Samuel slapped the switch on the jet pack, and he floated over the back fence of Elizabeth’s property. He glided back down on the other side and turned off the switch. He knew that anyone who cared to look out the kitchen window would see him approaching, but by this point he didn’t care. They only had a shotgun and a peashooter. Hardly heavy artillery.
He decided to enter the house from the top floor. They might expect an attack from the ground, but they certainly wouldn’t expect it to come from above. Once again, he flipped the switch, and he flew up to the nearest third-story window, where he took out a pair of gloves, put them on and pressed on the glass. After a few seconds, the window weakened and finally broke inward almost soundlessly. Samuel quickly grabbed both shards before they could fall to the floor and shatter.
He then reached in and unlocked the window. He had plenty of room to ease into Elizabeth’s bedroom. As soon as he shut off the jet pack, he breathed in deeply, getting a healthy whiff of Elizabeth’s pleasant aroma. How many times had he fucked her on this very bed? One of his finest conquests. He almost wished he could mount her head and put it on display. But no, that would be a waste of good pussy.
He checked the LiveStreams and saw that a couple more punks had joined his prey. But he didn’t find that nearly as interesting as the fact that Randall ascended the stairs, coming out on the landing of this very floor. He walked toward the bathroom—where Samuel had nailed Elizabeth in the shower every time they tried to clean up—and the bathroom adjoined with this one.
Quietly, Samuel approached the door.
5
After Randall realized how big the house was, he had no choice but to think Kelly had gotten lost looking for the bathroom. He called out Kelly’s name.
He eventually found Kelly in the bathroom and asked him if he was all right.
“I’m taking a thit,” Kelly said.
“A fine time for that,” Randall said. “We’re in the middle of all this danger, and you’ve got to pinch one off?”
“Man, thith one’th rough.”
Randall sighed. “Just hurry up, okay?” And he went upstairs in search of another shitter.
He found one on the third floor. Upon entering, he noticed another door, and it probably led to the bedroom. He closed both doors and thought about locking them, but he decided against it. Who would want to watch him piss, anyway?
He unzipped his pants and fished out a dick almost as long as his forearm. He pissed, thinking about what they would do as soon as they got Cooze to the hospital. He lost himself in thought so far that he didn’t notice the knob on one of the doors turn quietly. He didn’t see his father slip silently over the threshold. Nor did he see the shotgun rise, aimed at his head.
Someone whistled behind him, and he whipped around so quickly he sprayed piss all over the bathroom wall. Then, he saw the shotgun, and his penis shriveled down to the size of a cocktail wiener.
Samuel grinned.
~
“No way will he do it,” William said.
“Samuel’s a savage,” Charles said. “A billion dollars says he does it.”
William nearly gagged. “That’s . . .”
“Put your money where your mouth is,” Charles said. “Or you can shut up.”
“Silence,” Coppergate said. “I’m trying to hear this.”
Both of them whispered back and forth behind Coppergate, but they all watched the screen, intent on catching every single detail.
Chapter 17
1
After a mere two miles, Jimmy didn’t want to go on any further. His body dripped with sweat, he couldn’t stop breathing through his mouth and his feet felt damp with popped blisters. “We gotta’ find a ride,” he said.
“Fucking pussy,” Jack said. “This walk’ll do you good. You spend too much time behind a desk. You’ve been putting some pounds on. I don’t want to see you get fat.”
“I don’t want to keel over and die,” Jimmy said.
“Relax. We’re almost to the mall. We can catch a bus from there.”
“How much longer?”
“Another two miles.”
“Oh fuck.”
2
By the time they caught a bus headed for the city, Jimmy sat down and decided he would never stand again. Jack laughed at him. “Was that really so bad, Jimmy? You can’t be that much out of shape.”
Jimmy huffed. “Fuck. You.”
“Maybe you should lay off the sauce. Or go to the gym more often.”
“Fuck. Off.”
“All right, live in denial.”
Jimmy closed his eyes and dropped into an easy slumber. Jack watched the TV at the front of the bus. The news said something about a riot, and when they started showing footage of the east end, his jaw dropped. He slapped at Jimmy.
