At Will

"Bye bye, fatboy."
I pressed the barrel of the Smith & Wesson police special ta his forehead an' pulled the trigger. The explosion was more muffled 'an usual, sort of a "thump," and his body jerked roun', no more'n if you gave him a friendly punch ta the shoulder. But the whole backa his head blew out; chunks a' pink and gray meat -- brains, I s'pose -- spewed out and splattered against the tree as if he'da lost his lunch through a new mouth. I didn't expect that. If I did, I'd'a figured on gettin' sick. But I didn't. It was too much fucking fun. I felt great. All the anger and hatred and frustration drained right outta me. It was almost as good as an orgasm. Hell, it was better.
He just knelt there, a hole in his forehead 'bout the size of a nickel, eyes wide and sightless, the back a' his head missin' and the skull pretty much empty, "Whatsa matter, smart guy? Not so smart now?" I placed a finger on his nose and pushed him over. He fell like dead weight. The thought struck me funny.
So, you prob'ly think I'm sick, some kinda vicious nut-case. I guess you're right. I gotta admit, the pleasure I got from it sorta freaked me out, I didn't expect that either. Shit, I hadn't killed nobody since 'Nam, and that was different, you didn't know the guy you were killin'. The gooks were usually shootin' back, and it was never leisure-like, 'cept during the interrogations. That's where I learnt the word "eviscerate".
But I'm not totally outta touch; I know I gotta kill myself when this's finished, but it ain't finished yet. There's another piece'a shit that's gonna check out before I do. Two of 'em did this ta me, destroyed me, took my life and my family, and I'll be goddamned if they're gonna walk around breathin' fresh air, feelin' the sun and playin' with their kids while I rot in the earth. Not a fuckin' chance Jack. We all go down together. We'll discuss it in hell.
I got back in the truck -- his truck, mine now -- started it up and backed out. I'd taken him to a little box canyon where I knew we probably wouldn't be disturbed on a weekday afternoon. Damn good thing, too. I'd hate ta be the motherfucker who interrupted me interruptin' fatboy.
I drove off down the road whistlin' a little tune, but I can't whistle for shit so I turned on the radio. Lucky Man by Emerson, Lake and Palmer was on. Jeezus-fuck. Y'know, I used'ta be a hippy, no shit; peace, love and all that crap. That was before Uncle Sam got me. What the hell happened?
I know what your thinkin', "Another drug crazed hippy Viet Nam vet." Well, maybe so, but it ain't that simple. Yea, I was Airborne Cavalry, used'ta jump outta choppers (look ma, no 'chute) and splatter gooks in the rice paddies. But I didn't come back all weird and fucked-up like some a' those guys. No shit. I don't know what their bitch is. I used'ta think they were pussies, but some a' those guys fought hard and wasted a lotta gook. Then I thought maybe they were just lousey losers, but that ain't it; we didn't lose that war in 'Nam, those pussy-assed politicians lost it in Washington. Naw, I just think they coun't handle the idea a' bein' the bad guys. Me, I don't give a shit. I'm fucking sick a' bein' screwed up the ass. I got no problem with bein' the bad guy, and I'm gonna be damn good at it.
But that wasn't always true. When I came back I was fine, I'm still fucking fine, but the cocksuckers who fucked with my life, they ain't so fine. I did everything just the way you're s'posed ta -- well, almost. My timing was a little off. I got a kid, a wife and a job, in that order.
The job was down at the chemical plant, on the loadin' dock. I worked that job for sixteen years. Sixteen-fucking-years Jack. And then fatboy and fatboy jr. waltzed in like they owned the fucking place. Problem was, they did own the place. Well, fatboy did anyway, fatboy and the company he worked for. Some hotshot New York bullshit or somethin' like that, I dunno. Fatboy jr., he was just a free ride.
I worked hard at that job. I became Chief Foreman on the dock. I wore a tie an' all, like almost a' zecutive, sort of, 'cept I was never no asshole, I was always one a' the guys. Sometimes, yea, I had'ta do stuff I didn't like, but I always gave a guy a chance, and I never pulled no slimy shit like those scumholes did.
