Fraudulent use of a credit card.
Wednesday, March 30, 2011
Monday, March 28, 2011
Battery by Strangulation
Full list of charges:
1. Battery by strangulation (domestic).
2. Burglary to occupied dwelling w battery.
3. Burglary to occupied residence.
4. Throw a deadly missile.
5. Trespass after warning.
Sunday, March 27, 2011
Make My Dog Happy
I decided to make my dog happy.
I took all of the food out of the fridge. One item at a time.
Pickles. Sliced ham. A loaf of bread. Mustard. Ketchup. Salsa.
I dumped it all on the floor. My dog ate and ate and ate.
He threw up. Then he ate the throw up.
His tail wagged like a helicopter propeller the whole time.
I think it was the best day in his whole life. He'll remember it forever.
It's easy to make a dog happy.
What can I dump on the floor to make me happy?
I took all of the food out of the fridge. One item at a time.
Pickles. Sliced ham. A loaf of bread. Mustard. Ketchup. Salsa.
I dumped it all on the floor. My dog ate and ate and ate.
He threw up. Then he ate the throw up.
His tail wagged like a helicopter propeller the whole time.
I think it was the best day in his whole life. He'll remember it forever.
It's easy to make a dog happy.
What can I dump on the floor to make me happy?
Friday, March 25, 2011
Thursday, March 24, 2011
An Army of Monkeys
I’m going to get an army of rabid monkeys and train them to attack children.
You see, when I was a kid, there was nothing to do.
We’d spend hot summer days, sitting around, bored, complaining.
What we needed is an army of crazed monkeys, armed with sharpened sticks, intent on murdering us.
It’s just this sort of thing that brings meaning to the lives of children.
I’ll unleash my monkeys on the hottest summer day.
The kids will scream and cry, running for their lives.
But eventually the children will get organized, form little armies, fight back, learn discipline.
No need to thank me, everyone. I did it for the children.
Those annoying, little fuckers.
You see, when I was a kid, there was nothing to do.
We’d spend hot summer days, sitting around, bored, complaining.
What we needed is an army of crazed monkeys, armed with sharpened sticks, intent on murdering us.
It’s just this sort of thing that brings meaning to the lives of children.
I’ll unleash my monkeys on the hottest summer day.
The kids will scream and cry, running for their lives.
But eventually the children will get organized, form little armies, fight back, learn discipline.
No need to thank me, everyone. I did it for the children.
Those annoying, little fuckers.
Wednesday, March 23, 2011
Tuesday, March 22, 2011
Monday, March 21, 2011
Sunday, March 20, 2011
What's the story?
I wish I knew more details about this guy and his charges. That's why mugshots are so fascinating. They only tell you so much.
Stab A Nun In The Face
(Or how I turned a massive blank canvas into a neon sign from Hell.)
I bought myself a huge blank canvas.
We're talking 3 feet by 5 feet, or something like that. Then I wrote the words "STAB A NUN IN THE FACE" on it in pencil. Then I did it in marker.
Dividing the canvas into four, I filled in some colour. And funked up the letters with a zipper pattern.
Now what? Hmm. How about complex dots and outlining?
Too busy. Let's punch that background back a little with some washes.
You know what? The letters need to pop more. Let's outline them in white.
Okay. Now we're getting somewhere. Jazz it up a little with dark lines and such.
That white might need some colour. And white dots.
And let's attack it all with pastels. And cover it in two layers of shiny glaze. And you get the final result. (Shot in a slightly different light.)
Here's a closer shot of the finished product.
Give me a lot of money and you can have this painting to hang over your bed and frighten people.
I bought myself a huge blank canvas.
We're talking 3 feet by 5 feet, or something like that. Then I wrote the words "STAB A NUN IN THE FACE" on it in pencil. Then I did it in marker.
Dividing the canvas into four, I filled in some colour. And funked up the letters with a zipper pattern.
Now what? Hmm. How about complex dots and outlining?
Too busy. Let's punch that background back a little with some washes.
You know what? The letters need to pop more. Let's outline them in white.
Okay. Now we're getting somewhere. Jazz it up a little with dark lines and such.
That white might need some colour. And white dots.
And let's attack it all with pastels. And cover it in two layers of shiny glaze. And you get the final result. (Shot in a slightly different light.)
Here's a closer shot of the finished product.
Give me a lot of money and you can have this painting to hang over your bed and frighten people.
Saturday, March 19, 2011
Friday, March 18, 2011
Cocaine
This man was arrested twice this week. Here's his first mugshot.
And here's his second one.
He was arrested for the same thing, both times.
And here's his second one.
He was arrested for the same thing, both times.
Thursday, March 17, 2011
Wednesday, March 16, 2011
Monday, March 14, 2011
Poop Dinosaur
I pooped a dinosaur today. It looked at me, up out of the water. It roared.
I called him the pooposaurus. I phoned the Smithsonian. They sent scientists over.
The scientists studied it. Then they went off and discussed their findings.
The head scientist came up to me and said:
“For this discovery, we award you the Nobel Prize of Awesomeness.”
He handed me a tinfoil medal and a Starbucks card worth $15.
Next week, I’m going to be on The View with my pooposaurus.
I hope it bites Whoopi Goldberg on the ass.
I called him the pooposaurus. I phoned the Smithsonian. They sent scientists over.
The scientists studied it. Then they went off and discussed their findings.
The head scientist came up to me and said:
“For this discovery, we award you the Nobel Prize of Awesomeness.”
He handed me a tinfoil medal and a Starbucks card worth $15.
Next week, I’m going to be on The View with my pooposaurus.
I hope it bites Whoopi Goldberg on the ass.
Tuesday, March 08, 2011
The Father, The Son, and Something In Between
Another story in my Derek Kills People series.
Previously:
1. My Knife Can Cut
2. Strangled Sunlight
3. On The Moon
4. The Hitman's Holiday
And now, part 5...
The Father, The Son, And Something In Between
I’m at the grocery store checkout line. It’s busy. I’m half awake, staring at tabloid covers. Then this man catches my attention.
He’s in line, in front of me. And he’s an asshole. It’s obvious. He holds his head at an angle. He smiles at people with a sneer. He’s maybe thirty. Soft and blurry looking. Almost smeared. Out of focus.
