The gang had fashioned a makeshift living room in the center of the floor. There were two old, beaten-up couches and two overstuffed armchairs gathered in a circle. A couple of scruffy looking men lounged on one of the couches. On the other sat the biggest human being Richard had ever laid eyes on – a mountain of a man who took up most of the space on the couch all by himself. In one of the armchairs sat another man, and yet another sat on the floor.
In the final armchair, clearly at the hub of the gathering, sat a man whose voice seemed to indicate he was in charge. The group continued to speak. Richard couldn’t make out their words, and was just considering moving when a new man entered the room from outside and yelled ‘Crack!’.
The man gestured to the apparent leader, who came over to join him looking at a piece of paper. After speaking to the newcomer for a few minutes, the leader waved his hand dismissively and returned to his original position.
Thank God,
thought Richard – so that was Crack.
On the wall at Richard’s back was a door exactly opposite the one he’d entered. He crawled toward it, below the level of the window, reached up, and opened it a few inches. Sitting with his ear by the opening, he could sometimes make out what they were saying.
From the shadows, he took a good look at Crack. He was probably in his late twenties, with dirty blond hair. His skin was pale and mottled, and bore the scars of what had once been an acne problem. A sleeveless shirt exposed his numerous tattoos. His nose was too small for his face, and his teeth were yellow and crooked. The lower section of his left cheek and a large part of the left side of his neck were mutilated by a hideous burn scar.
One of the men got up and crossed the floor no more than twenty feet from Richard’s position. Terrified, Richard backed further into the shadows, and the man didn’t notice him. The one who’d been sitting on the floor, an extraordinarily ugly man with a massive gut and a week’s growth of beard, got up and sat in the absent man’s chair.
Several minutes later the man who had left returned with a glass of clear liquid in his hand. He began a shouting match with the ugly one, apparently called ‘Pig’, who had taken his seat. Crack watched but did nothing. Richard thought he could make out the hint of a smile on gang-leader’s face.
The argument got more and more heated. Finally the man whose chair had been stolen tossed the liquid from his glass at Pig, smashed the glass against a nearby cement pillar, and dove at him wielding the jagged shard. The two locked in combat, Pig holding back the attacker’s glass weapon, each man with a hand on the other’s throat. They crashed to the ground, then jumped up and locked again, careening across the floor in Richard’s direction.
It happened so fast Richard was completely unprepared. The two battling men staggered backwards and crashed into the glass wall of his hiding place. It bowed in frighteningly but didn’t break. Instinctively Richard jumped back. He collided with the partially open door, which flung open and smashed against the wall. The two fighters were still jammed against the glass, Pig facing in Richard’s direction. Pig glanced up at the sound of the crashing door and spotted Richard.
“Hey, there’s somebody in there,” he yelled. He pushed his opponent away and both turned to stare at Richard. Suddenly their battle was forgotten.
“Who the fuck are you!” shouted Pig.
Richard dove for the open door and tore down the hall. He was in an unfamiliar corridor with no connection to the one he’d first entered; he had no idea where he was going. The two fighters chased after him. He flew around a corner, struggling to pull out the gun shoved in his belt, but the men quickly caught up. One of them tackled him and he crashed to the floor. There was an explosion at the back of his head and everything went black.
A Revelation
When he regained consciousness, Richard had a splitting headache and his vision was blurred. He lay face down on a filthy concrete floor. As soon as he showed some movement a foot jammed down on his neck.
About twenty feet to his left stood a young man with many tattoos and spiked black hair, cowering in absolute terror. Directly in front of the youth sat Crack, lounging on an overstuffed chair, a leg draped over one of the arms, swinging casually. Crack turned and eyed Richard with an amused expression.
“So you’re awake,” he said. “I’m glad Pig didn’t kill you. It’s actually really lucky you’re here. Believe it or not I’ve been looking for you.”
Crack looked past Richard at the man whose foot rested on his neck.
