Ricky woke up with a sharp inhale, immediately fighting the thin sheet in which he had passed out. He was awoken by a rhythmic rattling of the old windows, a repeating pulse that might be music if it wasn’t almost exclusively bass.
BUM! BUM! DA BUM BUM!
Over and over again. Louder than its obnoxious cadence, an engine roared, ripping back open the headache Ricky had just barely begun to sleep off. The indistinguishable bassy beat vibrated a glass of water, a gift waiting from the apartment’s owner, a trashy townie named Bridgette he somewhat knew from high school. The glass wiggled its way off the edge of the stained nightstand, taking its own life, shattering to pieces and splashing its lukewarm insides all over the mottled wood floor. The crashing glass wasn’t clear to him, a distant smack under the decibels now finally dopplering into the distance. He kicked the paper thin spread off himself and sat up, his head throbbing with his rapid heartbeat. He spun his legs around and flat footed hard right into the now broken glass. A shard carved its way happily into the bottom of his bare foot. With a mouth as dry as a sponge, Ricky screamed a pain induced expletive so loudly, a flock of nearby resting mourning doves flew away in shock. At least he was awake.
After pulling out the surprisingly large shard of glass and improvising some first aid out of some kleenex and scotch tape, he observed a piece of paper soggily stuck to the nightstand. It was a note with a hastily scribbled message, nearly cursive and always angled, with large swoops on the d’s and b’s. The note was both a reminder and a coaster, with a wet circle indent blotting some of the ink. It read, “Beaver’s BBQ, 665 Hickory St. 4pm, Don’t Be Late!!” The last part was underlined twice.
The conversations from last night all came flooding back. He met her at a local bar, “Hook, Line, & Drinkers,” the one that occupied the old “Quick Lunch” diner across from the VFW. So close to the railroad tracks that dishes and glasses would rattle as trains passed by. Ricky had been away only a few years, but his hometown had changed quite a bit. The restaurant used to be a bit of a bright spot for the small downtown area. Now it was a dingy dive with bars in the windows and occupied by bikers, hustlers, recently unemployed and possibly unemployable. Ricky was one of the last two.
At first, he and the townie only exchanged simple courtesies, the type of “Hey, I recognize you from high school,” “Didn’t you have Mr. Balki for Science?” “Did you see what happened to Shuri?” but neither liked each other back then and there was no real reason to like each other now. The feigned interest she had in him changed to genuine the moment he mentioned that he had just gotten out of the army. Ricky figured she had a thing for military guys. He flirted right back at the paper thin woman, whose perfume didn’t cover up a haze of cigarette smoke. She was dressed too nicely for this particular drowning well, a short yellow skirt that would be at home in a dance club and black stilettos that gave her several inches on top of her already tallish frame. He felt sympathy for her, imagining that she had been stood up and came to this bar to drown in tears and beers. Despite her being near the same age and sporting an alarming amount of makeup, he fixated on stress lines etched in her face. It would take a couple extra drinks, which she ordered for him one after another.
She picked him up, and it felt great to Ricky. It had been awhile, and Ricky wondered if he had lost whatever charm he had in highschool. She took him back to her place and ravished him. He could only remember bits and pieces, but it was a shockingly good time. Excerpts of their pillow talk echoed in his head one after the other. He opened up about the listlessness he felt, lied about why he left the army, and exaggerated details to impress her. He laughed at the thought of barely paying her any attention in high school.
“What did we call you? Oh yeah, Bridgette the Idjit!” He laughed. She scrunched her eyebrows and playfully punched him in the shoulder.
“I hated that nickname!” she said with a bit more seriousness than she intended.
But it felt good to have someone, anyone, listen to his gripes so empathetically. Her large oval eyes barely blinked with such strained focus, slightly sunken and darkened from makeup or lack of sleep or… drugs. He didn’t care. He thought she looked beautiful.
The conversation took a turn, as she stroked his chest playfully and slowly with her index finger, her head lying against his biceps and her leg bent snuggly on top of his waist.
“What if I could help?” she started out innocently. She launched into a run on sentence, raising the pitch of her voice to emphasize each “and” that connected a new beat. “I work at this restaurant, and the owner’s a perv, and he doesn’t pay shit, and he cheats on his wife, but…”
She hesitated before she pitched the idea. She put her thumb to her mouth and almost began chewing. Ricky remembered her doing this tick from highschool. She forced the thumb away and gathered herself.
“He doesn’t trust banks and he keeps heaps of cash in the restaurant,” she rushed, all in one line. She paused and emphasized, “Like, a lot.”
“How much?” Ricky questioned.
She lifted herself off his bicep and turned to face him, her hair hanging down and tickling him. She piqued his interest.
“Like, multiple bags…and you can literally see the cash pouring out of them. And you should see the car this guy drives, I mean, what a douchebag!” she said.
“But it’s in a safe, so…?” Ricky questioned again, not buying in yet.
