I really believe that piece moved my recovery onwards, the cover-up lingered in my mind and if heroes, as those amazing men were, could be doubted, it was time for me to get my act together and get out of there.
The Brothers
…Grimm
Jimmy and Sean Bennet, the worker bees of the Headstone crew, were born to wealth-not quite in the same league as Bine, but definitely in the neighborhood. They’d gone to the same flash boarding school as he had but he was a few years ahead and he shone, in sports, grades, popularity. The golden boy. The brothers, alas, didn’t shine in one single area, save surliness. To their amazement, the senior boy, the wunderkind, took an interest in them.
Approached them one day as yet again they sat miserably on the football field, unchosen. He said,
“Guys, you wanna go smoke some weed?”
His accent was quasi-American and as likely to change as his mood. They didn’t know that then. He led them back behind the locker rooms, produced some serious spliff s, offered them over, said,
“Fire ’em up; let’s get wasted.”
They did.
He spouted a lot of shite about superior races, Darwin, and making your mark. They agreed with everything. He told them he had a nice supply of dope available and needed people he could trust.
Sean, stoned but still aware, thought,
“Runners.”
But, what the hell, they’d do anything he asked; he was the guy. Time came, they got busted-rather, Bine did and laid it off on them. They took the rap and he promised he’d one day repay in history.
History they were.
Expelled.
Bine went on to college and some dark sun continued to light his way.
The brothers, failures at just about everything, were given a trust fund and basically told to
“Fend for your miserable selves.”
They had the money so they got an apartment and spent their time eating junk food, doing dope, watching slash movies. They’d almost forgotten Bine when he came to their apartment one day. Ignoring the squalor of the place, empty takeaway cartons, sink afloat in unwashed dishes, he said,
“See, I told you guys I’d be back and your day would come.”
He was dressed in black: combats, sweatshirt, Doc Martens. He embraced them both-it was a long time since any person had touched them in any form-and said,
“The day has come, my crew.”
If he noticed the shithole they were living in, he didn’t comment. No one else did either as no one else ever came. He produced a bottle of Wild Turkey and a nice bundle of nose candy. Said,
“Mi amigos, get wasted and then we’ll talk.”
They did, did some serious lines, washed down with the bourbon in heavy dollops. They were sitting at the battered remains of what had once been a valuable antique table: not no more. The brothers had seen to that. Bine sat back, said,
“Kay, here’s the gig. Firstly, my name is now Bine and I want to ask you guys a question.”
The brothers looked at each other, then nodded.
He asked,
“Your miserable lives going anywhere?”
Jimmy took the insult easily, he was used to it, but Sean didn’t much care for it. He answered, said,
“We have some plans.”
Bine threw back his head, laughed loudly, scoffed,
“Right, like watching Tarantino, Rodriguez movies, eating fast food, and doing weed.”
All true.
Bine added,
“Like to be in your own real-life movie, make a real name for yerselves, get splashed on the front pages of every paper in the country?”
Sure.
Who wouldn’t?
He said,
“But the thing is, it takes cojones to make that kind of impact and I wonder if you guys have what it takes.”
Sean said,
“Bring it on.”
Bine gave a glorious smile, said,
“Simple test.”
Jimmy, wanting to keep current, said,
“Yeah, what you got?”
Bine had a battered holdall, reached in and pulled out a gun, said, “See this? It’s your real Colt. 45. My old man paid a fortune for it. Take a look.”
It was black, shiny, and for all the world like the one Clint used in his westerns. Jimmy said,
“Fucking beauty.”
Bine produced one single bullet, inserted it and spun the barrel, said,
“Here’s where we see what you got?”
He put the gun to his head, pulled the trigger.
Click… nada.
He inverted the gun, handed it to Sean, barrel first, asked,
“Wanna play?”
Sean didn’t even think, analyse or swirl the barrel. He put it to his head, pulled the trigger.
Click… nada.
Then grabbed the Turkey, drank straight from the bottle.
Bine said,
“My kind of guy, like Clooney said in From Dusk Till Dawn, you are in my cool book.”
They turned to Jimmy, whose whole life was a movie; he just wished he had a bandanna so he could be Chris Walken in The Deer Hunter. He took the Colt, made a dramatic show of spinning the chamber, and then put it to his head.
For one lucid moment, Sean nearly cried,
“Fuck’s sake, stop.”
He didn’t rate much in the world of bile and hatred he inhabited. But Jimmy, Jesus, Jimmy was all he had, and…without him? The gun cocked and, almost in slow motion, the hammer came down.
Click….not this day.
Sean realized he was sweating and Jimmy whooped,
“Fucking A, way cool, dude.”
Bine smiled, he had the two stupid bollixes in the palm of his brilliant hand.
He said,
“Group hug guys, you passed.”
Sean wasn’t wild about this shite but went with it. Bine laid out some celebratory lines, said,
“The family that cokes together croaks together.”
Jimmy thought that was hilarious.
Bine straightened up, the coke hitting him fast, said,
“Here’s the plan.”
Laid it out.
Jimmy would have agreed to anything but Sean thought it was way out there. Bine said,
“Now we begin. Jimmy, your first job is to go to a graveyard and get us a headstone.”
Sean was beginning to think he was in a movie by Sam Raimi, asked, “A headstone?”
Bine moved to his feet in an easy almost elegant way, said,
“From now on, we have to have certain rules:
One, you don’t question my orders.
Two, I say jump, you ask, how high?”
Sean was thinking, like fuck.
Bine tossed the Colt to Sean, said,
“My gift to you and Headstone. It’s our name and it’s where we are going… to lay every fuckhead this side of the Shannon.” He then went off on a rant about the losers, the scum, the parasites, and how they personally would make a statement to rid the country of all the flotsam.
What snared Sean was when Bine asked,
“You had some dealings with a so-called PI named Taylor?”
Jesus, Sean was shocked, how could he know that?
And that fire of rage that burned in Sean for that man. A few years back, Sean was, he thought, doing good with a babe in a nightclub. Sean ever doing anything with a girl was a nonstarter and so, OK, she was protesting but Sean was flying on dust when this bouncer, an ex-cop, filling in for that one night, grabbed him, said,
“You wanna be a rapist.”
Him? Sean… rape?
And in the middle of the club, he had beaten Sean mercilessly, to the jeers and delight of the clubbers.
And then dragged Sean, literally by his hair, very long then, to the door, put his shoe in his arse, said,
“I see you again, I won’t go so easy.”
Before Sean could ask anything, Bine said,
“He’s on the list.”
Sean was sold.
Later Sean would realize that Bine knew exactly what buttons to press for whomever he needed. It was like a black gift.
Bine ranted on again about Darwin and about the superior races and a lot of stuff that Sean tuned out till Bine said,
“There’s another member of our crew.”