Kill the Wabbit

There’s one question that everyone that has heard even one-third of this story has always asked.

Why didn’t you guys call the cops?

I think Shorty and I actually looked at each other the first time anyone asked us that, and…we…had…no…answer…to that question.

In our defense, we were the guys that had been too stupid to ask Martha out, you know, on a date, so there’s that.

In my defense, I’m pretty sure it would’ve occurred to me to call the cops before we flew back to Minnesota. Probably.

I’m almost positive I would’ve called the police right after I had wrestled the gun away from Hillary, but then Shorty fell through the door and he decided we should kill George.

Once I bought into his plan…  Well, let’s just say I’m capable of a single-mindedness of purpose that is sort of spooky sometimes.

Shorty, it would turn out, had his own reasons for not wanting Hillary thrown in the slammer. He would eventually tell me he had been fucking Hillary’s brains out every chance he got, and he didn’t miss any opportunities.

I know, right!

Well, all I can say now is Hillary must’ve fucked like two minks. I’m pretty sure I wouldn’t have been willing to commit murder for at least half of the women I slept with in my younger days.

Ah, Youth! You are so very brief, so fleeting!

And sooo incredibly stupid.

* * * *

Hillary drove Michael’s van to George’s apartment. Shorty rode shotgun. I sat on a roll of carpeting in the back of the van. George and Hillary didn’t live very far from each other, a mile or two at the most. The streets were virtually deserted. It seemed the weather was willing to be our ally. A light rain fell, necessitating the need to turn the wipers on to keep the windshield clear.

We parked across the street from George’s apartment. Actually, George’s apartment complex looked more like a bunch of brownstone flats than the complex Hillary lived in. A flight of stairs led to each front door. That actually played perfectly into our plan, too. The street was dark and deserted. Some of the entrances to the flats had the light over the front door on, but George’s stoop was dark.

Shorty and I were actually pretty calm. We had split a Quaalude that Hillary had given us before we left her apartment. She wanted us nice and relaxed when we killed George.

“What’s going on inside? Can you see anything?” I asked. I couldn’t see a thing. There were no windows in the back of the van. I tried squeezing into the front seat, but Shorty shoved me back.

“The lights are on in the living room.” Hillary said. “I don’t see anyone inside…  Wait! That’s George! He’s home! He’s home!!”

“Can you see anyone else? Is he alone?”

“I don’t see anyone else inside, do you?” Shorty asked Hillary.

“There’s no one else there. George doesn’t have any friends. No one likes that sonuvabitch!”

Shorty and I looked at each other. I’m pretty sure we were both having second thoughts about what we were doing. I know I was. My heart rate sped up a little, but not as much as it should have, considering what we were planning to do. Shorty would later say he also felt remarkably calm.

Maybe we should have been hitmen…

Hillary drove slowly to the end of the block, did a U turn, then parked the van in the parking lot. Shorty and I would walk to George’s apartment. When George answered the door, I would blind him with my flash, and we would force our way inside of his apartment, subdue him and kill him to death. Then we’d trash the place and make it look like a robbery gone wrong.

You can learn a lots about criminal behavior by watching cop shows on TV…  But the cops always get their man, unless he’s one of those spookysmart serial killer guys.

Have you ever spent, like, thirty nanoseconds planning the perfect scenario to seduce the woman of your dreams, and have it blow up in your face like an overinflated balloon? Then spend a couple of hours haphazardly throwing together the most ridiculous scheme you could concoct to murder someone and have it go off like clockwork?

Well, that’s what got happened. Hillary kept the van running. I left the panel door open when I got out. Shorty and I walked to George’s apartment. I hid to the left of the door. Shorty had his knife in his right hand, and knocked on the door with his left.

“What the fuck do you want?” George said when he saw Shorty standing outside his door. I stepped out from the shadows and *flash*

Bam! We were inside. Now all we had to do was get George to not call the police and go along with the rest of our incredibly ridiculous plan. It may not have occurred to us to call the police, but we had no reason to believe that George wouldn’t.

Yeah, go figure…

* * * *

To say that George was surprised by our flash attack would be an understatement. We just about scared the shit out of him. And when he saw the knife in Shorty’s hand, well, that’s all it took to subdue him.

“Don’t hurt me! Take whatever you want! Just don’t…hurt…me… please!”

George and Michael were similar in appearance. George had a slighter build, and straighter hair. It was probably George’s appearance, more than anything else, that made Shorty and I think we could pull our ridiculous plan off. But watching him beg for his life made me realize just how stupid our plan was. We almost came to our senses and walked out the door. But, we had come this far…

“We’re not here to hurt you. We’re trying to save your life.” I said.

“What? You could’ve fooled me! I thought you were here to kill me!”

“Listen, we don’t have a lot of time.” And I started to explain to George the series of events that had unfolded after Michael had been arrested. If George had been surprised before, there is no word to describe his state of mind by the time I finished. “We really don’t have much time. Hillary’s in the parking lot waiting for us. Sorry about being such a dick the other day…”

“You–you saved my life.” George said. He was starting to look a little better.

“Not yet.” Shorty said. “We still need Hillary to think you’re dead.”

“Well, fuck that!” George said. “I’m calling the cops!”

“No, you’re not. Then I probably will have to kill you.” Shorty said, knife in hand.

“Why are you guys doing this? Why are you trying to help her? That woman is a fucking bitch!”

“She’s my friend.” Shorty replied. Just. Like. That. There was something about the way he said those three words that made even George believe friendship was something Shorty took very seriously.

“George, Hillary doesn’t need to be in prison. She needs help. She needs to see, like, a really good doctor, or something. And she’s not going to get that in prison. Look, I know you hate Hillary now, but you must have loved her a lot at one time.”

“Yeah. Yeah, I did.” he finally agreed.

And let me say this. Crazy people have a way of contaminating the minds of the people that love them, and even though I was years away from becoming a psych nurse, I didn’t need a lots of training to know Hillary had totally fallen off of her rocker. And George’s mind probably wasn’t as pristine as it once had been pre-Hillary, much like the coffee table Hillary had marred after George had won his lawsuit.

“That’s what we need, George. We need your help to help the woman you once loved.”

George looked at us for the longest time, as if he had never seen anything like us in his life before. I knew Shorty’s threat to kill George was a bluff, but he probably didn’t. George took a deep breath.

“Okay. What do you need me to do?”

