"Raw Dogs" Part 1

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.