They just took the place. They stole it. They said they bought it, but I don't see how. Marty swore they didn't want ta sell, and I believe him, but they made 'em somehow. How can you take a man's property if he don't want you ta have it? If you make somebody sell somethin' he don't wanna sell, that's stealin' ta me. Shit, that's the kinda crap they do in the mob. But this was all legal, s'posedly; somethin' ta do with the stock market. Ain't nothin' legal 'bout the stock market, if y'ask me.
Marty promised my job would be o.k. And fatboy, he did too. He said, "Why would we want to hire somebody we'd have to train when you already know the job inside and out?" Made sense ta me, so I didn't worry. I was a jerk.
I worked over a year for fatboy. He brought in all this new computer inventory crap. It was a pain in the ass, but I learnt it. Then the date for my scheduled review came and went. I let it go for two months. Two months. That's a long time ta miss the raise you shoulda been gettin', and Shelly started bitchin'. She was normally a good woman, not too moody 'cept when her period was comin' on, and I loved her. Still do. She did what she had'ta do. I don't blame her.
So I started gettin' on fatboy's case 'bout the raise. Nothin' heavy duty, just reminders, phone calls, a comment here and there, a note in his "in" box -- I could never figure out the e-mail. Nothin'. It was five months altogether. Fatboy took ta ignorin' me, an' bein' real hostile when he had ta speak ta me.
Then the sonovabitch put me on nights. I couldn't believe it. I was Chief Foreman in Shipping and Receiving. And he put me on nights! It was like a demotion. I still can't believe it. I don't know why. Maybe it was so he wouldn't have ta deal with me anymore. Maybe he planned it all along, so he could give my job ta that little prick, fatboy jr. Why couldn't the fucker just give me my raise and be done with it? None a' this had ta happen.
I figured it was only temporary, so I wasn't too worried, just pissed off. But then he replaced me on days with fatboy jr., not really his son, some kind of relative -- 97th cousin, I think. I been with that company sixteen years and I was on nights; fatboy jr. hadn't even been there a year, and he had my job. I was fatboy jr.'s boss, I trained him, taught him everything he knew, which wasn't much, 'cause the fucker was dumber than a hard cheese turd and twice as slow; but he had my freakin' job.
Some men woulda blown fatboy away right there, but not me. It takes some real effort ta make a killer outta me, go ask my ol' D.I. I didn't even get mad exactly, I guess I got depressed. Things got bad at home. I took it out on Shelly, I started ta drink. I thought that was better than drugs. I'd "improved" with age.
Y'see, the problem was Melinda, our daughter. She's a beautiful little girl, red hair like fire, green eyes and about eleven million freckles which always annoyed the shit outta her, but I think they're beautiful. She was perfectly normal till she was fourteen, then she started gettin' sick all the time, she was always tired, black circles under her eyes, and she'd get bruised if you looked at her too hard. Took awhile for 'em ta figure it out. Leukemia. She's still alive as far as I know; seventeen now. She had her good days and bad, don't know how long she can last. Thanks ta these cocksuckers, I prob'ly won't even know it if she dies. But I'm gonna know when they die, you can bet the rent.
They said it was agent orange. I guess maybe that's why Shelly an' me couldn't have no more kids. We went ta court with a buncha other vets whose kids were screwed up. We won, but you know what we got from the government? Five-thousand-bucks apiece, period. Period. One time only. What a joke. That wouldn't pay Melinda's medical bills for a month. Even with insurance, we spent so much on doctors an' hospitals an' drugs that we couldn't buy a new car or own a home, had'ta rent, an' I make -- made -- good money.
Then one night I fell asleep on the dock. Actually, I'd been doin' that a lot. I was tired an' depressed, an' besides, I didn't belong on the fucking graveyard shift; I was Chief Foreman. Anyway, fatboy showed up and caught me in the act. What the hell was he doin' on the loadin' dock at 2:30 in the morning? Damn good question. I still wonder about that. Makes me think fatboy jr. had somethin' ta do with it, prob'ly had some scuzzball on my own shift spyin' on me. But you can't blame the guys. By this time it was clear ta everybody who was losin' what, and you can't blame a man for not wantin' ta be in that kinda mess. They all got kids too.
