Pit : Episode 7
Adrenaline is the double edged sword wielded by thrill seekers since the dawn of time. One can push themselves well past their normal limits, but this isn't a gift, it is more of a loan.
Slowly the wounds, lacerations, bumps, bruises, the whole set, start to sneak up on me. Within another 30 minutes i am walking like an octogenarian , with another 10 blocks to go between where i am and where i want to be.
I get looks, but it still kind of stuns me that the costume didn't raise an eyebrow, and even it in concert with some of the most garish wounds you'd be likely to see on a living person, is only attracting the odd stare.
My mind is already snapping to how many party stores there are between where i am and my apartment. And which one would be the least likely to refuse me service. Sounds like somewhat of an obscure fact, but when you tend to buy liquor while inebriated , you get to know who doesn't like to ask questions.
Speed-gulp is okay, but then again, there is the security cameras. ( as a rather poor, heavy drinker, i will admit sometimes my methods of procuring liquor are less than legal.) Jack's is a bit farther away, but i am also pretty sure he makes the majority of his money in some kind of illegal venture, so i can't see him calling the cops any time soon.
I manage to make a 5 minute walk in 20, and see the dimly lit , unappealingly square building, with its strangely fully functional sign. I catch a bit of my reflection in the mirrored door, and even i am taken aback.
My face has a 5 inch cut, that apparently has been bleeding out rather badly since the event, not to mention several smaller, but still productive wounds scattered about my cheeks and forehead. One of the lacerations that made my forehead its home is showing white, hopefully gravel and not bone.
Not a thought that i ever thought i would have to think of.
As i reach for the knob i notice one of my fingers is hanging at a rather odd angle. Not facing me but well on its way. A dislocation, something i am actually pretty familiar with. A misplaced hand during a backflip can easily force a finger to be evicted from its preferred position.
Before i enter i give the pinky a quick yank, normally this brings me nearly to my knees, but after the events of this night, the phrase " drop in the bucket" doesn't quite make it.
I hear the alarm system beep as i walk in , and as always, behind the counter is Albert. I've always wondered who "Jack" is, but never really cared to ask.
He is in his late 50's, overly faded tattoos covering his arms, but otherwise not too terribly intimidating of an individual. A 50's pot belly, and a gin blossom nose, take away from the scary vibe he may have had in spades in his younger days.
I walk to the fridge, twice having to grab onto a shelf to steady myself. But this is nothing new, Al, barely looks up from his newspaper, as years old bottles of mustard, mayo and pickles clang together.
Two 40's of " Grey snow" beer, while i do love my drink, i am with it enough to realize that too much alcohol could rapidly turn my situation south.
" Costume party?" Al says , i can't tell if his tone is friendly, or mocking.
" Party? Yes. Costume, no." i say cryptically hoping,to stifle the conversation instantly.
" Oh yeah, Mike, right?" he says. How he knows my name i am unsure, but i continue the conversation, hoping to build a bit of good will, if for no other reason than to deflect suspicion.
" Actually, yeah... but..." i start
" You were pretty wasted, you came in here one night, drank a 40 and a half of bottom shelf whiskey. We talked about clowns... a lot." He laughs a bit, a phlemy , hoarse chuckle. Something i would love to be able to mimic next time i get into a conflict.
" Oh...sorry about that, sometimes i don't know when to stop. Talking, or drinking." i try to throw in a laugh myself , but my ribs put a quick end to that. I grab my side and wince a bit.
" Don't worry about it, you paid, and didn't call me 'pops' 'old man' or ' dude', highlight of my week. So, what kind of party was it, you look pretty beat up. " i get a hint of suspicion from his tone.
Instantly, i change my body language, leaning easily against the counter, running a finger across the gaping wound on my forehead. My body is screaming at me to stop, but i don't want to give him any kind of reason think this is anything else other than a drunk being a drunk, and spending 5 dollars in small change on liquor.
" Got ya on that one didn't i? Actually doing some filming , friend of mine got some kind of grant , and needed a spooky clown. Well i was a clown, and as you can see , with enough laytex and fake blood, i can be pretty spooky. Downside is that i had to be there for 20 hours. You'd think a scene where i walk down a hallway would take 5 minutes, but not at all apparently." I crack one of the beers and take a long swallow, finding that even my throat must have taken a hit, swallowing is not a pleasant time.
Al laughs, and shakes his head. " Those fuckin movie types, had some try and pay me 50 bucks once to shoot in front of the store. The bastards where there every night for a fuckin week. "
" I hear you, and tomorrow , i get to do it all again." i say with my own head shake , and another long swallow of the beer. A cigarette butt and acetone flavoured beverage, with hints of rotten egg. But it gets the job done.
