And before you get all sobby and sympathetic for my plight and put a hand to your brow and realize how much it all explains, keep in mind that whatever got done to me, I’ve done worse to others. It don’t balance out. Whatever my parents were, at least they kept it in the family. No one out for a walk at night had to worry about them jumping from an alley and thumping them on the head and cutting their neck open.
So they said I was a monster and they were only punishing me for my own evil deeds. So what. Turns out they were right.
So being asked to join someone’s club, say that was a new one on me. Had to be a mistake. But I wasn’t going to let on. Tell me the Society was going to lead the way to a brighter future? Great. Keep the details to yourself and tell me what to do. Tell me what you want is for me to go see a guy who’s been making waves and make sure he doesn’t make any more? Great. I’ll keep the details to myself and get it done.
Put yourself in some asshole’s shoes.
You’re just trying to get by. You’re living downtown, Society turf, things aren’t too well organized. Lots of rules they want you to follow, but they’re not exactly helping you to make ends meet. Not like someone drops in once or twice a week with a little blood to ease you through, like the way they do it up on Coalition turf. So say you make a deal here or there. This instance, say you sneak above Fourteenth and trade some Society gossip for a couple pints. Maybe you share one with a buddy who’s down on his luck.
Asshole.
That’s where you went wrong. Your buddy, he’s in the same grind as you. Your handout aside, he’s dry more often than he’s wet. Smart boy that he is, he slides over to Society HQ in some dingy basement, drops a dime. Exits with tangible appreciation in the form of a pint of his own.
Next things next, you’re feeling no pain. Well fed for the first time in weeks or months, hanging at your flop, thinking you’ll take a stroll and enjoy this nice little blood high you’re riding.
Knock at the door.
Who could it be?
Take a look out the peephole. It’s that kid who’s always at Terry’s side. That punk with the tight plaid pants, calf-high Doc Martens, loose suspenders and surplus flight jacket covered in Sharpied anarchy symbols and Bad Brains stickers.
Joe Pitt.
Two things you can do. Let him in, or pretend you’re not home. What you hear is, pretending you’re not home pisses him off. So you open the door, let him in, give the big smile, try to play it all off. But before you can start acting all casual and social and put him off the scent like you got planned, he’s grabbed your hair and pulled your head down and put his knee in your face three or four times.
See, he’s not there to ask questions about what happened and why. He’s not there to be coy and put it all together and tease it out. He’s there to do what he’s been told to do. And he doesn’t see any reason to waste time.
Besides, he likes doing it.
He’s good at it.
And it feels good to do what one is good at.
And since he’s so good at it, he tends to improvise a bit. Where a knife or a gun might get the job done in a hurry, he’s inclined to hold your ear against a gas burner. Got a steam pipe in your closet, he knows just how to rig a belt to hang you from it and use you like a punching bag.
All in all, it probably would have been better for you if this guy’s parents had finished the job.
But they didn’t. So you pay the price. Along with a lot of other people.
That went on for years.
Then somewhere in there I lost my taste for the work. Got bored with the same old thing. And tired of being told what to do. Time goes by, you see how things are done, even someone like me can get the idea that the system is being gamed in someone’s favor. Most times, you look at the top of the pile and you’ll find where the favor lands. I’m not saying I was shocked, I just didn’t like what my slice amounted to. Thought I could do better on my own.
Thought maybe I’d like to walk in a room and not have people scatter like roaches from a light. Maybe have a conversation about something other than war. Know something more than how long it takes a guy to grow back all three layers of his skin before you can peel them off again.
Maybe I got soft.
That was the word. Not to my face, but that was the word.
Anyhow, all this reminiscence, it’s by way of saying I have history with some people. Way it works for us, there are only so many who have what it takes to stick. What I found out, the longer you stick, the more history you get. With everyone. But with some people you have more history than with others.
With Terry, I got enough history to choke on.
– It’s not like I go in for torture or anything, you know? Counterproductive. What’s the point, is what I always ask myself. You get into that game, you always have to, you know, ask more questions of yourself than the person you’re torturing. And I’m not just speaking to the inherent unreliability of information received under duress, yeah? That goes without, I hope in this day and age, that goes without saying. What does not go without saying is that torture forces the torturer to ask him or herself more question than he or she is asking the torturee. Tortured? Whatever, doesn’t matter. So, you get into this cycle, because, follow me around here, because if your information is unreliable, how do you make it more reliable. Do you retorture? Ask, Hey, guy, were you just lying to me? Tell the truth or I’ll put you on the rack. Is that it? I don’t think so. And the whole time you, you know, you have to ask yourself, What am I doing? Am I accomplishing anything here? Am I just becoming, you know, the enemy? Ends, and yes, this is hard for some people to swallow, but the ends do sometimes justify the means. I believe that. Warts and all. But damn, it’s a tough call to make. And you got to live with it. Got to own up to it. So that, yeah, while torture is not really my thing, I have to admit that right now, I’m looking at you, and I’m thinking to myself, Hey, I’m kind of glad Predo left Joe a couple fingers for me to cut off. If you get me.
Terry looks up from the copy of the I Ching he’s flipping through.
– The thing is, based on past experience, any answers I’d get would be about as reliable with or without torturing you. And, sorry to say it after all these years, Joe, but, you know, I don’t think I’d have too much soul-searching to do over the moral issues involved.
I look at Hurley, waiting by the door.
– Old friends. How we kick around old times, huh, Hurl?
He shakes his head.
– Don’t fook aboot, Joe, tis not da time fer it.
I look at Terry.
– When’d Hurley get so serious? Used to be such a light-hearted fella.
Terry picks up the three coins next to his book.
– Serious times, man, require serious thoughts. An attitude like yours, it’s counter to everything that’s going on these days. Hang on now, I need to frame a thought.
He starts tossing the three coins, picking them up, tossing again, until he’s done it six times.
– Oh, man. I know this.
He flips through the book.
– You’ll like this, Joe. Listen.
He finds the page, adjusts his wire rim glasses.
– Hexagram thirty-six. Warmth and light are swallowed by deep darkness.
He looks at me over the tops of his glasses.
– This is one of those modern versions that offers analysis. Seriously, you’ll like this.
He looks back at the page.
– You have been deliberately injured. Going blow for blow will only escalate the war. Abstain from vengeance. Sidestep your aggressor’s headlong charge, giving him the opportunity to fall on his face.