'I was eating the salad,' Curtis is saying, 'you know, the little shitty bits of lettuce and tomato they put on the side of your plate, just to ruin a decent feed of meat. Trying to make it look all healthy and shit. But I was damn hungry, and I'd stripped every bit of the rare, bloody beef from the bone. Eaten every single one of those shitty slivers of processed potato extract they call fries. They're not fries! I like my fries made from real fuckin' potatoes, not made in some processing plant by some old lady covered up head to toe, like a big old wrinkly condom.
'So anyway, I'm eating this pathetic excuse for a salad, trying to eat, the tomato was still frozen crisp and the lettuce leaves were soggy. I'm not a fan of fuckin' vegetables, but Jesus, even I know that shit is supposed to be the other way round.
'Anyway, I'm munchin' an' mushin' this horrible shit just enough so I can wash it down with a good mouthful of beer, when crunch, I bite something that doesn't belong in a fuckin' salad. Big Jim and his girl are there, sitting with me 'round the table, but what the fuck do I care? I spit that whole mouthful out into my hand.
'And sitting there amongst that chewed up tomato and lettuce mess; it looked like Kermit the Frog after he'd been put in a blender then dumped in my hand. Sitting among that mushy mess, is a piece of fuckin' glass! Not just a sliver or a little grain, I mean a big goddamned motherfuckin' chunk of glass! Sitting there all sparkling an' shit. This thing was a rock, man. If it was a shard, junkies would've been sucking my dick for weeks to get a hold of it!'
The guys that are standing around us snigger at that last remark, but Curtis keeps on talking.
'So I call the goddamn waitress over, clicking my fingers at her, “Hey, Bitch!”'
I've heard this story before, too many times. It was funny the first few times, but now I tune out. There are more important things at hand.
Like the five big mean looking dudes stood around us in this empty, disused diner.
Guarding us. Detaining us. Making us wait around for their boss to arrive.
For us to die.
We had to get out of this mess that we had quickly gotten ourselves into. We never usually did jobs like this, but Curtis had sworn the guy was legit. He was a friend of a friend. That was my, our, first mistake. A friend of a friend isn't trustworthy, otherwise he'd be an actual friend, wouldn't he. Not friends with someone you know. I mean, shit, I don't trust any of my friends at all. Except Curtis. And now after this, if we get out of here, I won't be trusting his ass again.
Maybe if I was going to trust anyone it would be Liz. My girl had stuck with me through the hard times; we both had our share of demons, but she had been my rock and, yeah, I suppose if I was going to trust anyone, I would trust her; with my life.
'So the chef comes walking over,' Curtis is getting animated with his story telling and the goons are getting right into it, hanging on his every word. 'And this dude is one big motherfucker. I mean, he is King-fucking-Kong dressed in white, man. This gorilla looking fucker comes right up to the table, he's holding a big fuck-off cleaver in his hairy mitts. I mean, this guy was a fucking ape, he belonged swinging through trees and shit. He stands right close to me, and he grunts something like, “You the guy that insulted my waitress?”
'I just look up at this big gorilla looking fuck, and I says, “Are you the cocksucker who tried to kill me with glass?”
'And he points his meat cleaver at me and goes, “What did you just call me?”
'Course, I just laugh at him and go, “Sorry, sorry,” and he starts to lower his big old knife. And I say, “I meant, are you the cocksucking ape cunt who tried to kill me with glass?”'
The goons around us are laughing by now.
'You could literally see his heckles go up, this guy was so hairy. I count myself lucky it was only glass in my food and I wasn't hacking up hairballs for weeks afterwards! But I'd gotten him all pissed off and I could see he was going to start something, and in a fuckin' restaurant too. I mean, where was this guys professionalism.'
I know what's coming and I'm getting ready for it.
The goons are literally hanging on Curtis' every word, it was like they've never been told a decent story before.
'So, I slowly get out of my chair,' Curtis stands up, and the goons let him. 'And King-fucking-Dong takes a step back, he's standing about; do you mind?' he asks one of the goons to move just a bit so he is standing before him. The goon is grinning from ear to ear, seemingly pleased to become part of the story.
'So he's standing about there, and he says “You're a dead man!” And I'm like, “Shit, if your cooking is always this fuckin' bad, then all of us in here are probably gonna be dead by morning!” And he lashes out with his right paw, keep in mind the cleaver is in his left, right?'
Curtis glances around at his audience.