" well, i'll make sure to keep another 2 of those extra cold for you then. " he says, prompting me a bit to leave.
After the beer, the walk goes a little bit quicker. But as i get to the main doors of my building i find myself leaning against a wall whenever possible. I must be leaving a trail through the hallway, but that fact is rather low on my list of priorities.
" Bozo! You stumblin your ass in again?" i hear from far down the hall.
At this point, you may be getting the impression that i am a hermit, a loner, a rather tinfoil hat gent who hates society, not true. But i do tend to socialize with those much older than myself. Something about the times they grew up in, i just find makes them much more interesting than anyone near my own age.
The person the voice in question belongs to, belongs in that category. 82 years old, miserable, and a ww2 veteran. Eric Benson, curmudgeon, skinflint, hoarder, but at the very least in my opinion, great guy.
He walks down the hall, and as he passes a flickering bulb that gives nothing more than a dim orange glow, his eyes spring open.
" Christ, Mike what happened to ya?" he says , his accent is by no means overly thick, but still retains the jewish grandfather ( Should he have had children , this description may have literally described him. ) tone that always makes me laugh. Somehow harsh and caring all at the same time.
" Oh, nothing, flight of stairs , bottle of rum , not a fan." i lie.
" Ya stairs happen to have a knife taped to em?" he says , the sarcasm in his voice, almost tangible.
" Broken glass actually, Eric, no offence but i just want to get home, don't really have time to hang out tonight." i try to stand up and walk off but my vision starts to blur, and black spots appear, the more i try to ignore them , but quickly i find myself able to do nothing more than put a hand against the wall.
" Your coming with me , ya stupid bastid. " he says tugging a bit at my arm, being no more than 5 feet, normally this would have been a futile effort , but he manages to unbalance me with the first tug. I step backward and take a half hearted swing at him , screaming " Fuck off old man."
He doesn't reply, he simply reaches into his pocket, and before i realize what is going on he jabs something into my forearm, i yank it back, and slump half way down the wall.
" I'm not gonna sit here and convince you , when i am savin ya life, asshole. Don't want to come? i'm just gonna keep stickin ya with my paring knife until ya brain decides to start firing again. " If " Matter of Factly " had a face, it would be his well weathered, heavy browed visage.
I start to stumble and he gets his shoulder under mine, and with the two of us, we manage to slowly waddle to his apartment.
Stacks of boxes, piled as high as me , take up most of the place. But other than that, it is spotless, memorabilia, from 1930 or so onward, prominently displayed in oak cases, gives the place more of a museum feeling , than a shithole.
I crash to the couch and as i look to see where Eric may be, i see nothing. Too hurt to care, i simply sit there, breathing heavily, trying my damndest not to pass out.
After a few minutes he comes out carrying a green , worn steel box. He flips the top open, and brings out the largest needle, and thickest thread i have ever seen. He walks over and with a remote turns on several lights in the apartment.
He begins to poke at the gash on my forehead a bit , and takes out a glass bottle and some gauze.
" This broken bottle , that was sittin on the stairs, already broken i guess, . Was there any chance it was made of knives? Was this ' i'm a fuckin liar' brand rum? I hear they do that. " and with this quip i feel my forehead explode into pain again, and liquid pour down my face.
" If you wern't bullshittin me , i would have asked you to close your eyes there. " he snickers at the end of this sentence.
Suddenly a thought hits me.
" Your going to sow me up, with that!?" i say, my skyrocketing eyebrows causing the gash to give me another helping of pain.
" Sure am, you fuckin liar." He says as i yank my head away.
" You psychotic old prick, i am not letting you do that!" as i say this he looks exasperated, and raises a bushy eyebrow.
" You think i am gonna just start Mcguyvering your skull? What kind of an asshole do ya think i am?" he starts " Before ya answer that last part, where do you think i got this box, and the needle, thread, and alcohol?"
I really wrack my brain, but between blood loss, and alcohol gain, it doesn't click in for a minute or so.
" You were in the army?" I ask tentatively.
" And it only took 3 fucking years for you to pick up on that." he replies.
What is absurd is that i actually find myself thinking of that. In the 3 years we knew each other he had never mentioned the war, or his part in it. Really i always assumed he just avoided it somehow and was embarrassed.
" So you know what your doing, right? I mean, i am sure you were the man, back in 1892 or whatever, but when is the last time you did something like..." a sharp pain near the wound, sharp is somewhat of a misnomer, ' quick onset' would be a better one. I can feel the old dull needle poke through as, without consent from me, he begins to work.
" On someone else? 40 years ago. " he says as another bit of pain , near to the first, happens. As he works the pokes become quicker , and by the time i have ran out of interesting variations on the word "fuck", he is done.
He fumbles a bit in the green box, and pulls out what must have passed for a set of tweezers back when the ark was made. Long, dull steel things , and another question hits me.