He’s at the cash, paying. The clerk working the cash is wearing a name tag. “Richard.” The asshole thinks the name tag is funny.
“How are you today, Richard?” he asks, being snotty. “Everything going okay, Richard?”
Each “Richard” is a little slap to the face. Richard, the clerk, is a kid. Maybe twenty. Bad acne. He mumbles something. He avoids eye contact.
The asshole grabs his two bags of groceries. “Have a good day, Richard,” he says, and leaves.
Richard looks angry for a second. Humiliated. Furious. He hates himself. He hates his job. Then the look is gone. Richard has shut off his feelings. He’s a machine.
He processes my groceries.
“Thanks,” I say.
“Have a nice day,” Richard says. His voice is robotic. He avoids eye contact. Unfeeling. Blank. Loathing himself.
Richard, I think. I’m sorry. I’m sorry you have to shut down like that. I know how you feel. I was shut down for a long time. Not anymore.
I catch up with the man, the asshole. He’s walking down the street. I follow him. Both of us carrying groceries. I’m not big. Bald. Glasses. No one ever notices me. No one ever considers me a threat. I am invisible.
What am I doing? Do I want to kill this guy? For being a jerk? Revenge for a grocery store nobody? Seems extreme. What am I? The politeness vigilante? The guy could just be having a bad day.
Still, I’m intrigued. I decide to go with it. Follow my hunch. Why not? I’m an unemployed hitman. Nothing else to do.
There’s an apartment building a block away. Some kind of condo. The man goes inside. I go in behind him. The man unlocks the inner door. He goes in, not looking back. I catch the door before it closes. Before it can lock. I slip in after him. The man gets in the elevator. I get in with him. Just the two of us. The man pushes the five button. I lean forward, push the same button. Even though it’s lit. The blurry man doesn’t like that. He glances at me. His face tense. The flick of his angry eyes evaluate me. His face goes slack. I have been judged. Dismissed. Forgotten.
The man stares straight ahead. Elevator etiquette. I stare at his chubby neck. I like to strangle people. I could kill him right now, I think. Drop my groceries and kill. But I don’t.
“Nice day,” I suggest to him. “Warm.”
The man doesn’t look at me. He grunts.
End of conversation.
He gets off the elevator. Turns right. I stay back. I feel around in my pockets for imaginary keys. He doesn’t look back at me. He goes into his condo. The door closes, locks. 506.
See you later, asshole.
***
The next day. Early morning. There’s a coffee shop across from the man’s condo. I sit in the window. I ignore my coffee. I watch. Most people leave for work between seven and eight. The man doesn’t disappoint. I see him leave. Dressed the same as yesterday. More or less. Wearing a backpack.
I get into the building the same way as last time. All I have to do is wait. Someone leaves. I grab the door before it closes. Downtown people are always in a rush. They run through doors. They don’t look back.
The lock on 506 is easy. I have it open in ten seconds. Inside, a posh apartment. Not kept up. Dirty. Books everywhere. Crap novels. Mostly pulp horror junk. Looks like a kid pretending to be an adult. Someone who never learned to take care of his toys. Expensive couch and chairs. Wood floors with arty throw rugs. A table. Some mail.
I pick up an envelope. Richard Jamieson. The asshole is named Richard. Just like the grocery store clerk.
I say it out loud, to myself: “How are you today, Richard? Everything going okay, Richard? Have a good day, Richard.”
The asshole said it with such disdain. Disgust. Each “Richard” a little slap to the face. The man wasn’t making fun of the grocery store Richard. He was mocking himself – Richard Jamieson. Slapping himself. Interesting.
I don’t get any time to think about this. Someone starts pounding on the door. Not knocking, pounding.
“Richard, Richard, I know you’re in there! You no good bum! You louse! Open the door, goddamn it! Open up!”
An older man’s voice. Angry. Gravelly.
Did I lock the door behind me? I rush over to check. My feet make no noise. Yes. Locked.
“Open up, Richard! I know you’re not at work. They called me. I get you a good job. What do you do? Throw it away! I’m sick of carrying your weight! You start paying me rent, or you’re out! I don’t care if you’re my son!”
I could wait him out. I’m patient. But the man irritates me. His voice. His lack of respect for the neighbours. Plus maybe I could kill him. I’m still looking for a candidate.
I walk over to the door. Why not? When opportunity pounds…
I open the door. “Hello.”
The man is short, gray hair. He’s wearing a red bathrobe. His belly is huge. The bathrobe is too small. Hardly closes. He’s wearing boxers and a white t-shirt underneath. Bare feet. The toenails are yellow. His face is all angry wrinkles. He smells sour. On his hands are four or five ugly gold rings.
“Who the fuck are you?” he asks.
“A friend of Richard,” I say. “You must be Mr. Jamieson.”
The last name off the mail. It seems like a safe bet.
I motion for him to come in. He rushes in like he owns the place. And I suppose he does.
“A friend of Richard?” Jamieson says. “Richard doesn’t have any friends.”
“Then I probably shouldn’t be here.”
“Where’s Richard? Where is he?”
“He went out. I thought he went to work.”
“Yeah?” Jamieson says. “Well, let me tell you something. He hasn’t gone to work in three days. I pull strings. I get him a decent job. What does he do? He fucks it up. That’s what he does. Doesn’t show. Embarrasses me. Ruins my good name.”
I make a sympathetic clucking sound.
Jamieson sits in an armchair. Seems he’ll be staying a while. I sit on the couch across from him.
“So who are you?” Jamieson demands. “A friend? What kind of friend? What’s your name?”
“Derek,” I say. I lean forward, offer my hand. Jamieson shakes it strangely. He clutches it like a life preserver. Then he throws it away.
“I don’t know you,” Jamieson says. It’s a statement, but also a question.
“We’ve never met before.”
“What are you doing here?”
“I’m not really sure. I guess I’m trying to figure myself out.”
Jamieson stares at me. Evaluating me. “You’re being funny?” he says. More question than statement.
“Maybe a little,” I say. “I’m going through something. It’s hard to explain. I’m here to… figure out what I want. Who I am.”
