Guess, the future isnít too bright for me. Thatís the feeling you get after you kill someone. Thatís the truth that comes with posting the video on the internet. Best to start from the beginning, I rekon.
Those sleepless nights. Everyone has them. Those nights where you count every damn, fool hour that you have before you have to wake up for good. Oh I still have four hours. Three. Two. And then the alarm goes off and you donít remember falling asleep. Those sleepless nights.
I work about sixty hours a week hauling junk merchandise to places like convenience stores and corporate grocery chains. When your team wins the championships and you buy their hat on impulse, I set up that display. When summer comes around and you need a koozie that says, My Second Car is a Bass Boat, chances are, I handled that merch. Now, I don't often brag, but I've got south Texas on lock. Meaning, I cover more ground in one day than most of my cohorts cover in three. I know what you're thinking, a guy like me, who's admitted to killing, must be popping an upper an hour. Nah. Some of the guys pop Dexies and Adderall and swear by them. This guy? Nope. Just good, clean eating. All my life. Now and then I'll drink one of those energy drinks that promise to give you wings and shit. You can see how running on two hours of sleep might affect a person with a job like mine. Man, I'm horrible at telling a story. Always have been.
Let's talk about women. Nah, fuck that! Let's talk about the no good, untrustworthy, cooz that got me into this bull shit. I normally don't talk like that about women, but Darnella ended being the fang of the serpent. If I were better at telling stories Iíd probably go right into telling you why Darnella was the way she was. I think maybe itís best to tell you a little bit about my dad.
I wish I could say, once upon a time. But thatís not so. My dad was the spitting image of his father, who was straight off the assembly line of Laroux men, himself. When I came along as the first born, my pop expected me to come out looking factory made like the rest of them. From hair to heel. When I came out with the soft, beautiful features of my mother, I think it threatened his leathery sensibility. Dad could be cruel but had a fairness about him.
Boy...when I told him I was gay, he lit me up something fierce. Iím talking Chinese New Year.
Iíd seen him have a go at my mom and my siblings and I had were no strangers to the end of his belt buckle . That was nothing. He cracked me with the handle of a post hole digger. That didnít hurt as bad as those hammers he had for fists, though. He was out for blood, boy. And he got it. He just kept beating on me and beating on me. After he tired, mom jumped in and shielded me. He cooled a little and stormed out like a banshee on bourbon. Later that night, he came back drunk and tottering. Nothing had ever been louder than the thunder of those work boots approaching my room.
I half expected him to have another go at me. Instead, he came into my room, sat down on the bed and just put his hand on my shoulder. I pretended to be asleep because I thought the worst was coming. That was as much of an apology as I ever got from the old shit. We never talked about it again. I never felt my dad be any more of a son of a bitch to me than he was with my brother and baby sister. But ever since that beating, I have been suppressing the fact that Iím a gay.
Even as an adult, I still hear my fatherís voice. When Iím running merch, he tells me to be faster. Stop being such a soft bellied little bitch. Youíre just like your mother, he says.
Now that you know a little about my pops, I guess you think you know me? Trust this; everything pops did to raise me tough, I worked equally hard not to adopt the same heavy heart that weighed on him like a steel anchor. I admired him for being a man with grit and a straight lined, scruff of the neck, sort of fella. Like I said, he was mean, but fair.
You know what? I canít talk about my dad without telling you about my mom. That woman was always hounding me to just act normal. Whatever in heaven's heights that meant.
I was pretty much your standard kid. Played every sport in high school. Ran with the popular kids. Hell, I was Homecoming King and I even fucked the homecoming queen.