She sat up completely on the bed, legs crossed, and straightened her back, like a bratty child acting polite only for the duration of asking for a piece of candy.
“That’s where you come in,” she said, fluttering and widening her eyes.
“I don’t follow,” he responded. He did, but he wanted her to explain it.
“Well, you said you did some stuff overseas, that you were like, a green beret and shit?”
“I didn’t say I was a green beret…” he responded, realizing just how much he exaggerated.
She hunched her shoulders up, like a turtle attempting to retreat into its shell. “But you, like, tortured terrorists and shit? To get answers?”
Ricky didn’t remember what he said, but it was all bullshit. He had never even been overseas. He sat up and began dressing himself to leave.
“Jesus, Bridgette, I’m an — I was an IT guy. I fixed computers.”
She stuck her thumbnail to her lips and started nibbling again. Her forehead crinkled for a second, but it relaxed quickly as her eyebrows raised up into it.
“Right! Sure, I get it!” she said like she was in on a joke between them. Top secret. Computer nerd, great cover!”
“Bridgette, I’m seri–” He stopped, looked her up and down, and gave out a big sigh. He didn’t like that she deceived him to get him here, but he liked the idea of using her to get a heavy sack of cash.
“How much money, you say? Exactly, don’t bullshit me,” he questioned, giving in.
“At least 50K. Fif-ty-KAY, cash money.”
“And does the owner have a computer in the office or anything?”
“He does!” she replied.
“Ok, guaranteed the combination is on there, somewhere. I can get it.”
“So we’re not gonna torture him?” she said, sounding disappointed.
“No, I mean, kinda? We’re gonna steal that money from him, right?”
“Fiiiiiiine!” she replied with an exhausted playful sigh. They embraced with excitement and shared a kiss. She put on music and danced and she made him dance with her. They celebrated their plans, had a few too many drinks before going to bed together, finally passing out shortly after.
Back to this morning, he squinted at the sunlight piercing through the thin curtains and directly into his dry and scratchy eyes. He scoffed at the note, crumpled it up and threw it on the ground. It soaked up some of the water still on the floor and expanded slowly, like paper straw worms he would make as a kid, anytime his parents took him out to a restaurant. Ricky limped through the house, gathering his few belongings while putting on his clothes, as they were thrown about the house in fleeting passion. He dropped onto the bed, it squeaked with his heavy frame. He stretched to get his socks and twisted his pale green t-shirt half on. He coughed and coughed again and then reached for the source of his coughing, a quarter full pack of smokes on the nightstand. He clamped one down between his teeth, put on his baseball cap and headed outside the apartment.
Right across the hall, there were two youngish black men. One was tall and thin, dressed head to toe in a bleach white tracksuit with red trimming. He had thick, black framed glasses with an all white baseball cap that must’ve just come off the rack, as it still had its tag attached. He had buckteeth that seemed to fit into his otherwise handsome mouth like an accent, a beauty mark. His friend was older, but not old. He was dressed “down” comparatively, in a basketball jersey and drooping jeans that sagged comfortably below his waist, revealing his bunched white briefs and slightly bulging belly. He had an open slim jim tucked into his jeans. This caught Ricky’s focus more than anything else and made him chuckle. The same two had said something lewd to Bridgette as they entered her apartment the night before. He couldn’t remember what they said, but remembered her response.
“Well who are you screwin’ tonight, Red? Ya hand?”
It wasn’t met with hostility, they just whooped and laughed as his friend held a balled fist to his grinning mouth and attempted to stifle laughter that escaped with a rhythmic snort. This morning, they were in the same spots as the night before. They immediately cheered and gave sarcastic applause to Ricky. Red, the taller, stylish one, approached Ricky physically, placing both hands on Ricky’s shoulders and giving him an impromptu yet brief shoulder rub. Dizzy, the shorter, rounder one, gave him enthusiastic pats on the shoulder. Ricky broke away, uncomfortable with being touched. They continued to lay into him as he tried to walk away.
“Boy, what was she like!?” Dizzy hollered.
“Did she do ya for free? Cause you da thousandth customer…” Red started. He paused briefly and looked around, then squeed with laughter, “…THIS WEEK!” He buckled and bent at the knees with a strange grace, leaning and grabbing on to his shorter friend for balance.
“You won the golden rubber, boy!” Dizzy added.
Red gathered himself and said “C’mon now, soldierboy, we just playin’ witchu.”
Dizzy pulled a cigarette from his ear and placed it in his mouth, and nodded upwards at Ricky.
“Ay man, you gotta light?”
Ricky patted his hands around his jacket for show only. He inserted his hands in his pockets to sell the ruse and replied with an unsympathetic “Nope, sorry.”
Dizzy replied with a suspicious “Aight, cool…” shooting a look at Red.
Red took the cue and delivered a patronizing, “You have yourself a blessed day, sir.”
