1
It was an unnatural heat. The kind that
was not born in nature but of man's mind. Much like air conditioning.
I have traveled all across the globe and have yet to meet conditions
that felt like central air. This heat I have felt once before. But
that was decades ago. A lifetime ago.
Two names ago.
My captures assure me that any
questions I have will be answered in time. Time. Funny thing about
time is that there's never enough of it when you need it and too much
when you don't want it. Right now it feels like I'll have a lot of
time on my hands. I might as well start at the beginning. Maybe it'll
explain how I got here in this sweat box. I was born Marvin Hindels.
By the time I joined the Marines at 18 I had changed my name to
Richard Maverick. Don't make fun of it. That name was amazing.
I'm sure you're wondering about my
childhood and teen years. Nothing extraordinary. I grew up with two
older brothers and one younger sister. My parents stayed together
until the old man died in a car accident. Mom died three years later
from cancer. By the time they died I was being sent around the world
to kill people in places I had never heard of.
Listen.
Anything I don't tell you is either not
important or none of your business. I grew up, joined the military,
got discharged, and have led a pretty quiet life ever since. My
current name is Thomas Royal. I sell life insurance. I haven't
touched a gun in over ten years and at 56 know that I am too old to
make new enemies. That's what has me worried.
Whoever these guys are that have me are
old enemies.
The worst thing about old enemies, at
least the ones you let live, is that over time whatever you did to
them gets blown out of proportion. If you stole $500 in 1979 by 2009
the story has been told and twisted and remixed until you not only
stole $500, you stole it from their mother after raping their sister
and taping it. Not only does time heal all wounds. It also buries a
time released capsule full of salt. The door opens giving me a better
view of the room I'm in. I take it all in before the door slams shut.
I can barely hear what's being said.
Even if I could I couldn't tell you what was being said.
Whatever language they're speaking I don't know it. I have barely
passable Spanish. Sad how I have been all over the globe but never
bothered to learn to speak the language of those I killed. Probably a
good thing. Otherwise I would know “Please don't kill me!” in
dozens of languages.
I walk over to the toilet and relieve
myself. If torture training taught me anything its that the last
thing you want to be when having your nails pulled, electrocuted, or
water boarded is full of shit. I have seen the term “scared
shitless” in action.
“Mr. Royal” a voice says from a
speaker I can't see. “After you are done someone will be in to speak
with you.”
I wipe myself wondering if there is a
camera in here as well as a sound system. They say that once you're a
Marine you're always a Marine. I have found this to be very untrue.
You can also become an assassin, insane, washed up, or dead.
I am
somewhere between the last two.
2
There was another shooting at school
today. The third this year. Guess the money they spent on metal
detectors and random locker searches would've been better used
getting the students updated books, better lunches, and teachers that
didn't strike as if it were a federal holiday. I knew the kid that
did the shooting.
I knew him because I'm the one that
sold him the gun.
The janitor is the new butler. No one
ever suspects us. The police have come and gone. Crime scene
investigators have taken every sample they could. The clean up guys
have taken the bodies away. The place is spotless. Except for the
blood.
That's for me to clean up.
Teachers and other faculty give me
a wide birth as I clean up the mess. Blood doesn't bother me. Never
has. I've spilled too much of it and seen so much of my own that its
like looking at water.
“You okay, Joe?” someone asks me as
I wring more blood from my mop. Its Mrs. Goodwin. She's a 40-ish
blond. Thin, starting to gray at the temples, but has an awesome
rack. I'd fuck her crippled. Damn. I haven't done that since Lao in
'82.
“I'm fine” I tell her. She cringes
as I slap the mop on the floor splashing blood on my tan khakis.
“You?”
“Its sad but I'm starting to get used
to the violence” she says. She's practically in a locker. She has
her back pressed against them so hard that I'll check for grate marks
on her ass. “I didn't even flinch when I heard the gunshots.
Jackson didn't seem like the kind of kid that would do something like
this.”
“What makes you say that?” I ask.
Everyone thinks they're a therapist and psychoanalyze the world.
“He was so outgoing” she mumbles.
“He played basketball, baseball, and tried out for the football
team. Everyone liked him. He was an A student…”
I ignore her at this point. Besides the
fact she's a woman I stop listening because everything she just
described fits the profile for many serial killers. Even Dahmer was
charismatic. What everyone doesn't know is that Jackson was as queer
as a $3 bill. His dad beat him nightly hoping that if the kid had
enough bruises and bled enough blood that the gay would leak out.
