Wolf Howling

by Brian van Brunt

  I put away the journal. It’s done anyway. The Book of Albert. I’m sure you’ll read about it someday. You’ll be able to quote chapter and verse. But for now, as they say, it’s time to put away the childish things and become a man. Was that Lou or God? One of the two. Either way, it’ll be quite a show. You’re probably thinking that I’m going to kill that BITCH. That would be a reasonable assumption on your part. And I won’t lie to you and tell you I haven’t thought what it would be like to cut her. To feel my knife in her.

  It’s a Microtech Halo Tanto blade, in case you want to know. $579. Pricey. There are cheaper knives, of course. But this one I like the most. It’s an automatic that fires when you hit the ambidextrous thumb switch. It opens with an audible thwank that I find very satisfying.

  I first saw it on TV. Jack Bauer used it on 24. And oh, man. I knew I needed to have that knife. Just that one. It was perfect. I didn’t need any other knife. This was the one for the job. I saved up; I’m smart. Counted my pennies and quarters working that bullshit lifeguarding job at the community pool. Saved up and ordered it online. Everything is available online, nowadays.

  You probably think, even at this early stage of us getting to know each other, that lifeguarding was a bit of an ironic job for me. Fair enough. But it was an easy job that gave me time to think. There was something in staring out over the water in a glazed way watching people doing their thing. The old fuckers showing up at 5:55am in their swim caps and goggles to swim back and forth doing laps at the YMCA pool. The best part was they didn’t hassle me about reading while I watched the pool. I went through a good number of books while watching the fat and lazy frolic in the water with their little piece of shit kids. Sartre, Nietzsche, Mill, Camus. I like to read philosophers; gain some insight into the different ways that people live their lives.

  Anyway, back to stabbing that fucking BITCH. Oh, I’ve thought about standing over her. Sure, you can even say I fantasized about it. The technical phrase Dr. Robert Hawkins would use is “fantasy rehearsal.” Not that he would ever say that directly to me. But like I said, everything is available online nowadays. And I’m a good student. I figured out that term.

  So, let’s go with that, shall we? Let’s fantasize and rehearse. Here I am; standing above her while she sleeps. My hand covers her mouth and she wakes up. I watch her struggle against me. I press the button and its eyes widen as the knife comes erect in front of it. I slide the blade into it, past her saggy right tit and in between the ribs. I am inside it and the blade enters its heart. There is that moment where its eyes grow bigger still. And then they flutter. And then they go vacant.

  Oh, man. Just this thought gets me hard again. No time for that, though. It’s time to pack. I have a big night ahead of me. Chapter 2:12, “The desire of your heart can be hard like the rocks of the greatest mountain or soft like the lush meadows.” I’m going lush meadows.

  The pack on the bed is a military style bag made by a company called Maxpedition. You can Google it. Go ahead. I’ll wait. I can’t do everything for you. Don’t be a fuck about it.

  Anway, it’s the black one. A little longer than a standard college student backpack. I need the extra length to get the FNP90 rifle in there. That baby was another favorite I saved up for. Like swimming laps. Back and forth. Watching those dollars grow.

  The rifle is short, first of all. About the length of a toolbox. The barrel is snub-nosed after I shaved it short. It originally came with a longer 12-inch barrel, but that almost doubled the length of the weapon. Too big. So, I read up on the Internet and shaved it down to two inches. Ha! First time anyone would be happy to go from twelve inches of hard steel to two! See, I can be funny. I have a pretty decent sense of humor.

  I first saw this rifle on the TV show Stargate. It was the standard weapon that all the soldiers carried. I researched it some. And man, was it cool. The best part is the 50-round clip that slaps into place on the back end of the rifle. There are ways to make it automatic, but that is a rookie mistake. Chapter 4:1-2, “I shall be the hammer in your hand, the bullet in your brain. Choose carefully the weapon, the method of destruction.” I have woven my web carefully.