" How old is this shit?" i say as he starts toward me.
" Pretty damn old , by your standards, i'd guess." He says, as he presses his hand against my face, bending my head backward. A huge whiff of old man smell hits me, cologne, some kind of medicated rub and cheap tobacco.
" Is it still good?" i say, the words muffled a bit by his palm.
" One thing we learned was that thee is a difference between ' expired' and 'useless'. Expired may not be so great when your paying 500 dollars to have your arm set in a nice hospital , but when its life or death, and you are fighting in the muck Bonamo, expired is great, useless is a problem. " as he finishes these words of wisdom, he pulls something out of my forehead.
" Funny, not a bit a broken glass. You must have had the most polite bottle ever, they should market that, i am sure lying drunks all over the world would break down the doors of liquor stores to get the kind of glass that doesn't make slivers. " He keeps up his assault trying to get the real story out of me.
He begins to give me the ' once over' checking for any major wounds, he seems to focuss on three on my neck and shoulders. Instead of reaching into his box of tricks he walks over to his fridge, and brings back a giant, thick steak.
This confuses the living hell out of me. For the past few months, i have noticed a lot of discarded dog food cans, and boxes of generic saltine crackers. I never asked, assuming he would be embarrassed, but i invited him over for dinner 4 nights a week because of it.
" Where did you get that?" i ask. He laughs.
" What do ya mean? How did i afford steak when i have only had money for crackers and dog chow? Friggen kids, think ya the only ones who know how to run a con or two. I just knew if i seemed like i was starvin' i wouldn't have to make my own dinners for a while, ya stupid asshole." He laughs again, and i join him.
" Your a resourceful old bugger arn't you?" i say shaking my head. He had money for steak, i was legitimately near dog chow levels in regards to funds, i am a bit angry, but more impressed than anything.
" This steak though, i'm not gonna eat. " he says as he takes some books and leans the steak, against it. " This steak is going to show you something. " he continues cryptically.
" You working up your own clown act Eric?" i ask as he makes sure the steak is sitting straight up.
"No, just showing you one i knew when i was your age. "
He pulls out another box, and takes a knife from it, old, but actually sharp looking. A military style, though what i know about knives could easily fit in a dixie cup.
" Someone like you is gonna use a knife like this. " he says, and those old arthritic hands whip back and forth , drawing the knife along the meat a few times. Nothing action movie like, but at age 82 , impressive none the less. He uses the tip to move the 'wounds ' a bit " Shallow, no angle, and all scattered in one area, like a moron. "
He turns from me , and as he does takes a swipe at the steak. This time it is just one, and the steak itself slides to the ground in two pieces, still in the package.
" Now those, are the kind of wounds you have. Angled to make healing harder if ya miss, few, so the guy didn't waste energy and leave you time to take the knife, and if you were a hundreth of a second slower, they would have killed ya. Whoever you got into a fight with, they knew what they were doin'. And i am not talking about some schmuck in the reserves, or some drunk grunt. You've pissed someone off, and if is the kind of people i fuckin know it is, your in over ya head."
My response is silence, my story is insane, hell one could say my story itself is the very definition of insanity. I've killed, i have been under extreme stress, and i have an elaborate web of what very well may be fantasy to explain it all. Maybe he is picking up on it, and just trying to see how far down the rabbit hole i went.
" I'm fine Benson, no web of intrigue , just a fight i didn't want to admit getting my ass kicked during. " I say, a deflection mixed with a half truth.
" I have no doubt ya got the taffy beat out a ya, " he says ( once i asked what was with the plethora of taffy references, he then spent an afternoon showing me clips from an old show circa about 1950 , in which a clown, and what appeared to be a federal agent hocked taffy to children.) " but i've seen these kind of wounds before. I've patched these kind of wounds before, i've never been the best guy with a gun, or my fists, but even people like the guy who showed you ,need someone to patch them up. And i spent a few decades doin it, the kind of patching up that doesn't have records kept of it, if ya are starting to get it." He looks at me, and i have never seen this kind of expression on his face before. Not solem, but , serious.
I spill my guts, from the computer that started it all, to the events right before i got to where i am now.
He didn't laugh, he didn't call bullshit on anything, just sat down, smoked a half dozen cigarettes and looked progressively more worried.