Ricky left the two and stepped outside and onto the sidewalk. The summer morning already carried a heavy sack of humidity, the thick warmth engulfing and slowing Ricky physically and mentally. He walked a bit down the sidewalk and took out his lighter, lit up, and chuckled out a puff of smoke. He didn’t get to his second puff before a gravelly voice beckoned from an alley.
“Got one of those for me?”
He had a dirty sun baked face, tendrils of matted and wild hair with clothes that were new but unfitting. He was about Ricky’s height, but hunched over, yielding several inches. The man didn’t mask his intent with any pleasantries, approaching Ricky while making a gesture as if he was smoking an invisible cigarette. Ricky appreciated getting to the point and immediately presented the man with an open pack, letting him fish out a smoke. The man’s fingernails were bitten short and his hand had at least two visible wounds that Ricky saw as he reached for a cigarette. He grabbed it with shaking hands and hoisted it right into his mouth. Ricky sparked the lighter for the man and he leaned in to light it.
“Much obliged,” the man said halfheartedly, and he gave him an almost sarcastic salute. Rick said, “No prob–”
The homeless man cut him off, “You were with the Weederman girl last night, yeah?”
Ricky coughed out a lung full of smoke in surprise. “Uh, yeah, uh well, uh,” he stuttered, his face hot and red from the forwardness.
The man mocked with a surprising aggressiveness, “Uh, yeah, uh!” and then squared himself firmly in front of Ricky. “Don’t stutter, boy! Did you screw my daughter last night or not!?” He barked angrily, taking a long drag from the cigarette protruding from his mangy grayish beard.
Ricky took a step back and beckoned, hands up and embarrassed. He barely said, “Look—” before the man’s face contorted quickly to a wide smile, a mostly gaping hole grin with only three or four brown teeth exposed. His laugh was like a teapot’s whistle mixed with a wheezing snore. He barely got the words, “You should see your face, soldier!” out before his heavy laughter was interrupted by three machine gun-like coughs, full of sputtering phlegm. He gathered himself and went into a final release of sighed laughter at Ricky’s expense.
Ricky wasn’t bothered by the ruse but tried to feign some enjoyment from the stupid prank. “Well, you got me, Ha Ha,” Ricky said, letting his fake laugh be a little monotone on purpose.
The two were about to share an awkward silence when the car turned down the nearby street, revealing itself. It was all black, hood to truck, wheels to windows. Clean and well maintained, its hood domed slightly with an angry indication of the roaring turbo engine inside. The grill was a set of tall and thin silver bared teeth on the front of the imposing vehicle. It looked like a souped up Buick Grand National, all right angles and rectangles, elegant and intimidating. It didn’t coast down the street, it creeped, like a large monitor lizard searching for prey.
The music was louder than the engine. Still distant, but the two men both heard it. The hair on the back of Ricky’s neck raised and his face tingled with anger. The bum had a different reaction. His face shriveled and his eyes bulged, going from red to pale white quickly. His eyes erratically searched around for something. Ricky started in, as he often would in unmixed company.
“This neighborhood’s gone to shit, hasn’t it?” he said, staring down the car, still many meters down the road. “Is this what they think is music nowadays?” He swung his arm out to lightly thwap the man on the chest, but found no one there. He turned to see what happened, his arm swinging emptily at the air and saw the man already turning down the alley. He caught eyes with Ricky and threw the remainder of his cigarette on the ground with an angry, hard flick. Ricky didn’t hear him say it, but he saw his lips form the word “Shit” as he seemed to sneak away back into the alley.
The car approached slowly, still a ways down the street, but with its bassy music vibrating all things not heavily nailed down. Ricky was dumbfounded by the man’s actions, but turned his attention back to the creeping car. Now slowly passing on the road adjacent to the sidewalk Ricky was planted on. Ricky stuck his fingers in his ears. He shook his head, index fingers in ears, and exclaimed “TURN IT DOWN!” The car roared with delight, speeding up the short distance to the nearby stop sign and then screeching tires to stop. It idled for a bit as the music became even louder, to the point of hurting Ricky’s ears, even with them plugged. He felt the bass thumping into his chest, beating against his heart, feeling like an arrhythmia. Ricky cussed some choice words and decided enough was enough. He took off toward the car, not sure what he was going to do when he reached it. He felt a smidge of relief as the car sped off with another squeal, painting the mottled asphalt with a tread of black rubber paint.
Ricky arrived on foot to the BBQ restaurant ten minutes before four. The sun pierced through smoke-like clouds and felt like it was cooking the back of his neck. It washed out the larger, brash advertisements covering the tinted windows of the restaurant, now desaturated and lifeless from years of absorbing direct sunlight. It used to be a Shoney’s, then a Denny’s, then a Pizza Hut. Now, it was a cheap, local BBQ that stayed in business, despite having decidedly terrible BBQ. The exterior was covered in a stone brick veneer siding that resembled large rocks. It was surrounded by a moat of river rocks and mulch that supported several sad, misshapen bushes with shiny, spiky dark green leaves. The mulch was covered in cigarette butts, empty dip cans, and the occasional half broken beer bottle. Ricky leaned into the piping hot door, pulling away with a sharp inhale and shaking his hand in pain. The restaurant greeted him with a blast of full blown cold AC and darkness, a respite from the long walk he just completed. A cute, young hostess approached him and hit him with a soulful southern accent.