'Here, it'll be easier like this.' He turns back to the goon before him, 'Gimme your right hand,' the goon hangs a limp hand before him so Curtis can place it. He stretches the arm, putting the goons fist just next to his head, like he has lashed out at Curtis.
'Right; so his right fist misses my head, by like a mile, and in his left is the cleaver. Gimme your left hand there buddy.' The goon complies.
As soon as Curtis has the hand between his, he twists it, something snaps, and he lashes out at the goons solar plexus, which drops him with a deep guttural grunt.
I'm out of my chair before the others realise this isn't part of the story, and I've dropped one with a shot of my palm up his nose. Curtis lashes out with a foot and connects with goon #3's balls and he falls to his knees with a squeal. I'm laying into #4 with my fists flying in quick succession, pulverising his face to a bloody mess, and from the sounds behind me Curtis is doing similar to goon #5.
When I realise that goon #4 is unconscious, I stop and purvey our newly designed surroundings, just in time to see Curtis deliver a swift kick to the head of goon #3, knocking him out.
Turns out size doesn't matter. Goons 2 through 5 are laying in various forms of crumpledness, all of them out cold, on the linoleum floor.
Along the way Curtis has acquired a gun and is holding it to the 1st goons head, the one who had been so excited with the audience participation part of Curtis' story.
'Where the fuck is our money?' Curtis screams at him.
The goon just shakes his head. He seems pretty okay with the fact that his brain could soon possibly be replaced with a big gaping hole.
'Where?' Curtis screams again, jabbing the gun into the guys balding head.
But the goon just keeps shaking his head brashly.
'Fuck this, and fuck you,' Curtis says, almost reluctantly. He lifts the gun to check if there is anything in the breach; and checks the safety.
The goon closes his eyes and I can see his lips moving slightly, as if he is muttering something to himself.
Curtis uses the body of the gun to bludgeon the guys head; the unconscious body drops forward, his face connecting with the floor, making a meaty thud.
I reach down to the goon nearest my feet and grab the snub-nosed .45 from its holster. Curtis turns to me as he tucks the 9mm into his waist band.
'We need to find that money, bro.'
'I know,' I nod, 'but He's going to be here any minute, and if He sees this, then we'll be praying for death.'
'But I know it's here, they wouldn't have taken it anywhere, not with out His say so.'
'But we don't know He didn't give them any say so, do we. Everything happened so fast man, what if there were more than just five of these guys. Let's just count our losses and get the fuck out of here, get ourselves a decent head start. Maybe we can out run him and get clear of all this bullshit.'
'Hell no!' Curtis has finished going through the goons pockets and has amassed a small collection of weapons on the table; amongst them are my keys which they'd taken earlier.
'We're in this shit deep, man, there ain't no getting clear of this one. Not without a lot of blood on our hands,' Curtis is now behind the dusty counter, pulling stuff from shelves and letting it crash to floor.
'I know someone who might be able to help us,' he carries on searching.
'Who the hell is going to help us out of this mess? No one is that mental!'
'I know someone who is. And he owes me.'
'Nobody owes anybody this big, man.'
'True,' he says as a jar smashes at his feet. 'This favour is a bit bigger than what I owe him, but still, I guarantee he'll be interested. He's a sick fucker and it's kind of gonna be in his interest to help us; if I can find the money.'
I don't know if I like the look on Curtis' face, especially when he grins at me, and it's completely void of humour.
'Look what happened with your last friend of a friend, Curtis,' my voice is raising along with my blood pressure.
'Hey, chill, man. He's not a friend of a friend, he's a friend of mine.'
'Which makes him what, Curtis?' I don't let him answer. 'It makes him a friend of a friend to me. Fuck!'
'Jesus dude, chill,' his voice comes from behind the counter, he's crouched down, still searching. 'This guy is n– Holy shit! I found it! I found the fucking money!'
He slams the black briefcase on the counter and a small cloud of dust explodes from beneath it.
That damn briefcase. If I'd have known the grief it was going to cause me. Ha, griefcase.
Curtis pops the clasps and swings it open with a sweeping hand.
'It looks like it's all here,' he says to the case full of money.
'I don't care if the fucking thing is empty,' I call. 'Let's get the fuck out of here now!'
'Okay, okay. Fuck me, you're a cranky mofo, aren'tcha?'
I stare at him, I can't believe what I just heard. 'Of course I'm a little cranky, Curtis. We've got the hardest fucker known to man on our asses! If all he does is rip off our heads and shit down our necks, that'll be a blessing. If he only kills us and doesn't hunt down every single person we've ever spoken to and shoot them in the head multiple times, that'll be because God stepped in. If our bodies are identifiable by any means, he's gone a little bit soft. What am I talking about; He's going to feed us to the fucking pigs, we'll end up as pig –'
'Shit!' Curtis interjects.
