by V. Theia
He was thirty-three years old and felt ancient some days.
There were names for the likes of him, with dirty fucking ideas popping behind his eyeballs. Oh yeah, names he didn’t like.
Lawless’ hand was steady when he took the ink to paper.
A buoyancy in his leg as it jerked up and down.
Some twat in the great beyond was having a right old chuckle at his expense over this, he could hear it now, laughing at the man with no choices.
The way she summoned all the broken parts of himself and made them sting like bees—his skin on fire, his throat parched.
Oh, he knew what he wanted to drink, alright.
He didn’t fucking have the answers, only that he hurt, but it was a good kind. The kind his own meat and maggots worshipped him for like idiots.
Who idolized a monster? If only they knew the real him, they wouldn’t readily offer their disorders to him to pick apart the bones.
With innocuous and incongruous noise all around, he let the ink do its thing.
Angel,
A philosopher once said; The moment you stop trying to become a better person, is the moment you start to become worse than what you already are.
I want you to know going into this letter it will be the only one. I’m in prison for a reason and those reasons don’t need to concern you. Don’t worry yourself about me at all, do you hear? You don’t need me to help with college, you’ve always had that in hand, you know what choices to make.
You are smart and capable, trust in your own instincts.
Don’t get played and always be mindful of your decisions.
You’re not that scared kid anymore, angel.
You have the world at your feet, stomp all over it and own your piece. Don’t be afraid of it.
Stick close to Zara and Prez, they’ll always look out for you, so don’t act like an idiot and keep shit from them if you ever need help.
No more letters, okay?
Me and this place don’t exist for you.
Grab life, angel, and do it the best you can.
I’m eating, I’m not grumpy anymore and I’m doing good, so you have nothing to worry about except what tomorrow brings for you.
Live and enjoy.
Lawless.
Lawless stopped trying when he was seven years old and he was far too old to begin trying to be good now.
Who had time for that, this wasn’t a Hallmark movie.
Lips twitched. She was going to write again, that much he knew.
Angela did not listen to instructions very well.
She fought against guidelines because of her own pain.
Inside his chest—as he wrote a full page letter to a girl on the burgeoning doorstep of womanhood, taking care of his kittens because unlike him, her soul was pure and blindingly light—some of that wrong erosion he felt began to disappear.
While words emerged on the page, Lawless smiled around the soul destroying pang of loneliness.
Oh, the life of a twisted predator.
Now, if only he had a soul.
He was a pragmatist and didn’t need something so elusive as a state of consciousness.
And if he did, and it was a big if—because his soul was dirty. He had no fucking right pouring his consciousness into writing letters to a little girl who did not match him.
Dark corrupted light.
Didn’t they write books about that?
He never possessed a conscience as normal people did.
Until he did.
He could see it now. In nine hundred and seventy-four days’, when one of his boys rocked up outside with his Harley for the long ride home. Declaring. Hi, honey, your monster is home.
It’s what all innocents dreamed of.
It’s what catastrophes tasted like.
He laughed a hollow fucking sound.
The noise scared poor Bennie, as he entered with Lawless’ food.
For a cell so small, the other man retreated to the farthest corner and left Lawless with a mouthful of steak and an envelope to address, to a girl who ought to know better than to engage a degenerate.
He swiveled on the metal chair cemented to the floor. Meeting the wary eyes on his dark-haired southern cellmate. Straight as an arrow, he was caught stealing cattle like he was in the old west. Bennie’s four years of rehabilitation to being a good boy was almost up.
“You want to hear a story, Bennie?”
He had a few minutes to kill before he went to play poker with the men in charge. Then tonight he’d fuck one of those officers and be granted a wish.
Dominoes collided and house of cards fell.
Wars started because men fell in love.
And one day very soon a fella would lose his life at Lawless’ hand and then he could finally breathe easily knowing he’d fulfilled his promise.
Bennie stammered, “Eh, yeah, sure, whatever you want, boss.”
“FTS. You know what that means?” A quick shake of the other man’s head. Lawless wouldn’t hold it against him. “Fuck this shit. A tween told me. How about them apples huh?”
“Oh, yeah, yeah....” the kid was so jumpy all the time.
“Anyway. Where was I?”
Lawless smiled to himself.
And went back to the mid-west to the hell-hole he called home in Cleveland, Ohio.
All freaks had their beginning.
ACT I
TWO
“The boy who was no one.” - Penn
Growing up with no name messed with a kid’s head.
Being called boy and kid and hey you, didn’t fill him with the sense he was actually wanted around at all.
All the other trailer park kids had first names, sometimes two names plus a surname. Some days he made one up, to make him feel important.
One time he was Han Solo.
Until uncle Sheamus laughed his ass off about it.
He learned to tell the time very young. It meant he knew to be out of the trailer when his momma and uncle Sheamus came home.
It was only when he was eleven that he discovered his surname was Penn by snooping in his momma’s purse. He got a smack for that, but it didn’t hurt.