  Oh, have you figured it out yet? I think you’re starting too. I think you are very much starting to figure out what is going to happen. But it’s important that you know this: I’ve studied. I’ve studied how to do things better. It won’t be like what you’ve seen on TV. Paddock did pretty well in Las Vegas. He tried to steal some of my thunder. But he didn’t have his Book of Albert. Chapter 2:22–23, “This is not a question of chance, but rather of focus. This is not a fact, but it is a truth.” Maybe if he spent less time playing thousand-dollar hands of video poker and fucking around with casino lawsuits and more time being focused and dedicated. But that’s the big problem, right? No one spends any time being intentional anymore. They just expect the world to fall at their feet and start sucking. Well, that isn’t how it works. You have to prime the pump before the world sucks your dick. Make a plan, my man. Chapter 1, verse 1.

  I’ve practiced with it in the swamp outside of the city. I got pretty good at firing three-round bursts on a target and then acquiring a new target. So, it is a pretty easy task to go through a group of twelve or fifteen people with three-round bursts before having to reload.

  My tactical vest with two Kevlar plates is in the bottom of the bag. The front has an extra three magazines for the P90 across the center of the chest. There are three smaller magazines that ride lower on the belt. These are for the Glock. A small sheath made from black plastic holds the knife. Chapter 4:7–8, “The pale Galilean, the prophet carpenter, had many hands and many tools. Be prepared when your hammer slips and fails you.”

  The Glock 9mm was my first gun. That’s where some people get lost in this. Going overly fancy or complicated with the weapons. I have two, with 200 rounds for the FNP90 and another 68 rounds for the Glock. Four 17-round clips. Well, technically 69 rounds because I always keep one in the chamber of the 9mm. Ha. 69! See, that’s the stuff. Get the world on its knees.

  The pack holds the two weapons, the knife and the tactical vest. It’s a little heavy, but that’s okay by me. The weight is reassuring, really. I like the heft of it. I’ve been working out at the university gym more over the last two months. Getting in my core and cardio.

  I put the journal back in the safe with my copy of Sinclair’s book. That’s where the police will find it if I get caught. When they come across The Book of Albert. If this was the only copy, well, then I think they might try to keep it from going public. That was the problem Harris and Klebold ran into at Columbine. They didn’t have the vision. They didn’t know they were going to be famous. Not really. So, they didn’t plan well. Chapter 1, verse 2, boys. They didn’t think about their exit strategy. How they would get their message out.

  Did you know that? I’m not sure if you did. I’ve spent so much time on this research, I have to remember that other people don’t know the things that I know. The two kids at Columbine recorded about four hours of VHS tape encouraging people to follow in their footsteps. But the police found it and the FBI blocked it from being released. Fucking asshats. Not that it would have made a difference. I’m sure it was just the two of them rambling on about anarchy and how people had bullied them.

  Anyway, I made a copy of the book and will mail that out when I am ready. Send that right to the local newspaper. Let them get a good gander at it. Not to some fucking worthless TV station where some fake-tit, blonde-haired bitch would read my words. Or some gay, Ken-doll, coiffed faggot. They would just fuck it all up and then Mr. Conrad and Valentine would have their way. That’s not the way I want my message sent. I’m looking for that old-school journalism.

  The Korean kid at Virginia Tech got it closer. Mailed his package out half-way through his attack. Made sure his message got to the people. The problem, of course, was that his message was a bunch of lunatic, whiny bullshit. Not me. Nope. I have other plans. Give the people something top shelf. So
mething high quality. Inspire all those kids out there who need someone to believe in. I’ll be their Christ. My words will be the rock on which they build my church. Chapter 8:4, “Be nourished as you read my words and follow my path, my way.”

  I take the Pirate Alley Ghost Tours brochure and slip it into the pocket of my black jeans. I’m wearing a pair of well-worn boots and my favorite shirt, dark grey with a fox outline on the center of it. It says above the fox, “I don’t give a…” Get it? Fox. I don’t give a fox. Ha! I found the shirt one afternoon while I was wandering the French Quarter. A small shop off Chartres. It was an instant buy for me. I told you, I have a sense of humor.

  Actually, it was the thing that started up the first conversation between the BITCH and me in the cafeteria. She had asked to read my shirt. So, naturally, that’s where I had complimented her on her hair. Tit-for-tat. Like saying lines in a play. We started having lunch together and found a lot of things in common between us. She worked at this tour place in the Quarter. But this isn’t really about her. I don’t want you to get that impression. If anything, she was just the latest in a series of disappointments. My anger has abated from this morning about her ending things.