“Finding yourself?” Jamieson asks. His voice thick with sarcasm.
I feel my body tense. My face narrows. “Something like that,” I say. “I quit my job. I’m trying to decide what to do next.”
“Jesus Christ,” Jamieson says. “You sound like my idiot son. You quit your job? And he’s letting you stay here? Christ all mighty. Two peas in a fucking pod. Listen. Let me save you some goddamn time. There’s no self to find. Just do your work. Keep your head down. All that feeling shit. It’s garbage. People today are so…”
He has no word. He waves a hand in the air. He looks to me for a word. I don’t help him. I let him hang there. I stare blankly at him. Jamieson’s hand falls into his lap. The silence is uncomfortable. For him, anyway. I own the silence.
“Find yourself?” he finally blurts out. “That’s bullshit. No… It’s fucking bullshit. Quit your job? A man is his work.”
“What do you do for a living?” I ask.
“I’m retired,” he says. “I own property.”
“That’s not work.”
He shrugs. “No, it’s not.”
Jamieson pauses, sizing me up. Something changes. The air in the room goes cold. He sees something in me. A strange smile comes on to his face. Naughty. But darker than naughty. Hinting at something evil. Jamieson mimes looking around the room. Nobody there. Just him and me. He shrugs again. The smile grows a little.
“I used to work for the mob,” he says. Bragging.
I don’t say anything. I keep my face blank.
“You don’t believe me,” he says. “I used to be called The Executioner. Do you know why they call me that?”
“Yes,” I say. I know exactly who The Executioner is. Before my time. But I know the stories.
“What?”
“Yes, I know why they call you The Executioner.”
“Okay, so tell me.”
“On New Year’s Eve, about twenty years ago, you killed five wise guys with a fire axe. They were informants. I heard something about it.”
The man smiles, raises his eyebrows. “Do you know me?”
“I know your line of work.”
“Oh?” he says. He gives me a long, penetrating look. “Derek,” he says, like he’s tasting my name. Trying to place the flavour.
“They didn’t call me anything,” I say. “Just Derek. Because I’m not flashy. Or loud.”
Jamieson snorts a brief laugh. Then he’s serious again. Ice.
“What are you doing in my son’s apartment, Derek? Are you trying to get close to me? Did someone send you?”
“I quit my job,” I remind him.
“I was lucky to retire. No one ever quits.”
“So they told me.”
Jamieson leans back. Puts a hand to his chin. “There’s probably a price on your head. If you walked away.”
“Ten thousand, last time I checked.”
The man laughs. “Is that all?”
“So far. I only left last week. Time goes on, the price goes up.”
“Right.”
Jamieson stares at me. He strokes his chin. His eyes take on a sleepy look. He’s thinking the way a lizard thinks. His body cools, goes still. His brain leaps into action.
“You’re trying to find yourself?” he asks. This time, he says it without sneering. “What’s that about?”
I want to tell him. He’s one of the few people who could understand. He’s been there. But I hesitate. I don’t know if I can trust him.
He sees my hesitation. He nods, looks away. He starts to talk, slowly. Carefully.
“People see movies. They think, you kill, you go home, you forget. Maybe the first one is hard. They’ll allow you that. The first time, you throw up or shit your pants. They figure, it’s like being a butcher. Eventually, you forget that they’re animals. It’s just meat you’re cutting up. It’s not killing. It’s putting them to sleep. Bullshit like that. What people don’t know is that murder is wrong. Not just wrong, morally. Not just ethically. It goes against the flow of the universe. Murder isn’t supposed to happen. When you kill… You push God out of the way. You say, ‘I know better than you, God. I’m going to take care of this one. I’ve decided what happens, here. Fuck off, God.’ You get me?”
“I don’t believe in god,” I say.
He waves away my objection. “Shut up,” he says. He pauses, cracks his knuckles. He’s getting into it.
“So why do it, if it’s wrong?” he continues. “Why play God? Why Kill? Because it feels good. It feels like it accomplishes something. You see someone you don’t like. You erase them. You delete them. Repress them. And you did that. With a gun, with an axe?”
He looks down at my hands. He smiles. He sees my hands, as though for the first time. He sees what they can do. I feel a strange urge to hide them behind my back.
“With your hands? You think you kill with your hands?” Jamieson asks. “No. With willpower. You made them disappear with an act of will. You pushed God out of the way, became God, and erased a person from the universe.”
He claps his hands together, crushing an imaginary bug. Then pulls his hands apart. Revealing nothing.
“Only, what was that bug for?” he asks. “What was it supposed to do? You’ve tampered with the universe. You’ve taken a cog out of the machine. There’s a lack, now. The machine is slightly less efficient. Oh, it will still work. God builds a lot of redundancies into the universe. But it won’t work as well. Just a little less efficient. And it’s your fault. And how many cogs have you removed? Dozens, maybe?”
I shrug. “Maybe. I try not to keep score.”
“Each cog removed creates a blank. And that blank wraps itself around you. You become blank. No longer in the universe. No longer a part of the machine. Outside looking in. Apart. Lost. You become like a God no one knows about. That no one worships. The blank. It’s a sickness. It’s vile. It’s a living death. Do you understand what I’m saying?”
“It’s not like that,” I say. “Not for me.”
Jamieson leans forward and stares into me. That’s how it feels. His eyes. Big, bloodshot. Digging through my face. Into my brain. He sees something in me. I don’t know what. He leans back in his chair. He puts his hands on his big belly.
“It’s like that for you,” he says gravely. “It’s like that for everyone. Don’t kid yourself. You don’t believe in god because you think you are god.”
I start to say, “I’m different.”
There’s a sound at the door. Keys in a lock. The door opens, and in steps Richard. The blurry asshole. He looks at us, startled.
“Dad,” he says, surprised, irritated. “What are you doing here? Who’s this guy?”
Jamieson doesn’t move. Doesn’t look away from me. He smiles slightly. If he’s surprised Richard doesn’t know me, he doesn’t show it.
“This is Derek,” Jamieson says. “He’s a friend of mine. From the old days. We just happened to run into each other. Quite a bit of luck, actually.”
There’s a pause.
“Okay,” Richard says, confused. He wants to ask what we’re doing there. In his condo. But he hesitates. He’s supposed to be at work, after all.