“This is probably gonna sound a little weird, but we need some of your blood.”

* * * *

George and Shorty went into the kitchen. George didn’t want to get blood all over his apartment. Well, it was a really nice place.

I turned off the lights in the living room, and joined Shorty and our murder victim in the kitchen.

“May I?” George asked, indicating he wanted Shorty’s knife. I shrugged, Your choice. Shorty handed the knife over. George stood over the sink as he tested the blade with his thumb, and accidentally cut himself.

“Ouch! Goddamn, that’s really sharp!”

George reflexively started to stick his thumb in his mouth, but Shorty stopped him. Taking the knife back from George, the two of them milked  George’s bleeding thumb, dripping blood on the blade of the knife and Shorty’s right hand. They really got caught up in the whole thing. George kept suggesting where the drops of his blood should go, and he thought there should be more. I was starting to like this guy.

I tried to pull Shorty’s wallet out of his back pocket. My plan was to pool our cash so I could show Hillary the money we had stolen from George, just in cases.

Yeah, I’m beginning to wonder which of us was crazier, too. Hillary, or me. Maybe that’s why I became such a good psych nurse…

“Hey! What’re you doing?” he asked. I quickly explained. Shorty’s wallet was crammed full of all kinds of stuff, and fat as a toad. It was essentially stuck in his pocket. “Don’t bother, I’m broke.”

I looked in my wallet. I had about one hundred twenty dollars.

“I was killed for a hundred and twenty bucks? That, is so sad.” George said. We all had a laugh about that. I was starting to love this guy.

Shorty’s hand was starting to look like an extra in a slasher movie. We hoped it would be enough to convince Hillary that not only was George really dead, he was really quite sincerely dead.

We thanked George for his blood and his cooperation. And we asked him once more not to call the police, or Jerry, and essentially play dead until Monday.  He shrugged, and agreed, sucking his thumb. I grabbed a handful of paper towels and used them to close the door behind me on the way out.

Our plan, it seemed, had worked perfectly.

* * * *

“I want to see the body.”

Well, there was that. Yeah, it’s always something, you know?

Shorty and I had run as fast as we could to the van. I had slid the panel door shut, but instead of driving off, Hillary wanted to see the evidence of our success. I suppose we’re lucky she didn’t ask us to bring back a body part…  She was impressed by the bloody knife and Shorty’s bloodied hand, but…  She got out of the van and headed for George’s apartment.

“Drive!” I said to Shorty. He jumped behind the wheel. I slid  open the panel door. We caught up with Hillary about halfway to George’s apartment. I reached out and grabbed her by her ponytail.

There’s a little known Law of Physics I like to call Mark’s Law of Hair. In essence, whichever direction your hair is pulled in, the rest of your body will follow. Don’t believe me? Try it sometime.

All of Hillary came flying into the van. And she was pissed!

I started explaining our plan all over again, and how it was imperative that she not be at the scene of the crime, but she wasn’t having any of it.

“Hillary, I just killed a man for you.” Shorty said. “I just killed George for you. You can either believe me, or not. And if you don’t believe me…”

There was so much pain and heartbreak in Shorty’s voice, I almost started crying. If this had been a movie, Shorty would’ve won an Oscar for that line. It was so perfect!

Hillary actually stopped acting like a psychobitch from hell and climbed into the front seat so she could smother Shorty with kisses.

Ain’t love grand?

* * * *

We returned to the apartment. Shorty washed George’s blood off of his hand and Michael’s knife.

“We have to get rid of this. And this.” I said, referring to Michael’s knife and the jacket Shorty had worn. “I’ll toss them somewhere.”

I hid the knife in the glove compartment of the van. I stashed the jacket behind the roll of carpeting. I figured Michael would find them again, someday. The steering wheel was sticky. Shorty had gotten George’s blood on it when he had to drive after Hillary, that fucking bitch! The wad of paper towels from George’s apartment was still in the van. I found a puddle of water and cleaned off the steering wheel.

It wasn’t until that precise moment that I seriously started questioning what we had done. And it was also at that moment I decided to blame the Quaaludes for messing up my mind.

Dallas, would cure me of my pill addiction.

One down, two to go…

* * * *

Shorty’s cousin and his buddies started showing up about 7:00 PM, and we launched an all-out offensive on the remaining beer in the keg. If nothing else died that day, that goddamn keg was going down. I. Was. Determined.

If I had to guess, and believe me, that’s all I can do at this point in time, I’d say there were anywhere from ten to fifteen people that showed up. The Epic Party at the End of the World, Part II, was kicked off.

Hillary was bubbly and bouncey, and half the time she was draped all over Shorty like a cape. The look on his face showed he was enjoying the hell out of that. If I hadn’t started hating Hillary’s guts, I probably would’ve been jealous. As it was, I figured it’d make her that much easier to keep track of. I didn’t trust her any farther than I could throw her apartment complex.

Our guests for Epic Party, Round Two were a bunch of guys. I almost wished I had paid more attention to where the bikini babes by the pool lived. I would’ve knocked on their doors and invited them. I really wished I had asked Randi for her phone number. I totally would’ve called her and invited her over. I could’ve asked Hillary for Randi’s number, but I didn’t feel like asking her for any favors.

I think the only person at that party who didn’t have a great time, was me. I was tired. I was tired of Dallas. I just wanted to go home. And that’s when I knew I would not be staying in Dallas, not even if Martha got down on her knees and begged me to stay.

Well, that might have changed my mind…

“Don’t let Hillary out of your sight for any reason.” I told Shorty. We were both watching her dance with one of Leroy’s buddies. She was the only woman at the party, and was clearly enjoying the attention.  She was no longer dressed like a ninja. She was wearing a loose fitting multicolored top and tight jeans. And that’s when Shorty told me how he had been spending his time with Hillary when neither Michael or I were around.

I’m pretty sure that just made me feel more depressed.

“So, any thoughts on the day’s events?” I asked, changing the subject.

“Yeah.” Shorty sighed. “I think George is probably the only decent person out of the whole bunch of us.” That made me feel worse, as if that were possible.

“We can’t let Hillary go anywhere alone.” I said. I was earnestly whispering into Shorty’s ear. “The first thing she’ll do is run over to George’s apartment and make sure we really killed him.”

