“I tried to help you earlier, Pete, but noooo, you wanted to run things your way. I mean, seriously, who puts a kid like Alex at left fucking field? And ninth batter? Please. That’s just ridiculous.”
Dwayne slipped the zip ties over Pete’s ankles and around his wrists and tightened them as much as he could. He needed them on good. Pete didn’t have the energy to struggle. He was in and out of consciousness. Dwayne reached over and slapped him on the cheek to make sure Pete could hear him.
“We’re going deep into the playoffs, Pete. Deep. Hell, we may win it all. Our team has talent. And you could’ve been there for it, Pete. You could’ve been there.”
He grabbed Pete’s face and leaned in close, forcing Pete to look him in the eyes. “You could’ve been there. But you had to go and fuck my wife.”
Pete’s blackened, bloody eyes got huge. Dwayne shoved his face back down again and walked over to the hoist. The hoist was a gas-powered hybrid of a tractor and a crane, used to pick up crates, large bags, equipment, and so on. It had a large arm with a steel cable and hook that would pivot around and grab and move whatever needed to be grabbed and moved, up to 2,000 pounds.
Dwayne pushed the lifting lever forward. This lowered the hook into the car’s trunk near Pete’s feet. Enough slack was left in the line so that Dwayne could attach it to the zip ties, which he did, running the hook between Pete’s ankles, positioning it squarely in place to lift the weight. Back on the hoist, Dwayne pulled back on the lever, lifting Pete slowly into the air, nearly eight feet off the ground.
Because his legs had been broken in several places, the process was excruciating for Pete. He didn’t scream; he just cried until he lost consciousness. Blood and tears streamed steadily toward the ground, pooling together on the concrete floor. Dwayne lowered Pete a couple of feet and walked over to him. He gave him a hard slap to wake him up. They were face to face, with Pete dangling upside-down.
“You made my son feel inadequate today, Pete, and that’s just not cool. I want you to be awake for this.”
Dwayne fired up the engine of the leaf shredder. He attached a large catch bag to the side, adjusted the setting to “fine,” and then climbed aboard the hoist once again. Dwayne thought that Pete might be saying something, but the noise from the equipment drowned it out. Dwayne pivoted the hoist, bringing Pete above the opening of the shredder.
“Fucking Walmart, man.” Dwayne said as he pushed the lever down. Pete’s body went down, head first, into the shredder. He looked down toward the spinning blades, shaking wildly, as his head disappeared into the cylindrical opening atop the machine. His legs and body erupted into crazy, spasmodic motions as the noise from the machine indicated that the shredding had begun. The shaking stopped once the blades got to mid-chest.
Dwayne was impressed with how quickly he could damn near liquefy a human body. When only the feet were visible, he pulled the lever back, jumped down, and pulled the hook off. He dropped the bloody feet and ankles into the shredder and listened to the rest of Pete get blown against the back of the catch bag.
Next, Dwayne brought his truck into the warehouse and stationed it underneath the catch bag, where the bag was released into the truck bed. He then picked up a residential-sized push-powered yard fertilizer and set it beside the bag of Pete.
Finally, he grabbed the power washer and blasted the equipment he’d used with full pressure, and then did the same to the inside of the trunk of his Audi. He walked in a circular motion around the equipment and the car, slowly pushing all traces of blood down the centrally located drain. He parked his Audi back outside, turned out the lights, pulled down the doors, and headed off to Jenny Field in the truck.
Once there, Dwayne dragged the bag over to the main field that the boys played on and left it in the dugout. He then grabbed the push-powered fertilizer, filled it up to the rim with red sludge formerly known as Pete, and walked back and forth across the baseball field until the machine cast out every tiny bit of him into the perfectly manicured grass. It took four trips back to the catch bag for refills to get all of Pete spread around.
After his final trip across the outfield, Dwayne looked up at the smiling face of Ricky Dale on the scoreboard advertisement. He shot a middle finger at him as he marched back to the dugout.
Dwayne loaded up his truck with the push-powered fertilizer and empty catch bag (which now weighed 180 pounds less), flipped on the main sprinkler for the fields, and drove down to the river behind Jenny Field.
