THUGLIT Issue Seventeen Read online

  The super says we gotta be out of the room tonight.

  Sit tight, I texted back. Still trying to get bus fare.

  Two tickets to El Paso to stay with Anna's parents. The baby could sit on our laps.

  A black Camaro pulled up and stopped next to me, despite the green light. The squeaky-clean glare off the hood blinded me and new-car smell wafted out of the open window.

  Two girls.

  The driver's meth-mouth teeth looked like burnt popcorn kernels. Greasy ropes of red hair hung over crow's feet. "Speak English?" said Red. She had to yell. The muffler rumbled so hard it sounded like it was gonna hock a loogie.

  The girl in the passenger seat typed away on her cell with her thumbs while she smoked an e-cig. Her fake crimson nails clicked over the plastic screen and she had a muffin-top, skin as pale as a plucked chicken, that spilled over her tight shorts.

  "Yeah, I speak English."

  A car honked behind the Camaro.

  "A thousand dollars for two hours of work. Want it?" Red yelled. Cars swerved around her, laying on horns and brandishing fists.

  "Yeah, right. What's the catch?"

  "Rule number one: No questions. Number two: You wear a blindfold 'til we get there. Three: No cell phones." Red recited the stipulations in one flowing sentence without a stutter or pause.

  "You fuckin' kidding?"

  Red sucked her teeth. "Well, have fun at the soup kitchen, amigo." She rolled her window up, and pulled to the red light.

  I looked down into the coffee can. The top layer of George Washingtons, with lips pursed, stared at me with looks of disdain. Behind me, someone screamed, "Get a job, asshole," over blaring country music, and then gunned the engine to escape the scene of the drive-by insult.

  Just as the light turned green again, I knocked on the Camaro's window.

  Red stepped out and leaned her seat forward. I dropped my sign and hopped into the back seat, ducking my head on the way in. The coffee can was cradled in my arm like a football.

  A car beeped behind them and Red yelled, "Fuck off," with her middle finger up. She jumped in and peeled out through the light.

  Red took a hard left through the intersection. My head hit the sports car's low ceiling. With my knees dug into the back of the driver's seat, I had to hunch forward to not hit my head again.

  The other girl turned back and blew a cloud of warm vanilla smoke in my face. She had a dark mole on her cheek that sprouted a few coarse, black hairs. "Cell phone," she said with her hand out.

  I shook the coffee can. Loose change clanged. "Do I look like I have a cell phone?"

  Mole turned back to her phone and checked in on Facebook.

  Red tossed a mask back onto my lap—one of those things people wear to bed to block out light. The ones ladies in silk pajamas wear on soap operas.

  She lit a cigarette and watched me in the rearview mirror. "Put it on," she said, her voice gruff and hard. Probably been smoking since she was eleven. She blew twin jets of smoke from her nose and flicked ash out the window.

  "How long 'til we get there," I asked.

  Mole sighed. "Rule number one." Her thumbs bounced over her cell phone in a hypnotizing court reporter rhythm.

  Red leaned forward and pulled something from her waistband.

  A small automatic pistol.

  She held it on her right hand, arm rested on the center console, so I could see it. "Put it on."

  I was used to guns, some of which were actually pointed and fired in my direction. It was my shitty situation turning into one with a question mark next to it that made me want to ram my head into a brick wall. At least on the street with my coffee can, I knew what I was up against.

  Meanwhile, as Red cruised down the highway in that Camaro, I could feel the distance between me and my family dwindling like a radio station disintegrating into static.

  Trapped in a two-door sports car, I put the mask on and stretched my legs across the bucket seat next to me. It felt like I was sitting in a coffin. Two tons of American engineering wrapped around me like a funerary vault. The imposed blindness was as dark as one of my faraway tunnels, filled with whispering terrorists. The only thing missing were pops of gunfire flashing through the darkness like a strobe light at a rave. A steel band of panic tightened around my lungs.

  Deep breaths, my therapist would say. She was usually right.

  We drove over smooth highway asphalt for almost all of Motörhead's greatest hits. The gravelly voice and bass drum thumped in my ears. Then, a few songs worth of rutted back roads that made my head hit the ceiling no matter how much I scrunched down in the seat.