That's why I'm not gonna go inta work with my thirty-aught-thirty and blow away a buncha people who may or may notta done me wrong. This is gonna be what, in 'Nam, we called a "surgical strike"; that's where you go in, take out a certain specific target, and get the hell out afore they knew you were there. Swift, silent, deadly.
I wonder what fatboy woulda done if I hadn't'a woke up by myself when he foun' me sleepin'? I wish he'd'a shook me or yelled in my ear. Maybe the old 'Nam reflexes woulda took over, and I'd'a broke his neck while I was still asleep.
But I woke up, I just felt 'im there. He was standin' 'bout ten feet away, starin' at me. All he said was, "I want to see you in my office, first thing in the morning. Since you've slept so well, that shouldn't be a problem." Then he walked away. I wisht I coulda thoughta somethin' clever ta say, but I was all dazed and confused and mush-brained. It took me damn near twenty minutes ta figure out what happened, and ta realize that I was in some potentially serious shit.
I called Shelly, woke her up, told her I'd be home late. She knew somethin' was wrong, but I didn't wanna dump it on 'er while she was still mush-brained herself. I hung around till 8:30, went inta the john and tried ta make myself presentable; didn't wanna look like a man who just slept in his clothes. I went up ta fatboy's office and he kept me waitin' till 9:30, little prick. Then Luisa, his secretary (Luisa's o.k.) said, "He'll see you now." How generous, I thought.
He was sittin' behind his desk which was almost as big as his gut; he didn't bother gettin' up or even lookin' up. "Sit down," he said, still without lookin' at me. There was only one chair, so I sat in it, directly across the desk from him. He went on with his bullshit, shufflin' papers an' pretendin' ta be real important, for a good ten minutes, like I wasn't even there, an' then he suddenly looked me right in the eye and said, "I suppose you know why you're here."
Is this a question? Am I supposed t'answer it? "Yea, I guess...."
"Well?"
What kinda crap is this? My hemorrhoids are better human beings than this fat fuck. "Well what?" I don't think my response was 'zackly insubordinate, but it seemed ta piss him off. His greasy neck started turnin' red.
"Well what? What do you have to say for yourself?"
"Nothin'." Twenty years ago it woulda been, "Sir, no excuse sir!" But now it's just "nothin'."
"You leave me no choice but to suspend you."
"Suspend me? For sleeping on the dock? Fer chrissake, there was nothin' goin' on. That's why I was able ta sleep."
"You were front line management," did you catch the word ‘were’? I sure as hell did, "and this is not the kind of example we want to establish for our employees."
"Listen Mr. Fatboy," a' course, I didn't really call 'im that, but I'll be goddamned if I'm gonna use his name; I cuss a lot, you might notice, but there's some words too disgustin' even for me, an' his name's one of 'em, "I been havin' a lotta trouble lately. My daughter...."
"Your family is not my problem, and your home life should be left at home. You were supposed to be a professional. I shouldn't have to tell you this."
Cocksucker. I coulda killed him right there, but this was almost eleven months ago, it was just the beginning. "I realize that, but...."
"Two weeks without pay."
"But...."
"That will be all."
"Listen, the fact that I slept on the dock don't effect my ability ta do my job. I know this whole operation inside and out. I practically built that goddamn dock."
"Any further use of profanity and I'll have to suspend you another week. That will be all."
"You can't do this."
"Not only can I do it, but if you don't leave this office immediately, I'm going to call security."
So I left, more dazed than ever. I don't remember the trip home. I told Shelly; she took it pretty well, I guess she saw it comin'. She always was smarter'n me.
After that, I took ta drinkin' even more. It was pretty ugly, and I was a sonovabitch, but I didn't start beatin' on 'er yet. That came later.
The whole two weeks was hazy. I remember one long fight on top of one long drunk, a lotta headaches and nausea, Melinda's pain. Then it was time ta go back ta work.