Mom would sneak me extra money sometimes. I think she always felt guilty about that beating I took, because she would take me aside and tell me that I was her favorite and she loved me most. Blood is thicker than whiskey, I guess. My dear old mom was a golf queen and got a full ride to Ole Miss. She could drive the ball farther than most of the guys and would make an extra dime from hustling them on the weekend. Sheíd act drunk and miss the first few swings on purpose. Before the sucker knew it, heíd be out two hundred bucks. This charade would earn her the nickname, Molly Mulligan. Fact is, thatís how mom and dad met. Some chump refused to pay up one night at the range, put his finger on my mom and of course dad wasn't having that. From the story we were told, dad asked the fella twice to kindly honor his bet. When he made the mistake of poking pop, he got his nose broke, his orbital bone smashed and an extra fifty bucks lifted from his wallet. Once they started dating, my dad became what my mom called a, Ďpleasant distraction.í She gave up the golf and followed my dadís promise of taking up my granddaddy's business and the rest, as they say, is history.
Fuck! Enough with the family run down. I could gab all damn day about how my brother is doing some time up in Texarkana for robbing a bank. Well...he created a virus that made the local bankís server run all zeros for just over forty five minutes. It was the equivalent of a carís low fuel light coming on after you had just filled up. He walked right in, faked a fainting spell amongst the chaos and then demanded that they call his attorney. They were so dumbstruck by the virus that they let him walk out with whatever amount he demanded. I canít say the actual amount. The bank was so embarrassed, they refused to press charges. Uncle Sam didnít feel quite the same. They did the pressing. Gave him ten years. Heíll be out in three, though. He smiles when he tells me that the official sentence got botched in transition.
My lil sis is another story. She got strung out on coke for awhile. There was a point where her skin grayed and started to take on those piss stained bed sheet kind of splotches. Which, let me know that coke wasn't the only thing she was forcing upon her body. After being a dumbass for a few years, she finally had an overdose scare and went straight. Left her autistic kid in the care of my mom. Next thing you know, sheís moved in with my grandmother out on the northwest coast. She had become a realtor and a damn good one from what little I would hear.
I guess you could say we were all a bit wild. Problem with domesticating something wild, is that it will always have the tendency to turn on you. Damn it! Thatís how I should have started this story.
Darnella was a beautiful black gal who managed an Exxon in Houston. She was what she called a yella bone even though she was dark as night. When she laughed, it was wide mouthed and a loud siren of a sound. I was jealous of how she could flirt with all the men who came into her store. We became fast friends when I thwarted a robbery at her store and I guess this is where the point of the tale comes in. I was delivering whoopie cushions and magic rings when I witnessed a couple of dipshits sitting in their car, wearing ski masks and hyping each other up. I walked over, slicked my hair back, and told them that the cops had parked on the other side of the building. By the time they circled around and realized Iíd lied, I had Darnella tipped off. She was standing outside waving a phone at them and yelling that she already called the motherfucking police. The passenger fashioned a gun out of his finger and fired an imaginary shot at us.
On her days off, she would ride with me over to Galveston and we'd talk about how music was in a state of suck and about how everything from television to poetry was stuck in an awful, formulaic, nightmare. We agreed that people were getting dumber and the Dr. Spocks of the world had helped to run us all in the negative when it came to accountability. From the White House to the schoolhouse, no one was being raised to be responsible for anything. At least, that was our take on things .
Some days Darnella would make faces at people we passed while jetting down I-45. People respond funny when they see adults acting like children. I have to say that she slowed me down a little, but in a good way. If I wasn't gay, I would have asked her out. I had only been with a couple of girls in my life and it's like anything else, I suppose. I didn't hate it, I just knew I didn't love it. Honestly, I've never been with a man, so I have no idea if I'd even like that.
Darnella knew I was homosexual and would tease me about being the butchiest fag she ever knew. She made fun of my slick, nineteen fifties hair style. Everything from my black jeans to my prescription wayfarer glasses, she would poke fun at. I tried schooling her, telling her that saying fag was just as bad as my saying, nigger. She said, bitch I donít care if you call me a nigger as long as you donít mind gettin yo ass whooped! Then she laughed her laugh and expressed her love for me. Things were always pretty good between her and I. In fact, between her and I, there was always the unspoken question of just what our relationship could become, if anything? And we liked it that way. Things always seemed fresh.
