So easy, just like Fields.
So easy, it made him hard.
Blackberry jelly, he thought, as he hit the nigger slime again and again, stepping back and wiping himself with tissues each time, so that the blood wouldn't spatter his clothes. Wiping the crowbar clean, and leaving it next to the body. Using the tissues to extract the.45 from the slime's waistband and laying the gun on top of the pimp's crotch.
"Umgawa, umgawa. Suck this, coonshit."
Then heading back to the alley, where he retrieved his Polaroid camera, returned to the heap of wet blacktrash, and snapped a flash picture before sauntering " off, soooo casual.
He stopped under a streetlight three blocks away, found a few riny blood freckles on his shoes and T-shirt. The shoes he wiped. The shirt was quickly concealed by zipping up the windbreaker. Then he walked on. Two blocks farther was the Plymouth, nice and comfy. He got in it, drove a mile to another alley with dumpsters. Opened the trunk of the car and wet some rags with alcohol and water from plastic hospital bottles he'd stored there. Pulled the camera apart with his hands, enjoying the cracking sound and imagining it was the nigger's body he was breaking. Wiping each piece, then throwing them into three separate dumpsters.
Riding on and tossing the tissues in four separate sewer drains, tearing off the corner of the one with the most blood and eating it.
He rewarded himself by getting a beer out of the ice chest in the trunk. Drinking it slowly, so casual.
Twenty minutes later he was back on the boulevard, foot-cruising among the geeks and creeps and night-crawling slimeballs, knowing they were his, knowing he could have any of them any time he wanted.
He found a twenty-four-hour fast-food stand-greasy, run-down joint with a pockmarked slant behind the counter. After staring the slant into giving him the key to the men's room, he washed up, examined his face, touched himself, not quite believing he was real.
Then he went back to the counter, ordered a double cheeseburger and vanilla shake from the slant, sat on a cracked plastic stool, eating. Really enjoying his dinner.
The only other customers were a pair of stinking biker faggot types in black leather, stuffing their faces with teriyaki dogs and onion rings. They noticed him, nudged each other, tried to stare him down, tried to give him the evil eye.
His grin changed their minds.
He thought Nightwing would be impressed by the snapshot of all that dead black jelly, overcome with My Hero! gratitude. Instead she gave him a weird look like he was dirty. It made him feel bad for a moment, kind of nauseous and scared, like when he'd been a kid sitting tight-sphinctered on step number six, terrified of being caught.
He stared back at her stare, heard the bad-machine noise get louder, and thought: Stupid ungrateful cunt. Hot rage-pain clawed at the roof of his mouth; he felt the cold rolled steel of the crowbar in his hands. Cooled it with a chest-ballooning deep breath and mind-pictures of the nigger as he'd gone down. Patent shoes black with nightblood.
Be casual. Patient.
But he knew she was hopeless. The romance was over.
He tore the picture in little pieces, ate them, and grinned. Stretched and yawned. "I did it for you. Now you're safe, babe."
"Yeah." Forced smile. "G-great. Thanks-you're terrific!"
"My pleasure, babe." A command.
A minute later: "Do me again, babe."
She hesitated, saw the look on his face, then said, "Yeah, sure, my pleasure, gratis," and lowered her head.
After that their relationship changed. They continued to date, she took his money, did what he wanted, but held back. Emotionally. He could tell.
No more boyfriend/girlfriend, this was heavy duty love/ respect, like a kid for a parent.
Which was okay. He was sick of hearing her sob stories, mean old daddy, all the johns who couldn't get it up, dribbled on her legs, the ones who liked to hurt her.
Fuck that noise. Power was better than closeness any day of the week. Far as he was concerned, they could have continued that way for a while.
But she fucked it up. What happened was her fault, when you got right down to it. The thoughtlessness, dirtying his heritage.
Dirtying Schwann.
He'd say one thing for Fields: The shitbag had been thorough. Checking foreign phone books, employment and immigration records, physicians' directories, licensing board rosters, motor vehicle registrations. Medical journal obituaries.
Being a private eye was clearly more busywork than brainwork, all that TV stuff pure bullshit.
He learned something: Lots of information was just lying around for the taking, if you knew where to look for it.
One downer: The best information Fields had gotten hold of came right out of Schwann's hospital file-Doctor's hospital, the same hospital he'd been working in for two years! In the Pathology Department, of all places-he'd delivered mail there at least a thousand times, was still doing it, had fondled a stiff there just last week.
All those sacred facts right under his nose and he'd paid a dumb slime to find them!
Overlooking it made him tremble, want to cut himself. He cooled himself down with a beer and a stroke, told himself it was okay to make mistakes as long as you learned.
He'd learned. From a dead man, a fucking scumbag.
It paid to keep an open mind.
Visually, Fields's report was a mess, just what you'd expect from a lowlife slob: cheap machine, ink smudges, bent corners, the text typed on a cheap machine with chipped letters, and marred by typographical errors and slipping margins. In those margins, Fields had scrawled little handprinted comments-the slime had obviously planned on squeezing more money out of him by coming across superhelpful. Writing in a oily buddy-buddy tone that made him wish he could bring the fucker back to life in order to smash him to trash again.
Despite all that, the file was sacred, a bible.
Bless you. Daddy.
He set aside bible time every day, sitting naked on the floor of the ice palace, touching himself. Sometimes he worshipped more than once, memorizing the text, every word was sacred. Staring at the hospital ID photo for hours until the image of Schwann's face was burned into his brain.
His face.
The same face. Clean-cut and handsome.
Handsome, because Schwann had wanted to pass the superhero legacy on to him, had squeezed those face-chromosomes into her filthy womb.
Dominating her inferior tissue with Schwann supersperm. The line of command from father to son, a sparkling clone chain.
Looking at his face, anyone knowing Schwann would have to know. Doctor had been a stupid kikefuck not to have caught it.
No one else had ever mentioned it because they were kike-dupes. Doctor had paid them off.
He intensified his bible studies, started reading the file after every meal. The New New Testament. Book of Dieter, Chapter One, Verse One.
In the beginning, Dieter Schwann was born.