That was Sunday night, technically Monday by the company's fucked-up calendar for the graveyard shift, and there was a note in my box from Luisa saying that fatboy wanted ta see me in the morning. First thing, a' course. Yea, right. He'll keep me waitin' till quittin' time if he thinks he can get away with it.
I called Shelly and told her I'd be late again, and then made sure I didn't sleep, though there was damn little ta do.
The guys all acted funny ta me, like I had AIDS or somethin', stayin' away from me and not talkin' unless they had ta. 'Cept for Al, that is. My Pa was a worse asshole'n me, by far, but sometimes he got it right; he once told me: Anywhere there's a lotta chickenshit, you're liable ta find at least one good egg. Well, there was a lotta chickenshit on that dock, all right, but Al was a good egg. He hung out with me, tried t'act like everything was normal, but even his friendship was strained; everybody knew I was walkin' on thin ice, and nobody wanted ta go under with me.
There was one thing funny about that memo from Luisa I found in my box; it was dated over a week ago. I thought that was a little strange, but I let it go. I was a jerk.
At 8:30 I was in fatboy's office. I didn't know what he wanted, maybe ta give me a stern lecture, maybe ta welcome me back on my first day. Man, was I a jerk.
He hardly kept me waitin' at all. I was seated across the desk from him by 8:40. I took that as a good sign. He didn't look up again, but this time he started talkin' without ever really lookin' at me. I had the sense that maybe he was afraid of somethin', maybe me.
"I see you've decided to rejoin us."
"Well, yea. It's been two weeks."
"It certainly has. You understand, of course, that I'm going to have to let you go. You'll be paid for last night."
The floor gave out from under me. I guess that thin ice I'd been skatin' on finally gave way. I don't know how long it took me ta say anythin'; it seemed like half an hour, it was probably half a minute: "Wha-what? Why?"
"You've been absent without excuse for two weeks. To the best of my knowledge, you haven't even made any attempt to contact the company."
"What? What the hell are you talkin' 'bout?"
"You are aware, aren't you, that two full weeks have passed since the last time you reported to work?"
"Of course I'm aware. I was suspended. By you. And you know it perfectly damn well."
"Oh?" Now he looked me in the eye. "Then you have written notification of this suspension?"
"Well... no...." Suddenly I knew. It came over me like some a' the shit I been drinkin' lately; startin' in my belly and spreadin' from there, sendin' cold chills up my spine, inta my neck and through my skull. I started shakin', mouth so dry I could hardly talk. I musta sat there starin' at 'im like a moron. I coulda puked in his lap. I wisht I had.
"Then surely you have witnesses to this alleged suspension?"
"You know damn funking well I got no witnesses 'cept you."
"Of course I do, because there was never any suspension. This is your feeble excuse for an unjustified absence, and it isn't going to work mister."
"You lousey no good two bit baga shit!"
He musta knew I was gonna open his head like a ripe zit, because I was barely outta my chair before two security guards came bustin' through the door. They were young guys, twice my size. They had me down before I could blink, and they escorted me from the premises.
The first thing I did was go straight home and tell Shelly. I drove like a madman, but I remember this trip real clear. There was no way he was gonna get away with this shit. Shelly was righteously pissed but rational, an' she told me ta call Howard, a lawyer who used'ta know my ol' man. I told 'im the whole story in a real angry sorta way, and Shelly got on the extension and filled in the gaps. Then Howard asked: "Do you belong to a union or similar labor organization?"
"No."
"Did you have a personal contract with your employer?"
"Whaddya mean? A personal contract?"
"Did you ever sign a contract with your employer, guaranteeing your employment for a certain period of time?"
"Hell no."
"Well then, although your employer's behavior was clearly unethical, I'm afraid it was perfectly within the law."
"WHAT?? What about my rights?"
"You were what is known as an ‘at will’ employee. That means you were working by your own choice and with your employer's consent. Either party to such an agreement has the complete freedom to withdraw at any time, with or without good reason. If you weren't protected by some form of union or personal contract, then your boss was completely within his rights."
"WHAT ABOUT MY FUCKING RIGHTS!!!"