Now, what is the point of me telling this story? I read somewhere once that when the Samurai knew they werenít going to return from battle, they would write a quick story about their life, followed by an apology for not being a better warrior. Well, Iím not going to apologize. Not yet. You see, karma works both ways and when I lied to them fellas that were about to rob Darnella, they decided that I had dishonored them.
Ended up that they were pledges earning a way into the Mexican mafia. When I stymied them, they went back and took a hefty beating. Not that I gave a shit. Fuck Ďem.
Thing about the Mexican mafia is that they see their grudges to the grave. Once you get on their radar, there's no getting off until they slaughter everyone at your funeral. I wish I could say this ends romantically. I wish I could say that Darnella didnít rat me out to save herself. Heaven above, I wish I could say that I just walked away from it all.
What do you get when two fuck ups, sent to make a statement out of you, find themselves beaten and tied in the back of your Sprinter? Now, add me into the equation running on two hours of sleep. These idiots waited for me to make my delivery to Darnellaís store. I was early as usual and stuck in traffic on the damn access road. Whatís funny, is I saw them sitting there long before I could pull in. They were in the same beat up, long body lincoln that they were sitting in the first day I saw them. Iím not sure how long I was sitting there but everything slowed down when I saw Darnella walk outside.
At first, there was worry.
Then there was confusion.
Finally, there was anger.
She was talking to them and I couldnít, for the life of Christ, figure out why. All sorts of things came to mind. I would have carried on thinking that they were just there to try and rob the place again, if it wasnít for seeing that. Luckily, they were parked with one side of their hoopty close to the ice box, which allowed for me to box them in as I finally pulled up to the store. I donít think the numb nuts even realized it was me as I walked into the store to get some details from Darnella. She stared at me as if I were already a ghost.
It didnít take her long to tell me she had sold me out to the eses to save her own skin. She told them my delivery time and now they were waiting for me outside. Stupid girl had no clue that they were waiting for the chance to kill us both. Giving one last cold look her way, I headed out to sculpt a fate less desired. Not even looking at the dipshits still stuck in the car, I walked over to the driverís side door of my truck. In my travels, Iíve learned that only a fool goes at the road unarmed. As I un-holstered it, the chrome of my forty four glistened softly in the early morning sun.
As these fellas saw me approach the front of the Lincoln, their eyes got wide and I yelled to see their hands. They were as scared as I was, but at that moment I heard my dad loud and clear. You soft belly! You better not give up the gristle, boy!
Pull the car forward you morons, I instructed. Idiots didnít think to do that earlier. As I instructed them out, I hit the driver over the head and watched him crumple like one of those inflatable tube men. It was the other guys job to lift him into the back of the truck where I was hauling sunglasses and beach balls. I tied them with nylon rope, which is not the best to tie people up with, but it's all I had.
I would drive them to an old limestone quarry in the rural area of San Marcos. Few years back, the boys mafia pals had stabbed a federal informant sixty three times and dumped him there. They sent the poor bastards eyes to his family. It was only fitting that I send a similar message.
Once we stopped and I opened up the truck doors, one of those poor bastards had pissed himself. After they botched the first robbery, they had probably seen this side of Hell when there buddies went to work on their soft tissues. Normally, I don't subscribe to violent tendencies, but like they say, justice is blind and this was one moment that I wish I could have turned a blind eye. But seeing how these wanna-be thugs were going to send me to audition for the Lord's choir, I indulged.
To look at them, they had to be cousins. I guess in a scientific, theoretical way, we are all cousins of the same murky, mud water, gene pool. Their eyes were the same half moon shape and they both had the same gnarled and protruding front teeth. Smoke stained chips of bone that would reach out for me as they screamed profanities in spanish. Itís hard to pin just when I flipped, but I guess it was somewhere after they promised me that my entire family was going to die.