He knew his momma loved him even without a name.
It made him all the more special and unique, as his nana said.
He had no father; his sire could be anyone that came through his momma’s bedroom door.
He knew he was different when he went to school for the first time. His momma was a fan of alias names so her debts didn’t find her.
Extraordinary smart, the teacher said.
His momma was not pleased when the school called. After that and a few tests—that he thought were too easy—he moved up grades.
He sometimes helped the older kids with their homework. Later, he charged them ten bucks. It was then he realized how much he enjoyed making money.
And so it began.
Turns out it was easy as his nana’s pecan pie to make money.
So he made a lot.
Gave most of it to his momma, who for a time, knew she was onto a good thing and didn’t act … nuts.
She threw him into the street for a week once when he was seven years old because he was being too loud. Go figure, crazy bitch.
He didn’t know any better other than the trailer park. Living in their shabby double wide with a variety of uncles coming through the door. None of them were blood related. His momma said it was because men knew how to do things better than women. Penn reckoned she was full of shit when those so-called uncles didn’t do a fucking thing around the trailer other than smoke, eat and piss on the bathroom floor.
He was the boy with no name.
The boy who wore ratty jeans and sneakers too big for him. He was told he’d grow into them and not to be so fucking ungrateful.
He was the kid who huddled outside the trailer all night long in torrential weather while his momma had parties.
He was the boy who learned how to fight and steal to survive.
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He was the kid who grew six inches one summer and eight inches the next.
He was the boy all the other trailer park kids ran to if they were in trouble and needed protecting. He was the same boy who made sure every kid had something to eat even if he had to steal it.
He was the boy his momma forgot existed sometimes but she loved him a whole lot even when she tossed him out.
Learning fast how to take care of himself. Through necessity and survival.
It wasn’t a bad childhood if you compared it to a war torn kid growing up around famine and bombs.
But it wasn’t sunshine and fucking roses either.
He learned endurance early on.
“You see that, boy?” Sheamus asked, glee in his old, craggy voice. He’d seen the man smoke fifteen cigs right after the other. That’s why his voice was all jacked up now.
He nodded, staring at the dripping blood. Of course he saw it, he wanted to scream. He had blood falling off his fingers while he tried to stop himself from throwing up. Which he wouldn’t do because he loved hot dogs and he hardly ever got hot dogs any more so he wasn’t wasting his dinner. But man, that was disgusting.
“Now you fish out the guts.”
“Me?”
“Hell yeah, boy. Make a man outer you. You’ll never go hungry if you know how to gut an animal.” When he paused, uncle Sheamus hunkered down and stared at him, “You scared, boy?”
He was. He’d never seen an animal killed that way. Now his hand was stuck in the wet belly, warm blood oozing out and the insides of it twisted around his fingers.
He didn’t think he’d ever be that hungry.
He’d eat out of dumpsters; people threw away some good stuff. There was always nice food out of the one behind the 7-Eleven he robbed for the park kids.
At twelve years old he taught himself how to handle a switchblade. It became his favorite pocket accessory.
No one could tell Penn how to survive on the streets when he owned them.
There wasn’t an inch of Cleveland, Ohio, that he didn’t know and use to his advantage. Either for making money or hiding out.
Because he was one of the oldest kids in the trailer park, it meant the little ones came to him with their problems.
Tiny needy creatures all looking to Penn to fix their world, make it better.
He told them often, you can’t squeeze roses out of shit.
What was he gonna do, watch them go hungry ‘cause their momma’s spent the food money on dope? He stole and became their champion.
Mammals were so fucking clingy. He had to separate himself from that noise sometimes, but he always made sure the kids were fine and not dead in a ditch.
Their trailer park might not be the nastiest one in the area but it was right there in the top ten of slums.
It stank with raw, unchecked sewage from pipes that were never updated over the years. You could smell it on the approach in. And it was a smell that clung to the insides of his nostrils, making him forever nauseous.
Bugs crawled on him in the night. To the point he was sure he was developing a phobia but he wouldn’t allow a fear to manifest, he faced everything head on. The night before he turned fourteen, he got his first tattoo. A black spider on his neck. It took six agonized sessions for his full neck cover.
They were always a reminder of where he was, where he never wanted to end up.
Where he vowed he’d never return the moment he got his ass out of there.
Only the ink artist knew his reasons. Not long after, the artist hung himself over his woman banging his brother, so the secret was Penn’s alone now.
He displayed his reminders in plain sight so he never forgot.
At fifteen he walked tall with a powerful stride to his gait and people took notice. He was all of a sudden so much taller than any of his momma’s boyfriends so they left Penn alone. Good enough, because he had a taste for giving pain and he didn’t mind doling it out when provoked.
His switchblade upgraded and now he had three fishing knives carried on his body at all time.
He liked other things too, fishing line, zip ties and a blow torch. But he always relied on his old faithful blades in a pinch.