  Chapter 2:14, “When the heart is hardened and the grievance is fierce, focus is lost.” But of course, verse fifteen is what it is all about, isn’t it? My path became clear. Crystal clear.

  Like that asshat who crashed his plane said, “my bags are packed and I’m ready to go.” The other stuff I need is in the car already.

  Huck is down the hall, probably fucking around with some other guys. Did I tell you I have a roommate? I do. His name is Huck. He’s from Alabama. Tall like a fucking cornstalk and with about the same level of smarts. But if I make it out of this alive, then I need him for the cover story. Simple as that. Huck also has the best illegal fireworks. I know this because I bought a pack of 4 M-80s off him last week.

  Huck is two rooms down with Dan and Keith. Like I knew he would be. I knock quick and open the door without waiting for a response. And here they are. Dan and Keith playing Madden on the PlayStation. All of them sucking down beers. They jump up when I come in.

  “God damn it, Al!” Keith says. “We thought you were Niles. Fuck.” Huck and Dan take their beers out from the makeshift hiding place between their legs.

  Niles is the RA and has already threatened to report Dan and Keith twice this semester for drinking in their room. He hasn’t done it so far but is fond of talking about his three strikes and you are out policy.

  “Nah,” I say.

  I sit down on one of the open chairs and watch these grown men push buttons to make little computer versions of men throw things and catch things and run, on the enormous TV. Another example of how society is slowly coming apart at the fucking seams.

  I wait for the right moment and then share that the BITCH had told me to go pound sand.

  “Wait. Pause this,” Huck says and Dan hits pause. “What happened?” Huck asks, genuinely concerned.

  “Yeah, guess it wasn’t meant to be,” I reply, putting on my best sad face for the audience. I tell them the story, leaving out the ripped-up note and other thoughts I have already shared with you. They wouldn’t understand.

  “Fuck, man. You can do way better than her, anyway,” Huck says and Dan and Keith nod in agreement. Well, Dan nods, Keith looks longingly back at the TV and seems to be willing the pause button to be pushed again to resume play.

  “You know what, Al? We should all go get fucked up tonight. All four of us should go down to Bourbon and tie one on. Smack some tits and get wasted.” With this, Dan nods more vigorously and says, “hell yes,” and Keith puts down the remote and seems on board as well.

  Well, I think to myself, this is going better than I had thought. I continue with my plan.

  “Turns out, my parents sent me some money this month…” I take out a wad of $20s, about 600 bucks that I have been saving up since the beginning of the semester. “Maybe this will get us started.”

  “Fuck that,” Dan says. “I’m buying for this one. We’ll get you some nice pussy.”

  Dan’s parents are well off and Dan has a history of spending his money on the group. Partly why they have a 70-inch flat-screen TV and PS4 in their room. This is a second unexpected bit of good news. I certainly could use the money for other schemes in the future.

  “That’s the rule man. Get you a fucking lap dance and get you over that shit,” Huck says.

  “I can drive, if you guys want. Give me a half-hour and finish up the game. I’ll text and meet you outside?” They agree and I go to get ready.

  My car is parked outside in one of the larger lots on campus. I have been putting together everything I need in the trunk for the better part of the semester. Ever since I read Sinclair’s book, I knew what my life was leading to. And I knew what it would take to pull it off. Another critical error people made was planning these attacks when they were pissed. They got sloppy. And when the target was known to them; someone they hated, they wanted to die and didn’t care as much about the bigger picture. Which again, is a trait my generation is known for. Lazy and sloppy, disengaged and aimless. Chapter 2:17–18, “For many, the crusade becomes about the artfulness of it. If those who will perish are not known to you, then your strategy will reflect this.”

  But not me. I have been planning and thinking about all the different arcs a plan could take. Like fireworks, you can control the chaos in the gunpowder and explosions if you just plan it out enough. Have some goddamn forethought and patience.

  The car is a Chevy Impala. A couple of years old. Silver. Nothing fancy, but reliable. That is important. I don’t need to take any chances on the thing breaking down or getting stopped in something speedy or fancy looking. I put the backpack in with some shopping bags and other supplies for the night’s fun.