“What? Can’t you let me get some sleep?”
“Look at the TV.” Jack pointed.
Jimmy watched for a second, ready to dismiss Jack in an instant. And then, it sank in. The punks. Skank had to be behind this mess.
“We’ll never get through the cops,” Jimmy said.
“No, they said the riot’s over now. They’re just sweeping up the stragglers. We’ll have no problem. But I think that goes to show that the others will want to be on our side.”
Jimmy nodded. “Good.”
“Better than good. It’s starting to look like we might have a chance of coming out on top.”
“So what will we do once we find them?” Jimmy asked.
“Charge Wingate’s mansion, of course. Run in and shoot everyone in sight.”
Jimmy grunted. “That sounds like an intelligent plan.”
“It is. People don’t appreciate the value of a guerilla attack. It’s quick, efficient and no one ever expects it. We certainly didn’t, when that bastard shot Steve and blew my house up. Besides, now that we’ll have the numbers, we might be able to put up a decent fight.”
Jimmy couldn’t argue with that. In fact, he didn’t want to. He just wanted to close his eyes for the rest of this trip. Something told him he would need every bit of rest he could get for the final confrontation.
Chapter 18
1
They stood like that for a minute, Samuel aiming the shotgun at his son’s head, and Randall looking down both barrels, too shocked to so much as pack away his dick. Neither man so much as breathed.
Randall wanted to beg for his life. In all of his wild imaginings, he never thought he’d be the one on this side of the shotgun, and he couldn’t believe it would end like this. Part of him hated the desire—no, need—to beg, but it didn’t matter. One way or the other, he couldn’t do anything.
Samuel’s eyes narrowed, and his trigger finger flexed. Randall couldn’t even close his eyes as he prepared for the impending blast that would send him into the next world. But then, no sound came. Had his father fired on an empty chamber? He hadn’t heard a click.
And then, relief flooded his system. He wouldn’t die tonight, after all. His father wanted to scare the shit out of him, that’s all. Yet Randall still focused on the twin hammers, both cocked and ready to fire at any moment. Something slick moved in his belly, and he wanted desperately to turn away.
Samuel’s mouth drooped into a frown, and something sparkled in his eyes. Not excitement, as it had a moment before, but Randall thought . . . could those be tears?
The double barrels drifted away from Randall’s head until they aimed down at the linoleum. He felt tension melt out of him as he watched his father’s chest start to hitch. Finally, Samuel said, “Why?”
Randall didn’t understand. Why what?
“Why the fuck did you have to be a faggot?”
The word started something kindling in Randall’s guts, and he had to remind himself that his father still had the upper hand and could kill him at any moment. He forced himself to remain silent.
“I brought you on camping trips,” Samuel continued. “We hunted bear together when you were ten, remember? I showed you how to skin that fucker and cook the good parts. We put him in my den.”
Randall didn’t say anything.
“All those ball games we went to. Fishing. Remember I taught you how to bait your hook? You were scared to touch the worms, but you learned to do it anyway. These aren’t faggot things to do. Didn’t any of that mean anything?”
Randall’s silence finally broke. “Yes, it did. You were my father. I thought you were the greatest human being in the world. I loved those trips more than anything else, and believe it or not, I still look back on them with fondness.”
“Then why?” Samuel asked. “Why did you have be this way?” He struggled not to be too loud, but something inside his chest felt bigger than him, and he felt the need to let it out.
“What’s so bad about it?” Randall asked. “It’s not like I was nerve gassing children or beating the elderly. And it’s not like I don’t want women. I’ve been with plenty of them, too. I just also happen to like guys, as well.”
“Don’t give me that shit,” Samuel said. “Packing fudge is packing fudge, and it just ain’t natural. It’s . . .you were my son, goddammit! No son of mine takes it in the ass!”
“Well, I’ve got news for you, Dad, I not only take it in the ass, I take it in the mouth, too. I sucked a cock just last night, before your goons kidnapped me.”
Randall instantly regretted saying it. The shotgun came back up, once again aimed at his head. Yet . . . it wavered.