“Just one, hun?” she said, chewing gum and gathering the needed instruments for a single patron, napkins, menu, silverware.
“Nah, I’m good. I’m actually looking for work? I heard ya’ll was hiring a dishwasher?” Ricky said.
The girl dropped all her gatherings and shot him a harsh look, followed by a mischievous smile, perpetually smacking on the gum. Without warning, the tiny thing brayed a name, barely tilting her head back toward the kitchen without taking her eyes off Ricky.
“Barry!” she yelled and, without hesitating, added another “BARRY!!” twice as loud. Ricky was stupefied, something so small could be so forceful and loud. The swinging doors of the kitchen exploded with a large, hairy Popeye sized forearm.
“WHAT!?” the man yelled back, matching her loud tone.
Chomping the gum loudly through a goofy grin with overly made up eyes fluttering, she said, “There’s someone out here to see you!” She gave Ricky a quick aside, “Barry’s the owner…”
“Uh, thanks?” Ricky offered, and turned his attention to the impatient and already annoyed looking Barry. Barry stopped, halfway through the doors to shout something loudly back at the kitchen staff. He put an index finger up to pause the not-yet-started conversation between him and Ricky. Once he quit yelling, he exited the kitchen and approached Ricky, glancing eye contact for just a second, and then moving his eyes completely up and down the young man. Rick felt awkward and a little violated, and for a second thought the man was about to fight him.
Barry looked out of place in the front of the restaurant, his white, stretched t-shirt covered in red stains on the chest and stomach area and pools of sweat in the armpits and back. He wore a backwards yellowed baseball cap that looked silly for a man of his late middle age. Gray hair escaped from it, covering his sweaty forehead. He looked past Ricky while wiping his hands thoroughly with a stained white cotton towel, possibly checking for customers or anybody else he could hire instead of Ricky. He tossed the towel over his shoulder and proudly offered his massive hand, calloused and hairy with fingers as big as boney, wrinkled hotdogs. Ricky looked at the hand and looked up, his hand clasping and shaking before he thought about it. The man squeezed harshly and pulled with enough force to move Ricky closer. He looked Ricky directly in the eyes and said his name with an overly friendly inflection
“Barry Beavers, owner! I hear you want to wash dishes?” He didn’t wait for Ricky to acknowledge this half question or answer, “Good, you’re hired!” Ricky was surprised as the fridge of a man turned and began to lead him into the kitchen. Ricky followed as Barry listed off procedures and tasks.
“I’ll pay you cash, under the table until I decide to actually do your paperwork. Forty bucks a night, usually a six hour shift, but that depends on how slow you are, sound good?”
“Sure thing,” Ricky said. He gave a tour of the empty, dirty kitchen and its depressed looking inhabitants. “This is Travis, he’s gonna be real happy he doesn’t have to wash dishes anymore, huh boy?” He patted the back of the slender, hunched teen who was commanding the line by himself.
The young man groaned with the bare amount of enthusiasm. “Sure thing, Mr. Beavers.” He didn’t look up from the line, an array of sides stewed past the point of edibility. Cabbage with large flecks of black pepper, baked beans with a skin formed, green beans with soggy gray pieces of bacon, and room temperature potato salad. The line of food was immaculate though and Travis was spooning side after side onto plates quickly and with a seriousness that indicated he took at least a small amount of pride in his work.
“He’s real good with the ladies,” Barry said sarcastically to Ricky while rolling his eyes. “Speaking of!” he clapped his hands together and shouted “LADIES! Get on in here, meet your new dishwasher!” Three young girls rolled into the kitchen sluggishly. The short hostess, and two waitresses appeared. One of the waitresses had short black hair, black lipstick and too much eye shadow. She might be a goth or something similar underneath the bright blue restaurant t-shirt she was forced to wear over short denim shorts. She had the sleeves rolled up enough to reveal several tattoos on her upper arms. She blew the strands of hair out of her face and made a face of disapproval at the whole situation, though she offered Travis an endearing smirk when he raised his eyebrows at her. The other waitress was Bridgette, wearing a faded red t-shirt with the starving cartoon beaver holding up a large side of ribs. Her shirt was cut off around the midriff, showing a pierced belly button that Ricky already knew about. Her oddly broad shoulders made her body into a sort of “V” with her skinny hips and stick thin legs.
The goth girl barely acknowledged Ricky with eyes pointed either down at the ground or fixated near Travis. The hostess gave him a two finger salute with a confident familiarity. Bridgette made a show of not knowing him. She was a much better waitress than an actress, and she was a terrible waitress.