“Mark, my friend, y’all have gotta lighten up!” Leroy had me wrapped up in a bear hug and was shaking me like a ragdoll. It’s a good thing Hillary hadn’t wanted us to kill Leroy. Neither Shorty nor I would’ve gotten out of Dallas alive. He was a big, muscular guy. If George had had Leroy’s physique, there’s no way we would have decided to take him on. “Y’all look so serious! What’re y’all doin’? Planning a murder?”

“That was earlier today!” Shorty laughed. I found a smile, somewhere inside me, and the laugh I produced sounded almost genuine.

But I felt no joy. I was starting to feel incredibly shitty about what we had done, even if we hadn’t actually killed anyone. If I had the chance to do it all over again, I wouldn’t have wrestled the gun away from Hillary.

I would’ve made her pull the trigger.

Nice Guys

In case you’re wondering, I am Ryan Gosling in that picture. Russell Crowe is Shorty. They would actually make pretty good choices to portray us in the movie about our trip to Dallas. But only if our vacation adventure had happened, you know, four weeks ago, not forty years ago. Believe it or not, Shorty and I were young once…

Back when I wanted to be a rich and famous author, and I attempted to write this story, my working title for it was Brothers and Cousins. In the novel, Shorty and I were real brothers. Shorty had a twin brother named Allen, who was killed in a motorcycle accident. And Shorty was responsible for him gotting dead. Allen’s ghost would drop in from time to time and visit me, and he accompanied us on our trip to Dallas.

At least we didn’t have to buy a plane ticket for him…

In real life, Shorty had almost been killed in a motorcycle accident. He had been broken into a hundred pieces, but refused to got dead. When the doctors decided Shorty was going to live, they  told him he’d probably be lucky if he ever walked again, but he would never use his left arm again.

He would walk again. And not only did he regain use of his left arm, he regained full use of it. He does walk with a slight limp, and he has scars on his scars, but he was simply a guy that refused to give up on his dream, no matter what anyone said.

I doubt I can put into words how much I admire him.

And I would like to take this opportunity to thank him for also not thinking of asking Martha out, you know, on a date, because he could have done that, too. But for whatever reason, it didn’t occur to him either, and as a result, we both ended up winning a trophy for the stupidest plan, ever, to get into angelic Martha’s heavenly panties.

What are the chances of that? Maybe we really are brothers…

Time, circumstance and distance have altered our relationship. I probably haven’t talked to him in two or three years, and when we do get together, our vacation in Dallas is the one thing neither of us will discuss. We’ll laugh, and say something like, Yeah, that was a wild time, for sure! if anyone brings it up, and move on to the next subject.

I think we tried to tell the story a couple of times when we first got back to Minnesota, but we both gave up. No one could believe what happened to us during that last weekend in Dallas. I can understand that. If I hadn’t been there, I doubt I’d believe this story either.

Full Disclosure Statement: What follows is a very condensed version of the actual events that occurred that afternoon. The real, actual, true story is simply just too incredible. Even if Hollywood tried to make this into a movie, people would walk out of the theater shaking their heads saying, There’s no way that’s a true story! You’re gonna have to trust me on this one. Remember, I’ve tried to tell this story before, and you haven’t. But all of the essential details will be included, and the net result will be the same.

I haven’t been very specific about the time of any of the events that day occurred, and that’s because I honestly have no idea. But just so we can add a little perspective, when you start reading the next paragraph, it’ll be 3:00 PM, Saturday afternoon.

* * * *

I was staring down the barrel of a gun. It was the second time in my life I was in a situation like that. The first time is yet another story I might have to get around to telling someday. It’s probably pretty long and complicated, too.

Hillary had assumed a two handed stance on the other end of the gun, just like in the movies. I didn’t have much time to come up with a plan to extricate myself from the situation I’d gotten myself into.

Summoning all of the self-defense techniques I had learned in the military delivering supplies and taking x-rays, I moved forward and disarmed Hillary. I grabbed the gun and twisted it sharply to the left. One second I was staring at a gun in my face, the next second, I was holding it. Without a single shot being fired.

Beat that, Steven Seagal!

That actually happened. If I had to attempt it again, I’d probably got dead. The only explanation I have is I live a blessed life.

Now, if this had been a movie, my next move would’ve been to punch Hillary in the face, and knock her unconscious. But what happened next was something that surprised me so much I forgot I was supposed to do that.

My best friend and brother, Shorty Girtz, stumbled through the door. And that, I think, is best term to describe his entrance. He looked like hell.

“Shorty!” Hillary and I both shouted.

“Hey.” he replied, and he collapsed on the floor, like he had been shot. For a moment, I thought the gun had gone off, and he had been hit. Hillary might have hated George enough that she wanted to kill him, but she loved Shorty enough to postpone her mad intent and knelt down to tend to her friend.

“Shorty! Get up and tell this motherfucker to give me back my gun!”

“What?” he replied. He looked up at me from the floor and said, “Give Hillary back her gun.” Then he looked at Hillary and said, “What the hell are going to do with a gun?”

“She wants to kill George.” I said.

“He had Michael arrested! Michael’s in jail, and it’s all George’s fault! He needs to die!”

“Michael’s in jail?” Shorty asked. His expression said that he thought his head was going to explode. I nodded. “Why?”

“He violated his restraining order. On Friday. When we were walking out of the office–”

“That’s right!” Shorty said. He started looking better. “George! Jesus. Jail?”

“He’ll be arraigned on Monday.”

“Shorty! I need my gun back! Get it from him!”

“No. I’m not going to let you ruin your life by doing something stupid.” He sat up and started looking more better gooder.

Hillary stood up and glared at me. I held the gun in my left hand. She took a step toward me. I curled my right hand into a fist.

“If you come near me, I promise you I’ll knock all of your teeth into the back of your throat.”

Hillary made a wide berth around me and went into the kitchen. She returned two seconds later holding a knife the size of a small machete. A very sharp knife. I knew that because one of the things I had done the week before when I was bored was sharpen all of the knives in the kitchen.

Machete in hand, Hillary moved in to attack. That’s when I pointed the gun at her.

“Hey! Hey! Hey!” Shorty yelled. He got off the floor and jumped between us. “What the hell is wrong with you two? We’re friends!”

“Remember when Jerry was asking us about guns that first day in the office? He thought Hillary brought us down here to kill George.”

“Is that true?” Shorty asked Hillary.

“Yes! But you’re not killers! You’re sissies!” I would have to become a psych nurse before I would see anyone replicate that level of hatred and venom glaring in Hillary’s eyes.