“Chuckles…” Crack made a lifting motion with his upturned hand. The foot was removed, and a giant hand hauled Richard to his feet like a rag doll, as another clutched both his hands behind his back in an iron grip. Richard twisted his neck painfully to look behind him. He was being held by the human mountain he’d seen earlier.
From closer in Richard saw that Crack was decorated with one of the most extraordinary tattoos he’d ever seen. A series of tapering bands spiraled down Crack’s right arm, ending in dull points near his right wrist. When Richard followed the bands upward, it became clear that the image was a giant octopus, its bulbous head wrapping around the back of Crack’s shoulder and disappearing under his sleeveless shirt – its eight tentacles coiling ominously around his arm.
The tentacles seemed to squirm with the flexing and un-flexing of Crack’s sinewy arm muscles.
Crack turned away and seemed to forget about him. He had apparently been talking to the man on Richard’s left. Richard recognized him as the guard who had been watching the entrance when he snuck into the compound.
“Now – Mikey,” said Crack in a businesslike tone, “there’s something we need to clear up.”
The man, Mikey, was shaking, and there was a wet spot around his crotch. Crack swung his leg down from the arm of the chair and casually got to his feet. He strolled toward the terrified guard.
“Know who this man is?” Crack said, gesturing in Richard’s direction. He spoke in an affable, matter-of-fact tone.
Mikey shook his head.
“Well,” said Crack, “what would you guess?” He moved slowly toward the cowering Mikey.
“You must have an opinion – look at him.” Crack continued. Mikey glanced at Richard, but said nothing.
“Come on,” Crack said. “I’m curious. I’d really like to know. Would you say that he’s – say – a crack army commando with years of intensive training in stealth techniques and infiltration behind enemy lines?”
Mikey simply stared at him.
Crack continued, “Or maybe he’s a top soldier from one of the other militias – ‘a cold-blooded killer’” Crack put on a mock TV announcer tone, “‘with a lifetime of street-smarts’. What do you think?”
Again Mikey didn’t dare to speak. Crack strode to within a few feet of the guard, and his right hand fingered a gun tucked into his belt. Mikey’s bulging eyes followed his hand movements intently.
“Well?” Crack pressed him, “What would be your expert analysis?”
“I don’t know…” mumbled Mikey.
“You don’t know…” echoed Crack sarcastically. “You don’t know…”
Mikey’s eyes remained fixed on Crack’s right hand, which continued to stroke the gun in his belt.
“Well I know!” Crack suddenly screamed into Mikey’s face. “He’s a fucking schoolteacher!” The fingers of Crack’s right hand tightened around his gun. “And this bourgeois, piece-of-shit schoolteacher – who doesn’t have the smarts to tie his own shoes, broke in here – with a gun in his belt – and camped out twenty feet from where I was sitting!”
The veins stood out on Crack’s neck and forehead and the tentacles of the octopus danced erratically.
“Do you know how that makes me feel!” Crack screeched, and he whipped the gun from his belt and shot Mikey’s left kneecap. Mikey screamed and fell to the floor, blood gushing from his wound.
“Please don’t kill me!” he pleaded.
“Don’t kill you?” said Crack, with mock politeness. “Well, I could just leave you lying there. How would that be?”
“No – help me!” Mikey was crying and writhing on the floor.
“Oh God – I’m so sorry,” Richard whispered under his breath.
“Help you?” The intensity of Crack’s voice rose again. “The way you helped
me
!” He shot Mikey’s other kneecap. The poor guard alternately sobbed and screamed in agony.
“Please!” he pleaded between sobs. “It won’t happen again, I swear!”
“You swear?” said Crack, in a suddenly passive tone of voice. He raised his gun slowly and pointed it at Mikey’s head.
“No!” screamed Mikey, holding his trembling hands in front of his face. Crack straightened his arm, squinted down the gun barrel, and smiled as he took aim. The tentacles of the octopus coiled as he squeezed the trigger, firing directly into Mikey’s skull and killing him instantly.
