hissed
‘Unbreakable, crap goddamn movie and crappier mirror.’
Turned to his bureau, the drawers not opening fast enough, so he yanked the bastards out
full, watched his carefully arranged underwear, arranged by day and color, fly all over the
room. Found the Heckler And Koch, aimed it at the mirror, wanted to weep at how he
was going to have to know what underwear to put on tomorrow. He checked the clip, way
to go, full and put a round in the dying glass, hissed
Yeah, who’s fucking sorry now?’
Spun around, muttered
‘Creep up on me muthahfuckah, how’d you like these cojones.’
Put two shells into the empty space.
One of the bullets ricocheted off the wall and came real close to taking his insane head
off. Got his attention, he whispered
‘Death by cop, by stealth.’
Heard the term………….unraveling, he knew it well from the serial killer books he’d
read and worse, how the schmucks got caught. Went to the bathroom off the room,
opened the medicine cabinet, grabbed the bottle of Vic Odin, dry swallowed two.
Asked
‘Do the trick?’
Nope.
Kay……………
Got out the heavy duty babies, meant to be for an emergency and what the fuck was this,
pray tell?
Stopped, had he uttered that aloud?
Like a cartoon character, he put his hand over his mouth, then back to the cabinet, time to
get down, and got the Ocycodeine. Then holding three of these lethal suckers, went back
into the room, headed for the drinks cabinet, selected the Johnny Walker Blue, poured a
healthy measure into a tumbler made of Irish crystal, toasted
‘Oblivion, take me thus.’
The pills washed down with the blue. Now, all he had to do was wait, be chill and wait
for the answer.
After five minutes was able to sit down, feel the booze warm his stomach and then the
jolt as some of the Med’s kicked in.
Took a deep, albeit ragged breath, felt his mind go into the icy region and then was able
to say, without too much bile
‘They….
……………..they
…………………….came to my fucking place of work, put down two pictures of my
beloved, and……..
He could barely say it
Question ME!.
He’d wanted to throw up when they appeared but felt he covered it well but then, who
knew?
You deal with fucking morons, they might get lucky and they’d only to get lucky ONCE.
The big guy, Merrick, all bluster and hard ass but the Irishman, a worry. He looked at you
with those killer eyes and you know, you knew, fess up, he was a crazy, he was Crystal
meth in human form. You took your attention offa him, hello fifty years in the slammer,
if………….and big if, the madman didn’t gut you first.
Lessons to be taught
Harsh
Brutal
Merciless
……if he was to distract the duo. Only one way, the dope told him, no argument.
Shoot one.
‘BUDDIES DON’T SHOOT EACH OTHER
DO……….(anxious tone)
THEY?’
DAVID THOMPSON, MURDER BY THE BOOK.
I was back in Brooklyn, Van Morrison with Astral Weeks on the stereo, not an
Mp3
Or any of the new fangled shite
On a sound system that the brothers would have been proud of. You can’t appreciate
music with things stuck in your ears.
Play it loud and aggressive.
Annoy the neighbors.
The whole point of stereo.
Just ask the black cats what the boom boxes are really all about.
My neighbors were a pair of stoner dudes, worthy of a Don Winslow novel, no I hadn’t
begun to read, they told me! And when I played, especially Thin Lizzy, loud and defiant,
they begged
‘Louder dude.’
Stoner’s, like I said.
Madam George was on and that bring s me as close to tears as any Oprah show. The
dreaded memory began to un-reel, I opened the seal on The Wild Turkey, the deli didn’t
stock Jay.
Yet.
Took a hit, good, lit a cig, and tried to let the lyrics blot out the awful mind replay.
Eddie and I, two kids from the Republic,Eddie from Dublin, with that indefinable accent,
you didn’t know was he
a…………….cultured
b……………………….had notions
c…………..just a cunt
not many of us with the Boyo’s then,
after Bloody Sunday,
well, they came in droves.
‘Field of Dreams’, build the stadium and they will come, well, the Brits built a blood
stadium that they’d never quite play ball in again.
We earned our respect in the real testing ground.
South Armagh.
Bandit country.
Arm elite Armageddon.
Taking heavy hits every fookin day, got so you didn’t even talk to the new guys no more,
they’d be dead in two days. The SAS had us on the run, a turkey shoot but as they had no
respect for us, they got smug and we got back, viciously. Began to hit them literally at
home and I’m not real proud of that.
Different time.
We were finally sent to Belfast, the big number. Street to street, rooftop to alley, hit, run
hit again.
I was barely twenty and hadn’t one night ‘s sleep in a year.
Even the brass saw how beat we were and gave us two days Rn R in a safe house off the
Falls. We had crates of bottled Guinness, Fenian music, a stash of Poitin. We made
serious inroads on all of it. Even had some girls come round, look after our food,
washing…………..and stuff. Molly, red haired, Jesus wept, she adored Van the man,
used to have me listen to The Philosopher’s Stone, over and over till she was convinced I
got it. She was the very best of Irish women
Smart
Defiant
And ferociously loyal.
Said to me
‘Ryan, I’m your bulletproof vest.’
I was eating the stew she’d made and it was fierce good, full of spuds, meat, cabbage and
that heavy gravy, I looked up to tell her I might love…., I knew she figured I was going
to say ’Stew’ but she never got to find out, I never got to tell her.
A bullet took most of her head off, her blood and brains blending with the beautiful red
hair. I dropped the bowl as a mortar took out most of the top floor. Eddie was on his
belly, crawling towards the back door, his girl splattered over the far wall. I don’t
remember her name and I feel real bad about that.
I got my pistol out of my waistband as a borage of machine gun fire racked across the
room. Made it as far as Eddie, saw his face had a curious expression, shock I figured. He
said
‘Ryan, it doesn’t have to end like this?’
The fook was he talking about.
Added
‘They’ll let you live.’
My mind recoiled.
We were only just getting used to the term Supergrass, where the Brit’s grabbed our best,
turned them, and used them to decimate our ranks. He reached out his hand, I spat
‘You fookin can’t betray your country, Jesus Fookin wept, what else is there?’
I swear by all that’s Holy or otherwise that he smiled, said real quiet
‘I’m not.’
He was a fookin Brit, explained the dodgy accent and him being fookin useless at
hurling.
‘You’ll get a new identity, some nice money and all you have to do is tell them what they
already know.’