“Well, if that’s what you wanted us to do, why didn’t you say something?”

“You mean, you’ll kill George for me?” Hillary asked. I don’t think she was expecting Shorty to say that. I know I wasn’t. She changed the position of the knife in hand, taking it out of Attack mode.

“Sure,” he said, then turned and gave me a wink. “Why not? But first, we have to come up with a plan.”

I lowered the gun, and decided to follow Shorty’s lead. I wasn’t sure what he was thinking, but he at least seemed to be capable of thought, so he had me beat.

“I think you’re both nuts, but if you’re serious about killing George, we need a plan, and a diagram of his apartment.”

“Why don’t you just shoot him when he answers the door?”

“Could be witnesses on the street, and then we’d have to kill them, too.” I explained. “Better to do it inside. We could use a pillow as a silencer, or we could slice him up. But we have to know what we’re walking into.”

You want to kill George now?” Hillary asked. Her tone said she wasn’t buying it.

“I promised Michael I wouldn’t let you do anything… foolish. That’s why he wanted to talk to me. He made me promise to take care of you, and I keep my promises. Shorty loves you, and you already know I love you. If Shorty wants to kill George for you, that changes everything for me. He’s my brother. But if we’re gonna do this, I want to maximize our chances of success, and I don’t want to spend the rest of my life in prison. We need the layout of George’s apartment.”

That was either the most convincing lie I have ever told, or Hillary was so unbalanced that she would need years of medication and therapy to repair the damage to her brain. Maybe it was a little of both, with the scale tipped to the unbalanced part. But Hillary sat down at the table in the kitchen and started drawing the layout of George’s apartment while she explained everything to Shorty.

I turned on the radio, and as quietly as possible took the bullets out of the gun. When it was unloaded, I pulled the trigger. If Hillary had done that when she had the gun pointed at me, the back of my head would’ve resembled President Kennedy’s after his tour of downtown Dallas.

I was shaken. My hands were shaking. It was a good thing the gun was no longer loaded. I probably would’ve shot Hillary, if I could’ve hit her at that point in time. I was shaking so bad I probably would’ve missed the floor if I had tried to shoot it. I put the bullets in my pocket, and hid the gun under a pile of pillows.

* * * *

We sat down to discuss the best way to kill George. Hillary had drawn a detailed sketch of his apartment, and had thoroughly explained the layout to Shorty.

“Tell me about your gun.” I said to Hillary. “Is it registered to you?”

“Not… exactly.”

“What does that mean?”

“Jerry gave it to me. As a present. For protection. But–”

“It’s still registered to Jerry.” Shorty said.

“Yeah.”

That settled that. We would not tie Jerry to our dirty little secret in any way, shape or form.

“We’ll have to use knives.” I said.

“Damn! I wish I had brought mine.” Shorty said.

* * * *

Okay, class. After motorcycles, what do bikers like most?

Beer?

Okay. After motorcycles and beer, what do bikers like most?

Weed!

Okay. After motorcycles, beer and weed, what do bikers like most?

Chicks!

Okay! After all of that, what do bikers like?

Maybe you should just tell us.

Bikers love knives!

Michael and Shorty were bikers. And Michael had a knife collection. Hillary brought them into the kitchen. Shorty and I each selected a knife. The blades were in good shape, but I sharpened the edges to the point where you could’ve shaved with them.

Now all we needed was an edge. The sun wouldn’t be in George’s eyes. In fact, we wanted it to be dark as possible. And that’s when I remembered I had brought most of my camera equipment.

I not only had a camera, I had a detachable flash. All I had to do was turn it on, let it charge, and hit this little button, and…a blinding flash of light erupted in Hillary’s face.

“Jesus! I can’t see a fucking thing!”

Exactly.

“Okay, let’s go kill George!”

“You’re not part of this. You can’t be.” I said. Because Hillary really would kill George. Neither Shorty nor I had any doubts about that.

“Look, when the police find George’s body, who do you think the first person is they’ll want to question?”

“Probably me. Or Michael…”

“Michael’s in jail. He couldn’t kill George.”

“But I’m not going to rat you guys out to the police!”

“They’re gonna try to the pin the murder on you. But this is your story. We talked about killing George, right?” I looked at Shorty.

“Yeah, we did that all right.”

“You were upset, right?” We had no problem agreeing about that. “And, yeah, you said some stupid stuff, but only because your boyfriend was arrested…” Shorty said.

“But you were joking!” I added, and winked at Hillary.

“That’s right! I was joking!”  She actually laughed!

“If you’re at the scene of the crime, you’re not joking anymore. You’re an accomplice.”

“Right…  Well, what about you guys? What’s your story?”

“We didn’t kill George.”

“No way, we didn’t kill George. We don’t even know the guy!” Shorty added.

“We were having a big party.”

“We were?” Shorty asked.

“There’s a half a keg of beer downstairs.”

“What! How the hell did that happen?” Shorty didn’t believe me. We all went down to the party room.

“There’s a half a keg of beer in here!” he shouted. “How the fuck did that happen! Is it any good?”

I poured us all a glass. That was good beer. And it was ice cold.

“Now all we need is a bunch of people…” Hillary said.

“I could call my cousin…” Shorty suggested. And just like that, we had planned the perfect murder.

* * * *

While Shorty talked to Leroy on the phone, Hillary went into the bedroom to change. She insisted on coming with us, after all, she was the only one of us that knew where George lived, and she didn’t want us to kill an innocent person by mistake.

We would drive to George’s apartment in Michael’s van, and Hillary would wait outside as our getaway driver. She would keep the engine running, and the panel door would be open so Shorty and I could jump right in after we had killed George to death.

I grabbed Jerry’s gun and the bullets, and hid them in the trunk of Hillary’s car. I think it was around 5:00 PM. Dusk was approaching. Gray, ghostly clouds filled the sky. There was a threat of rain in the clouds. Maybe that would keep everyone in Dallas at home and off the streets. Shorty and I would need all of the planets to be in perfect alignment. And we needed all of the angels and saints to be in our back pockets.

For a reason I couldn’t explain, then or now, I disconnected the distributor cap on her engine. The engine would turn over, but it would never start. Shorty had explained that to me the day we did a tune up on her car. It just seemed to be the thing to do at the time.

