((Done mostly at work))
She shook her head. He stepped forward and took her in his arms.
“I prayed for you,” she said in his shoulder.
He looked heavenward. There would be no changing her. Instead, he kept holding her.
Just a little after six, Mickey heard a car pull into the drive. He busied himself in the kitchen, while the door opened somewhere else in the house. He turned at the direction, and saw a tall, handsome man putting up his coat in the foyer. Sheila ran interference, but he shouldered right past her.
“I thought that was your motorcylce in the drive. What do you want? Which state are you running from this time?”
Bomber looked up. “Hello, Daniel. And how was your day?”
Daniel was the typical preacher, tall, handsome, tanned; he could lead congregations into sheer ecstasy by the power of his words. Bomber wondered whether or not he was a ghoul of some sort – or the reincarnation of Hitler.
“Well? What will happen if I call the police?”
“Nothing, because I don’t think I’m doing anything.” He opened the convection oven door and pulled out the chicken. “I’m going to be breaking bread with you. You know, Jesus always wanted people to take care of those less fortunate. I haven’t had anything to eat since two. You could be kind enough to share at least a wing with me.” He set the chicken on the table.
Daniel was so furious, he was shaking. “We eat dinner, and then you leave.”
“Oh, well, I don’t have a place to stay the night…”
Daniel glared at him, fire in his eyes.
“Just think of how many more stairs to heaven you’ve just made.” Bomber smiled, and started to set the table. “Chow time, kids!”
Dinner was said with grace. Daniel pointedly ignored Bomber, telling them about the reception of his sermon that day. Bomber stayed silent, listening, and then Daniel turned to Bomber. “Your father is dying.”
Bomber looked up to Sheila, who had her head bent to her plate. “How? What?”
Daniel said casually, “It seems he has cancer throughout his body.”
Bomber knew it had to do with all those years in the smelting refinery, breathing in those chemicals. The refinery had closed twenty years ago, leaving his dad with nothing. He had gotten sick soon after that. All Bomber knew was that he was living with his older sister Maggie in Florida. It had been over ten years since he had seen his family. He was on the road then, arriving at his mother’s funeral in leathers, refusing to take them off at his brother Paul’s insistence.
“When did this happen?” He kept looking at Sheila, even though Daniel spoke. This wasn’t unusual, that Daniel would speak on Sheila’s behalf. It was just another instance of the total control others had over her.
“About three months ago,” Daniel said. “We didn’t even bother trying to get a hold of you.”
“I can see that,” he muttered, and looked back at his plate. Nobody could find him even if they wanted to try. He made that a point of his existence. “How long?”
“Real soon. They gave him three months three months ago, we’re expecting the call anytime now.”
“God speed him and take him without pain,” said Sheila, and Daniel reached over to take her hand.
“Let us pray,” Daniel said, and everyone joined hands. Luckily, Bomber wasn’t sitting next to either Sheila or Daniel, or he would have squeezed his hand to induce pain.
Bomber took the couch after 9 pm, when everyone was forced to go to bed. Daniel loomed over him, trying to look menancing. Bomber looked bored. “What is it, Daniel.”
“You’re leaving first thing tomorrow.”
“Yes, I am.”
“Don’t even think about asking for money.”
“Too late.” He looked up at Daniel. “But you have the checkbook under lock and key.”
“Yes. Because she would have drained it for you.”
Bomber shook his head and smiled, “You know her so well.”
“I do. She’s a godfearing woman who loves God and knows when a snake comes into her house.”
“But not a snake oil salesman.” He focused his sapphire eyes on Daniel’s hazel ones. “I know the house she grew up in. It doesn’t surprise me.” He turned over on the couch. “Good night, Daniel.”
Bomber could almost feel the daggers in his back that Daniel was glaring at him with. He waited until he heard him leave.
As he started to drift off, someone tapped his shoulder. Bomber reached for the gun under his pillow and turned around, keeping it out of sight. In the dim light, he saw Danny, dressed in Power Rangers pajamas. He tucked the gun under the blanket and turned over fully. “Danny,” he whispered, “What’re you doing here?”
“I want to give you this.” He thrust cupped hands at him. Bomber held out both his hands, and Danny dropped a bunch of crumpled bills into his cupped hands. There were a few fives and tens, but mostly ones.
“Danny, I can’t take this.”
“Daddy says to help those less fortunate.”
Normally, he wouldn’t. However, he really did need the money. He pulled the pile of money close. “I’ll pay you back, I promise.”