  The Camaro turned onto a smoother section and then stopped. The music cut off—a jarring disconnect from aggressive guitars to silence—and the car doors opened. When I felt the driver's seat fall forward, I took off my mask and stepped out.

  We'd pulled up to a long, rusty, corrugated-steel shack—the kind of place I'd picture moonshiners hiding their stills back in the day. The building, about as big as a doublewide and with less curb appeal, sat alone inside a cleared section of woods. The walls were a patchwork of dented steel sheets hanging at odd angles. The pitched roof was the green of a corroded penny. Assorted garbage, including a rusted barbecue grill and fluffy pink scraps of insulation, were piled in a neat mound at one corner.

  Somewhere in the back of the building, the summer breeze caught a loose flap of steel and the clang echoed through the clearing every few seconds. No other noise—no traffic, playing children, or dogs barking.

  I followed the girls into the building. No door, though, just a set of industrial rubber curtains you'd see in a restaurant freezer. They were greasy and stained spicy-mustard yellow.

  "'Bout fuckin' time," a man said.

  "Fuck you," said Red. "We're here, ain't we?"

  The room inside had been sectioned off from the rest of the building with plywood sheets and framing. Pictures ripped from magazines were stapled to the wall—women in bikinis sitting on Harleys or spread-eagled on the hoods of Japanese cars. The place smelled of beer, puke, and popcorn.

  Mole flopped into a recliner held together by duct tape. She tossed one leg over an arm that leaked cottony, white stuffing, and got her phone out. Her e-cig looked like a mini-Maglite stuck in her mouth.

  Two men sat at a card table in the middle of the room. A row of dingy fluorescent lights, hooded in plastic covers that were filled with dead insects, illuminated them.

  One of them, red hair grown out in a limp Mohawk, thumped a metal baseball bat against the concrete floor. He had huge gauges, the size of silver dollars, hanging from his earlobes. Guy even had a gauge through his cheek. His yellow molars showed through the hole in his face.

  The other guy wore a loose-fitting suit and his wrists were strapped to the arms of his chair with duct tape. Behind him, the plywood was stained with brown-red droplets, splattered over the glossy g-string models. Through the loose collar, I could see his pale, sweaty neck down to collarbones like pencils under his skin. Dark stains soaked the jacket's underarms.

  "I was just helping Ethan here with one more smoke," said Gauge. "Get him nice and high." A glass pipe stained in residue sat on the table in front of them.

  Red handed Gauge the gun and he tucked it in the back of his jeans. She walked over to a video camera mounted on a tripod next to the table, pointed at the man in the suit. She looked through the viewfinder, clicking buttons and twisting lenses.

  Gauge looked at me hard as he smoked a cigarette, sizing me up like a junkyard dog would a mangy stray. He had some of those implants in his hairline that made him look like he had horns about to sprout from his forehead.

  "How do you smoke with that hole in your face?" I asked him.

  He brought the cigarette up and took a drag. Looked like he was using his tongue to block the hole.

  "Sure don't sound like a spic," said Gauge, "do you?"

  "You guys can measure your dicks later," said Red. "Let's do this."

 
; Gauge flicked his cigarette away and looked back at Mole. "Did you read him the rules, baby?"

  "Yeah, baby."

  "Here," said Gauge. He stood and handed me the bat. I took it by the tacky handle, wrapped in dirty medical tape. A black Louisville Slugger.

  "Metal sounds better than wood on tape," he said. "C'mere. Stand there." He pointed to the opposite side of the table and guided me over like a lost child.

  "Little bit more," said Red. She watched through the viewfinder of the camera.

  Gauge nudged me closer to the guy in the chair.

  Ethan just sat there and stared at the pipe, taking deep breaths.

  "Yep," said Red.

  "Okay," said Gauge, "here's what you're gonna do." He took the bat and nudged me aside, taking my spot. "You're gonna walk into the camera and then say something in Spanish to Ethan. Somethin' like, 'Down with Yankee capitalists' or whatever. 'Death to imperialists.'" He waved his hands. "I don't give a shit. You got room to improvise if you want."

  "I don't speak Spanish, dude," I said.

  The bat's head clanged on the concrete floor and he leaned on it like a cane. "Are you shittin' me? You look like a wetback. What are you, Filipino?"