* * * *

I’m not a biker guy. I have never been a biker guy, but I spent a lots of time hanging around them in my twenties because bikers really do love beer and weed. And chicks. Some of my best friends back then were bikers. So many of them got dead young.

One of the greatest things about bikers is they don’t need an actual reason to party. Shorty’s cousin was immediately on board when he heard there was an half a keg of beer left over from the party. And yeah, he had a few friends he knew that could rearrange their schedules to come over and help us kill off our keg.

Hillary had changed outfits. She was wearing all black, and had pulled her hair back into a ponytail. She sort of looked like a supermodel ninja. She gave Shorty and I a couple of Michael’s black T-shirts, and we put them on. We found some dark jackets, and put those on, too. And we were more or less ready to go kill George.

“Maybe we should call him. What if he’s not home…” I wasn’t planning on actually killing George, but this make-believe plan we had concocted was starting to feel just a little too real to me. I needed to stall for time, and I had already blown my chance to fuck Hillary’s brains out, so I couldn’t try that tactic again…  How the hell did I miss that?!? I wondered. I prayed no one would answer the phone. And I also hoped George wasn’t throwing a big, epic party.

Hillary dialed George’s number. A voice answered. She hung up immediately.

“That was George. He’s home! Let’s go do this!!”

I’m not sure if Shorty saw the look of…elation, perhaps, that lit up Hillary’s eyes as she said that. But I did.

It sends shivers down my spine even still.

Dallas, Part VI

I suppose it’s possible that someone reading this might not know that one of our Presidents was assassinated in Dallas. John F. Kennedy. Dealey Plaza. Lee Harvey Oswald. Jack Ruby.

Ring any bells?

Well, all of those bells would toll for me that day.

Saturday, March 4, 1978.

* * * *

I asked the cops to wait, closed the door and left them outside the apartment, then knocked on the bedroom door where Michael and Hillary were resting.

“Yeah!” Michael’s voice responded.

“Michael, there’s a couple of guys here…” I didn’t know quite what to say. I opened the door. Michael and Hillary were laying on the bed.

“Are they cops?” he asked. I nodded. “Shit!” Michael and Hillary exchanged a glance that probably contained a thousand conversations. “Tell ’em I’ll be right out.” He got up and went to the bathroom.

“Michael, y’all need to come on out here!” Detective Riggs said from the doorway when I let them know what was going on. They had stepped inside once they knew they had their man.

“I have to take a piss!” Michael’s voice replied from the bathroom.

“Yeah, just don’t take too long now.” Detective Murtaugh replied. “If you shake it more than twice, yall’re playin’ with that thang.” His partner laughed. I might have even smiled. They seemed like nice guys, for cops.

Did I hide all my pot? I wondered. I hoped I had, or Michael might not be the only person in the apartment going to jail.

Hillary came out of the bedroom and started interrogating the cops, and they had to focus their attention on her. I know to God that I exhaled a huge sigh of relief. They answered her questions patiently and politely.

“I want to come along.” she said.

“Yes, ma’am. You can follow us if you want.”

“You motherfuckers wait for me!” Hillary shouted at the cops.

“Yes, ma’am.” they both replied.

Michael came out, and surrendered. Detective Riggs slapped a pair of cuff on Michael’s wrists, explaining his Miranda Rights as clicked the cuffs. Hillary grabbed her purse and we ran down the stairs.

Yeah, you read that correctly. We ran!

Hillary’s car tore out of the parking lot in hot pursuit of the police.

“I knew those fuckers wouldn’t wait!” she screamed, and gunned the engine. She flew through the intersections, regardless of red lights.

Little Known Fact About the Kennedy Assassination: When Kennedy’s body was being transported from Parkland Hospital to Love Field, the Secret Service didn’t stop at any red lights. They called them pink lights.

Hillary, it seemed, had become a Secret Service agent. She wasn’t wearing sunglasses, but she sure as hell wasn’t smiling.

I couldn’t tell you how many pink lights we encountered. A lots. The cops drove surface streets on their way to Dallas Police Headquarters. But thanks to Hillary’s complete and total disregard of traffic laws, we were right on the bumper of the unmarked police car carrying Michael.

Is that Dealey Plaza? I wondered. I think that’s the Texas School Book Depository! Holy shit! I thought. I could not believe it. I was traveling through Ground Zero, the place where President Kennedy had been assassinated. We continued tailing the cops until they turned into an underground parking garage at Dallas Police Headquarters.

Hillary stopped in the middle of the street, unsure about what to do.

“Can I park down there?”

“No sense in trying to play it safe now.” I said. “You didn’t let any red lights get in your way.”

“Good point.” she said, and roared into the garage. The cops were walking Michael into the building by the time we parked. Hillary shouted his name. He turned to look back toward us, but the cops kept him moving. We ran, trying to catch up.

Jesus! This is place Lee Harvey Oswald was jailed! And this is where Jack Ruby shot him! I couldn’t believe it. I felt like I had just stepped back in time.

For those of you that weren’t alive when Kennedy was killed, there’s no way to explain the significance of his assassination. It was the sentinel event of my generation, transcending all else, including 9-11.

And here I was. I had been given a backstage pass to an area I shouldn’t have had access to, all because Michael had decided to go where he had been forbidden to enter, and because George was big enough of a dick to make him pay for it.

Fuckin’ George!

“What are we doing here?” I decided to ask Hillary as we rode the elevator to the main floor. Oswald probably rode in this elevator! Yeah, I know, but I couldn’t help myself.

“We’re going to get Michael out.”

“Is that possible?”

“I don’t know. I’ll call Jerry.”

* * * *

And she did, but there was nothing he could do. And even if he could’ve done something, he wouldn’t have done it.

“Michael broke the fucking law! He violated his restraining order!”

That’s how Jerry explained it to me when Hillary put me on the phone to reason with Jerry. After all, he adored me!

“So, what happens next?”

“Michael stays in jail until his arraignment on Monday. End of story. Don’t worry about it. I’ll take care of everything. Go home. There’s nothing you can do. Go. Home!”

“Jerry said we should go home.” I informed Hillary. “He said there’s nothing he can do.”

“That’s bullshit.” Hillary replied.

“We should leave.”

“No. I want to see Michael before we go.”

Michael had to be booked and processed before Hillary could see him. We could wait over there, one of the cops informed us, and waved in the general direction of some benches. Hillary lit up a cigarette. I wandered around. We were at police headquarters for at least an hour before Hillary was allowed to speak to Michael.