“Oh! HELLO, IT’S SO NICE TO MEET YOU, ARE YOU FROM AROUND HERE, ORI-GIN-ALLY?” she said, sounding a bit like those robotic voices that told you which buttons to press before putting you on hold indefinitely.
Barry looked confused but snapped everyone back to work with another hand clap. “Alright! Everyone get back to work!” and he shooed the girls back to their various stations and ushered Ricky over to the dishwasher. Bridgette peaked over at him while she sorted silverware, straws, and napkins, preparing for the dinner rush. Barry familiarized Rick with the dishwasher. “Dishes go in here, they come out here, give them a minute to fully dry, then put them away, ya good?” Ricky shrugged, grabbed a towel and got to work.
The slow shift came to a close, the sun setting through the tinted windows, lulling to a twilight where fireflies were out and headlights were on, but it wasn’t yet fully dark. The gray blue hue of dusk comforted Ricky as he took in the smells of the kitchen, dish soap and purple stuff mixed with remainder sides scraped into the trash, all combining into one horrid compost. His stomach grumbled more than a few times during the shift.
They were closing up, Barry in his office, counting the day’s till. Bridgette was forcing another terrible performance and telling the bubbly hostess and the goth waitress they could take off for the night. The goth disappeared in a puff of clove smoke while the flirtatious hostess bobbed and weaved, shot a glance at Ricky and said, “Okay, I get it. He’s not my type anyway”.
Bridgette laughed uncontrollably and blurted out a “What!?” that actually seemed convincing now. She watched as the hostess exited, unlocked her bike and began pedaling home, shrinking into the horizon of cracked sidewalks and damaged streets. She tapped Travis on the shoulder and dismissively told him that Barry said for him to take off. Travis immediately escaped from his dirty apron and tossed it in the laundry pile.
“Later,” he muttered to no one in particular.
With everyone except Barry clear, she honed in on him. While she didn’t have a one-hundred percent thought out plan, she did premeditate on charming him into leaving earlier than usual. She entered the door frame, leaning in a bit with a wry smile.
“Hey boss, you headin’ out? Think we got it from here,” she asked as much as she suggested.
He answered back, barely looking up from his paperwork. “In a minute, are ya’ll almost done out there? How’s the new guy doing, he helpin’?”
Bridgette answered back quickly, in a more relaxed, flirtatious manner. “I think I got him handled. Why don’t you let me lock up?” she asked. He finished his paperwork in a rush and put a large envelope into the small safe seated on the office floor. Bridgette snatched a glance of several beige bags, with strown about stacks of cash surrounding it in haphazard piles. She salivated, but was careful not to let Barry see her eyeing it. The safe slammed shut and Barry spun out the combination knob. He collected some papers into a manilla folder, rushing himself. He shoved past Bridgette on the way out the door, barely stopping. “Hasta luego,” he said, filtered through his southern accent. He backed out the door and gave an eyebrow wiggle goodbye.
Bridgette offered back a cheery and overcompensating, “Hasta la vista!” She hardly waited for the door to shut before she turned to Ricky, who was actually putting in some effort into mopping the floor. She scolded him, “Put that thing down, let’s get moving!” Ricky dropped the mop right where he was and joined Bridgette in the office.
Bridgette knelt down in front of the safe and pointed Ricky at the computer. Ricky sat down and opened the worn kitchen stained gray laptop. He was greeted with a lewd picture of a woman bending over and smiling while looking back over her shoulder. Of course this was Barry’s lock screen. Ricky took a minute and looked around the office for a hint of a possible password. He thought about how some of the highest up soldiers and generals he worked with would actually write down their passwords on sticky notes and leave them out, right next to their computers. He searched and searched until his eyes saw it. He grimaced, shook his head and slammed the laptop shut.
“What are you doing?” Bridgette questioned. Ricky snatched up a sticky note that was attached to the rim of the desk. He handed it to Bridgette. The sticky note read, in Barry’s chicken scratch handwriting, “Safe combination: 1-12-24”
“What!? You’re a genius!” Bridgette exclaimed and she hopped up, wrapped her arms around Ricky and pecked him on the lips. He felt uneasy, that she might actually believe they would Bonnie and Clyde right out of this town. She sat back down and mutter-whispered the numbers to herself as she spun the combination lock. She got to the final number and paused to look at Ricky. “Here we go,” she said with a wink and flirty smile.
The safe door opened and stacks of cash literally fell out of the safe. Neither Bridgette nor Ricky had ever seen so much money. Loose twenties, bundled up stacks of one-hundred dollar bills, some in envelopes, some just bunched up and strewn about. It was a mess of a fortune, all theirs to clean up. Ricky couldn’t believe how much was there, as he searched around the office for something to put it in. The novice robbers didn’t even consider something safe and inconspicuous to stash the cash. Ricky didn’t notice Bridgette had left, but she arrived back in the office, and presented him with a giant black plastic trash bag. He stopped gawking at all the money and began vigorously scooping it into the bag. Bridgette bit her nail while cussing quietly to herself, not in anger but in astonishment.