  Mole scoffed behind me. "Fuckin' awesome."

  "What the fuck ever. We'll dub it. Just say something so we have your mouth moving." He picked the bat up, and laid it over his shoulder. "And then," he swung slow, a warm up swing, and stopped right behind the guy's head. "Boom!"

  "Boom?" I asked.

  "Yep." He handed me the bat. "There's gotta be brains on the table or you don't get paid."

  Ethan's deep breaths grew louder, more ragged, as he sucked in through his nose. His wrists trembled against the duct tape.

  Gauge laughed and patted Ethan on the shoulder. "Sorry, buddy."

  "Brains on the table?"

  "Yep. Brains..." Gauge slammed his hand down on the table. "...on the motherfuckin' table." The glass pipe rattled along the plastic tabletop. Gauge picked it up and slipped it into his back pocket. "But do me a favor. Knock him out on the first hit. Ethan's been my best customer."

  Gauge smiled at him and Ethan tried to return it, but it was forced, like grinning at gunpoint.

  "So, I'm killing this guy you keep patting on the back and calling 'buddy' for a thousand bucks?"

  "Yeah, man," said Gauge. "See, the Mexicans, down in Nuevo Laredo, pay big money for this shit. We're makin' a killing down there on crystal and videos."

  The taped handle was itchy in my palm. A little window A/C rumbled in the corner, blowing chilly air in my face, but sweat fell over my forehead anyway, stinging my eyes.

  "Don't worry about Ethan," he said. "He ain't got long left, anyway. Do you, buddy? Just a matter of time before he eats a bullet or jumps in front of a train."

  I tried to block out Ethan's face, make him not human. Just think about everything you could get for a grand, I told myself.

  Bus tickets. Diapers. A bit of rent for Anna's pops until I got a job. Food on the way, no more begging for vending machine money at the station.

  I was the richest man in the world and I didn't even see the cash yet. Forget about the tweaker in the chair... who gives a fuck about him?

  Nobody.

  Ethan whispered to himself with his eyes closed. His scrawny chest rose in deep breaths under the loose-fitting jacket. His Adam's apple jumped up and down every few seconds.

  He opened his eyes and looked up at me, his big, dark eyes piercing right into my thoughts. "Hey, man." His voice was low, shaky. Someone coming to terms with his last few minutes of life. "Do me a favor. Knock me out with the first hit, huh?" He nodded at the tattoos on my forearms. "Semper Fidelis, right?" He smiled another awkward grin, showing his decayed teeth.

  I looked down at my tattoos—a patchwork of eagles, globes, anchors, M-16s, and other combat motifs. I looked him over, trying to figure out how he knew. The only thing I noticed was the beaded dog tag chain hanging around his neck.

  A tweaker who'd done his time but was still in combat. A war of attrition.

  "I don't know, man," I said to Gauge.

  "Don't know what?"

  "I just don't know."

  "Well, you stepped in the car," said Gauge. He pulled the gun from his back waistband and let it hang by his side. "And stepping in the car is a binding contract, far as I'm concerned."

  "Yeah, man," said Ethan, his breathing close to hyperventilation. His chest jumped up and down through the loose suit. "I don't know, neither."

  Gauge looked at the ceiling and screamed. "You gotta me shittin' me!"

  "I told you," said Mole. "I told you not to do a volunteer. Didn't I?"

  "Shut the fuck up," said Gauge. He pointed the pistol at Ethan. "Your girl's been paid already. She was more'n happy to take those welfare cards and PINs for her and the baby."

  "Yeah, just fuckin' do it, pussies," said Red from behind the camera.

  "Sixty seconds and she's hitting record," said Gauge. "You know your life ain't worth a squirt of piss. And you…" he swung the gun at me, "…you wanna get paid and walk outta here, swing the fuckin' bat."

  I took a deep breath. Gauge stood between me and the exit—him and his gun. The bat was heavy in my hand, like a fifty-pound dumbbell. I hefted it up like I was in the warm-up circle. I imagined the feel of his head cracking under the heavy aluminum and it made bile burn the back of my throat.

  Ethan sat there, eyes closed, taking sharp breaths in and out, like he was psyching himself up to karate chop a pile of bricks. "Oh, fuck," he whispered. "Oh, God." He cringed, bent forward, ready for the impact.