Said he'd kill his parents first and then the kids at school second.
I'll be sure to catch the news to see if they find the bodies.
“…understand it.” Mrs. Goodwin
finishes talking.
“Completely” I tell her. She nods
and walks away. Yep. Grates on her ass. I am almost done when my
phone buzzes in my pocket. I check it and don't recognize the number.
I answer anyway. “Talk to me.”
“They got Maverick” a voice says.
Whoever this is uses a voice distorter. “You may be next.”
“I don't care” I say and turn my
phone off. Maverick. Jesus. Haven't heard that name in years. Last I
heard he was selling car insurance or something. The few of us that
are alive or not in prison sunk to the lower levels of society. Bus
drivers, mechanics, salesmen, and of course, janitors.
Later I walk to my car. It's a piece of
shit but it gets me to my piece of shit home in alive. There's a
note taped to the hood of my car. It would be taped to the windshield
if it hadn't been smashed out. I sweep the glass from my front seat
and read the note.
“Do you care now?”
3
Asshole has no respect for the past. We
have a history! He's mopping up teenage shit and adolescent piss
while Maverick is sitting somewhere having God knows what done to
him. Fucking Joseph. Nothing has ever been sacred to him. We all knew
that though. Especially after what he did to those nuns in Nigeria.
I
couldn't look him in the eyes for months afterwards.
But Maverick stuck up for him. Blamed
the stress of what we did. Bullshit. Joseph Cropper was a lunatic.
Blowing up anything that had four walls. We called him “Joe Blow.” Never to his face. Hopefully the note I left on his car will motivate him to help. Our
unit was so top secret that we were paid in cash. No pay stubs to
track. We were ghosts. Maverick came up with the name of our squad.
Raw Dogs.
We were the meanest, dirtiest, most violent group of men
you'd find walking God's green Earth. Anything that was too dirty for
anyone else they sent us in. We didn't ask questions. We just did
what we were told.
So what happened to us? Where did it
all go wrong?
“Daddy?” my daughter Josie calls
from the door to my office. I spend my days issuing subpoenas. I work
from home. My wife left me three months ago with Josie. It's my week to have her. She's only 4
years old. If it weren't for Josie I would be like most of the guys
that didn't know what to do with their idle hands. Maverick has been
clean for years. Besides petty robberies and the occasional GTA Joe
has been clean. There are three other Raw Dogs I need to find before
I can save Maverick.
“Daddy?”
“Yes, Josie?” I ask her. She walks
over and sits on my lap. It's almost dinner time.
“Can we have ‘pissgetty'?” she
asks me.
“Yes, we can have spaghetti” I
tell her. I give her a kiss on the cheek. “Go and tell Nina that I
will be ready to eat in half an hour.” Josie smiles and kisses me
on the cheek before rushing up the stairs. I hear her fall and giggle
before continuing.
“Okay, Mr. Wayland!” Nina shouts
from upstairs. I wonder if anyone besides us knows how hard it is to
get joy from seeing a child smile after seeing so many of them
burning to death as you held a match in one hand and gasoline in the other.
4
How in the hell did Wayland find me?
I'm all the way in Portugal on a “fact finding” mission. Even at
my age I'm still one of the best in the world. These guys pay big
bucks for my services. Maverick would've done well here but he wanted
to go straight and narrow. He never explained why.
Its not like he went and grew a
conscience or anything. He just quit. Hey, to each his own. Me, I
couldn't have gone to some pussy desk job after what we did. Couple
of guys did and after their boss yelled at them for ordering the
wrong staples or something they snapped and damned near killed them.
Fuck that. I can't live like that.
Once you get a thirst for killing
nothing else can top it. Some guys go skydiving for a equivalent
to killing. Pathetic. The difference between the two is like
comparing jacking off to fucking twin models. Wayland said he tried
to contact Joe. I can't believe that crazy son of a bitch is alive.
After that situation in Nigeria I'm shocked any of us made it out
alive. Maverick stuck his neck out for him though. Even tried to have
him promoted as team leader when he stepped down.
We weren't having any of that though.