Shelly came over and tried ta calm me down, but I shook her off, I was kinda rough.
"I'm sorry, but I'm afraid that as an ‘at will’ employee, you effectively have no rights with regard to your employer, except the right to file for unemployment compensation."
Man, I couldn't believe this shit. Still can't. Somethin' 'bout this ain't right, can't be right.
"I got no rights? I got no rights? Why the hell did I waste all those gooks if I got no rights?" I don't think Howard quite got the connection between gook-wastin' and the ‘at will’ employee, but it was real clear ta me.
We fought the wrong enemies. Till I started shootin' at the bastards, no gook never did nothin' ta me. An' for Crissake, we fought the teamsters there at the plant, we actually fought ta keep 'em out, fifteen years ago an' then again ten years ago. They never tried again after that. But we were fightin' for Marty. He was a good man an' it was a good company, once upon a time, an' we saw the teamsters as a buncha hoods and troublemakers. An' we voted for Republicans, god help us. Right now I wish I had a few a' those teamster hoods on my side. They might like ta fight, might like it a little too much, but sometimes a few tough guys are just whatcha need. Why do I always get so smart when it's too fucking late?
I went down the next day and filed for unemployment. I think that was the last sober, responsible thing I ever did.
I got unemployment o.k., fatboy didn't try ta fight me. It's a damn good thing, too. Last thing fatboy woulda wanted was ta fight me. But unemployment don't mean squat, and we had no savings, less than a thousand bucks. There was the pension, a' course, 'bout 40,000 bucks, but if we took it out, the gover'ment would take damn near half; so, we put it inna retirement fund -- IRA, I think -- till we got really desperate.
I took ta drinkin' and hangin' out down at the bar till dawn. Shelly was worried and angry and scared, and she started givin' me shit. Not a lot, just a little, no more'n I deserved for behavin' like a no count welfare case, but then I took ta smackin'er roun'. It wasn't nothin' at first, I just slapped her a couple a' times, hit her on the arm. That one left a bruise. Then one night I lit inta her like she was a Marine in some sleazy bar in Da Nang, like ta kill 'er. But the cops showed up outta nowhere, thank god. I don't know where they came from, I think Melinda musta called 'em, or maybe the neighbors.
Those cops beat the livin' bejesus outta me. I don't mind, I deserved it for what I done ta Shelly. They took me downtown and threw me in a cell where I spent the next 48 hours. I slept through the first 24, puked through the second 24, and then they let me out. She decided not ta file charges.
I walked all the way home, several miles, still pretty queasy with my head throbbin', an' planned what I'd say. I'd apologize a shitload, an' I'd mean it. I'd promise ta quit drinkin', go ta AA or anything, and I'd mean it. I'd promise ta start lookin' for a job real serious as soon as I was healed up, and I'd mean that, too. But when I got home, she was gone. All of her stuff was gone, her clothes and Melinda's, everything. Haven't seen either of 'em since, haven't even heard from a lawyer. I can't find 'em. No matter how hard I look, nothin' -- but I haven't really looked that hard. I think she went ta one a' them shelters for battered women, and now she an' Melinda are hidin' out from me, and the cops an' everybody's in on it.
That was, lemme think... shit, almost three months ago I guess. Nothin'. I don't even know if my daughter is alive or dead.
I never needed nothin' like I needed Shelly. She was my sanity, my hope, my reason for livin'. I think, when I saw that empty house, when it suddenly dawned on me what was goin' down, I think I heard a little voice in my head. It said: "We find the defendant guilty as charged."
I got drunker and meaner than ever, had more fights than Tyson, can't recall how many I won. Man may not live by bread alone, but he can get by on booze, an' what's left a' his pension after the IRS eats it. I was livin' on retirement funds by then; I left most a' it for Shelly an' Melinda, though. I took ta followin' fatboy and fatboy jr., a skill I learnt in the jungles, but I was still pretty good in the streets. I took ta learnin' their habits, their patterns, scopin' out the killin' grounds.