As I'm about to agree, I notice Curtis' gaze is over my shoulder; his eyes widening at the filthy windows at my back. I know what is there, no need to ask him. His actions are speaking in volume.
The case is slammed shut and he's vaulted the counter. He's at the table beside me and he grabs himself another gun, another 9mm. I do the same, grabbing a 9 mil myself, and we're running for what used to be the kitchen. I check the 9 mil's breach, it's loaded.
'How many?' I yell at Curtis' back.
'I dunno man, I only saw the car pull up. We need to be ghosts; now!'
It is a real bad choice of words as far as I'm concerned. I hope to whatever God is out there that my car is still parked round the back of this joint.
I finger the gun in my hand as I run. I hear the front door of the diner open. The little bell was still hanging there and it jingles, dully.
It's like the bell before a big fight and I know it's signalling that shit is about to get intense.
Curtis, the moron, shoves the back door open as he hurries through and it bangs loudly against the wall, sounding like a gunshot.
If they haven't worked out we've gone out the back, they sure as hell know now.
I hear one of them yell as I slam the door closed behind me.
My car is right where I'd parked it. Curtis is just standing next to it, next to the passenger door. Just stood there like a dog waiting for his master.
'What the hell?' I shout at him.
'Keys man!'
'Shit! Smash it!' I yell.
I scramble in my pocket for my keys that I'd grabbed from the table, as Curtis winds back with the briefcase and forces it through the passenger window. The clear glass turns into a messy pattern of crystals. He uses his gun to bash the pieces of glass from the door frame, reaches in and pulls the door open.
By now, I'm at the drivers door, expecting Curtis to reach over and unlock my door.
He doesn't, he's sat twisted around, facing the door we'd just exited, his gun drawn and pointed at it.
I mean to tap the drivers window with my gun to get his attention.
I get his attention all right; I put my gun through the window in a cascade of tiny glass pieces.
I reach in and pull my door open. Curtis had turned at the sound of the exploding glass, his attention and weapon wavering from the diner door.
My shaking hands don't make it easy to find the keys, and even harder to get them into the ignition to get the old Lincoln fired up. But I manage.
As she roars to life, Curtis turns back to the diner door.
My foot plants the gas pedal to the floor and she lurches forward, tires squealing.
'Shit!' Curtis hollers.
The first bullet turns the rear window opaque as it flies through it. I duck instinctively. I can hear the sounds of more gunshots, but they get more muffled as we speed down the alley.
Then a really loud gunshot that almost deafens me.
Curtis is returning fire.
The main road is looming and I take the corner at high speed, the tires squealing in irritation. I see cars swerving to miss our Lincoln missile. Horns are blaring. Curtis is leaning out the window, his gun held high.
Very inconspicuous.
We fly down main street; my only thought, to get the hell out of there as quickly as possible. Not so smart, considering most of the cops are in His back pocket, and if they pick us up, we'll be dead before we get to the precinct.
But there is no need for the cops to get involved; His goons are on our tail. Two big black SUV's are coming up very quickly behind us, He is probably in one of them; after all He had been coming to the diner to deal with us directly.
The drivers side mirror I'm using to watch the SUV's get closer, suddenly disappears in a shower of mirror shards and plastic.
'Holy fucking shit!' I'm not sure which of us just shouted it. It could've been both of us.
It's a cacophony in the car. The wind tearing through the smashed windows, whistling through the holes that are constantly being peppered around us, and with Curtis firing at our pursuers.
I'm blind to the world behind me, but we're travelling so fast I need my whole attention to be on the busy road ahead. How we haven't crashed yet is beyond me, I'm dodging cars by repeatedly swerving the Lincoln into oncoming traffic and back. If they introduced downhill slalom for 1980's cars in the winter Olympics, I'd be the U.S's next gold medallist.
I hear, actually I more feel the disturbed, circulating air, as a bullet whips past my head. I don't know where it goes, but surprisingly the windscreen is still intact and hole-less.
A bullet smashes through the windscreen. It remains clear enough to still see the road, but a web of cracks is very quickly spreading across the glass from the small, insignificant hole.
'Curtis,' I yell at him. A quick glance at him; he is leaning out the window, firing behind us wildly. 'Curtis!'
He glances at me. 'What?' he screams over the roaring of engine and air.