Danny beamed at him, and then kissed his cheek. “God bless,” he said, and ran upstairs. Bomber set the money on the coffee table and counted it – $78. He’d probably been saving it since all his birthdays, knowing how stingy Daniel was. Oh, yes, he owed this boy.
http://paragoncitytales.net/warwriter/?p=297
Day 2, Monday.
Bomber’s only acquiesence to technology was a GPS device. He punched in the coordinates to Wilmington, North Carolina and noted the highways he’d need to take. At around 6:30, the noise from the kids getting ready for school woke him up. Danny wanted Bomber to stand at the bus stop with him.
“Actually,” Bomber said, nibbling on a waffle, “Let me ride you to it.”
Danny jumped up and grinned. “That’d be great!”
“Mickey!” cried Sheila. “No!”
“How far is the bus stop?”
“Just at the corner, c’mon, mom!”
“NO. Absolutely not!” said Daniel coming into the room.
Bomber shrugged, turned to Danny and winked. Danny got the hint and looked sufficiently crestfallen.
Danny went out, and Bomber said he’d walk him to the bus stop. As soon as the door closed, he picked up Danny and plopped him on the back of the bike. He jumped on in front of him and kickstarted it. Danny laughed in pure glee.
“Hold onto my waist and don’t let go!” Danny did, hugging Bomber tight. Bomber took him on a short ride through the subrubs, grinning like a madman and listening to Danny whoop as he rode. They arrived at the bus stop all too soon. Bomber loved the look the soccer moms were giving him as Danny slid off the bike. Bomber held up a fist to Danny, who responded with a fist-bump.
“Learn this, Danny,” Bomber said, bending to his level. “It’s better to beg forgiveness than ask permission.”
“They’re probably gonna punish me.”
“Whatever doesn’t kill you makes you stronger.”
The bus arrived, and Danny waved at his uncle as he climbed aboard. All the boys gaped out the window at Bomber sitting astride the bike parked on the sidewalk.
The bus left in a roar, and Bomber lifted his body to kick start the bike.
“Excuse me sir,” said a woman who looked like she was trying to step out of a Mabelline ad but looked like a corpse painted by an undertaker, “but you are not supposed to park that on the sidewalk.
Bomber smiled kindly at her and flipped her off, then started the bike. He revved the engine as he walked the bike along the sidewalk, making it roar in a loud pitch that he knew others could hear three streets down. When it hit the street, he took off.
DS loved Mondays. Kids at school were jonesing after a weekend, and he made most of his money then. He looked at his bro Spike, who kept a lookout. He was a damn good lookout, too.
A minute before the bell rang, they both headed to Alvin. They carried a few hits of crystal, a lot of pot, and a ton of money rolled up in elastics. Spike had two .44’s and knew how to use them. DS also carried a knife and a .38 with hollow points. They could blow holes the size of barn doors into people.
Raleigh was busy, as they sauntered through the crowds. Alvin’s place was about a fifteen minute walk through the streets to a restaurant where he held court. There, they’d drop off the money, and Alvin would count it, giving them a nice 5% cut and more drugs.
DS expected 1K for his efforts today. They rounded a corner and came face to face with a bald guy in black glasses, wearing a camo jacket.
“Gentlemen,” he said, “You have something I want.”
“Get the fuck outta here, baldy,” said Spike, shouldering him. The man didn’t move.
Then he wasn’t there, but was behind them, grabbing them both by the scruff of their jackets and dragging them into the dim, stinking alley they were standing in front of. Spike got his gun free and pumped it into the man.
The man threw them both deeper into the alley, and they both slammed against a dumpster, slightly stunned. The man pressed his hand to his stomach oozing out thick dark blood.
“You’ve ruined my jacket,” he said. “Now, I’m pissed off–”
Spike recovered first and fired another shot. DS could have sworn the man dodged the bullet. He came at them again, faster than he thought possible, and he grabbed Spike’s arm. DS heard a sickening snap, and then Spike’s howl. He could see the forearm snapped cleanly in half, the bone sticking out of the skin. The man picked up the gun, checked the chamber.
DS got his gun out, but the man slapped his hand so hard that he thought he broke it while the gun went flying to the other side of the alley. The man turned to Spike and calmly shot him in the head and the screaming stopped. Then he turned the gun on DS.
“No, man, please, I’ll give you everythin’!” He could feel wetness in his pants.
The bald man pulled the trigger, and nothing happened. He looked at the gun, and then grinned. He turned the gun around in his hand, so that he was holding it by the muzzle. He grabbed DS by the front of his shirt and held him still. “Guess we have to do this the old fashioned way.” He slammed his fist – with the gun in it – into DS’s face and didn’t stop.