They turned off the utilities at the house, started eviction proceedings, and when the guy came ta take my car, I beat the shit outta him and sent 'im runnin'. "Get a real job, asshole," I yelled. He was just a kid. He never looked back, he's prob'ly half way 'cross Kansas by now.
I knew that was it. They'd come back armed, or they'd bring the cops, an' if they took my car an' threw me in jail, it'd be a lot harder ta do what I had ta do. So I put on my battle fatigues (a little tight but they still fit, I ain't no fatboy) an' a black beret, cleaned my revolver, an' loaded the twelve gauge, six-shot, Mossbarg pump. The revolver was for them, the shotgun was for me.
It was easy, easier by far'n huntin' rabbit or squirrel. People think they know what ta do about violence, they comfort themselves with fantasies about how they'd disarm the mugger or escape the terrorist, but when it comes down ta blood and metal, it's all bullshit. Not one person inna thousand can deal with real violence when it meets 'em right up aside the head.
I knew where fatboy ate lunch, same place everyday. An' I knew he'd still be there, same time, same booth, 'cause he's a fat middle-class asshole who thinks he's safe, 'cause he sees the world crumblin' down roun' everybody else, but not me, it can't happen here, I got a reg'lar job an' a big paycheck an' a lotta blue-collar jerks who take orders from me. Cause he's too stupid ta know that a man with enemies never sleeps in the same place twice. Cause he never crouched in a foxhole fulla blood an' shit an' body parts, never died with every loud noise, never watched his buddy's face explode, never eviscerated a gook.
I parked my car near the train station an' walked about ten blocks ta the diner where fatboy'd be stuffin' his face, the one thing he did well. Enjoy it, scumhole, it's your last meal. I found his four-wheel drive, company-owned white Ranger parked along the curb, took position on the stoop of a deserted storefront, pulled the beret down an' my collar up, an' played the role of a homeless wino... played it like a natural.
When he came out and started fumblin' with his keys, I staggered up like I was gonna ask for spare change. His strategy for defendin' himself was not ta look at me. No fuckin' wonder people get mugged an' raped an' shit: ignore 'em an' maybe they'll go away. No, fatboy, it don't work like that. Ignore us an' we grow like cancer in your cities an' streets an' in your back yard, an' we're always fatal.
When I got so close he could smell my stinkin' breath, when he no longer had the choice t'ignore me, he looked up. Too late, fatboy. He started ta say somethin' smartass, I could tell by his expression, but before he could open his fat mouth I had the revolver in his ribs. "One move, one sound, you die right here in this gutter." The smartass bullshit was suddenly gone from his eyes; something else was there. "That's better fatboy. You're about ta get your first lesson in respect. Do exactly what I tell you. Open the door. Get in. Anythin' funny and there's gonna be one helluva mess in your pretty company car. Unlock the back door." I quickly got inta the back seat. "All right fatboy, start the car and drive."
"Where?"
"Where?" I mocked his usual smartass attitude, "Straight ta hell, a' course. I'll let you know when we're there."
We drove by several cops, and I could see 'im lookin', thinkin', tryin' ta come up with somethin'. "Go ahead fatboy, try it. I'll kill you and they'll kill me. You really think I give a shit? If ya do, you ain't been keepin' up with current events." I did give a small shit, because I wanted fatboy jr.'s ass before I bought it, but not that biga shit; I'd'a gone down right there if I had ta, I'd'a gone down inna fucking blaze a' glory, an' fatboy knew it. He drove.
Awhile later, when we were outta town, he tried ta talk, "Listen...." I could see he was sweatin', his collar was soaked an' the dark splotches under his armpits were comin' right through the sportscoat.
"Stuff it fatboy. We got nothin' ta discuss."
A few minutes later he tried again, "Look, I'm sorry, I...."
"Too little, too late fatboy. You wanna talk, talk ta god, for all the good that'll do ya. I'm not even gonna ask why ya did it. That bothered me once, but it don't matter anymore. Fatboys like you gotta get their manhood somewhere, I s'pose, an' if you can castrate a poor workin' slob, why hell, that's gotta be better'n gettin' laid. Hey, tell me fatboy, you ever get laid? You got some fatass wife somewhere maybe? No, shut up. Never mind. Just the thought of it makes me wanna puke."
