Authors: Chad Huskins
Psycho Save Us (58 page)
“What the fuck
happened to you, bra?” He had started to walk around the counter but stopped,
either because he couldn’t fit or because he wasn’t certain what he was going
to do with a man bleeding to death in his store.
“Ya got any
bandages? Alcohol an’ some swabs? Any kinda medical aid section?”
Mac just pointed
a fat finger.
Spencer tipped a
cowboy hat he wasn’t wearing. “Much obliged.” He went into the back, and was
pleasantly surprised to find that Dodson, whoever the fuck he was, had stocked
just two small containers of QuikClot. “Niiiiiice,” he said, lifting them off
the shelf. There were nine boxes of bandages, and Spencer took all of them, as
well. At the counter, he said, “Another burger if you would, please.”
“Fuck, brotha,
you look like you in
mad
need of a hospital.”
“I’m fiendin’
for a burger right now, Mac. I need it. I need it like you need to take that
jersey off an’ throw it in the dumpster.”
“I ain’t got no
more burgers, dawg.”
“Somethin’ quick
then. Like a, uh, I dunno, a fuckin’ reheated hot dog or some shit. Nachos to
go. Ya got anything like that? An’ a Coke…
no
, bottle water?” Mac
studied him a heartbeat longer, then nodded and went to get it. When he came
back, he tossed a bottle of water and a reheated hot dog onto the countertop
and stared at him a minute. Spencer’s eyes had gone to the TV. “You ever seen
Plinkett’s review o’ those
Star Wars
prequels?”
Mac shook his
head.
“Funny shit,
man. Funny, funny shit. He points out all kinds o’ bullshit in those movies.
Like in the second one how Anakin Skywalker kills the sandpeople’s children,
and his girlfriend Padmé is okay with it. But then in the third one Obi-Wan
Kenobi goes an’ tells her that he’s seen security footage of Anakin killin’
children at the Jedi Temple, an’ Padmé’s all like, ‘No, I won’t believe that, I
can’t!’ Strange, stupid, an’ just plain
bad
writin’ in those movies,
man. Total fuckin’ disgrace. How much is that gonna be?”
“Seventeen eighty-five,”
Mac said. While Spencer went fishing for his wallet, he cleared his throat and
said, “You ever get with the police about what happened earlier?”
“What happened
earlier?”
Mac made a
face. “C’mon, man, don’t bullshit me. Them two girls got taken earlier
tonight.”
“Oh, them?”
Spencer handed him his last twenty-dollar bill. “They’re dead, my friend.
Believe that.”
Mac reached out
to take the money. “How you know that?”
He touched his
temple with one finger. “Intuition. They both died tonight.”
The big man
opened the register and got out his change, handed it back. “You saw what
happened tonight, man. You coulda done somethin’.”
“There’s nothin’
you or I could’ve done that those two couldn’t have done themselves. Can I get
a bag for all o’ this?” Mac watched him another heartbeat, then moved to get
the paper bag. He dumped all of Spencer’s goods into the bag carelessly, and
then pushed it across the counter to him. “Thanks so much.” He pointed to the
TV. “Enjoy those shitty movies.” He turned and started to leave. As he
approached the door, Mac called back to him.
“Do me a favor,
man,” the fat man said. “Don’t ever come back in here. I don’t wanna see you
ever again. Ya feel me?” Mac’s gaze was even.
Spencer smiled
at him. “You’ll still be the only man I ever loved, Mac. But don’t worry, ya
won’t see me ever again. It’s better to burn out than to fade away.” He
winked, and walked out.
The streets were
still empty. Spencer felt a little lightheaded. He staggered the last few
steps to the car. He took out the bottle of water and flung the paper bag and
the rest of its contents into the back seat. He cranked it up, and sat there
for a moment. He was slightly aware of the police car that had pulled up
behind him. He was also somewhat cognizant of the two police officers that
hopped out of the car and were moving quickly into Dodson’s Store. Maybe Mac
had made a quick call, or maybe he’d pressed the button behind the counter as
soon as Spencer stepped inside. But Spencer didn’t think so, because they
walked in and started chatting, and didn’t have their hands resting on their
guns as one might expect of officers ready for action.
Probably comin’
back for some routine questioning
.
Mac’ll probably rat on me, tell
’em I was just here
.
I’ll need to switch cars again soon
. It was
time to move.
“Seasons don’t
fear the Reaper,” he sang, and spat out another gob of blood onto the seat beside
him. “Nor do the wind, the sun or the rain.” He put the car in drive, checked
his rearview once and let a truck go by before he pulled out onto Beltway. He
did an illegal U-turn in the middle of the street, despite the cops in the
store. “We can be like they are. Come on, baby…don’t fear the Reaper…”
Only two cars
past him, as did a crack zombie out looking for another fix, as did a woman
carrying a baby in one arm and guiding another pantsless child by the hand, as
did a police chopper overhead.
Soon, a swift
sunrise was ahead of him.
He still had the
fake IDs that the Sasquatch had given him, and if he was lucky he just might be
able to get the medical help he needed and then get out of the country before
the IDs became completely useless.
“Come on, baby…we’ll
be able to fly…come on, baby…don’t fear the Reaper…baby I’m your mannnnnnnn…”
While much of
the Bluff’s description and the information on its crime and statistics mentioned
here are true, much of it was obviously (and necessarily) changed to create the
story. To any lifelong Atlantans who say, “Hey, Terrell Street isn’t a real
street,” you may rest easy knowing you are absolutely correct.
To those of you
who found parts here endlessly disturbing, I have news for you that you may
find even more disturbing. The Rainbow Room is actually based off of a real
group of child pornographers that, thankfully, the good people at Interpol and
various police agencies around the globe brought down back in 2011 through
careful investigation, cyber-tracking, and coordination. Kaley and her sister
Shannon are not based on anyone in particular, but hopefully they served as
monuments to those that suffer these horrific ordeals and die alone in some
monster’s basement, or else live and struggle to find some way to carry on in
life.
Spencer Adam
Pelletier, I’m a little frightened to say, is a creation of my own. Birthed
out of reading countless accounts of psychopaths and how they think, this personality
eventually emerged. Spencer was a playpen for this writer to hop into,
allowing one to do and say and think some of the most despicable things that
would never cross the mind of your typical protagonist.
If there were
parts you had difficulty reading, just remember that I wasn’t too pleased to
have to write them. Spencer’s world and philosophy are harsh, and I’m not sure
I agree with any of his lessons, but if you have any grievances, please, take them
up with him.
J
Chad Huskins
February 26,
2012