Dwayne threw the fertilizer machine into the middle of the river behind the ballpark. He then found a large rock and placed it inside the catch bag before throwing it into the river as well.
He hopped back into his truck, sparked up a joint, and cranked up the music. Billy Idol was snarling his lip and singing “White Wedding.” Dwayne couldn’t help but snarl his lip and sing along.
Perhaps if he’d snarled his lip a bit less, he might have noticed Dave the umpire watching everything he’d done from the perch behind the scoreboard, where he’d passed out hours earlier after a two-day bender of crystal meth and bowling.
20.
Dwayne pulled into his driveway at 5:03 a.m. He wasn’t going to sleep for more than forty-five minutes, and he knew it. He didn’t care. He still had a crazy rush running through his body, and he was insanely high from the massive joint he’d just smoked.
He felt great.
He hoped to sneak into the house without making a sound, but the front door creaked when he opened it. Dwayne slithered through the living room and dining room and through his bedroom door in silence. He slipped into the bathroom and turned on the shower.
The nearly scalding water felt fantastic running over his head and down his back. He let the water run over him until the last bit of blood-tinged water had swirled down the drain. The shower door opened. The soap on his face kept Dwayne from opening his eyes, but he didn’t need to. He knew who it was. He knew what she wanted. Two hands reached around his chest from behind and worked their way down. There was a light nibble at his earlobes as the hands reached their destination.
“Well, good morning, cowboy,” Estelle whispered in his ear. “What were you up to last night? I missed you.”
Dwayne hadn’t heard that in years. It felt good. All of it felt good. “I was out there being a rock star, babe, just the way you like it.” He picked her up, pushed her back against the shower wall, and made her toes and feet curl up. He then flung the shower door open and carried Estelle to the bathroom counter, where he finished the job.
When Dwayne was done, he made his way to the bed and flopped down, face first.
“Get some rest, baby,” Estelle said. “Because I’m coming back for more later.”
Dwayne sprung upright several hours later. He’d slept much longer than he’d wanted to. He felt something stuck to his ass. He reached back and grabbed it. It was a sticky note.
“I took Alex to school for you. See you at the funeral, rock star.–Estelle”
“Oh, shit!” he exclaimed as he looked at the clock. It was 11:36 a.m. The funeral had started at 11:00 a.m. He ran into the bathroom and grabbed his phone. He’d missed a shitload of text messages from the guys.
STEVE:
Where the hell are you guys? Are you at the funeral? Anyone see Dwayne?
RUSS:
We’re sitting in the front row. Ran to the restroom. Grab a seat up there & we’ll see you in a second. Haven’t seen Dwayne.
There was a several-minute break from the texts, and then:
STEVE:
Very funny, I just sat down in the front row & got asked to leave. Only family is allowed up there.
RUSS:
LOL
TOMMY:
:)
STEVE:
Goddammit. Where are you guys?
RUSS:
We’re checking out the hot grieving nieces. Lobby.
STEVE:
Bullshit! I was just in the lobby.
STEVE:
Hello???
STEVE:
Really funny, guys.
STEVE:
Briefcase! Briefcase! Holy shit!
TOMMY:
WTF?
RUSS:
Is that the code word?
STEVE:
Yes! Briefcase! Briefcase!
TOMMY:
I think you’re doing it wrong. Aren’t you supposed to use it in a sentence?
RUSS:
Yeah, but did we ever actually decide on “briefcase”? I was waaay hammered when we talked about it. What happened to Chocolate Lovebone?
TOMMY:
Technically, it’s Chocolicious Lovebone.
RUSS:
That’s right. Was “Chocolicious Lovebone” a no-go as a code word?
STEVE:
Goddammit! BRIEFCASE! Where’s Dwayne???
TOMMY:
Not sure. What’s up?
STEVE:
Pete Rearden got abducted from Walmart last night.
RUSS:
LOL
TOMMY:
:)
STEVE:
No, seriously!
RUSS:
Whatever, dildo. It’s disrespectful to be texting while they’re trying to bury this asshole.