The sweat was drippin' off his nose, an' he was too scared ta wipe it. Good. Reap the hurricane, asshole. I wanted ta laugh in his face, but I didn't, 'cause it just then occurred ta me that there was a lotta truth in what I said ta him. Losin' that job hurt more'n anything I'd ever felt, 'cept for when we found out 'bout Melinda. But it hurt more'n watchin' Jimmy die in 'Nam, it hurt more'n my Ma's funeral, an' it hurt more'n losin' Shelly an' Melinda, 'cause that loss was just part of a bigger loss caused by this shiverin' little lardass. An' he had done no wrong, broken no law. I am the bad guy. O.k. Fine.
This little cocksucker didn't just take my job, he took my manhood. I know it sounds like macho crap, but I don't care; it's true, an' he's gonna pay for it before he dies. See, that's what the punks and the twerps don't understand; your manhood is a parta your job, an' your work is a helluva lot more important 'an how many dif'rent chicks you laid how many times. Most guys lie 'bout that shit anyhow, but your job's who ya are.
Come ta think of it, I don't remember gettin' it up since fatboy fired me. But I'm gettin' it up now, thinkin' 'bout what I'm gonna do ta fatboy.
I directed him inta the box canyon, told him ta stop the car and kill the engine. "End a' the road, fatboy."
"Please...."
"You sure you wanna beg, fatboy? Think about it; think about it as the final gesture a' Mister Bigtime Hotshot Fatboy's miser'ble 'scuse for a life. You wanna beg? Be my guest. Won't get'cha shit. Now get out. Leave the keys, you won't be needin' 'em. Move!"
I slid out right behind 'im, never takin' my aim from the middle a' his back. I walked 'im ta the place I had in mind, a quiet place where I used'ta hunt coon an' possum an' sometimes quail with Raisin, my blue tick hound, long before I ever hearda 'Nam. I used'ta come here ta find peace; it used'ta be here, too. It was gone now.
"All right fatboy. Turn around." I never seen anybody turn around so slow in my life. I think he was stretchin' it out, the moment, his life expectancy, takin' it all in, knowin' that this canyon an' these trees an' that sky was the last thing he was ever gonna see.
He wasn't lookin' at me, he was lookin' up. Maybe he was prayin', maybe he was lookin' at the crystal sky an' the lazy clouds an' thinkin' a' sometime when he was a kid, skippin' school, layin' in the grass somewhere, half asleep, watchin' clouds just like these, never dreamin' that it'd all come ta this. You created it fatboy, you brought us here.
"I want two things from you." His attention snapped ta me, like he'd forgot I was there, an' my voice'd startled 'im. His brows were raised in what I took ta be hope, as if the fact that I wanted somethin' from 'im meant he had a chance. "I want revenge, but mostly I want justice." An' then he knew he could only give me what I wanted by dyin'.
"This is for revenge." I lowered the pistol, aimed for his crotch, an' fired. I didn't see his nuts go flyin' or nothin', but I'm a damn good shot. It's not too likely that I missed, especially at that range.
Fatboy looked down at his crotch in utter amazement as the red stain spread across his pants. I don't think he could breathe from the pain, he made no sound. His hands went ta his groin, he fell in slow motion ta his knees; his mouth was open an' his eyes were wide an' astonished, baffled, like he'd just heard the most incredible secret ever told. Maybe he had.
"An' this is for justice." I started ta shoot, but I paused. I almost said, "I'm sorry," but I didn't. I'm not that biga jerk. Instead, I said, "I wish we could go back an' live this all over, get it right the next time." I don't think he cared anymore. I think he was ready.
"Bye bye, fatboy."
I pressed the barrel of the Smith & Wesson police special ta his forehead... but you already know this part.

Toolin' down the highway, I never felt so good. I forgot a man could feel this great. You think it's sick, but you don't understand. Y'see, you got problems. Maybe your wife or husband, maybe your kids, prob'ly money, your job, your car, maybe your health, somethin' is botherin' you because you got tomorrow. I don't. I could have fucking cancer right now, and it wouldn't matter, 'cause I just erased everything, I got no tomorrow.