Tonner moved as quickly as his bulk allowed from the back end of the store. He didn’t know why he bothered opening on Mondays before lunch. He always had the same inventory – at least those trading cards and the ninja garbage sells. However the army surplus stuff, he hadn’t ordered in about a year, and he could count on one hand what he actually sold during that time.
A bald man in dark glasses stood at the counter, admiring the pictures on the wall. “Morning,” he said cheerfully.
“Mornin’.”
“Vietnam?”
Tonner blinked. “Yeah,” he said.
The man nodded. “Desert Storm, 7th Cav.” He held out his hand.
Tonner thought he felt a smile come across his face. “Chopper?”
“Apache.”
“Heh, y’ain’t lying. You would have said Black Hawk if you were.”
“I flew those too, but mostly Apaches.” He looked toward the back. “Mind if I look around?”
“Sure.”
Tonner went to the cash register and put on the radio. He missed his TV, but since the FCC wanted to force him to buy that damn box, he’d gotten to enjoy talk radio. The bald man went among the army surplus, pulling out jackets and trying them on. The man was big like a man who worked hard, not in a gym, but because he liked to work.
Tonner called to him, “Look against the wall, son. I think there’s some your size.”
The man pulled a few out and found one finally, in simple olive drab. The door opened again, and his old friend Al walked in. “Hey, Tonner!” He placed a cup of coffee in front of Tonner and glanced in the back. “Got a customer finally.”
“Shaddap,” Tonner said, sipping the coffee. Al waved. “Hey, boy!”
The man waved back. “Hi.” He came through the stacks and brought the jacket over. “I’ll take this.” Tonner got off his creaking stool and went to get the little hand-written tag hanging off the collar.
“Know anywere I can get ammo?”
“Whatcha lookin’ for?”
“.44”
“There’s the Ammo Box in Simpleton but he cards.” Tonner looked the bald man over. “You don’t look the type who’s got one.”
“Oh, I have one. Just don’t like to use it.”
“How much you need?”
“Three boxes? More if you can.”
Tonner ducked below the glass case and pulled out six boxes of .44 hollow points. The bald man smiled. “Rifle ammo?”
He pulled out three more boxes. The bald man nodded. “Four hundred? I should pay for the convenience.”
Tonner’s eyes widened. He hadn’t seen that much money in months. Al laughed. “You look like my brother when they told him the house sold!”
Tonner only nodded, and the bald man took out his wallet. He counted out four one-hundred dollar bills. Then he took out a plastic zipped bag, and started putting medals on the jacket. Tonner watched as he placed them with the correct amount of distance between each other.
“Rifle expert?”
“Yeah, I lost the lanyards somewhere.”
“Ever compete?”
“Nope.”
“What was your average?”
“38 on paper, 36 on pop-ups.”
Tonner blinked. A near perfect score. “And your CO didn’t make you compete?”
“I told him I was Amish.”
Al and Tonner laughed. The bald man also smiled, finished putting the medals on. “All right.” He picked up the ammo boxes and stuffed them in his coat. “You have a good day now.”
Tonner counted the money over and over until its scent permeated his fingers.
David Michaelaine groaned at hearing the doorbell and the dog barking. He glanced at the clock – it was six thirty, and Carol should be coming home any time now with the two kids from football practice. Davy would be at work. He hoped it wasn’t Doris from next door, bitching about the dog.
The huge black lab stood barking madly at the front door. “Easy, Cent, easy.” He went to the door and opened it, then stared at the man standing there in the small light illuminating the area before the front door.
“Bruce?”
“In the flesh.”
David threw his arms around his brother. “I thought you died.”
“I could have, a few times over. How are you, Junior?”
“Good, good. Come on in.” He stepped aside for him to come inside. He crossed the threshold. The dog saw him and went at him, and it was David’s quick thinking that grabbed the dog by the collar and held him back. The dog growled, barked, and struggled against him. “He’s…” Dave started pulling the dog back, “Never. Like. This.” He kept pulling the dog and ended up dragging him into a room. He slammed shut the door, and the dog kept barking.
“Must not like leather,” Bomber said.
“Whew, guess not.” David looked up at his older brother. “Want a drink? I think I have some bourbon here.”
“Just water’s good.”
David filled up a tumbler of ice and water from the automatic dispenser in the fridge. “So how have you been? Still riding, I see.”
“Uh huh. What are you up to?”
“Project manager,” he said disgustedly. “Also known as cat wrangling.”
Bomber chuckled and drank deeply. “I could never work in an office.”
“I could never see you in a tie, Mickey.”
“Oh, I can be in one if I have to. I just don’t choose to.” He set the glass aside. “I need to talk to you.”