“Derek is going to do a job for me,” Jamieson says. He keeps staring at me. “And I wanted him to meet you.”
Richard walks over to me. I stand up. We shake hands. His palm is wet, fingers are shaky. I sit back down on the couch. Richard sits next to me. He still looks confused.
“You didn’t go to work today,” Jamieson says to his son. “You haven’t gone for three days.”
A gush of excuses: “I was just out for breakfast. I mean, I was going to tell you, dad. About the job. It’s just…”
“It’s okay,” Jamieson says, stopping the flow. “You didn’t like the work. Office stuff. Not for you. I know the drill.”
Richard was ready for a fight. All puffed up. His father’s words deflate him. Now he doesn’t know what to say. A little kid.
Jamieson finally turns away from me. He looks at his son. He smiles.
“It’s okay,” he says again. “I’m thinking of some other way… Some way to fix you. Straighten you out once and for all.”
Richard doesn’t want to have an argument in front of me, a stranger. But he can’t stop himself.
“Dad, there’s nothing wrong with me. I don’t need fixing.”
“Then maybe there’s something wrong with the universe. Because you appear to be a cog the machine does not need.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Nothing. Nothing. I’m sorry. Your old man is just being silly.” Turning back to me, Jamieson smiles. “So, Derek. Do you want the job?”
I pause. I look at Richard. I look at Jamieson, his father.
“What’s it pay?” I ask.
“Five?” Jamieson suggests.
“Seven,” I counter, automatically. Seven grand was my going rate. Before I quit.
“Seven? I could do that. Sure. You know I’d do the work myself, but…” He spreads his hands in an apologetic wave. “I’m sentimental.”
And his smile broadens. He’s enjoying this. Planning his son’s murder. Right in front of his son. With his son none the wiser.
I suddenly feel a little sick. My stomach hurts. This isn’t sitting right. I don’t know why, exactly. I’ve been in worse situations. Uglier ones.
“Are you okay?” Jamieson asks me. “You look a little… blank.”
“I’m fine,” I say.
“I was thinking you could do the work tonight,” Jamieson says. “You don’t mind, do you? Such short notice?”
I’m sweating. I can feel it in my armpits. I look at Richard. Next to me on the couch. He’s staring at me, confused. A dumb little kid. Living off his father’s money. No idea what his father did for a living. Richard hates himself. Hates his life.
Father and son, I think. Father and son.
“Tonight?” I hear myself say.
“Only if you’re free,” Jamieson says. “I’ll be busy, myself. At a poker game. Lots of friends around. But you don’t need me to supervise your work, do you?”
“What is this?” Richard asks. He senses something is up. An inside joke he doesn’t get. No idea the joke’s on him. “What’s going on?”
“Nothing, nothing,” his father says. “Just business. Nothing important.”
“I’ll do it,” I say. “Tonight.”
I get to my feet. Jamieson won’t get to me. He won’t push me around.
“Good,” Jamieson says. He also gets to his feet.
Seeing his father stand up, Richard stands up as well. His face still twisted up with confusion.
“You can meet me after,” Jamieson says. “For payment. You know the Elgin Street Diner?”
“Sure.”
“I’ll be there, just after midnight, with my poker buddies. Okay?”
“Fine,” I say.
Without another word, I leave. I take the stairs down. I leave the building.
Jamieson doesn’t think I’ll do it. But I can. I will kill Richard. Jamieson is wrong and I’m right. Or has he just manipulated me into doing what he wants?
***
It’s after midnight. Almost one. I’m across the street from the diner, watching. Jamieson comes out. Surprisingly well dressed, now. Black jacket, very sharp. Dress shirt, no tie. Expensive sneakers. He says goodnight to his friends. Three big guys in suits. They go one way. He goes the other. He starts walking towards his condo apartment. I follow.
I can see him sensing me nearby. A tilt of his head gives it away. He slows down. I catch up.
“Derek,” he says, savouring my name. He knows me, now. He’s checked up on me.
“Mister Jamieson,” I say.
He glances at me as we walk. I’m not sure what gives me away, but he says:
“You didn’t do it.”
“I didn’t do it,” I admit.
“That’s all right. That’s fine. I considered the situation a win-win for me. A sort of bet, really. Heads, I lose an irritating son. Tails, I demonstrate to myself I’m right. My theory. How killing changes a man. It has definitely changed you.”
I don’t say anything. He stares at me, probing. I don’t give him anything.
“Why don’t you come on up to my place?” Jamieson asks. “We can talk about it. Have a drink.”
“Sure,” I say.
I wonder if this is a trap. Jamieson could hand me over to the mob. But I trust him. Our history unites us, somehow. He’s lonely. He thinks we are kindred spirits.
We enter the building. We get in the elevator.
“It’s like a drug,” Jamieson says. “Do you find? I’ve kicked it. I’ve retired. Given up killing. And now there’s a kind of horror. I don’t want to go back. A taste of it would make me an addict again. That one fix would set me on the downward spiral. We have that in common. Junkies who have quit junk.”
We get out on the fourth floor. We walk down the hall.
He has a bachelor unit. Messy. Smaller than his son’s place. Magazines and newspapers everywhere. Floor needs sweeping. Dirty plates on the table near the couch.
“You live alone,” I say.
Jamieson laughs. “Divorced. Fucking bitch. She spoiled Richard. Made him soft. I keep trying to fix him. It’s no good. My wife. My ex-wife. She turned my son against me. I can’t fix it. I keep trying. It’s no good.”
We sit in the living room. He offers me a drink. I take a diet soda. He pours himself a scotch. No ice.
“It sucks,” Jamieson says, sitting back down. “You get old. You feel blank. Missing. Something is missing inside of me. I’m not even sure what it is. All those people we killed. For what? What was the point? That feeling of power. Sure. But what does that get you? What’s it do? What does it accomplish?”
I put my soda on the table. “You keep trying to tell me who I am.”
Jamieson rolls his eyes. “I know who you are. You used to be a hitman. The job got to you. The way it gets to all of us. So you quit.”
“That’s not it.”
“Sure it is!” Jamieson yells. “Come on, man. You can’t fucking lie to me. I know you. I know what you are. I know what you’re like inside.”