I take my eyes off the road momentarily again, 'The windscreen!'
I see him turn his attention to the still creeping web of cracking glass, before I give my full attention to the truck that is looming very quickly toward us.
Curtis leans toward me and yells, 'Eyes!'
He fires his gun twice, it's a lot louder being fired inside the car. Glass explodes into the car, and I barely close my eyes in time.
It's always amazed me how quickly your body can react when it really needs to. Plenty of times I've been chopping wood, using power tools or just smashing shit and that little bit of whatever flies towards your eye, faster than you can see, but your eye reacts and closes its lids and you feel that piece of wood or metal, or in this case glass, bounce off your eyelid. And sure, it might fucking hurt and draw blood, but you're not blind and that's the main thing.
I open my eyes as quickly as I'd closed them, we are travelling at excessive speed down a busy main road; the windscreen is no longer screening the wind. A big jagged hole is where most of the glass had been. The wipers are hanging inside the car, jiggling pointlessly around.
'They're catching us man!'
Another glance at Curtis, he is back leaning out the passenger window, firing his gun at the gaining goons. I can't believe he still has bullets, he must be getting low.
I hear him curse loudly, another quick look and he's sitting, facing front, the gun clicking uselessly as he pulls the trigger.
'I'm out! Gimme yours!'
I'd thrown it somewhere when I'd gotten behind the wheel, I'm pretty sure it's on the back seat. I tell him so. The .45 is in my pocket, totally forgotten. I mean, my full attention is concentrated on getting away, and trying to avoid crashing and mowing down innocent pedestrians. I swear there is never usually this many people out on the streets at any other time. But maybe they think a movie is being shot and we are part of some Hollywood A-list. I've been told I look a little like Keanu Reeves. This is nothing like the movies though, there'd be more blood for one thing, more explosions, and we'd be spouting smart one-liners.
'Where the fuck is it!?' Curtis' voice is hard to hear over the noise of roaring engine and rushing air; and because his ass is close to my face and his face is close to my ass.
'I dunno! I threw it somewhere!'
Then I remember the .45.
'It's not in the back, man,' Curtis says into my ear as he rights himself.
I tug the gun from my pocket, pulling the inner lining of my pocket out with it. The soft fabric is caught on some part of the gun. I can feel it tugging at my pants each time I try to pull it away. I don't have time to look at the situation. So I tug, harder and harder. I can feel my pants twisting around slightly on my waist. But the bastard thing won't come away.
One big yank, and cloth separates from metal. My elbow hits something soft and a little crunchy.
I hear a loud yelp.
A glance to my right. Curtis is beside me holding his face in his hands, blood is flowing from between his fingers.
'My fuggin' nose! You broag my fuggin' nose! You fuggin' gunt!'
'Holy shit Curtis, shit, shit!' My attention is on him now, the road ahead momentarily forgotten.
The thing with driving, most of it is automatic. I mean, plenty of times I'll drive somewhere, then be like, how the fuck did I get here? I don't remember anything that has happened between here and there. It can be real freaky sometimes. But I think your body knows. It's kind of like an auto-pilot. And now my auto-pilot kicks in. And my foot backs off the accelerator, just a little, but it's enough.
'Fuck man,' I say, 'fuck, I'm sorry. The gun, you know. The gun, man! I didn't mean to.'
Curtis removes his hands from his face. It's a bloody mess. And the red stuff is still flowing like a swollen river from his nose.
'You fuggin' mor–' His eyes go wide at whatever is happening behind my head; beyond the drivers side door. 'Shiii–!'
I turn to look.
I swear on the almighty $100 bill, that I see the bullet go past my eyes; feel it brush against my face, disturbing the fine blond hairs; pulling gently at my skin with its trail of turbulence.
I don't see it hit Curtis though.
My attention is now on the SUV that appears beside us. Before I know what I'm doing, the .45 is pointing at the big black vehicle, my thumb strokes the safety, my finger curls around the trigger, applying even pressure; the gun goes off, jerking my hand back slightly against my tight, anticipating arm muscles.
I'm not sure if it is the Lincoln that swerves or the SUV. Or maybe it's both of us.
Luckily, the traffic around us in this part of the city has thinned down a lot. As has the pedestrian traffic on the sidewalk. Lucky, because there is suddenly a car right in front of us.
It is also lucky that we have slowed down a little. My foot stamps the brake and I throw the wheel over to my right. We enter a sideways slide, the car in front getting closer by the second.
All of the luck doesn't finish there.
