Poor Bastards and Rich Fucks

by John Bruni

  Jimmy hacked up a blood clot and croaked for a moment. Finally, he said, “Thanks. For saving my life.”

  Jack forced a grin on his face. He felt bad, knowing that he’d just lied to his best friend. He couldn’t possibly succeed at hacking the system. “I’m going out the back. I’ll visit you in the hospital. Get well.”

  He rushed for the back door, thinking about anything he might have touched in here. The only thing he could think of was the front door, but he’d kicked that open as soon as the guard’s dead hand had unlocked it. No, he hadn’t left fingerprints behind.

  Jack pushed his way through the back door and started running toward the stone wall at the rear of the property. He didn’t have to put forth much effort to scale over it, and just as he jumped down to the other side, the police showed up at the front gate, where they started torching through the bars, guns at the ready.

  4

  When Jimmy opened his eyes, he saw the stark lights above him and knew he was in the hospital. He blinked the fuzziness away from his vision and looked around. His wrist was attached to the sidebar of his bed by a set of handcuffs. Big surprise.

  Someone had left the TV on, and he watched the news. The newscasters told the world about something they called the Wingate Murders, and they talked about who had died and why this would be a great loss to not only society, but also the economy. A group of banks wanted to get together and build statues of the fallen in a semi-circle around the tourist area of the city. A man-on-the-street piece showed a lot of crying citizens, as if they’d lost a national treasure.

  It sickened Jimmy.

  Not as much as the next tidbit, though. When he heard the next part, he knew Jack hadn’t succeeded. They listed Jimmy Monaghan as a mad dog killer, and though they didn’t have much of Jack’s information, they had his name from Coppergate’s LiveStream.

  Fuck.

  The door opened, and a slouched over man with a day’s worth of stubble and messy hair entered. He showed Jimmy a badge. “My name’s Mike McCannon. I’m with the city’s anti-terrorism unit. And you’re James Monaghan, but if I were you, I’d think about changing my name to Dogshit.”

  Jimmy didn’t have the energy to respond.

  McCannon lit a cigarette and blew a cloud of nico-fresh into Jimmy’s face. It had the desired effect. Jimmy wanted nothing more than a cigarette. “By now, you’ve had a look at the news. You know we got your LiveStream, so you know how royally fucked you are.”

  Jimmy waited.

  “We also got the LiveStreams from Coppergate and his dead buddies. They were into savage shit. Pretty crazy. None of us at the precinct could believe it.”

  Jimmy felt sudden hope bloom in his chest. Maybe things weren’t so bad after all. Maybe this guy saw these rich fucks for what they really were.

  “Of course, we always knew something was up with those guys. They sure pay us enough to look the other way every year. I got a shit-ton of alimony to pay, and they helped me get out from under that. I gotta’ say, they might be sickos, but I got nothing against them.”

  Fuck. Jimmy looked away and sighed.

  McCannon leaned in. “Relax, Monaghan. It’s not all that bad. We’re open to negotiation. The guy we really want is Jack LeCroix. He’s a dangerous motherfucker, and we need him off the streets. I won’t mince words with you. We’re going to put that son of a bitch in the ground and salt the earth over him. But if you give him up, we can cut you a deal. How do you feel about doing a couple of years instead? Technically, you only killed that guard outside. The other guy was obviously self-defense. The D.A. is willing to go as low as manslaughter for you. What do you think?”

  Jimmy didn’t favor him with a response.

  “Come on, if you don’t take the deal, you’ll do life without parole. You can’t want that.”

  Jimmy said something, but his voice had atrophied in his time in the hospital.

  “What was that?” McCannon leaned his ear in close to Jimmy’s mouth.

  “I said. Fuck. You.”

  McCannon sat back and rubbed his scalp through his dirty mop of hair. “Fine. Don’t play ball. You should think about it, though. Two years doesn’t have to be two years. There’s good behavior and parole. You could be out in a half-year, if you’re lucky. And by then, someone will want to publish your life story. They’ll want to know what would drive a popular columnist to murder. Who knows how much you could sell such a book for?”