I stand up suddenly. Jamieson makes as if to stand. I push on his chest. The fat, old man falls back into his seat. I stand over him. I make sure he doesn’t get back up.
“I didn’t quit the way you quit,” I say. “I didn’t go numb and blank. I quit because I got tired of who I was killing. Losers. Always killing losers. Bums who couldn’t pay their gambling debts. People trying to cheat the system. The boss says, kill this guy. So I kill him. For the good of the syndicate. To make the mob richer. Over and over. There I am. Strangling losers. It got boring. Stupid. Dull. Then, one time, I killed for fun. I killed a whore. Some stripper. I killed her for no reason at all. I killed her for me. And that was it. I couldn’t do the job anymore. I couldn’t just follow orders. Do you understand?”
“But…” Jamieson manages.
“There is no god,” I interrupt. “No pattern to the universe. No order. No grand machinery. There’s just my life. I’ve got two choices. Listen to the boss. Be a good soldier. Follow orders. Or I can do what I want to do. I can make the pattern. Take control. Do what I want. Live my life. So I say, fuck the boss. Fuck orders. Fuck all that bullshit. I kill who I want to kill. Do you understand? I kill who I want to kill. I’m not a hitman. But I’m still a killer.”
Jamieson’s face is white. His eyes are spinning around. Confused, looking for an escape. He thought he knew me. Now he understands he knows nothing.
“You didn’t kill my son,” he says quietly. Almost hopefully.
“Don’t worry. I’m going to kill your son,” I promise him. “He saw us together. But first, I’m going to kill you.”
“What?” he yells. “Why?”
“You’re not going to tell me who I am. Or what to do. Not anymore.”
I lunge forward. My hands go for his throat. There’s a dance to it. I anticipate his movements. He lunges left. I’m already there, waiting for him. His hands come up, to struggle. I put my knee in his stomach. That knocks all the fight out of him.
He used to be a strong man. Big. Now he’s old, and fat, and slow. All his talk of killing being “wrong”. His talk of god. It gives him away. Shows him for what he is. A weakling. Something to be pitied. A man frightened of himself. A shark trying to pass for a dolphin.
His eyes are big and dumb. He looks at me, unbelieving. He thought we were friends. I was the son he never had. And now I’m killing him. And he doesn’t understand why.
No one tells me who I am. No one tells me what to do. Not anymore, old man. Not anymore.
When he’s dead, I search the place. I find the money he promised me. In a dresser drawer. Seven grand. There’s another five grand there. I consider leaving the extra cash. But that’s sentimental bullshit. I take that too. I’m unemployed, after all. Every penny counts.
Later, I go up to the fifth floor. Unit 506. I break into Richard’s apartment. He’s asleep in bed. I start strangling him. He wakes up, and he’s already half dead.
He’s easy to kill. It’s hardly even worth mentioning.
Previously:
1. My Knife Can Cut
2. Strangled Sunlight
3. On The Moon
4. The Hitman's Holiday
And now, part 5...
The Father, The Son, And Something In Between
I’m at the grocery store checkout line. It’s busy. I’m half awake, staring at tabloid covers. Then this man catches my attention.
He’s in line, in front of me. And he’s an asshole. It’s obvious. He holds his head at an angle. He smiles at people with a sneer. He’s maybe thirty. Soft and blurry looking. Almost smeared. Out of focus.
He’s at the cash, paying. The clerk working the cash is wearing a name tag. “Richard.” The asshole thinks the name tag is funny.
“How are you today, Richard?” he asks, being snotty. “Everything going okay, Richard?”
Each “Richard” is a little slap to the face. Richard, the clerk, is a kid. Maybe twenty. Bad acne. He mumbles something. He avoids eye contact.
The asshole grabs his two bags of groceries. “Have a good day, Richard,” he says, and leaves.
Richard looks angry for a second. Humiliated. Furious. He hates himself. He hates his job. Then the look is gone. Richard has shut off his feelings. He’s a machine.
He processes my groceries.
“Thanks,” I say.
“Have a nice day,” Richard says. His voice is robotic. He avoids eye contact. Unfeeling. Blank. Loathing himself.
Richard, I think. I’m sorry. I’m sorry you have to shut down like that. I know how you feel. I was shut down for a long time. Not anymore.
I catch up with the man, the asshole. He’s walking down the street. I follow him. Both of us carrying groceries. I’m not big. Bald. Glasses. No one ever notices me. No one ever considers me a threat. I am invisible.
What am I doing? Do I want to kill this guy? For being a jerk? Revenge for a grocery store nobody? Seems extreme. What am I? The politeness vigilante? The guy could just be having a bad day.
Still, I’m intrigued. I decide to go with it. Follow my hunch. Why not? I’m an unemployed hitman. Nothing else to do.
There’s an apartment building a block away. Some kind of condo. The man goes inside. I go in behind him. The man unlocks the inner door. He goes in, not looking back. I catch the door before it closes. Before it can lock. I slip in after him. The man gets in the elevator. I get in with him. Just the two of us. The man pushes the five button. I lean forward, push the same button. Even though it’s lit. The blurry man doesn’t like that. He glances at me. His face tense. The flick of his angry eyes evaluate me. His face goes slack. I have been judged. Dismissed. Forgotten.
The man stares straight ahead. Elevator etiquette. I stare at his chubby neck. I like to strangle people. I could kill him right now, I think. Drop my groceries and kill. But I don’t.
“Nice day,” I suggest to him. “Warm.”
The man doesn’t look at me. He grunts.
End of conversation.
He gets off the elevator. Turns right. I stay back. I feel around in my pockets for imaginary keys. He doesn’t look back at me. He goes into his condo. The door closes, locks. 506.
See you later, asshole.
***
The next day. Early morning. There’s a coffee shop across from the man’s condo. I sit in the window. I ignore my coffee. I watch. Most people leave for work between seven and eight. The man doesn’t disappoint. I see him leave. Dressed the same as yesterday. More or less. Wearing a backpack.
I get into the building the same way as last time. All I have to do is wait. Someone leaves. I grab the door before it closes. Downtown people are always in a rush. They run through doors. They don’t look back.