The goons in the SUV decide at that very instance to open fire with some sort of assault rifle. A barrage of bullets thuds against the innocent car that ours is quickly sliding towards.
I stamp on the gas. The poor old ponies beneath the hood thump against the bonnet and the wheels squeal loudly, trying to get a purchase on the tarmac.
The SUV that was beside us, now performs a loud 180 brake in the middle of the road, coming around to face us.
The other SUV had been momentarily forgotten.
But it crashes back to my awareness as its bumper collides with the rear quarter panel of the Lincoln.
I can feel my car sliding around, the tires still squealing on the black tar. But, whether or not it is because of the SUV's impact, the tires finally dig into the road and we lurch forward with such ferocity that I feel myself pushed back into my seat.
I don't know how close they are behind us, or if they even are.
'Curtis! Where are they?'
Nothing.
'Curtis! Are they close.'
I glance over at him. He is leaning against the passenger door. So much blood has run down his face, his shirt is soaked through all down the front.
'Curtis!'
Another glance. He hasn't moved. He isn't moving.
'Curtis?'
Then, another look. I see the hole. Perfect and so small. It's just above his battered nose, like a third eye.
And I see the mess, that is probably his brains, spattered a little on the Lincoln's interior, most of it on the seat, dribbling down it.
'Curtis?' I know he's not going to answer, but it's an automatic response when your best friend has had his brains blown out beside you.
The car chase is momentarily forgotten as grief for my friend wells up. But then anger rears up, it's big ugly red head clouding my vision and decisions.
My foot slams the brake pedal to the floor.
The Lincoln enters a screeching slide down the narrow street. Nothing is going through my head but the death of the man beside me. I don't even really hear the wailing scream of protesting rubber.
One of the SUV's must have been pretty close on my tail. He crashes into me at speed, bumping the Lincoln forward, pushing it over to the right. It ricochets off and to the left, slamming into a buildings brick siding. I feel the thump it makes, deep in my chest.
I'm sat, with my dead partner beside me, in a car that's less car and more bullet holes, half on a thin side walk down an empty side street; there's an SUV joined to a wall via a crumpled front end. A horn is constantly blaring. A fine bell is constantly ringing in my ears.
It feels like I'm watching this, not a part of it.
I'm still holding the gun in my hands.
And I think I can softly hear sirens somewhere in the distance.
I finally start to really take in the scene around me. The SUV against the wall is billowing great clouds of, I assume, steam. One of the rear doors opens and a goon staggers from it; dressed in a nice fitting suit, the perfect attire for furious car chases!
I see him see me.
I see him lift his arm, and I see a gun in his hand.
I see a red patch suddenly appear on his white shirt as I hear a loud pop, and he drops forward, face planting the ground.
And I see my arm extended before me, the .45 gripped tight in my fist, smoke still slightly wisping from the barrel.
I've never killed a man before. But I don't have time to reflect. The other SUV is hurtling down the empty street toward me.
Fight or flight. Or freeze; and die.
Another glance at Curtis. I know what he'd do.
I'm out of the car before I realise it. My feet are shoulder width apart, my knees slightly bent, my arms are out straight, elbows locked, making a triangle from gun to shoulders; just like my daddy taught me many years ago.
'Now son,' he'd say, 'Many factors come into shooting a gun well. Grip, aiming, breathing, holding, trigger control and follow through. But the key factor, and this is in all aspects of life as well as shooting, is having both feet planted firmly on the ground. That's good, that's good, son. Now breathe. In. And as you let it out, start pulling the trigger, firm and steady. Out.'
The gun goes off. And I see the bullet is right on target.
The SUV that was hurtling toward me, suddenly pulls to my right, the front drivers side tire now just pieces of rubber flapping wildly as the metal rim scrapes along the tarmac.
The driver can't control it at such speed and it smashes into the back of the other, already incapacitated, SUV.
I don't wait around to see the result. I'm back in the Lincoln, foot to the floor, tearing off down the street before I've even closed my door.
I slam her around a corner and I am out of there as quickly as the Lincoln can go.
The sirens I heard before, are definitely closer. I have to lose this beacon of a car.
I try to ignore the lolling body beside me, the head that rolls on the flopping neck with every movement the vehicle makes.
As far as I can see, I have one choice. I have to dump the car and bail on foot. I'm fairly confident the goons are off my trail for the immediate time being.
A thought jumps to the forefront of my skull. Had He been in the SUV? And if so, was He still alive?
If hopes and dreams were peaches and cream...
End of Part I
By J. Barrett
16/05/2013
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