  The door opened, and a male nurse came in, a surgical mask over his face. He rolled a cart in. “I’m here to get some blood for his daily test,” he said.

  McCannon nodded. “Go ahead.”

  The nurse wheeled the cart over to Jimmy’s bedside and started preparing a needle.

  McCannon said, “You get life with no parole, that’s it. You look like you used to be tough, but right now, you’re a frail, pudgy fuck. I don’t think you’ll last long behind bars. You might be dead before the year’s out, especially if I send a care package to some of my connections on the Inside.”

  “Fuck off,” Jimmy said.

  McCannon snarled and drew in close to Jimmy again. “Listen, you fuck. I’m giving you a ticket out of this mess, and you disrespect me like this?” He turned to the nurse. “Stick it in good. Make it hurt.”

  “You’re the boss,” the nurse said. He stabbed the hypodermic needle down like a knife into McCannon’s neck and pressed the plunger down. McCannon gagged and jerked back, yanking the needle from him. Blood oozed down his shirt in a thin line, and he went for his gun. Too late. The sedative already coursed through his veins. He had just enough time to sit down before he passed out.

  The nurse pulled off his mask. “Come on, Jimmy. We have to get you out of here.”

  Jimmy stared into Jack LeCroix’s face, unbelieving. “What are you doing? They’re after you, and you walk into a place like this?”

  “I couldn’t leave my friend behind. But we’ve got to hurry. They won’t miss you for very long. I have the nurse’s rounds timed. She’ll be here in about fifteen minutes.”

  Jimmy sat up, and the world spun a little. “I’m kind of out of it, Jack. I’m going to need help.”

  “That’s what I’m here for.” Jack ducked out the door and pulled in a wheelchair. He then pulled McCannon’s clothes off. “Get in these. And put these bandages on your face.”

  Jimmy, still a bit groggy, followed orders. “Where are we going?”

  “I don’t know, but we’re hitting the road. The city’s too hot for us. We’ll probably spend the rest of our lives on the run. Sorry I couldn’t get to the LiveStreams in time.”

  Jimmy tried to envision living a life without being a journalist, and it hurt him a little. It had been a part of his identity for so long, he didn’t know if he could survive without it. He supposed he would find out, though. As soon as he’d dressed up and disguised himself, he sat in the wheelchair and let Jack roll him past a sleeping guard—with a hole in his neck—and out of the hospital.

  5

  The next afternoon, five hours before Jimmy Monaghan’s escape made the news, Bob Whiteman sat in a bar on the Sleaze Strip, his head aching from the monumental drinking—and his body aching from the monumental fucking—of the night before. As he poured beer down his gullet in an attempt to kill his hangover, he watched the TV on the wall. It flashed with the biggest news in the city: the massacre at Charles Wingate’s mansion. The talking heads went on and on and on about the big names who had perished in the slaughter, noting only two people who had survived: Clark, the butler—who had been found hiding in a closet—and local columnist Jimmy Monaghan. They listed Jimmy in critical condition at the city hospital.

  Everyone speculated that terrorists had done it. Others called it a new breed of justice, happy that someone had finally struck a blow against the über-rich. The majority thought the rioting punks had been responsible. However, according to the police statement, they were examining the LiveStreams of the dead and piecing the story together.

>   “Fuck,” Bob said.

  The bartender raised his eyebrows.

  “Nothing.” But it did mean something. Next year, Bob wouldn’t have this plum job, and that bummed him the fuck out.

  He finished his beer and sighed. He had plenty of money, but it wouldn’t last him through the rest of the month. Soon, he’d need another job, and no one paid better than Coppergate and his friends.

  Still, he knew things would be all right. In a city this big, there were plenty of questionable people who needed unscrupulous acts committed, and they always paid well. Getting another job wouldn’t be a problem. Nope, no problem at all.

  -THE END-