As soon as Maverick booked it Gary was
left in charge. No one's seen Gary in maybe 20 years. I think he's
dead. People like him weren't made to walk the Earth for long. We got
more work with Gary but it was the wrong kinda of work. Five missions
in a week when we were used to four a month. We got burnt out. Got
sloppy. Some good men died because of Gary. If I ever crossed paths
with him ever again I wouldn't hesitate to paint the ground with his
brains. I'll think about helping Maverick out. If they found and
caught him, anyone can be found and caught.
5
Three guys come into the room and drag
me into another even smaller room. There are already four men in
here. One is seated and burning a hole through me. I guess this is
the one with a hard on for me. I know not to say anything until he
speaks. I've been through hostage training and saved many of men that
have followed me. The ones that survived kept their fucking mouths
shut until they were spoken to. The dead ones either screamed that
they were innocent or cursed at their captures.
“Sit” he says to me. This guy is
filthy. He looks like a coal miner. I still can't place his accent or
anyone else here. “I'm sure you have no idea who I am.” I say
nothing. If I agreed that I didn't know who he was it would be taken
as an insult. “But you knew my father.” He waits for me to say
something. He nods and continues. “24 years ago you and your team
raided a small village…”
“Let me stop you there” I say,
cutting him off. If I am going to die, I'm going to die. But I don't
want to die of boredom first. “I have raided dozens of
villages. I have killed hundreds of fathers. If yours was
one of them that's too bad. If you want to kill me then go ahead
and…”
“I don't want to kill you” he
laughs. His men don't look like they're sure they should laugh or
not. “I want you to help me find my father. And kill him.”
“Okay, but I don't kill anymore” I
tell him. He smiles. “No, seriously, I don't. I sell insurance.”
“Joseph Cropper” he says and spits
on the floor.
“Son of a bitch…” I moan.
6
I get home and Wayland has left me a
few messages. I erase all of them after hearing the first. Yeah,
Maverick was a good guy. Especially after the whole deal in Nigeria.
Fucking nuns. But I'm not gonna put myself on a limb for some old
favor bullshit. I plunk myself down on the couch and turn on the
news. For someone that used to kill for a living watching the news is
like porn. The top story is the damned school shooting.
They have a photo of Jackson from last
years yearbook. He looks quite queer in it. They are showing
interviews with different kids saying how they can't believe Jackson
did this. Bullshit. Three of the kids I see are ones that beat that
kid daily. Guess they haven't discovered the parents dead bodies yet.
I would phone in a tip but I don't need to get myself any deeper in
this bullshit.
My phone rings and I let the machine
get it. Glad I didn't answer. Its Wayland again.
“Listen, you sick asshole! Maverick
has gotten you out of trouble more than Jesus! You need to help us
rescue him or I swear to God I will…”
“You'll what?” I ask him after
snatching up the phone. “Kill me? Don't make me laugh, cupcake. You
don't have it in you. You've never had it in you. Pussy. Letting
me do all the wetwork while you stood there and got all the credit.
Fuck you, Wayland. I dare you to come and get me.”
Someone knocks at my door.
7
“Thank you for riding Air Central,
Mr. Southern.”
Call me a softy. I took the first plane
to the U.S from South America. Can't let no assholes manhandle
Maverick. I arrive in Los Angeles and wait for Wayland to arrive.
Says he has a kid now. Funny. They should've sterilized all of us.
None of us should be allowed to father children. I don't care how
normal Wayland thinks he is now, there is no amount of therapy to
turn us into functioning members of society. A small van pulls up
near the entrance of the airport and honks at me.
Wayland.
“Hey, brother” I say to him as I
toss my bags into the backseat. His kid, a small girl, smiles at me.
“Hey, little missy.”
“Hello!” she shouts at me.
“How was the flight?” Wayland asks
as he pulls off.
“Fine” I tell him. “So were you
able to convince Joe to help?” He shushes me. I have killed people
for far less than a shush. “What's the problem?”
“Not here” he says. I hope I'm not
dealing with a paranoid. If there's one thing I can't stand is a
paranoid. “Never in front of my baby.”
“What, is she a spy?” I ask him. He
sighs. “So what do you want to talk about? The latest cooking
recipes? PTA meetings? Baseball?”
“Let's just sit quietly until we get
to my place” he says. After an hour and a half of silence, except
for his kid who I now think is the world's most annoying child
singing, we arrive to his place. Our boy Wayland has done well for
himself. I grab my bags while his kid is chattering away.