  They meet me outside and we drive from the garden district to downtown. Huck wears a green-wave t-shirt and Dan has on this shirt that has an upside down hanging opossum on it. On the bottom of it are the words “Marsupial loving.” This makes absolutely no sense to me, but that’s okay, because neither does Dan. I still laugh at it because I have this thing for novelty t-shirts. I don’t give a fox. Keith wears shorts and a white shirt. He makes some comment about the dancing being better if there is less fabric between you and the pussy. Ah, Keith, my exotic dancer connoisseur.

  It’s a quick ten-minute drive over to the public parking lot on Decatur. That’s where I leave the car. This is a good thing, because Keith is also wearing enough cologne to supply a New Jersey nightclub. “You have to smell nice for the ladies,” he says. I roll my eyes. The four of us pile out of the car and head down Iberville toward Bourbon.

  Huck slaps me on the back and says, “Oh man! We are gonna have some fun tonight!”

  I smile and pat my hand down twice on his shoulder in a show of roommate comradery.

  “This is just what I needed!” I say to Huck. And he smiles that dumb redneck smile right back at me. Dan and Keith high-five each other and we walk into the night.

  Just what I needed.

  I am the lightning before the thunder.

  Chapter 7

  New Orleans, Spring, Tuesday, 6:30pm

  Wagner walked the stretch of St. Peter between Royal and Bourbon; a block of unfiltered, straight, no-chaser New Orleans. There was a Voodoo shop and two bars on the left of the street, and on the right, there was Pat O’Brien’s. Preservation Hall was at the end of the block pumping out historic jazz twice a night to throngs of aficionados cramped in a non-air-conditioned wooden box of a room. That was the end of St. Peter.

  Then Bourbon Street was upon him, a cacophony of sights, smells, and sounds. The street offered two faces to the world, like a tide that pulled out and drew in. Each morning, as dawn made its abrupt arrival in the city, the pavement of Bourbon was scrubbed and cleaned by a legion of city employees. Their vast machines sprayed water and collected trash and discarded beads, clearing every imaginable fluid
that could come out of a person. The cleaning was a baptism of sorts; it washed away the decadence of the night before, or at least, washed away the outward manifestation of the self-indulgence and excess.

  Bourbon’s other face was neon-bright in the darkness. The florescent buzz was harsh and brilliant against the hazy, charged night. Smoke rose from the street as it wound in a stretch of hedonistic, drug-addled expanse that would have given Hunter S. Thompson a run for his money. Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas, Southern style. Bat country, indeed.

  Bars named Crawfish Daddies, Tropical Escape, and the Drunken Alligator repeated each block down the street. The ubiquitous Lucky Dog vendors offered their tasty meat treats from hotdog-shaped carts. Artists and performers competed for attention at each cross street and hoped to make some money off the hundreds of tourists who wandered slack-jawed down the thoroughfare. Cigar smoke hung in the air and neon green plastic drink containers littered the street. Throngs of partygoers filled the balconies, tossing beads onto unsuspecting passersby.

  These days, more men than women raise their shirts to the crowds throwing beads from the balconies and galleries above. They gesture wildly with hopes of being rewarded with plastic trinkets, whistles, and catcalls. The few women who lift their shirts do so after bargaining for higher end feather boas and second-tier tossable offerings. The plain and basic beads struggle to keep up with inflation. The times, oh, they are a-changin’.

  As Wagner stepped onto it, Bourbon was far from the quiet of a slow Sunday morning, but equally distant from the shoulder-to-shoulder pandemonium of Mardi Gras. Most of the deadly sins were still on parade. Sloth, gluttony, lust, greed, wrath, pride, envy…all dancing second line-style through the streets. Wagner crossed onto Bourbon from St. Peter, where the Oyster House met the Paradise Lost bar. To the left, Canal Street waited with its streetcars, large hotels, and casino. Between St. Peter and Canal was the heart of Bourbon. To the right, the street crawled slowly to something of an end, much like the party, transitioning from the initial excitement and intoxication to the slow crawl of drunkenness and incapacitation. An assemblage of shady characters and low bars attracted those looking to double down on their evening debauchery. Like Virgil leading Dante, the street progressively descended into increasingly intoxicating and delightful wickedness.