“How much do you need?”
“No, not that. What’s going on with pa?”
He glanced at a calendar. “He was supposed to be dead last Thursday.” He shrugged. “You know him. He’s tougher than old leather.”
Bomber only nodded. “That’s true.” He finished the water as the back door behind David opened and a big young man walked in. “Whose bike?”
“That’d be mine.”
The boy walked in – he was still wearing a football uniform.
“Cleats!” yelled a pretty blond woman from behind him, carrying two pizza boxes. The boy stopped at the door, taking off his shoes.
“Hi, Carol,” Bomber said with a wave.
Carol smiled. “Hi, Mickey.”
However a pretty girl in pink half-shirt and a skirt that barely covered her nether parts bounded into the house and ran to hug Bomber. He caught her, and barely stopped himself from cupping her ass. He hoped the table covered his erection.
“Hello, Sue.” He looked her up and down. “You’ve gotten big.”
“It’s been ten years!” she said. “I was six years old when I last saw you.”
“Surprised you remembered.”
The boy came in and slapped Bomber on the back, hard. Bomber stumbled, not expecting it. “God damn, Sam.”
He laughed. “I want to open a can of whoop-ass on you.”
“No, I don’t think you really want that.”
Carol had made it to the table with the pizzas, then came around and gave Mickey a kiss on the cheek. “We’ve been worried about you.”
“I would have had the funeral home call you.”
“How? You’d be dead,” said Sam.
Bomber tilted his head with a smile at him. The rest of the family laughed, and Carol got some paper plates for the pizza.
Bomber wasn’t surprised to hear that Sam was a linebacker, and that Sue was a sub-captain. Carol was working as a legal secretary. Sam kept discussing his feats of strength and endurance, and Bomber merely remained silent.
“I can even outdo the SEAL requirements,” Sam said proudly.
“Is that what you want to do?”
“Yeah, maybe. The recruiter said he didn’t think I’d have a problem.”
“They always say that.” Bomber finished his pizza. “Got a weight room?”
“Of course I do,” he said. “Downstairs.”
“What are you pressing?”
“225 times five.”
He pushed back from the table. “Come on.”
“Yeah!” Sam yelled, and led the way.
“Time for some entertainment,” David said, and followed.
“I want to see this!” cried Sue.
Carol muttered, “Guess I’d better watch, too.”
Bomber smiled as the lights were flicked on. He checked the bench and saw that it was set at two hundred. He put more weights on.
“Are you kidding? That’s a hundred!” Sam said, his eyes wide.
“Nope.”
“I can’t spot that!”
“I don’t expect you to.” Bomber lay down on the bench and gripped the bars. He let out a breath and pushed the bar off the holders, pulling the weights to over his chest. He lifted, exhaling every time the weights went up, inhaling as they came down mere centimeters from his chest. He did ten reps of this, then set the bars on its cradle. He sat up, sweating, and taking a few deep breaths. “That’s my limit,” he said, looking up at Sam.
He avoided looking at Sue. He could smell her arousal from where he sat.
From pizza, the kids went to their rooms to do what teenagers do, and Bomber sat comfortably with Carol and David. Carol begged off at around eight, saying she wanted to watch something in their room, leaving Bomber alone with his brother.
“Come outside for a smoke.”
“You’re still smoking?”
“Not around the kids.”
Bomber followed him out to the October air. He could smell the sea breeze, though it was quite a distance away. David lit up a Winston and offered one to Bomber, who took it, lighting it from David’s cigarette.
“What happened to you?”
“Hm?” Bomber let out the smoke slowly.
“The dog’s ready to rip your throat out, and you can press 325? You don’t look older than me.”
“Didn’t you hear? 20’s the new 30.”
“And your eyes. Since when are they so blue?”
“They’ve always been blue.”
“But bright like that? Like burning sapphires.”
Bomber took another drag. “You were always the poetic one.”
“What are you hiding?”
Bomber focused on his brother. “Remember how I said I wanted to talk to you?”
“Yes.” David folded his arms. “Now would be a good time.”
“Indeed.” Bomber took in another breath. “Do you believe in vampires?”
David’s eyes widened. “You’re a vampire?”
Bomber laughed. “No. I was a vampire’s servant. He totally controlled me. And in exchange, he would give me some of his power: Strength, speed, toughness.”
“You were his slave.”
He nodded. “But I enjoyed it.”
“Are you still?”
“I don’t know, I don’t think so.”
“But you still have his abilities?”
“I’m starting to lose them.”
Word count: 3514
Inspiration: Reservoir dogs (pistol whip scene), stereotypes of preacher families, an erotic story from literotica.