A stubby Mexican broad answers the
door. I'm starting to regret coming here.
8
I answer the door holding my .44 at my
side. I open it and five microphones are shoved in my face. I slam
the door on some reporters arm and lock the door. I look through my
curtain and there are news vans all over the street. That fucking
kid. I should've known better. I can just imagine it.
“Dear Diary. I got a gun from the
nice janitor at school, Joe. I am going to kill everyone because I'm
a queer. Sincerely, Jackson.”
I rush to the TV and start flipping
through the channels. Sure enough there's a picture of me, the same I
wear on my ID badge at work, with the word “suspect” underneath.
Damn it. Okay. I've gotten out of worse fixes than this.
When Maverick was there to save your
ass.
Shut the fuck up! Okay, let me clear my
head.
Kill ‘em all!
That's not the answer right now.
You have some bombs in the closet. Just
grab some of them and turn this fucking street into the 4th of July.
I rush to my closet.
9
“Joseph Cropper?” I ask him.
Fucking Joe, I swear. It wasn't enough to rape and kill a church full
of Nigerian nuns. It wasn't enough to blow up a school full of 300
kids. Hell, it wasn't enough when he cut that preachers head off and
wore it for two weeks straight until Wayland stole it while he was
asleep and gave him a proper burial. He had to go and not only fuck a
villager, but get her pregnant and not have the good enough sense to
kill her. “How do you know it was him?”
“Funny you should ask” he says and
slaps a photo of Joe with a small woman. Really small. Joe is all
smiles. The woman looks terrified. “My mother was 14. He tried to
kill her when he found out she was impregnated. Buried a knife in her
stomach.” He stands and holds up his shirt. There's a large scar
that runs from just below his neck to his navel. “Almost killed
me.”
“Jesus Christ…” I moan. “Okay,
look. This is really terrible. But I don't know where Joe is anymore.
I haven't seen him in years. I wouldn't even know where to begin to
look for him.” He smiles again and motions to one of the men
standing behind me. I hear something drag across the floor and feel
the unmistakable sound of a television being turned on. He motions
for me to turn and look. “Jesus Joe…”
On the screen Joe is being led away by
police. A flaming house is in the background. Joe looks like shit. He
is screaming but the audio from a reporter is drowning him out.
Apparently Joe is being arrested on suspicion of giving a kid a gun
who ended up going on a killing spree.
“So will you help me?” he asks me.
“What's your name?” I ask him in
return.
“Joey.”
10
Just like I thought. That fucking kid
kept a diary. My name was all over it. I set off some explosions to
create a diversion. Damned things ended up blowing up in my face. My
hands are numb. I can't feel my wrists but I know they slapped my
cuffs on extra tight.
That's because you've gotten slow.
Fuck off.
And lazy.
I said fuck off!
They toss me into the back of a squad
car head first. I slam my head against the other doors window and it
shatters. I spin myself and kick the door before they close it,
nailing two cops in the chest and face. I roll out and another dives
for me. I side step him and knee him in the ribs. He goes down
screaming like a woman. Some good Samaritan tries to grab me from
behind and I snap my head back breaking his nose.
I feel some of his
teeth in my scalp.
“Anyone else wanna be a
hero?!” I scream. Two more cops rush me. One high. One low. I kick
the low one in the throat. The high one trips on his buddy and slams
his face on the curb. A cameraman throws down his camera and tackles
me to the ground. I bite his cheek until my mouth feels with blood.
Guess I still got it.
Yeah, you do.
11
“Okay, Southern” Wayland says to me
after eating a small dinner of what is supposed to pass for South
American food we head to his basement and have a seat. I hope he
doesn't think these couches are made of real leather. “From what
I've been able to gather Maverick is being held by a man known only
as ‘Prodigal.' He is a small time warlord in Southeast Asia. Now
what I think…”
“Since when did we ever go into
battle based on what we ‘think'?” I ask him. “If I am
putting my life on the line I want some facts. Number, locations,
success percentages. Next you'll tell me that you feel like we will
get Maverick back alive.”
Wayland stares at me without blinking.
A cock fight. I have no time for this nonsense. He gets up and checks
the lock on his door. He sits back down and sighs heavily. He takes
his glasses off and pinches the bridge of his nose.