" We were talking about something like this back in the 60's. We had some good guys, some guys that seemed to be better than anyone could expect. Not because they were trained better, even though they were, but just because they were just, a bit more. Don't know how else to say it. No supermen, no lazers, or telekefuckits, no flyin, just certain guys who ran faster, jumped higher, hit harder, and could take a beatin that would stun a rhino. Funny thing is, we always had trouble gettin these guys to work together. Luckily, we never had to much. They had things..." he shudders a bit. " taken care of. Problem was , we realized, if we was getting these guys just walkin in the door, there must be others out there. And that was something that we started to think wouldn't be a good thing. Like that Freeguy was saying. But i thought the idea was scrapped. Reason was, people didn't want a hero. No reason to worry, stories about one guy killing an enemy platoon in the war made people proud, stories about the same thing happening to some mobsters , made people sweat. So with a little hushin in the newspapers, and a little ...prodding the public opinion against folks takin things into their own hands, we didn't need to do anything else." he shakes his head a bit, trying to absorb the information.
" So, anything i should know?" i say, trying to get some kind of advice in the situation.
" You ain't gonna win , and you probably aint gonna live through the first asshead with a gun you try to stop. " he says, not as an insult, but calmly, making sure that i understand that this is no laughing matter.
" I know, but i just don't think i can stop. I don't know what it is. I don't like killing anyone, but i can't get over the fact that , yes i could do something to help someone in the world, and there is a group of people out there who's job it is to stop me. I don't mind the fact that i am going to die, or get caught, but i'd like to put off both as long as possible. " saying it out loud is wierd. I don't feel heroic, i feel like someone talking about a heroin addiction. " can you help? I mean you could show me how to fight, right? "
He laughs " Me? I was gonna fail boot camp, but they saw i was a doctor, or almost one, long story. That with the knife? Surgery , if that steak was movin around i wouldn't have put a mark on it. " It is his turn for silence, " You aint gonna give this up though are ya? “ he sighs a bit and continues “ Ya know what though? I’m 82, I don’t sleep, I barely shit, and I’m starting to lose hearing in one ear. I wanna be useful again, “ his tone is completely different than usual. Gone is the sarcastic life hardened old man, replaced with a melancholy old gent reviewing the last couple of decades of his life. “ You wanna get beat to death to stop some purses being snatched? Good on you, stupid, but something that gets my respect. You need to be patched up, I’ll do it. And if that gets me shot , fuck it, I’ve dodged enough bullets in my life, that I am ahead of the game. “
And that stark statement takes me back for a moment, and brings up a question. “ Someone left a note, whats stopping them from just walking into my place and shooting me while I sleep?”
He laughs , his expression turning to more of that old man I know , “ That was me , ya moron ya. I got my ways , and I had a feeling you was doing something like this, but I didn’t think it was this… involved. Just wanted to scare ya into being a bit more safe. Whole lotta good that did… And why don’t they just come in and shoot you? The law ya daffy prick. Maybe not the same law on the books you could read, but law regardless. Doing that just, aint what they do. “
Confusing does not even describe this situation, when I started all I wanted to do was go out in a blaze of glory, when that went too well , all I wanted to do was do some good, now I am hip deep in a cross between a Tom Clancy novel and a comic book.
Something catches my eye, in a case, it just seems to call out to me. I am not too much of a war buff, my historical trivia is mostly entertainment related, but the item in the case is pretty easy to identify.
“ Is that what I think it is?” I say pointing to the case. Inside is a burned, torn headband, emblazoned with the rising sun, as the ten gallon hat is to cowboys, this is to the kamikaze. And what am I , if not a kamikaze that seems to keep failing at the last part of a suicide mission.
“ I’m guessin so, why?” Eric says intrigued.
“ I want it, if I am going to do this shit, I kinda want to do it right. The only thing I got goin for me is the fact that I am odd, so I guess I have to work with that. “ I say as he walks over to the case, I hear a squeek of a hinge that hasn’t been opened in decades and he gingerly gives me the headband. I remove the tophat, the spirit gum hurting my scalp a bit, but in relation to everything else that has happened today, I barely notice.
I replace the hatband with the aged, headband and hold it out at arms length. A damaged , hat , a damaged hatband, and a symbol that states in no uncertain terms that if I am going down, I will be taking someone with me.
“ Ya know, maybe I have something else that can help ya out. “ Eric wanders off into another room and comes back with three books. “ Ya read german?” he says tossing them down on a table.
“ Why in the hell would I read german?” I ask
Suddenly his entire body posture changes, rigid, cold, and he spouts off a series of words that I can only assume, from the odd bits I have heard from films, is german. The accent, sounds perfect, or at least very close to what I have heard in said films.
“ Knowing krautspeak saved my ass more than anything uncle Sam taught me, maybe you’ll be able to say the same someday. “ He picks up the book, and flips to a random page a quarter or so in, the words are undecipherable to me , but the pictures of men engaged in hand to hand combat, or using weapons, seem to speak pretty clearly.
“ If there is anything the krauts were good at , it was hurtin people, these books are gonna be better than anything some slant eye is going to teach ya for 200 dollars a week. Once you know how to read em that is. “