TOMMY:
(*)
TOMMY:
That was an asshole. I just made that up.
RUSS:
Damn, you’re good, Tommy.
TOMMY:
: p
STEVE:
Jesus Christ. Will you guys let Dwayne know I’m looking for him? If you see him tell him BRIEFCASE!
STEVE:
Hello?
STEVE:
HELLO??????
TOMMY:
(*)
RUSS:
LOL
STEVE:
Goddammit.
Dwayne couldn’t help but chuckle as he read the texts. The thing about Pete concerned him, but it wasn’t fear. Dwayne wasn’t sure if he could feel fear anymore.
He looked into the bathroom mirror. He couldn’t understand what had happened to him.
Was he experiencing the world’s first positive mental breakdown? His brain was no longer capable of dealing with the hypocrisy and the idiocy of the people he’d become embedded with over the last several years. On a very primal level, he felt like he might be the only person he knew who was willing to finally pull back the curtain and call it the way it was. Too many people spent their lives trying to break other people down. They stabbed them in the back. They talked shit. They destroyed people for sport. Why? Probably deep insecurity, Dwayne hypothesized. But he really didn’t give a shit why it was. He didn’t care. He wanted justice in a completely bullshit social setting. He wanted happiness among the kings and queens of unhappiness. He would bring a painful end to anyone that stood in the way of that.
Dwayne knew that these social forces had corrupted Estelle, but he was confident that he could make her see the light. He loved her. And he loved her ass. But he wouldn’t allow Alex to be corrupted. It wouldn’t happen.
Dwayne received a text from Estelle. “Alex is going to a friend’s house after school. I’m having a prayer group at our house after the funeral.”
Dwayne rolled his eyes. He had his work cut out for him with Estelle, but he was ready for it. He was ready for all of it. No one in the social circles that mattered ever liked Ricky Dale, but no one would dare miss a social event like a funeral for a really rich asshole. He figured that Walmart boy’s funeral would be far less of a must-attend soiree. They’d never find the body, though, so it would be a while before the funeral invitations went out.
Dwayne sent out a text to the guys.
DWAYNE:
Good job on keeping the code word inconspicuous. I’m taking the day off. Ricky Dale was a flaming cocksucker. I’m paying my respects today by drinking beer, smoking weed, and watching ESPN. We can meet up tomorrow for lunch.
STEVE:
Briefcase! Did you hear about Pete Rearden? He got abducted at Walmart last night. Briefcase!
RUSS:
That’s hardly the first time something has been stolen from a Walmart.
TOMMY:
LOL
STEVE:
Damn. You guys are dicks!
DWAYNE:
Yup. And this dick is gonna watch some TV and smoke a doob. Fuck Pete. See you guys tomorrow. Noon at the club.
STEVE:
Dwayne … I just … briefcase. Briefcase, Dwayne. Briefcase.
DWAYNE:
I caught that, Steve. I’m in mourning. We’ll talk tomorrow.
Dwayne threw on a pair of old camouflage shorts and a t-shirt, and slid his feet into his nicest flip-flops. He reached above his armoire for his rolling tray and bag of weed, and twisted up a few joints. A feeling of accomplishment from his previous day at the office, compounded with the awesome news that life from this point forward was his for the plucking, brought on a profound need for celebration via relaxation.
Alex wouldn’t be home until later in the evening, so he figured he would tie on a pretty mean buzz. He walked out to his garage, grabbed an old Styrofoam ice chest, and filled it with beer and ice from the fridge. He slid the ice chest up close to his favorite recliner in the living room, within arm’s reach. With a joint in his mouth and a beer in his hand, Dwayne pulled the recline lever on his favorite chair and hit the power button on the television’s remote control.
21.
The air in the living room was thick with pot smoke in no time at all. The sun had begun to shine brightly into the living room, and the light cast interesting shapes in the clouds of smoke throughout the room. One particularly annoying beam of light had worked its way toward Dwayne’s face, so he pulled his Wayfarers out and slid them on.