“Look” he finally says. “I don't
like that this shit fell into my lap, okay? I am enjoying myself. I
have a daughter, a job, and a decent thing going for me here. I
didn't end up like Joseph, Randall, Terrance, or Smith…”
“Or me” I say. The elephant in the
room. “It's nice that you can enjoy your beautiful little life here
in the suburbs. Really, it is. But what is even nicer is that when
the shit hit the fan you rolled up your sleeves and dug through the
muck looking for your friends to help you out. If Maverick hadn't
been captured you never would've spoken to me again. My feelings
aren't hurt because quite frankly I never liked you. You've always
been a bit too soft for my taste.”
“Soft?”
“Very soft” I tell him. “I saw
the look in your eyes after what Cropper did to those nuns. It wasn't
in you anymore. You just stayed along for the ride. Following
Maverick like a lap dog. So now you found out that your master was in
danger and like a loyal pup you ran looking for help. The problem is,
Wayland…” I say as I stand to leave, “…you went to a pound.
You went to a pound and found the kennel dogs that were on death row.
Hell, on the plane here I saw on my laptop a report saying that
Cropper was arrested. Oh, you didn't know? So I'll be leaving now. I
would say it was nice to see you, but…why leave on a lie, right?”
12
I am halfway down the street when I
feel an electric shock. I collapse and bite down hard. Somehow I
managed to not bite my tongue. Fucking taser guns. These things have
replaced “Freeze!” I get kicked in the guts as I roll over. I
take this cop out at the knee. His leg bends back in a way the good
Lord never intended and he goes down fast. I wait until the feeling
is back in my legs and start running again.
I rush out into traffic and dive into
the passenger seat of a convertible. A lady that I will have no
choice but to rape later starts screaming. I kick her on the side of
her face. Hard enough to shut her up but not hard enough to knock her
out.
“Don't hurt me!” she screams.
“I wont if you just drive and don't
scream again” I tell her.
There's no need to lie.
“Shut up, I'm in control” I say out
loud.
“What?” she asks.
“Shut up and drive.”
13
Joey is sitting across from me waiting
for a definite answer. Yeah, so maybe Joseph wasn't the next nominee
for a Noble Peace Prize. But to pick up a gun and go hunting for him
for something that was done decades ago seems ridiculous to me. I
decide to ask the obvious question.
“Why haven't you killed your father
yourself?”
Joey leaps from his chair and raises
his hand to slap me. He takes a swing at me. I bob my head to the
right and as it passes his entire flank is exposed. I slam my head
into his ribs. He tries to scream. He wants to. But the pain that is
now coursing through his body is thinking about nothing but
preservation. He falls to his knees and takes a deep, raspy breath.
“He…is not…my father” Joey
finally manages to spit out. His men rush me but stop when Joey
raises his hand.
My blood is pumping. The room spins for
a few moments. I feel like I'm about to just fall over and faint. Am
I having a heart attack? No. Not a heart attack. I just haven't felt
this in years. Too many years.
I feel alive.
“I'll do it” I tell him. “I'll
find Joseph and kill him.”
“Will you?” Joey asks me. He uses
the table to steady himself and pats me on the shoulder. “How?”
“The same way I did in the old days”
I tell him.
“The old days are history” he tells
me. “Perhaps a new approach is necessary.” Joey motions to one of
his men and he leaves the room for a minute. He comes back with a
small box. Joey places it in front of me and smiles. “Open it.”
I do.
And I smile.
14
I heard through the grapevine that
Maverick was captured. Apparently Joseph made love to the wrong girl.
Girl had a kid. Kid wants to kill daddy. Maybe daddy didn't hug him
enough. Small thing like a hug and Joseph wouldn't have a target
painted on his chest. City wide manhunt for Joseph. A very wanted
man. Just wanted by the wrong people. I know what that's like. I've
been hiding for 30 years.
“You're free to go, ‘Vandal'” Jim
the jailer tells me. I wonder if freedom costs as much as it used to
nowadays?
My name is James Randall. They call me
The Vandal.
Used to be a Marine. A Raw Dog along
with the usual suspects Wayland, Joseph, Maverick, Smith, and
Terrance. I did what I called “voluntary imprisonment” a while
ago. Its not safe for me to be out here with you all. The parole
board thinks I am.
Let's see who's right.
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