“He wants to talk to you.” Hillary told me when she returned.

Yeah, I wasn’t expecting that either.

“How’s it going? Are you okay?” I asked when I saw Michael. We probably had to talk to each other via telephone, but I can’t remember for sure. I know we were separated by a thick plexiglass window, and the space was poorly lit.

“I’m good. I popped a couple ‘ludes while I was in the bathroom. I’ll probably sleep until tomorrow.” he laughed. “Listen, take care of Hillary while I’m in here. She’s a little…upset.”

“You got that right.” I agreed.

“I’ll get out of here Monday. I’ve already talked to Jerry. He’s gonna take care of everything. Don’t let her do anything… stupid. Okay?”

“I’ll take care of her. I promise.”

“Good luck.”

* * * *

I can’t remember if Hillary stopped for red lights on the way home or not. Probably not. I mean, why start now? The roads were mostly deserted anyway…  We drove past Dealey Plaza again. I imagined we were part of the motorcade on November 22, 1963. We drove under the triple underpass, and we were on the freeway. Parkland Hospital was… right there!

We didn’t say much on the way home. I did tell Hillary that Michael had talked to Jerry, and seemed sure that he’d be released on Monday. Hillary said nothing.

We returned to the apartment. I stopped off briefly at the party room, and added some ice to the keg. Other than that, the keg seemed to be doing fine, and the beer was still cold and carbonated.

I was more than a little surprised to find that Shorty still hadn’t returned when I reached the apartment. Where the fuck is he? I wondered, then totally forgot about Shorty when Hillary came out of the bedroom.

She had an handgun in her hands. In street slang, it was a Saturday Night Special. A snub nose .38 revolver.

“Where did you get that?” I asked, nonchalantly. I’m not sure how I sounded as calm as I did. “Can I see that?”

“No. I got it from Jerry. I borrowed it. He gave it to me. For protection. There’s a lot of crime around here.”

“I’m going to have a beer. Do you want anything?”

“Yes, a glass of white wine, please.”

I opened the refrigerator, pulled out a can of beer and a bottle of wine, then washed one of the wine glasses on the counter. I thought about spiking Hillary’s drink with a handful of Quaaludes, but I didn’t have any, and given the fact that Hillary popped them like peanuts, it’d probably take an entire bottle to knock her out. I handed her a wine glass that I had filled almost to the top. She popped a ‘lude in her mouth and chased it with wine. I prayed it would knock her out.

I walked over to the couch to sit down, but the coffee table was gone, and I had no place to set my beer. I sat down on the floor. Hillary joined me. She positioned herself between me and the door. I lit up a joint. There were actually a few left over from the party. Yeah, that was a nice surprise!

“What are you planning to do with that gun?” I decided to ask.

“I’m going to kill George.” Hillary replied, and smiled, taking a hit.

“Oh. Well, you’re going about this the right way. A little wine, a little weed, a Quaalude. You’ll be nice and relaxed when you go over to George’s place to shoot him.

“Good! I want to do this right.”

It was at that precise moment that all of Jerry’s warnings came flooding into my head. I finally understood what he had been trying to tell us. And this, this, was most definitely a minefield.

I have no idea what I said after that. I know Hillary explained her rationale for what she had decided to do, and I didn’t do anything to stop her from talking. I could only hope the holy trinity of wine, weed and methaqualone would kick in and knock her ass out before she could knock off George.

Hillary played with her gun while she talked. I hoped the safety was on, but I couldn’t tell–she flipped it around too quickly for me to tell for sure. I suppose I could’ve asked if she knew how to use it, but I didn’t really want to go there.

Please, be on! I prayed. And I knew one thing for sure. If it was on, I wasn’t going to tell her how to turn it off.

We sat on the floor, our drinks on the carpet nearby. I had the nicest conversation I would ever have with a homicidal maniac holding a loaded gun. We sipped our drinks, smoked more pot, and then it was time.

“Okay. I’m ready now. I’m going to go kill George.”

I tried to stall her. I said the first thing that popped into my mind.

“Hillary, I love you! I want to make love to you! I want to fuck your brains out!”

That actually stopped her in her tracks. She slowly turned around to look at me, and smiled.

“Of course you do. But, you had your chance.” She turned for the door.

“What? No, wait!” I was trying to figure out when my chance to fuck her brains out had actually happened because I was pretty sure I wouldn’t have missed that opportunity. But Hillary had made up her mind, and she would no longer be delayed. She was walking for the door, and she did not stop.

And that’s when I did perhaps the stupidest thing I have ever done in my entire life, and that covers a whole lots of stupid.

I ran past her, getting to the door before she did by a step. I may have lost my race to that door to Shorty, but I beat homicidal Hillary.

“If you’re really serious about killing George, you’re going to have to kill me first.” I said, blocking the door.

Hillary tilted her head fractionally. I could tell by the look in her her eyes that she was actually thinking about how she was going to get past me. And then she found a solution.

She raised the gun, in a very relaxed manner, and calmly pointed it at my head.

The Epic Party at the End of the World

I have previously mentioned that I had an older brother named Allen, who unfortunately died from SIDS. He would’ve been two years older than me, if he hadn’t gotten dead.

In a strange twist of fate, my best friend, Shorty, was two years older than me, and he had been born in November, the same month as Allen.

It’s not a stretch of the imagination to believe I adopted Shorty as my older brother back then. Like Jerry, I had real brothers that I loved far less than I loved Shorty. Our relationship would be tested by this trip, but it would not be destroyed. And when we really needed each other, we would have one another’s back.

That’s what brothers do.

* * * *

The Big Epic Amazing Party continued despite the fact that one of its hosts and the central figure that inspired it were no longer in attendance. And it continued despite the Wrath of God thunderstorm raging outside that seemed intent on washing Dallas off the face of the earth.

It rained like a bastard. Rain came down in buckets. It rained cats and dogs. In buckets. But the epic party would not be denied. The only thing the rain did was keep everyone inside. No one in their right mind wanted to venture out in that downpour.

Why should they? It was warm and dry inside. There was food, and beer. Pre-rolled marijuana cigarettes, and beer. Whiskey, and beer. Vodka, and beer. Red wine, white wine, and beer. Quaaludes, and beer. And there was music!