“Why do you say things like that?” Samuel’s voice shook, and Randall saw his father’s shining eyes finally start to drip. “And for Christ’s sake, put that away!”
Randall forgot about his dick. He tucked himself back into his pants and zipped up. “Why were you so judgmental? You ask me why I say these things. I say them because you’re the biggest asshole I’ve ever known. You disowned me, you fucking prick.”
“God didn’t make us like that,” Samuel said. “We were meant to fuck women, not each other. We—“
“Tell me you’ve never fucked a woman up the ass,” Randall said.
“Never.” And he told the truth. He’d never think about putting his precious dick in someone else’s shit hole.
“Liar. Guys do it all the time. It’s not all that different from—“
“Unless you’re taking it instead of giving it. Is that like anal sex with women?”
Randall thought about the gun he’d left behind in the flaming limo. He never wanted anything more in his life than to have that gun with him now. He even thought about Stacy’s pistol. He gritted his teeth. “You’ll never understand me. That’s fine. I never wanted you to. I just wanted you to accept me for what I am, and what did you do? You disowned me. Sent me east of Eden, if you want to look at it from the Lord’s perspective. We can still do all of those father and son things. All you have to do is get this archaic nonsense out of the way. I hate you for what you did to me, but you’re still my father. The little boy who remembers the good times still loves you and yearns for the old days to return.”
He’d told the truth in all of these things, but he’d said them mostly to get his father to wax nostalgic, to let his guard down. Part of him really did want another father/son outing. Maybe they could hunt another bear together. Or maybe just have a couple of beers and hang out.
But he also knew his father to be a monster. He knew, deep down, beyond all the dreams of the past, that he had to kill this man.
“You were supposed to be my heir,” Samuel said. “I can’t have a faggot take over the business and my name.”
“I’m bisexual. I’ve fucked women, too. Don’t you get that?”
Samuel grunted. “Bisexual. That’s a laugh. That’s what a faggot says when he’s too much of a pussy to admit that he’s a faggot.”
“Can’t you just let it go?” Randall said. “Do you have any idea how bigoted you sound right now?”
Samuel ignored him. “You’d destroy our reputation.”
“Fuck that! Respectable men have been fucking other men since the days of Alexander the Great and before! Society looks up
to someone who gets shit done, regardless of who he fucks!”
“The Barnabas name is a respected name.” Samuel spoke in monotone, as if reading from a script. “We’re world renowned. You don’t run in the same circles I do. If people found out that Samuel Maxwell Barnabas, IV, takes cock in the ass, then they’d think twice about doing business with him. They’d think twice about his old man, too.”
Randall roared and punched the nearest wall twice, cracking the tiles, opening up his injuries from earlier. He ignored the shooting pain in his split, bleeding knuckles. Instead, he looked at his father, his face red, tears running down his cheeks. “Goddammit, Dad, stop talking about that shit! You don’t need more money! You’ve got more than you can spend in ten lifetimes! When are you going to think about me? When are you going to accept me? What the fuck do I have to do to get you to love me again?”
Samuel didn’t answer. Randall punched the wall again, leaving four crimson marks the size of dimes to contrast with the ocean blue tiles, and he gave in to his sobs. As his eyes burned with tears, he couldn’t believe it. He’d meant to put on an act, but could he really feel this way? Could he really still love his father?
Samuel propped the shotgun against the wall near the window and turned away from his son. He let Randall cry for a while before he let out a tremulous sigh. “Why did you burn the house down?” He didn’t turn to face his son.
Randall moaned. “Isn’t it obvious?”
“That’s kind of a stupid reason to burn a house down.”
“Fuck the house!” Randall cried. “Fuck the house! You can always get another one! There’s only one of me!”
They remained in silence again, and Randall rubbed the moisture from his eyes. In that moment, he noticed the abandoned shotgun leaning against the wall. He knew he could grab it and shoot his father, and Samuel wouldn’t be able to defend himself. Still, after everything he’d gone through in the past day, he balked at the idea. Samuel could have killed him, but for some reason, he didn’t. Could Randall’s words have actually gotten through to his father?