Bridgette had said Barry didn’t trust banks, but that didn’t make sense for this amount of money. Ricky pondered it was more likely that Barry was into some less-than-legal operations, and the BBQ restaurant was a front. This didn’t matter to Ricky, he would’ve taken the money, hard earned or illegally obtained. But he did like feeling a little self righteous. As he emptied the last of the cash into the sack, he felt something in his chest. A deep, rhythmic, thump. It crept up a few notches and began making the papers on the table vibrate. He looked at Bridgette for acknowledgement, but all she did was bark a rushed whisper, “Let’s go! C’mon, my scooter’s outside, I’ll set the alarm!”
“Your scooter?” he questioned with his voice compensating loudly for the ear splitting bass surrounding them. She didn’t seem to notice the rhythmic booming, but Ricky had his hands covering his ears, the trash bag of money in one. She answered him back about the scooter, but he couldn’t hear what she was saying. She snatched the bag from him and hurried him along. As the two left, plates were rattling and shaking throughout the kitchen. Spoons and silverware clattered loudly, and Ricky could barely think in complete sentences. His tooth fillings rattled inside his mouth, hurting his jaw as several dinner plates fell loose from a shelf and crashed on the floor. Bridgette, rushing and oblivious, ushered Ricky out the back door and into the night air, her mouth moving but no words were heard by Ricky’s overwhelmed eardrums. As they exited, Ricky saw the black car, vibrating itself with its thundering speakers. Bridgette, pumped full of adrenaline and euphoria from the heist, didn’t give it a second thought.
“Oh my god! You got us a getaway driver!? Perfect!” she exclaimed. Ricky was frozen as the bass finally subsided. His scattered thoughts reformed, and he started to call out to Bridgette to get away from the car, but no words came out. He felt shocked, paralyzed by some outside force, like he was dreaming but couldn’t pinch himself awake. She pulled on the car door to get in the back, but it didn’t budge.
“Not sure what you promised your guy for the cut though,” she rattled off nonchalantly as she banged on the window. The driver side window slowly rolled down. She approached it, looked inside and saw something. Something that immediately jolted her from her existence. She stopped her peppy yammering and looked at Ricky somberly. Her face was white and her mouth slightly open and frowned. A look of innocence, guilt, shame, and more than anything, fear. Rick, still stuck in his own shoes, could only witness. She started to say something, a cry for help perhaps, but it was too late. Her body was sucked through the car window’s opening with only half a scream. Her body yanked with an unearthly speed, her legs going straight out as if to enter the window quicker. The trash bag of money went with her, leaving several bills fluttering in the air, floating to the ground like feathers of some poor bird snatched by a hawk. Her shoes bounced on the pavement and Ricky finally returned from his cold shock. The window began to creep shut and Ricky approached the demonic car, immediately banging on the doors and windows, screaming Bridgette’s name. He caught a brief glimpse of the interior as the window eclipsed closed. To his surprise, it looked like a dimly lit empty car interior, clean as a new car. No sign of Bridgette, but it was only a brief look. With the window fully shut, it was deeply opaque, tinted like shoe polish.
Ricky continued pulling on the door handle and kicking and hitting the door, beckoning it to open. He backed up, defeated and confused. The music was a low growl now, and the window began to creep back open. He moved over, in a daze, and looked into the car. This time, it was nothingness, a deep black empty void. As if the car window opened up to the other side of a vast cliff. Ricky could hear the winding and rustling of soft wind, which made him move in a bit. The noise ramped up and became a loud and ghoulish whine. Before he had a chance to react and get away from it, a disgusting geyser of hot blood sprayed. It was a sustained firehose of viscera and steaming guts, bits of bone, and soggy pieces of skin. It hit Ricky hard and lifted him several feet in the air, knocking him back and off his feet. It sprayed relentlessly for several seconds, and finished by sputtering on a few large chunks of bone and clothing. He recognized the red Beaver’s BBQ t-shirt, even with it ripped and torn to pieces.
Ricky gathered himself, trembling in a pool of blood and chunky remains. He planted his hand on something rough and when he looked to see what it was, he saw a human tooth. His feet skidded against the pavement and blood as he finally stood back up, hurt and stunned. He was covered in thick, warm, slimy, red liquid. It lubricated every inch of his body, so getting up was a struggle. The car’s window slowly shut, and it began revving so hard that the entire body shook. The tires smoked and squealed with a gleeful scream that echoed the empty night awake. The music kicked back in, so loud that Ricky was folded over with agony, his hands clapped tightly around his ears. The car backed up quickly, forcing Ricky to roll out of the way. It drifted around to face him. It roared its loud engine several more times, its headlights bright in his eyes. Each thunderous rev of the engine caused the car to wiggle excitedly in place. Ricky got to his feet, shaking from the shock of everything. The car seemed to be enjoying this, as it began nudging closer and closer to Ricky, but stopping short of reaching him. The playful bullying ramped up from threatening engine growls to full blown acceleration.