Well there’s a rose in a fisted glove
And the eagle flies with the dove
And if you can’t be with the one you love, honey
Love the one you’re with

Thank you, Crosby, Stills, Nash and Young. That was very good advice, and I took it. I mostly forgot about Shorty and Martha, and focused my attention on Randi, and on having as much fun as I could before the flood waters reached the sixth floor.

It rained like hell for at least two hours, and then it just rained. When the rain lightened, some of our guests decided to hit the road. I have no clear memory of when Phase One of our epic party came to a close, but at the end only four people remained: Michael, Hillary, Randi and me.

We sort of cleaned up, you know, threw stuff in the refrigerator, picked up abandoned glasses and plates, random trash. I checked the keg. I was sure it would be empty.

I was wrong. There was a lots of beer left in that keg. I know, right! How the hell was that even possible? And yet, it was. I pumped the taper to keep the pressure up, I didn’t want the beer going flat, and threw a half ton of ice on the keg to keep it cold. Then I turned off the lights in the party room and locked the door. Randi and I helped each other make it up the stairs.

The door to Michael and Hillary’s bedroom was closed when we returned to the apartment, so we tried keep the noise down, like there’s such a thing as a quiet, stumbling drunk.

“Where do you guys sleep?” Randi whispered loudly. The pillows we used as mattresses were easy to find, but where the hell did the blankets go? Oh yeah! Hillary put them in the closet!

I have no doubt half the stuff stored in the small closet came falling out with a crash when I opened the door. Randi came over to help me, and we laughed, not quietly, and kissed and kissed and kissed and kissed. We eventually extracted the blankets from everything else and shoved it all back in the closet to get it out of the way.

“I gottagottagotta amember not to open that door again!” I burped loudly. Randi shrieked! Yeah, we were quiet, all right.

“Oh, this is so…open.” Randi said when she surveyed the landscape in the living room. She had a point. Luckily, there was no longer a coffee table cluttering the space, so I scooted the far end of the couch out away from the wall a few feet, creating a semi-secluded space. I tossed several pillows into the space, and just like that, I had created a love nest.

“That’ll work.” Randi announced.

Home run!

I might kiss and tell, but I do not write Letters to Penthouse. The most I’ll say about this was there was a point in time when I wished I had saved a few of the condoms Raoul had so thoughtfully provided for me in Fort Sill.

I never went past a certain point if birth control was an issue.

Never.

It was the only thing I’ve ever been totally committed to and responsible about in my life. Yep, the Mother’s Curse would modify my behavior far more than all of the sex education classes I took in high school ever would.

“It’s okay. I’m on the pill.” Randi whispered in my ear.

Green light!

“Here, try one of these.” Randi offered me a ‘lude. I declined. “Well, then take half!” I agreed to that.

It has been written that Quaaludes enhanced sexual intensity and performance. Yeah, I don’t know about that. It has also been written that lions copulate approximately one hundred times a day when they’re mating. I can honestly state that neither Randi nor myself were lions, but we did make excellent use of the impromptu love nest I had created in the living room. I was actually still a little sore from my erotic wrestling match with Shelly, but not that sore.

* * * *

I woke up looking at the back of the couch. I was laying on a pile of pillows on the floor, and I was naked. But I knew how all of those variables had occurred this time, and that made me smile. I rolled over and found myself

Alone.

There are times when the emptiness deep inside your soul cannot be filled, no matter what you do to satiate that cavernous void, and this, was one of those times for me.

I missed Randi. I missed Martha. I missed Shelly, but I especially missed Maureen. We had broken up in May of  1975. I hadn’t seen her almost three years, and I missed her more than I missed Randi, Martha and Shelly combined. At that time, I thought she was the reason my soul was so inconsolably miserable, but the depth of my emptiness would far surpass her absence. And even if she had been present, it would’ve surpassed her ability to fill.

I curled up in a ball of spiritual pain, and cried. I mourned my losses, grieved over my heartaches, until I cried myself to sleep.

* * * *

It’s a good thing I didn’t have to respond to any emergencies when I woke up, like, you know, an actual flood. It had stopped raining. It was gray, and cloudy–just like the inside of my head. Michael and Hillary were in no better shape than I was. We slowly took turns taking showers. We slowly cleaned the apartment some more. Even the conversations I had with Michael and Hillary were slow. I’m not sure I ever completed a sentence before I ran out of the necessary energy to finish what I was saying. And just about the only thing I could say was, “Man. Was that a great party, or what.”

We ate leftover whateverthisstuffis for breakfast. I can’t remember if any of us felt any better after eating or not.

Shorty had not returned. I was still pissed off at him, so even if I was concerned, I wasn’t about to admit it. He was a big boy, he could take care of himself, even if he was in the foreign country of Dallas.

Besides, all he had to do was open his damn mouth and half of Dallas would’ve welcomed him into their homes, and the other half of Dallas would fight to take him into theirs. Shorty was all right. I kept telling myself that.

I think we all took a vote and decided the apartment was clean enough…and quit cleaning. Michael and Hillary laid on the couch. I mustered enough energy to go check on the keg and make sure she was safe and the beer was cold. The keg was fine. I could relax. I returned to the apartment and laid down on a pile of pillows in the middle of the living room.

We watched a black and white movie from the 1930’s or 40’s. For all I know, it was the same movie I had kind of watched with Raoul my last night on Fort Sill.

One person could lay on the couch comfortably, but two people the size of Michael and Hillary could not. They tried changing positions, slowly, but they eventually gave up and retired to their bedroom because they could both lay down on the bed comfortably. And more than anything else in the world on that dreary day in Dallas, all three of us were sorely in need of comfort.

I had recovered from my attack of transient global heartbreak. There was a lingering sense of loneliness, or emptiness, somewhere deep inside my soul, but it was quiescent now. I was feeling more exhausted than anything, and it wasn’t long before I fell asleep. I was awakened by the sound of someone knocking on the door.

“Fuckin’ Shorty’s finally back.” I muttered to myself, and heaved myself off the floor. It seemed like it took me an hour to walk ten feet to the door. I opened the door to let Shorty in, and those two guys in suits… don’t… look… like… Shorty…

Actually, they looked like cops. I somehow mustered enough energy to be surprised.

“Hi, how’re y’all doin’? I’m Detective Murtaugh, and this is my partner, Detective Riggs. We’re here to serve a warrant on one Mr Michael Schrödinger. Is there any chance that Michael’s here today?”

“And if so, could y’all have him come to the door, please.” the other detective added. “We’re here to arrest him.”