Fucked up as we are, for good or bad, my family and I learned to stick together so that we could fend off the manic episodes of our patriarch. We never allowed anyone else to fuck with us. Ever.
I reached into my pockets and pulled out my cell phone and a box cutter. Using my phoneís camera, I started filming. It wasnít nice what I did next. Grabbing the son of a bitch that pissed himself, I went to work on ridding him of his eyelids.
He bled more than I expected. Luckily, he could still see, which is what I wanted. The grunts and words that came out of him were muddled and unintelligible by the froth that built up from what might have been shock. Spurtive, gurgles like those of mad man.
Both of them were tied execution style. Hands behind their backs and cinched to bound, bare feet. When I flashed the blade at the other asshole, his macho threats ceased and became the sad pleas of a child. Iíll give you whatever you want, he promised.
You bet youíll give me what I want, I thought. It took me a minute, but I shimmied his khakis down around his ankles. Belly to the floor, I pressed the blade up to his nuts. With the camera in front of him, I made him denounce his precious mafia pals. The things I made him say, even if they could tell he was being forced, would be enough to get him, his friends and family erased from existence.
With the tip of the blade, I gently cut his taint. Nothing deep. Just a hairline cut from sack too ass. I had to put the knife to his throat to get him calm.
Donít you dare give up the gristle, boy!
I pulled my dick out of my work jeans. Cut the rope that connected his hands and feet. With the box cutter to pressed firm to his throat, I swiped my stiff pecker over his bloody perineum and shoved it into his asshole so hard he damn near bit off his tongue.
I pumped and pumped and pumped. If I had to put money on it, I couldnít tell you what was more upsetting; the fact that they were going to kill me had I not brought this upon them, or the awful truth that they had forced me to give up what I had suppressed for so long. And after so long, I was enjoying it.
All at once it didnít matter. I felt all of the years of pain and hurt and confusion, release deep inside of him. This was my mecca. This moment. And I cut its throat. His body died beneath me.
Stuffing my limp gear back into my pants, I shifted attention to the other. I hoped by cutting his eyelids off, that he would have been forced to watch the whole thing, but this wasnít a movie and real life has a strange way of blurring a fantasy. He was passed out when I put the barrel of my .44 to his temple. Hundreds of rounds fired at paper targets and beer cans never felt as good as that single squeeze of the trigger.
The truck would be their tomb, as I closed them inside. I fell to my knees, still lit in fervor from that emotional transition that follows orgasm. Turning the camera-phone on myself, I immediately felt the fuzzy mental awareness that comes with lack of sleep, slowly creeping in. I began to talk.
Well, if I had to pick a day to die, I guess this is as good a day as any. Every man deserves a death of his own choosing. Itís just right that I go out on my own terms rather than letting others decide for me. You see, this video is for those of us that never had a chance from the gate. The eternal underdogs.
Here I sit upon my knees as a man who happened upon troubles with the Mexican Mafia. So here it is. Here we are. And I say, fuck you!
When the Samurai accepted defeat, instead of letting the enemy kill them, they would ritualistically commit what they called, Seppuku. From their knees, they would drive a sword right into their gut and twist. Well, I'm not going to go on all day. What do you say we just get this over with.
Keeping the phone trained on my face, I put my pistol to my stomach. Without flinching, I took a slug to the belly.
Itís a funny thing, dying. Nothing romantic, thatís for sure. Almost a let down. I made sure I allowed myself time to post my video to Youtube; then I just sat there and listened to my surroundings. Listened to my thoughts.
What came to mind was that artist fella, Andy Warhol. He had the delicate insight to see that everyone in the future would have the capacity to claim fifteen minutes of fame. I always pictured that he was talking about the common man.
In this quiet moment, I knew that, with all of his brilliance, Warhol never could have foreseen this average Joe, achieving eternity.