There's this Janis Joplin song where she says somethin' about freedom bein' just another word for nothin' left ta lose. I never understood that, it always kinda pissed me off 'cause I thought we were fightin' for freedom in 'Nam, an' the idea of fightin' for nothin' didn't quite sit right with me. Now I understand. I understand that freedom is havin' nothin' ta lose, I understand that we were fightin' for nothin', we were always fightin' for nothin', an' it's great. It's just fucking fine with me.
Fatboy jr. was just as easy as fatboy, an' a lot quicker.
Just like fatboy, he was as predictable as piss at a beer party, a victim waitin' ta be had. I parked along the curb in a semi-residential area along the route where I'd followed 'im home enough times. When he passed me, right on schedule, I pulled out behind 'im and followed for a few blocks until he stopped at a red light in a fairly noisy intersection.
I pulled up beside 'im, like I was gonna make a right turn at the light. I sat there a second and stared at 'im, but he was off in his own little world. Then I said, "Yoo hoo, fatboy," but his window was up an' he didn't hear me, so I yelled: "YO! FATBOY!" And when he looked I mouthed the words, "Remember me?"
He recognized me instantly, but the realization that this was an unpleasant situation spread across his face a little slower, like dribble down a coonhound's jowls. If I'd'a waited another second or two, fatboy jr. woulda stomped on the gas, but swiftness is the essence a' the kill.
I lifted the revolver from my lap, where I'd been holdin' it, positioned it in front a' my torso, and shot across my chest so that the view would be blocked ta the driver behind me. Anybody can shoot from the standard positions, but the real test of a marksman is how he shoots from an awkward stance. The report damn near deafened me, but it was a perfect shot. Caught him on the inside corner a' the left eye, out the backa his head and through the driver's side window. Inside corner? "Strike three, muthafucker."
He jerked with the impact, as if some woman driver rolled inta his ass-end at five miles per hour, then he just laid his head against the fractured glass a' the side window, like he was thoroughly disgusted with the whole thing. I guess he died with his foot on the brake, 'cause his car didn't move.
The shot, though damn loud ta me, prob'ly sounded like a backfire out on the street. Apparently no one noticed what happened, 'cause the assholes behind 'im just sat there blowin' their horns as I turned right and drove away.

So here I sit, in what was once our kitchen, the shotgun in my lap, waitin' for I dunno what. Guts I guess. The cops hada find fatboy jr. by now, and they'll prob'ly find fatboy by the weekend 'cause that canyon gets hunted a lot, 'specially up roun' the rim. Once they got both bodies, it'll take 'em 'bout a day ta connect me with it, then they'll come roarin' down this street, lights blazin' an' sirens screamin', just in time ta find me in an advanced state a' rigor mortis.
The newspapers'll say somethin' like, "Disgruntled Employee Kills Former Employer, Co-worker, Self," or some shit like that. Y'ever notice that whenever some guy walks inta his job site, usually his former job site, and takes out half the staff, they call him a "disgruntled" employee? What the hell does that mean? "Disgruntled?" The opposite a' "gruntled?" Somehow it just don't seem ta capture the state a' mind a' some guy who strolls inta a factory or office armed with an AK-47 and murders fifteen or twenty people. Well, I ain't disgruntled. I'm out fer justice in a world made ta fuck with guys like me, an' I almost got it. Almost. Fatboy an' fatboy jr. weren't the only assholes who gotta go. There's one more.
All right loser, c'mon, you're just stallin' now an' ya know it. The time's come an' there ain't no chickenshits in this kitchen. No good eggs, either. Let's get on with it.
Yea, o.k., sure. Just one thing. Y'ever wonder 'bout the final prayer of a spree killer fixin' ta commit suicide? It goes like this: "Lord, you useless buncha nothin', I pray that hell is a tiny room, 'bout the size of a prison cell, with no doors an' no windows, an' that those two motherfuckers are locked inside with me, forever and ever. Amen."

S. Dan Warhorse