“You’re fucking right it won’t happen again,” he said, dropping his gun arm. “Jugs, Blackie,” he said, “clean up that mess.”
A couple of men who had been loafing in the background came up and started to drag Mikey’s bullet-ridden body away. Crack strolled over to where Richard was being held. Richard was still in shock.
“I went around to your place,” Crack said matter-of-factly, stuffing the gun in his belt and gazing into the distance as if nothing had happened. Richard was taken aback, remembering that someone had broken into his house and taken nothing.
“Nobody was home. I heard you went off on holiday,” Crack continued, approaching closer and staring at Richard. “To Surrey or something.”
“It wasn’t a holiday”, Richard snarled. “I went looking for Danny. What have you done with him?”
“I don’t want to talk about that right now,” said Crack. “You went off to Surrey,” he continued, “but you didn’t take the dog, did you?”
“What?”
“I said,” answered Crack, bringing his face to within a few inches of Richard’s. “You went off, but you left the dog. What’s his name? Zonk? What the fuck kind of name is that?”
“Are you insane!” said Richard. “What are you talking about?”
“It’s simple,” answered Crack. His right hand shot out and wrapped around Richard’s throat, forcing his head back against the expansive chest of Chuckles. He grabbed Richard’s hair with his free hand and twisted until Richard thought his neck would snap.
“WHAT THE FUCK DID YOU DO WITH THE FUCKING DOG!” Crack screamed. As if in answer to his question they were interrupted by a yelp echoing from the entrance of the warehouse. Crack loosened his grip and stared in the direction of the door. One of the men came in, dragging a struggling Zonk by the collar.
“Look what I found hanging around outside the gate,” said the man holding Zonk.
Richard stared over at Zonk.
How did HE get here?
He thought. He must have followed me
.
“Zoooonnnnkkkk,” said Crack in a syrupy voice. “Good doggy, nice doggy.” He strolled over and patted Zonk roughly on the head.
What could he possibly want with Zonk?
Richard thought. He’s completely lost it.
“Well,” said Crack. “This really is my lucky day – first you, then the dog. I can’t wait to see what happens next.” Zonk tried to run to Richard but the handler held him back. Finally he sat quietly, panting with his usual benign expression.
Crack sneered at Richard. “The kid never told you, did he.”
“Told me what?”
Crack turned to the thug who’d brought Zonk in. “Hammer, take the mutt outside. Don’t let him get away – you saw what happened to Mikey. You’ll envy Mikey if you lose that dog.”
Zonk yelped as Hammer dragged him roughly from the room.
“Keep within hearing distance,” called Crack as they left. “When I call for you, bring him back in here.”
Crack disappeared through a back door of the warehouse and returned shortly with a small, soiled rag. He swaggered over and held it up to a bewildered Richard’s nose.
“Smell that,” he said. Richard sniffed the rag. “Know what it is?”
“It’s gasoline,” Richard answered.
“Very good,” said Crack. “I can see you’ve been around. Congratulations.”
Crack paused, held the rag up to his own nose and took a deep breath. A vacant expression swept over his face and his eyes rolled partially back in his head as his fingers explored his burn scar. The scent brought back a memory. A young teen pounding frantically through trash-laden streets, pursued by his enemies, slipping on wet garbage and falling face-first into the stinking debris in the gutter.
Caught up by his pursuers and dragged to a back alley. Laughing and jeering as they punched and kicked him into semi-consciousness. At a snap of the fingers of their rat-faced leader, one of the goons fetching a jar half-full of something. Rat-boy twisting off the lid, smiling. The fumes wafting over… Rat-boy dousing his face and lighting a match. The unbearable pain, the stench of his own skin on fire. The echo of his screams amid the derisive laughter of his enemies.
Rat-boy had paid dearly for that laughter. Even Crack had been surprised at the depth of violence he was capable of. Rat-boy had not died quickly or easily. As Crack reminisced, the stroking of his scar transformed into scratching, and the scratching intensified until his nails were red with his own blood.