  Then the lights flickered, like fluorescents do when they're not seated right.

  "God damn it," said Red.

  Mole giggled.

  "Shut the fuck up," said Red.

  "Bulb needs to be twisted a hair," said Gauge. He kicked the side of the recliner Mole was lounged in. "Get your lazy ass up."

  Mole grumbled and stood.

  The bulbs flickered like firecrackers in someone's backyard on the Fourth of July, or someone hitting a light switch in a broom closet, on and off, over and over.

  And then I wasn't in that steel building somewhere outside Dallas, but near a place called Kajaki, instead. In a tunnel looking for men with rifles who wanted to kill me. The acid in my throat turned into a stomach-twisting knot of vomit wanting to spill onto my shoes. My skin was cold and dripping with sweat.

  Gauge grunted, standing on the recliner and trying to reach the flickering bulbs.

  Red sighed and tapped her foot, arms crossed and hip cocked.

  As I stood there with the bat over my shoulder, eyes shut, the cell phone buzzed in my pocket. It wasn't a polite vibrate, the kind that's good for not disturbing board meetings or movie theaters. Instead, it rattled in my jeans like a set of hair clippers had been stuffed in there.

  "What the fuck is that?" asked Gauge, like he knew exactly what it was. He stepped down from the chair. The lights did a Morse code of light, no light, light, no light. Red, Mole, and Gauge looked at each other.

  Ethan sighed, just wanting to get it done. "Fuck, fuck..."

  "Did you tell him the rules or not?" asked Gauge, walking toward me.

  "Yeah," said Mole.

  "Gimme the fucking phone," said Gauge. He reached toward my pocket, fingers trying to wiggle in and fishing for the cell.

  The room shrank down to a grave smaller than the back of the Camaro, tinier than a tunnel full of homemade explosives, flashing with gunfire. I stepped back and swung the bat downward, connecting with Gauge's head.

  With a loud ping of aluminum on bone, he uttered a quiet "umph" and his head bounced off the plastic top of the card table. I hit him again before his body could slide to the floor. The contact sounded like a collegiate line drive. The top of his head split, like dropping a ripe melon on asphalt. The second hit knocked the card table over and his twitching body landed on the concrete floor.

  "Oh, shit." Ethan flinched back
ward and the chair screeched along concrete.

  Mole screamed, a shrill, "No!" She lunged at me, her red nails ready to claw my eyes. Bitch reminded me of the raptors in that Jurassic Park video game.

  I swung the bat at her, hitting one of her outstretched arms. She screamed again, anger shifting to pain, but I cut it short with another blow to her head.

  It was all slow motion, black-and-white, just me watching me through a closed-circuit video feed. I slammed the bat down again, cracking her head open on the floor.

  Red was crying, rummaging on the floor for something. I turned to face her and saw she'd picked up Gauge's pistol. She was looking at the safety like it was her first time holding a gun. I was too far away for the bat, so I ran and jumped onto her. The back of her head smacked the floor as I landed on top of her.

  "Get the fuck off, motherfucker!" she said in a voice half-angry, half-crying. Her knees were ramming upward, trying to find my crotch, and her gun hand was bent in between us. She forced her other hand in to try to pull it free while I tried to get a grip of her wrist.

  The gun went off, a dull pop muffled between our bodies.

  I had to lie there for a minute, waiting for the blood to flow.

  Red coughed, blood shooting into my eyes.

  I took the gun from her, then stood and reached for the bat.

  Red held her hands over her stomach, blood pooling between her fingers, still cussing at me. "Fucking motherfucker," with a bloody cough between each word.

  I brought the bat down on her head. A wet crack and she shut up for good.

  These people, bringing me out there for death while my wife and baby wandered the streets, waiting for me. I wished they were still alive so I could kill them again.

  And like that, it was over in less time than it takes to stretch a double into a triple, or warm up a bowl of Spaghetti-Os.

  I leaned on the bat, sucking wind like I'd just run some full-court basketball.

  Ethan sat there, watching me.

  I fell back into the recliner Mole was sitting in. A fart of air that smelled like peanuts blew out of the cushion. I closed my eyes and tried to catch my breath while I let my dark thoughts submerge.