The lock on 506 is easy. I have it open in ten seconds. Inside, a posh apartment. Not kept up. Dirty. Books everywhere. Crap novels. Mostly pulp horror junk. Looks like a kid pretending to be an adult. Someone who never learned to take care of his toys. Expensive couch and chairs. Wood floors with arty throw rugs. A table. Some mail.
I pick up an envelope. Richard Jamieson. The asshole is named Richard. Just like the grocery store clerk.
I say it out loud, to myself: “How are you today, Richard? Everything going okay, Richard? Have a good day, Richard.”
The asshole said it with such disdain. Disgust. Each “Richard” a little slap to the face. The man wasn’t making fun of the grocery store Richard. He was mocking himself – Richard Jamieson. Slapping himself. Interesting.
I don’t get any time to think about this. Someone starts pounding on the door. Not knocking, pounding.
“Richard, Richard, I know you’re in there! You no good bum! You louse! Open the door, goddamn it! Open up!”
An older man’s voice. Angry. Gravelly.
Did I lock the door behind me? I rush over to check. My feet make no noise. Yes. Locked.
“Open up, Richard! I know you’re not at work. They called me. I get you a good job. What do you do? Throw it away! I’m sick of carrying your weight! You start paying me rent, or you’re out! I don’t care if you’re my son!”
I could wait him out. I’m patient. But the man irritates me. His voice. His lack of respect for the neighbours. Plus maybe I could kill him. I’m still looking for a candidate.
I walk over to the door. Why not? When opportunity pounds…
I open the door. “Hello.”
The man is short, gray hair. He’s wearing a red bathrobe. His belly is huge. The bathrobe is too small. Hardly closes. He’s wearing boxers and a white t-shirt underneath. Bare feet. The toenails are yellow. His face is all angry wrinkles. He smells sour. On his hands are four or five ugly gold rings.
“Who the fuck are you?” he asks.
“A friend of Richard,” I say. “You must be Mr. Jamieson.”
The last name off the mail. It seems like a safe bet.
I motion for him to come in. He rushes in like he owns the place. And I suppose he does.
“A friend of Richard?” Jamieson says. “Richard doesn’t have any friends.”
“Then I probably shouldn’t be here.”
“Where’s Richard? Where is he?”
“He went out. I thought he went to work.”
“Yeah?” Jamieson says. “Well, let me tell you something. He hasn’t gone to work in three days. I pull strings. I get him a decent job. What does he do? He fucks it up. That’s what he does. Doesn’t show. Embarrasses me. Ruins my good name.”
I make a sympathetic clucking sound.
Jamieson sits in an armchair. Seems he’ll be staying a while. I sit on the couch across from him.
“So who are you?” Jamieson demands. “A friend? What kind of friend? What’s your name?”
“Derek,” I say. I lean forward, offer my hand. Jamieson shakes it strangely. He clutches it like a life preserver. Then he throws it away.
“I don’t know you,” Jamieson says. It’s a statement, but also a question.
“We’ve never met before.”
“What are you doing here?”
“I’m not really sure. I guess I’m trying to figure myself out.”
Jamieson stares at me. Evaluating me. “You’re being funny?” he says. More question than statement.
“Maybe a little,” I say. “I’m going through something. It’s hard to explain. I’m here to… figure out what I want. Who I am.”
“Finding yourself?” Jamieson asks. His voice thick with sarcasm.
I feel my body tense. My face narrows. “Something like that,” I say. “I quit my job. I’m trying to decide what to do next.”
“Jesus Christ,” Jamieson says. “You sound like my idiot son. You quit your job? And he’s letting you stay here? Christ all mighty. Two peas in a fucking pod. Listen. Let me save you some goddamn time. There’s no self to find. Just do your work. Keep your head down. All that feeling shit. It’s garbage. People today are so…”
He has no word. He waves a hand in the air. He looks to me for a word. I don’t help him. I let him hang there. I stare blankly at him. Jamieson’s hand falls into his lap. The silence is uncomfortable. For him, anyway. I own the silence.
“Find yourself?” he finally blurts out. “That’s bullshit. No… It’s fucking bullshit. Quit your job? A man is his work.”
“What do you do for a living?” I ask.
“I’m retired,” he says. “I own property.”
“That’s not work.”
He shrugs. “No, it’s not.”
Jamieson pauses, sizing me up. Something changes. The air in the room goes cold. He sees something in me. A strange smile comes on to his face. Naughty. But darker than naughty. Hinting at something evil. Jamieson mimes looking around the room. Nobody there. Just him and me. He shrugs again. The smile grows a little.
“I used to work for the mob,” he says. Bragging.
I don’t say anything. I keep my face blank.
“You don’t believe me,” he says. “I used to be called The Executioner. Do you know why they call me that?”
“Yes,” I say. I know exactly who The Executioner is. Before my time. But I know the stories.
“What?”
“Yes, I know why they call you The Executioner.”
“Okay, so tell me.”
“On New Year’s Eve, about twenty years ago, you killed five wise guys with a fire axe. They were informants. I heard something about it.”
The man smiles, raises his eyebrows. “Do you know me?”
“I know your line of work.”
“Oh?” he says. He gives me a long, penetrating look. “Derek,” he says, like he’s tasting my name. Trying to place the flavour.
“They didn’t call me anything,” I say. “Just Derek. Because I’m not flashy. Or loud.”
Jamieson snorts a brief laugh. Then he’s serious again. Ice.
“What are you doing in my son’s apartment, Derek? Are you trying to get close to me? Did someone send you?”
“I quit my job,” I remind him.
“I was lucky to retire. No one ever quits.”
“So they told me.”
Jamieson leans back. Puts a hand to his chin. “There’s probably a price on your head. If you walked away.”
“Ten thousand, last time I checked.”
The man laughs. “Is that all?”
“So far. I only left last week. Time goes on, the price goes up.”
“Right.”
Jamieson stares at me. He strokes his chin. His eyes take on a sleepy look. He’s thinking the way a lizard thinks. His body cools, goes still. His brain leaps into action.
“You’re trying to find yourself?” he asks. This time, he says it without sneering. “What’s that about?”