A Dark and Stormy Night, Part II

I had a strange thought when I went to bed last night. Anyone reading my last few installments has to be thinking, Jaysus! Was this guy ever sober? I mean, the only thing he writes about is getting drunk!

Yeah, I did spend a fair amount of time drinking, but I did other stuff, too. Like, smoke pot. So, there!

And I remembered something I had failed to mention about Dallas. I brought my camera. I took a lots of pictures while we were on vacay in Big D. Hillary, Michael, Shorty. The sales zombies. Martha, Martha, Martha. Randi’s tits. Hillary even took a picture of me.

I lost them when I moved in with Cynthia ‘Fatass’ Jamieson. But Shorty has a set. If you want to see them, contact him. That picture of me with my afro looking like a dandelion that’s about to blow away, is so great. As much as I would I end up hating Hillary, I couldn’t fault her on that photo. It was quite possibly the best picture anyone has ever taken of me.

* * * *

The Big Epic Amazing Party that I had conceived on the spur of the moment while talking to the angelic Martha as a means to hook up with her was hitting its stride. It was about 9:00 PM. At least thirty people were present in either the apartment or the spacious party room four stories below.

Good old rock and roll was playing on stereos. Shorty had tuned in the same radio station he had found on the stereo in the party room to the boom box in the apartment. There was food galore, booze beyond galore, weed and cigarettes being smoked, Quaaludes being sectioned and popped openly. As far as all of those things went, they couldn’t be wenting any smoother.

Everyone was having a great time. I was having a blast. I had been having probably the best time I had ever had in my young life, and this party was just the icing on the cake. I was drinking a beer on the balcony of Hillary and Michael’s apartment. An extremely beautiful and talented young woman was at my side, and she only had eyes for me.

I’ll tell you what, life rarely gets much better than that. And in one tick of the clock, all that changed.

A choir of angels started singing. As the door of the apartment opened to admit the angelic being that had made all of this conceivable, an heavenly light radiated from the other side of door that slowly illuminated the entrance, blinding everyone with its brilliance.

And Martha stepped into the apartment.

Martha was always beautiful, even when she was a disheveled, crying sales zombie, but that night–OhmyGod! If Helen of Troy had the face that launched a thousand ships, Martha of Dallas could’ve launched two thousand.

And Helen could never have looked as good as Martha did wearing a cowboy hat. She was darlingpreshadorbs, squared.

Everyone in the room had turned their heads to watch Martha’s grand entrance. Everyone but Shorty. He was standing by the door, totally oblivious to what was happening behind him. He had somehow fucked up and was standing exactly where I was supposed to be standing.

This had been my idea! Spontaneously planned when I gazed into Martha’s wishing well eyes and my wish had been that on this night, she would be mine, and mine alone. I was supposed to be standing at the door, not Shorty!!

Even after all these years, and all things that transpired through the decades–after all this time, I still want to rip Shorty’s liver out of his body and eat it in front of him before he bled out.

My best friend stood where I should have been standing, grinning like two village idiots. He finally realized everyone was staring at the doorway. He turned to see what everyone else was looking at, and almost knocked my perfect little Martha off of her feet. He grabbed her reflexively, and pulled her into his uncouth arms, and then he gave her a big wet kiss on the cheek.

The room erupted in cheers, like Shorty had just won the fuckin’ Super Bowl or something.

Everyone cheered! Except me. And Randi. She didn’t cheer either. She hated Martha.

I have rarely felt that deflated in my life, and I have had plenty of reasons to feel deflated over the years. The world around me, which moments ago had been bright, shiny and euphoric, had become darkness, dust and ruin.

Just. Like. That.

There’s no way I could not have looked anything except devastated, but I found a bleak smile somewhere inside me, and feebly flashed it at Randi. I fashioned my arm as an escort, and extended it to her.

“Shall we?” I asked. She hooked her arm in mine, and smiled. I walked over to offer my congratulations to Shorty. To the victor go the spoils. The race had ended before I got out of the starting blocks, and Shorty had won.

* * * *

 For anyone reading this that feels sorry for me right now, all I can say is Thank you. For anyone that thinks I was a goddamn idiot, all I can say is, You are absolutely correct!

I mean, throwing a party that would end up lasting three days on the offhand chance that I’d end up with Martha was almost as stupid as Shorty buying drinks for everyone at the bar for exactly the same reason. And there was such a simple solution to this equation that it surprises me to this day that I didn’t think of it at the time.

Except I’ve never been very good at math…

What I should have done was ask Martha out, you know, on a date. Just the two of us. Yeah, we’ll get a bite to eat, take in a movie… Then we could go back to your place… I’ll bet it’s darling. Just as darling as you! And then, you know, you could fuck my brains out…  Well, that’s what Jerry says you want to do! Did I mention that I have a bionic dick?

I mean, what woman in her right mind could resist an offer like that?

* * * *

I wish I could say that I have total recall of everything that happened after I had lost what seemed to be at the time, the most important race of my life.

Alas, I have trouble remembering what happened last week, and I’ve been sober for almost ten years. Dallas Daze took place almost forty years ago, and I doubt I had ten consecutive days of sobriety back then.

Here goes nothing…

I like to think that Martha actually apologized to me for screwing up my grand design of screwing her silly by stupidly ending up with Shorty, not me.

And even if she didn’t come right out and say it, the look of almost sorrow in her eyes when I greeted her said as much. That actually did happen, and I would end up taking a ton of consolation from that.

Shorty couldn’t have been more elated. I’m surprised he didn’t jump on the railing of the balcony and crow like a rooster. He had won the Martha Lottery, and he wasn’t about to let anyone, specifically me, steal his winning ticket.

In a very short amount of time, he grabbed Martha by the arm and they vacated the premises. Yep, he left our epic party–abandoning me, leaving me all alone– with roughly thirty people, one of whom was head over heels in love with me–plus, there was a ton of food and more drugs and alcohol than all thirty of us could possibly handle.

I mean, seriously, what a jackass!

And at the precise moment he and Martha left, a huge flash of lightning lit up the night sky. A crack of thunder that sounded like a explosion ripped across the city. And it started raining like unto the time of Noah and the Great Flood.

That actually happened, too.

Shorty had clearly meddled with the primal forces of nature, and there was going to be hell to pay. And as ridiculous as that might sound, it would end up being the truth.

Every. Word.