Ricky exploded into a sprint, running on a mixture of fear and instinct. His knees almost touching his chin, his arms rapidly karate chopping the air, his burst of speed was answered by a prolonged drifting of the muscly black car. It caught up to him all too quickly, but Ricky changed directions multiple times to keep the car dragging itself on hairpin turns rather than straight aways. The car would make up lost distance quickly, nipping at the back of Ricky’s legs given just the slightest amount of time to accelerate.
Ricky noticed each turn it took to pursue him, it was going faster and faster, and thus, drifting more and more. He led it onto a sharp curb covered in garbage cans and trash bags. It skipped up onto a curb, throwing the garbage bins in all directions with great force, and getting bags of trash caught in its wheels. It barely missed Ricky, who surprised even himself with a high jump and smooth slide across the hood. Ricky took off as the car attempted to back up, but had two of its wheels off the ground, not getting any traction.
Ricky knew his hometown better than anybody, and so it didn’t take him long to lose the car completely. He maneuvered through back alleys and dirt paths, hiding in bushes and behind privacy fences. He could hear the eerie distant revving and racing of the car, angrily searching the pothole laden residential streets for him. He was suddenly thankful that the engine and its thumping bass was so loud, as he could hear how close or far away it was. As he made his way to the docks, the music and engine revs had gone silent. His mind wandered for several minutes as he caught his breath.
Ricky heard a car approaching, certainly not the demon car that had been pursuing him. He ducked down behind bushes and barrels, and spied that the approaching car was a police cruiser. He whispered “Thank God” quietly to himself and ran towards the patrolman’s car, waving his hands excitedly to get their attention. This worked, but not how Ricky thought it would. The cop immediately flipped on flashing blue and red lights, exited the car, and drew his weapon.
The officer, a small and short young rookie named Blake, trained his gun on Ricky and alternated yelling commands at Ricky while arguing with dispatch. “GET DOWN ON THE GROUND!” “No, I don’t need backup!” “HANDS ABOVE YOUR HEAD, PALMS DOWN ASSHOLE!” “English, please Esmerelda!” “YOU MOVE AND I SHOOT, UNDERSTAND, COWBOY?” “No backup, I repeat, no backup!”
Ricky begged the officer to listen while describing the situation, but Officer Blake had already decided what he was doing. A few calls came in about a prowler moving through people’s yards and casing various vehicles. Ricky matched the description enough. As Blake handcuffed Ricky and stood him up, Ricky could hear the bass looming in the distance, and instinct took over. He shoved the officer hard and began to run away as fast as he could. Ricky made it a few yards before he felt his whole body go limp with electricity. He shook and gritted his teeth as Blake unloaded a taser charge. Blake took his time getting over to drag Ricky back to his patrol car while talking some trash and laughing it up.
“You should’ve seen yourself, that taser hit you and you–” and Blake completed the sentence with an impression of Ricky being electrocuted. He shook and danced erratically, biting his tongue and laughing. He indulged in the impression again and again, mocking Ricky who was still writhing in pain on the ground. Suddenly, Blake’s face was swallowed in bright headlights. Tires thrashed into dirt and grass, tossing clumps and debris. It sounded like a sudden tornado, a beastial roar as the black car sped toward Blake so quickly, he didn’t have time to react. His body ragdolled against the front grill of the car, barreling toward a massive tree. The car crashed so hard that its backend lifted off the ground, with Officer Blake squished and bloody between the tree and the car. Steam hissed from the hood of the car, its hood smashed and crumpled, with one headlight completely out and the other flickering over Blake’s corpse.
Ricky was relatively safe from the impact, only witnessing the violent impact from a short distance. As he tugged on his handcuffs, he realized that he had to at least try and get the key from the now disemboweled officer. He gathered himself slowly, still recovering from the taser shot, and moved toward the body. The car was as totalled as totalled could be, or so Ricky thought. As he got closer to the body, the car’s engine attempted to turn. It cranked with a loud whine, like a large animal that had been mortally wounded, but was still bleeding out. However, the engine eventually cranked up, and the car was roaring and ripping again. It was shaking in its place, pushing up the tree and shaking the deceased officer’s body about. It wriggled back and forth in place, causing the corpse to gyrate with its uncanny blank stare. Each time it shook in place, there seemed to be less and less of Officer Blake. It didn’t take long for Ricky to realize what it was doing; Eating the cop. Officer Blake’s dead eyes seemed to stare at Ricky as his body was contorted and bent, drawn underneath the hood of the car more and more, until there was no more officer. The broken down car slowly reversed a few feet, its damaged engine sputtering a low grumble. Suddenly, it revved a hearty rev, which seemed to pop the dented hood back into place. Another rev, and flames shot from beneath the hood, and the steam stopped emitting. It continued revving the engine loudly, and cracks in the windshield and headlights began to shrink, like watching a wound heal in time lapse. Both headlights shone brightly now, and the bassy music turned back on, with a slight distortion at first. With each rev, another piece of the car morphed back into place.