I want to tell him. He’s one of the few people who could understand. He’s been there. But I hesitate. I don’t know if I can trust him.
He sees my hesitation. He nods, looks away. He starts to talk, slowly. Carefully.
“People see movies. They think, you kill, you go home, you forget. Maybe the first one is hard. They’ll allow you that. The first time, you throw up or shit your pants. They figure, it’s like being a butcher. Eventually, you forget that they’re animals. It’s just meat you’re cutting up. It’s not killing. It’s putting them to sleep. Bullshit like that. What people don’t know is that murder is wrong. Not just wrong, morally. Not just ethically. It goes against the flow of the universe. Murder isn’t supposed to happen. When you kill… You push God out of the way. You say, ‘I know better than you, God. I’m going to take care of this one. I’ve decided what happens, here. Fuck off, God.’ You get me?”
“I don’t believe in god,” I say.
He waves away my objection. “Shut up,” he says. He pauses, cracks his knuckles. He’s getting into it.
“So why do it, if it’s wrong?” he continues. “Why play God? Why Kill? Because it feels good. It feels like it accomplishes something. You see someone you don’t like. You erase them. You delete them. Repress them. And you did that. With a gun, with an axe?”
He looks down at my hands. He smiles. He sees my hands, as though for the first time. He sees what they can do. I feel a strange urge to hide them behind my back.
“With your hands? You think you kill with your hands?” Jamieson asks. “No. With willpower. You made them disappear with an act of will. You pushed God out of the way, became God, and erased a person from the universe.”
He claps his hands together, crushing an imaginary bug. Then pulls his hands apart. Revealing nothing.
“Only, what was that bug for?” he asks. “What was it supposed to do? You’ve tampered with the universe. You’ve taken a cog out of the machine. There’s a lack, now. The machine is slightly less efficient. Oh, it will still work. God builds a lot of redundancies into the universe. But it won’t work as well. Just a little less efficient. And it’s your fault. And how many cogs have you removed? Dozens, maybe?”
I shrug. “Maybe. I try not to keep score.”
“Each cog removed creates a blank. And that blank wraps itself around you. You become blank. No longer in the universe. No longer a part of the machine. Outside looking in. Apart. Lost. You become like a God no one knows about. That no one worships. The blank. It’s a sickness. It’s vile. It’s a living death. Do you understand what I’m saying?”
“It’s not like that,” I say. “Not for me.”
Jamieson leans forward and stares into me. That’s how it feels. His eyes. Big, bloodshot. Digging through my face. Into my brain. He sees something in me. I don’t know what. He leans back in his chair. He puts his hands on his big belly.
“It’s like that for you,” he says gravely. “It’s like that for everyone. Don’t kid yourself. You don’t believe in god because you think you are god.”
I start to say, “I’m different.”
There’s a sound at the door. Keys in a lock. The door opens, and in steps Richard. The blurry asshole. He looks at us, startled.
“Dad,” he says, surprised, irritated. “What are you doing here? Who’s this guy?”
Jamieson doesn’t move. Doesn’t look away from me. He smiles slightly. If he’s surprised Richard doesn’t know me, he doesn’t show it.
“This is Derek,” Jamieson says. “He’s a friend of mine. From the old days. We just happened to run into each other. Quite a bit of luck, actually.”
There’s a pause.
“Okay,” Richard says, confused. He wants to ask what we’re doing there. In his condo. But he hesitates. He’s supposed to be at work, after all.
“Derek is going to do a job for me,” Jamieson says. He keeps staring at me. “And I wanted him to meet you.”
Richard walks over to me. I stand up. We shake hands. His palm is wet, fingers are shaky. I sit back down on the couch. Richard sits next to me. He still looks confused.
“You didn’t go to work today,” Jamieson says to his son. “You haven’t gone for three days.”
A gush of excuses: “I was just out for breakfast. I mean, I was going to tell you, dad. About the job. It’s just…”
“It’s okay,” Jamieson says, stopping the flow. “You didn’t like the work. Office stuff. Not for you. I know the drill.”
Richard was ready for a fight. All puffed up. His father’s words deflate him. Now he doesn’t know what to say. A little kid.
Jamieson finally turns away from me. He looks at his son. He smiles.
“It’s okay,” he says again. “I’m thinking of some other way… Some way to fix you. Straighten you out once and for all.”
Richard doesn’t want to have an argument in front of me, a stranger. But he can’t stop himself.
“Dad, there’s nothing wrong with me. I don’t need fixing.”
“Then maybe there’s something wrong with the universe. Because you appear to be a cog the machine does not need.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Nothing. Nothing. I’m sorry. Your old man is just being silly.” Turning back to me, Jamieson smiles. “So, Derek. Do you want the job?”
I pause. I look at Richard. I look at Jamieson, his father.
“What’s it pay?” I ask.
“Five?” Jamieson suggests.
“Seven,” I counter, automatically. Seven grand was my going rate. Before I quit.
“Seven? I could do that. Sure. You know I’d do the work myself, but…” He spreads his hands in an apologetic wave. “I’m sentimental.”
And his smile broadens. He’s enjoying this. Planning his son’s murder. Right in front of his son. With his son none the wiser.
I suddenly feel a little sick. My stomach hurts. This isn’t sitting right. I don’t know why, exactly. I’ve been in worse situations. Uglier ones.
“Are you okay?” Jamieson asks me. “You look a little… blank.”
“I’m fine,” I say.
“I was thinking you could do the work tonight,” Jamieson says. “You don’t mind, do you? Such short notice?”
I’m sweating. I can feel it in my armpits. I look at Richard. Next to me on the couch. He’s staring at me, confused. A dumb little kid. Living off his father’s money. No idea what his father did for a living. Richard hates himself. Hates his life.
Father and son, I think. Father and son.
“Tonight?” I hear myself say.
“Only if you’re free,” Jamieson says. “I’ll be busy, myself. At a poker game. Lots of friends around. But you don’t need me to supervise your work, do you?”
“What is this?” Richard asks. He senses something is up. An inside joke he doesn’t get. No idea the joke’s on him. “What’s going on?”
“Nothing, nothing,” his father says. “Just business. Nothing important.”
“I’ll do it,” I say. “Tonight.”