Dwayne indecisively flipped the channels back and forth between ESPN and National Geographic. NatGeo had an excellent African cat segment airing, and Dwayne didn’t want to miss a single kill. The gazelle deaths were great, but the water buffalo takedowns were simply spectacular.
A pride of lions was enjoying a meal of kudu when the front door to Dwayne’s house opened. Dwayne heard the multitude of footsteps from the finest Jimmy Choo and Prada heels. He then heard the chairs in the dining room slide in and out. The prayer group had arrived.
“Estelle, dear, what is that smell?” one of the ladies asked.
“Did a skunk die under your house?” another inquired.
Estelle knew exactly what the smell was. She was struggling with an explanation for the uppity women. Dwayne decided to help her out.
He popped the footrest down on the recliner and headed into the dining room. With his sunglasses on, he walked to where the ladies were seated, clasping a beer in one hand and holding the last inch of a smoldering doobie with the other. He leaned his back against the wall and began to rub it up and down slowly to take care of an itch before addressing the crowd.
“What’s shakin’, ladies?” he asked with a grin.
“Hello, dear,” Estelle said, trying to conceal a grin of her own. “We’re just—”
“Is that marijuana, Dwayne?” quizzed Janice Harper, wife of Pastor Jim from the Westside Church of Jesus.
“Why, yes it is,” he responded. “It’s some pretty good shit, too. I am fuuuuucked up!” Dwayne started giggling. He tried to stop but couldn’t.
“Is this why you weren’t at the funeral, Dwayne?” Tiffany Blaine asked. “You couldn’t pay your respects to Ricky Dale because you’d rather abuse substances?”
“No, Tiff,” Dwayne shot back. “I didn’t go to the funeral because Ricky Dale was a douche. And on a very deep level, I just don’t give a fuck.” Dwayne took a long pull from the joint and blew a perfect smoke ring to the middle of the dining room table. The ladies watched it all the way, until it finally disappeared into the air.
“Pretty fuckin’ sweet, eh, Janice?” Dwayne remarked to the pastor’s wife. “You wanna hit this shit?”
Janice was app
alled. He winked and blew her a kiss.
“Anyhow, ladies, I know you’ve got some praying to do.” Dwayne headed to his throne in the living room. “I’ll let you get back to it. If any of you wanna get high, I’ll be watching the tube and twisting fatties in the next room.”
Estelle hung somewhere between embarrassed and aroused as she heard Dwayne plunk down in the next room on his recliner. That noise was followed with the twisting Fssst! sound of a beer cap coming off a bottle, along with the sound of that cap being tossed, bouncing, and then rolling across the hardwood floor.
“Let me know when your friends leave, sweetie!” Dwayne called out to Estelle. “Daddy’s feeling frisky!”
Estelle squirmed a bit, waiting for someone to change the subject. The prolonged awkward silence was broken by Brenda White, heiress to the White Oil fortune. “So, I’m going in to see Dr. Tom tomorrow,” she proclaimed with her nose tilted upward as she sipped from her merlot. “He’s got this new cutting edge diet injection I’ve been dying to try. I think it’s rabbit semen.”
“Oooh, I heard that’s good,” Tiffany replied.
“Dr. Tom has been giving me an iguana semen cream I’ve been rubbing on my face for the last several months,” added Linda Honeycut, of Honeycut Land and Cattle fame. “It works fantastic.”
“Amazing, Linda. Your skin looks great,” said Janice. “I guess I never realized how powerful different semens were.”
“You should see what it does for your teeth!” Dwayne yelled from the other room.
An uncomfortable silence fell over the group again. Estelle had been having a difficult time joining her friends in conversation. She couldn’t quit thinking about Dwayne’s new attitude. What had come over him? He’d never approved of the social climbers she ran with, but he’d always kept it to himself. He’d just kept his head down and worked. He had apparently decided to discard the silent approach and now offered a large middle finger to those he disapproved of. And it really turned her on.
“So did any of you hear about Pete Reardon?” Tiffany asked the ladies.
“Ewwww, the Walmart guy?” Janice responded.
“Yes, him,” Tiffany said. “He got abducted from work early this morning.”
Base Ball Dads Page 8