Ricky wasn’t sticking around to see it fully healed. He bolted as fast as he could down to the river, with its muddy banks. He darted through backyards, jumping over dilapidated wooden fences that housed long grounded boats, broken down lawnmowers, and potted dead plants that never got planted. He ran without hesitation through the several blocks that his parents used to warn him to never go. There were no streetlights on, but from what he could see, the houses were still rundown and with kids’ toys and trash just inside the many rusted chain link fences. Dogs chained to trees charged at him and barked, causing a deep angry voice to yell out. He thought to ask the house of the voice for help, but how would it look, Ricky in handcuffs and covered in blood? And what would he say? He finally made it, out of breath, past the wood and rope barricades that blocked the street from the walking trail. He thought this would at least slow down the car. He rested for just a second, his hands on his knees and his lungs heaving hard to catch up.
BUM BUM DABUMBUM! He felt it in his chest first, and hoped it wasn’t what he thought it was. BUM BUM DABUMBUM! But it got louder and vibrated his whole body as it grew closer and closer. BUM BUM DABUMBUM! The car wasn’t speeding, it knew Ricky’s location. BUM BUM DABUMBUM! The bass got louder and louder as the car appeared and its wheels deliberately shook on the cobblestone path down to the docks. The car took its time and parked beneath a street light in front of the barricade. It idled for a few minutes and Ricky started to think it didn’t know he was there. He whispered to himself “C’mon” as it was his plan to lead the car into the mud, sticks, and driftwood that collected around the bank of the river. If that wasn’t enough, there was a cemented garbage can holder into which he intended to lead the speeding car. Instead, the car actually turned off. Ricky’s eyebrows raised and he mouthed words of disbelief when he suddenly heard the thunk of the trunk opening. He squinted, drawn to see what was happening.
The car had backed in so that the trunk was facing him, now wide open and with a yellow orange light pouring out of it, like a searchlight going into the sky. The trunk was filled full of several misshapen and asymmetrical speakers, like pulsating eyes. Busy frayed wires connected one to another like veins, the whole thing looked like some type of robotic organ system. The speakers stopped pulsing and so did the music. They wiggled and slithered out of the way, and a black hooded form began to emerge impossibly from underneath. The figure was standing and rising up slowly, as if from an otherworldly elevator. The figure was cloaked in a thick black hoodie, covering its eyes but not its mouth, which held a silver toothed smile. It grimaced wide and hard, with a visible grinding of its teeth. The light from the trunk illuminated the entire figure and caught on something in the figure’s hands. The shape stood in the trunk, hooded and with both hands wrapped around a large fireman’s ax. The trunk’s light shut off, and with it, all the nearby street lights went dark. Ricky couldn’t see anything. He heard the car creak slowly with body weight being relieved from it, followed by a careful closing of the trunk. Ricky stood in the mud with the placid river next to him. His eyes barely began to adjust to the darkness as he heard a rapid series of steps. He turned and ran, but he only made it a few feet before his feet slipped in the mud. He felt the thing close in on him, its feet pounding into the ground furiously, smacking the mud loudly with each impact. It sounded like it was right behind him, so he whipped around with his arm out, trying to defend himself. His arm swung wildly and hit nothing. Ricky realized his eyes were closed from fear. He struggled to open them, one peeked out before both opened fully. There was nothing there, no car, no person, no creature with an ax. Then Ricky felt something slam into him, and his whole body became heavy. He felt his legs wobble with a new weight. He turned back around slowly, feeling a strange sensation of pressure between his shoulder blades. The smiling creature was there facing him, its eyes solid black and shiny, with no whites. Its face was human, but it was not. It bared its metallic grin, revealing it to be less a smile and more a permanent contortion.
The creature no longer had the ax in his hands, and it put one hand on Ricky’s shoulder and barely gripped. Ricky tugged at his handcuffs, but they were no longer there. His arms slumped to his side. The creature moved to the side with its other arm stretched out to reveal the car, somehow now on the other side of the barricade. As the creature ushered Ricky toward the car, he felt cold, and strangely warm. He stumbled toward the car, his legs barely able to carry him. The creature helped him walk. As he got closer, the car door opened and he could see two figures in the backseat of the car. One was Officer Blake. His mouth was agape and his face was a pale green, eyebrows raised with a confused look on his face. The other was Bridgette. She was trembling with a blank expression on her face. She had her thumbnail firmly between her teeth. When she saw Ricky, she pulled it away and smiled slightly.
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