Running with some of the notorious gangs in the state, everyone heard about Penn. Most important never to mess with him.
Not that he took orders.
You could say he was Ohio’s answer to a consigliere to a lot of powerful people.
They learned quick that Penn knew shit and could get shit done if paid well.
He liked money so he didn’t have a ceiling on what he’d do for that cash.
His momma stopped bleating in his face and around sixteen he left that trailer park and didn’t look back.
What kids were still around begged him to take them with him, but he couldn’t have meat hanging off his legs, could he? He wasn’t Santa fucking Claus.
He gave them what he could. Left them with a few life lessons and a knife each.
Their survival was in their hands now.
No one in this world gave a shit so you had to give the most shit to live.
And Penn lived.
He lived wild and free. And he thrived in the same streets that tried to swallow him up when he was little more than a maggot spat out of his momma.
His first lover was an older man who taught a teenage Penn the ways of a dominant. Treating everyone like they were meat, to chew up then discard.
His second lover was a girl. The boy with no name decided he liked having sex with both. So he indulged until he gorged himself on the only thing that made him feel human.
There were times fights found him when punks thought they could rip him off.
He took care of his nana. Made sure she had her bills paid on time, bought her food and cigs, sometimes the green for her arthritic pain. Until she croaked it one winter and that was his last tie to a world he hated. He didn’t know if he felt love, but he’d miss that crotchety old bitch.
There were scores to settle in Ohio.
A mother to ignore and uncles to kill. He started with Sheamus.
He didn’t leave immediately as he should have.
Penn wished he had, because that summer he met Jay.
THREE
“I made the Law.” – Jay
“You’re a lawless little shit, aren’t you?”
Penn blinked stunned.
Not because the hot guy with a stranglehold on Penn’s collar spoke with a villainous voice. He wore a gray suit and expensive watch at his wrist like power dripping off him.
Penn never got caught.
All his stealing and conning, he was never apprehended.
Until he’d tried to swipe this guy’s wallet in a crowded bar for shits and giggles.
Boredom didn’t suit Penn.
His mind was a constant hub of noise and if he didn’t occupy his hands with things then he tended to look for trouble. Cops harassed him a lot because of who he was and where he came from. Fucking meat with their badges and over-inflated egos. Swaggering their hero complex, thought he was nothing with the stamp of trailer trash on his skin.
Jay Benz had an unbreakable grip on Penn.
Looking at him eye-to-eye through a gaze made of pure steel.
So this was what mistakes felt like.
He’d wondered about that.
Seems he’d made his first.
Having not seen the fella from the front, he didn’t know it was the feared crime boss of the Midwest.
He was too busy assessing the fact that some fool had his hands all over him.
He didn’t allow unsolicited touching; it was so unnecessary.
Some would say Penn was OCD. Maybe he’d self-diagnosed. Whatever. He liked things a certain way. Clean clothes, a fresh bed. Not to have bugs crawling on his fucking skin in the middle of the night. Never drinking out of dirty glasses. And not allowing people to touch him unless he wanted to be fucking touched.
It was only in times of agitation that hi
s OCD issues with cleanliness came to fruition. Because he had no such qualms about being coated in someone else’s blood. Funny that.
He’d gotten caught and he felt…odd.
“I asked you a question.”
Penn rolled his shoulder to try to dislodge the hold and failed. “Thought it was rhetorical.” He held out the leather wallet and pressed it into that suited chest. “Here, have it back.”
The guy laughed and dropped Penn’s jacket. “Kind of you to give me back my own property.”
“You’re welcome,” he answered with his own sarcasm.
Penn knew what Benz saw when he scanned those steel eyes over him. Assessing like a hunter would a trapped animal.
Penn was tall for his age, lean and long but with a build that if guys saw him, they thought twice about taking him on. The moment he discovered he could get a free pass to the gym, he lived there. He ate steak by the pound and he worked out for hours. The runt of the trailer park filled out. And as his lovers told him—fawning like giant slabs of slobbering meat—he filled out nice. Cut, lean and ripped with dark clipped hair that needed cutting shorter. The last woman he fucked tried to grab it and he wasn’t about that noise. He wasn’t bad looking from what he saw in the mirror, more than average, he figured.
His face and body got him action.
His trouser monster got him more.
His reputation brought him more dick and pussy then he knew what to do with.
Some he had to throw back. There was only so many hours in a day and he wasn’t about wasting it by spilling his come on someone’s belly.
Some of the trailer dumpster housewives tried to hit on him a lot over the years, ever since he shot up over six feet.
Like they thought he was desperate enough he’d crawl between those thighs.
No thank you. No telling what diseases lived there; they gave it up for a pack of cigs.
He was trailer trash, not a fucking hobo.
Nah, Penn did his fucking off the park.
You don’t fuck where you shit.
He did a lot of fucking since he was fourteen.
Discovering along the way which flavors he liked best.
Turns out, he had varied tastes and he indulged in them all like a fat kid with a bag of Pixie sticks.