I get to my feet. Jamieson won’t get to me. He won’t push me around.
“Good,” Jamieson says. He also gets to his feet.
Seeing his father stand up, Richard stands up as well. His face still twisted up with confusion.
“You can meet me after,” Jamieson says. “For payment. You know the Elgin Street Diner?”
“Sure.”
“I’ll be there, just after midnight, with my poker buddies. Okay?”
“Fine,” I say.
Without another word, I leave. I take the stairs down. I leave the building.
Jamieson doesn’t think I’ll do it. But I can. I will kill Richard. Jamieson is wrong and I’m right. Or has he just manipulated me into doing what he wants?
***
It’s after midnight. Almost one. I’m across the street from the diner, watching. Jamieson comes out. Surprisingly well dressed, now. Black jacket, very sharp. Dress shirt, no tie. Expensive sneakers. He says goodnight to his friends. Three big guys in suits. They go one way. He goes the other. He starts walking towards his condo apartment. I follow.
I can see him sensing me nearby. A tilt of his head gives it away. He slows down. I catch up.
“Derek,” he says, savouring my name. He knows me, now. He’s checked up on me.
“Mister Jamieson,” I say.
He glances at me as we walk. I’m not sure what gives me away, but he says:
“You didn’t do it.”
“I didn’t do it,” I admit.
“That’s all right. That’s fine. I considered the situation a win-win for me. A sort of bet, really. Heads, I lose an irritating son. Tails, I demonstrate to myself I’m right. My theory. How killing changes a man. It has definitely changed you.”
I don’t say anything. He stares at me, probing. I don’t give him anything.
“Why don’t you come on up to my place?” Jamieson asks. “We can talk about it. Have a drink.”
“Sure,” I say.
I wonder if this is a trap. Jamieson could hand me over to the mob. But I trust him. Our history unites us, somehow. He’s lonely. He thinks we are kindred spirits.
We enter the building. We get in the elevator.
“It’s like a drug,” Jamieson says. “Do you find? I’ve kicked it. I’ve retired. Given up killing. And now there’s a kind of horror. I don’t want to go back. A taste of it would make me an addict again. That one fix would set me on the downward spiral. We have that in common. Junkies who have quit junk.”
We get out on the fourth floor. We walk down the hall.
He has a bachelor unit. Messy. Smaller than his son’s place. Magazines and newspapers everywhere. Floor needs sweeping. Dirty plates on the table near the couch.
“You live alone,” I say.
Jamieson laughs. “Divorced. Fucking bitch. She spoiled Richard. Made him soft. I keep trying to fix him. It’s no good. My wife. My ex-wife. She turned my son against me. I can’t fix it. I keep trying. It’s no good.”
We sit in the living room. He offers me a drink. I take a diet soda. He pours himself a scotch. No ice.
“It sucks,” Jamieson says, sitting back down. “You get old. You feel blank. Missing. Something is missing inside of me. I’m not even sure what it is. All those people we killed. For what? What was the point? That feeling of power. Sure. But what does that get you? What’s it do? What does it accomplish?”
I put my soda on the table. “You keep trying to tell me who I am.”
Jamieson rolls his eyes. “I know who you are. You used to be a hitman. The job got to you. The way it gets to all of us. So you quit.”
“That’s not it.”
“Sure it is!” Jamieson yells. “Come on, man. You can’t fucking lie to me. I know you. I know what you are. I know what you’re like inside.”
I stand up suddenly. Jamieson makes as if to stand. I push on his chest. The fat, old man falls back into his seat. I stand over him. I make sure he doesn’t get back up.
“I didn’t quit the way you quit,” I say. “I didn’t go numb and blank. I quit because I got tired of who I was killing. Losers. Always killing losers. Bums who couldn’t pay their gambling debts. People trying to cheat the system. The boss says, kill this guy. So I kill him. For the good of the syndicate. To make the mob richer. Over and over. There I am. Strangling losers. It got boring. Stupid. Dull. Then, one time, I killed for fun. I killed a whore. Some stripper. I killed her for no reason at all. I killed her for me. And that was it. I couldn’t do the job anymore. I couldn’t just follow orders. Do you understand?”
“But…” Jamieson manages.
“There is no god,” I interrupt. “No pattern to the universe. No order. No grand machinery. There’s just my life. I’ve got two choices. Listen to the boss. Be a good soldier. Follow orders. Or I can do what I want to do. I can make the pattern. Take control. Do what I want. Live my life. So I say, fuck the boss. Fuck orders. Fuck all that bullshit. I kill who I want to kill. Do you understand? I kill who I want to kill. I’m not a hitman. But I’m still a killer.”
Jamieson’s face is white. His eyes are spinning around. Confused, looking for an escape. He thought he knew me. Now he understands he knows nothing.
“You didn’t kill my son,” he says quietly. Almost hopefully.
“Don’t worry. I’m going to kill your son,” I promise him. “He saw us together. But first, I’m going to kill you.”
“What?” he yells. “Why?”
“You’re not going to tell me who I am. Or what to do. Not anymore.”
I lunge forward. My hands go for his throat. There’s a dance to it. I anticipate his movements. He lunges left. I’m already there, waiting for him. His hands come up, to struggle. I put my knee in his stomach. That knocks all the fight out of him.
He used to be a strong man. Big. Now he’s old, and fat, and slow. All his talk of killing being “wrong”. His talk of god. It gives him away. Shows him for what he is. A weakling. Something to be pitied. A man frightened of himself. A shark trying to pass for a dolphin.
His eyes are big and dumb. He looks at me, unbelieving. He thought we were friends. I was the son he never had. And now I’m killing him. And he doesn’t understand why.
No one tells me who I am. No one tells me what to do. Not anymore, old man. Not anymore.
When he’s dead, I search the place. I find the money he promised me. In a dresser drawer. Seven grand. There’s another five grand there. I consider leaving the extra cash. But that’s sentimental bullshit. I take that too. I’m unemployed, after all. Every penny counts.
Later, I go up to the fifth floor. Unit 506. I break into Richard’s apartment. He’s asleep in bed. I start strangling him. He wakes up, and he’s already half dead.
He’s easy to kill. It’s hardly even worth mentioning.
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