A Better Kind of Hate Read online

  April and my mother deserved no less.

  Inside the strip club was a whole other story. Whatever had been going on, we had stepped into the middle of it.

  I should have known though—the parking lot a ghost town except for a couple of SUVs. Once inside it’s all screams and oh my God make it stop! When I round the corner I see why. Seems school was in session for a couple of guys who worked for Abrum—what I took from the set up anyway. Each man was naked from the waist down and bent over a table which Abrum sat in front of. From behind, each man was taking in another man, but not of their own accord. Two blacks, two whites, each on the other, like backwards symmetry. Around this stood other men, sentries in suits, hardware set firmly in hand. I counted five in total, along with the four entwined in whatever dance I’d walked into, this made nine.

  I could deal with nine.

  It was the look on Abrum’s face I was having a hard time reconciling. It shouldn’t have surprised me though, not this far down the rabbit hole.

  I take the sentries out first, each to the head. Done, I move forward and all at once the men doing the raping are out of their victims and their hands are in the air. It doesn’t stop what comes next, only slows each bullet down. The smell of what I’m doing is strong by now, but comforting, matching the strength I used to receive from believing in the soul.

  “You about done?” And still he has yet move. He was watching me, yes, and with his hands out flat upon the table in front of him, but that was all. I’d be lying if I said I didn’t find this peculiar.

  Forward again, closer now, coming up behind the men who had been on the receiving end of the business going down before I arrived. They are wheezing, crying, with long strings of saliva hanging from their gobs. I make it quick, ending their misery, and then look Abrum in the eye. He’s dressed to the nines, cufflinks and all, the handkerchief in his pocket a darker shade of blue than the million dollar suit.

  “I want you to know it was never personal, Rider. This business, it demands the breaking of small cunts is all. It’s this and nothing more.”

  I stand there, shocked, and a second too late I put it together. But by then Abrum had unloaded on me, and then I only saw dark.

  “Was only a matter of time,” I was on my back, an elephant on my chest. The shotgun was in Abrum’s hand by now, the one which ripped through the bottom of the table and almost through the Kevlar. “I had to take precautions though, figuring a situation like this could very well take place. And you can’t blame me, not after everything you’ve put down. I mean, you are a pit bull, Rider. You just do not let go.” He was right, wise enough to realize as much, but still it would not help him, not once Batista made his move. This only worked if Batista was still alive, however, but even so, I’d survived worse.

  “But being tonight of all nights, that is something. I mean, what I was doing here, explaining to the boys,” He sweeps his hand around the room, kicking the two dead men closest to him. “I was trying to teach them what it was to take something from a man. Something that does not belong to them. They should have learned such things long ago, but people, they tend to sometimes forget. Not me though, Rider. Not when it comes to things concerning you.”

  The man had selective recall, or just liked to hear the sound of his own voice. I told him as much, but it didn’t matter, not as it should. Once men like Abrum become accustomed to power they do not see the world as others do. No, it’s then that reflection comes into play and the distortion which remains becomes the only focus, the only goal, and fuck every last person who gets in their way.

  “Seeing where we’re at, I can’t see that making a difference, can you?” He bends down to me then, the oil in his hair glistening in the overhead light. His eyes are as I thought they’d be, beady and black, like pebbles dipped in tar. The elephant on my chest has been replaced by a rhinoceros, but at least I was getting more air. Around me blood pooled and flowed, the smell of copper trying its best to overtake what was already in the air. I tried to move, to sit up, but Abrum was on me before I got even halfway there.

  “I don’t think so,” he says and stomps on my face not once but twice. My nose shatters and I think I feel my cheek bone break in two. They’re good hits, clean, and stars come out to play as my head becomes cousins with the floor. I want to call out to Batista, I do, as he should have been there by now, but my mouth won’t work, not how I liked. It meant one of two things. One was that my jaw had been broken as well. The other being Batista had been removed from the board. It’s only when I think this does a third alternative come to mind. I shake it off, admonishing myself, but that’s when it happens, when Batista steps from the shadows. For a moment I believe I’m wrong, the detective’s face saying it all, but then he fires twice, each bullet into the man we’d come to stop. Abrum goes down hard, screaming, the broken bone and torn flesh of his knees meeting the ground with a sound I would come to dream of.

  I shut my eyes: Checkmate, fucker.

  “You need help up?” I did, and took Batista’s outstretched arm. The rhinoceros was still on my chest but he was smaller now, half his former self. Abrum had moved from his knees to his side, the man semi-rolling in his pain. What came next was something that had been building for years.

  Batista picks the man up and in front of a gold plated pole places him on the edge of the stage. Behind this pole sits a wheel barrel full of a woman’s dismembered remains. We’d interrupted something for sure, that much was clear. We could never be the end of such things, no, and we’d be foolish to ever think along these types of lines. We could only continue as we were, for as long as we were able. It’s a good lie. Brought on by how I picture them still. Not as they were, but how they’d been left.

  “My sister was something you are not, the opposite in fact, but I want to say it regardless. I want you to have known.” Duct tape next, up and around the man’s hands, down and around his shattered knees. Done, Batista cuts through this tape as he cuts through Abrum. It brings pleading into the air, bribery, but mostly it was his flesh we coveted, his life. Fair trade I told him, not only for my family but all the people his existence had destroyed.

  Surgery complete, Batista does what Batista has gotten better at: places pieces of Abrum into the aforementioned wheel barrel until it begins to overflow. “I’m going to assume this was a girlfriend of his. Maybe his wife. Either way, I’m sure she’d approve.” I give Batista a grunt, and then start to work on my jaw. Takes some doing but in time I get it into a position I can manage. My nose is another issue entirely; same for the cheek. They’d heal. Abrum, however, would not.

  On the whole, not a bad start to the week.

  Back to TOC

  Dicks and Jars and a Third World War

  I needed to change the way I approached things. The laziness inherent to me is what prevented this from happening earlier I think, or maybe I’m wrong and it only comes down to what most of my life came down to: fear. Fear of failure. Fear of dying. Fear of sucking cock when I know I’m not meant to. This last one is what it’s really about, the one which screamed loudest I suppose, but the admission of failure comes in at a hard second best. It was the dick sucking though, this what ate at me most. And just so we’re clear, I’m not gay, not in the slightest, but certain things tend to occur once you make your way to prison, most of them being what you already know. It’s different when you have to perform however, and goddamn if that ain’t the truth. Does things to a man who isn’t right with what’s going down, making him a bigger target if he chooses to go and buck the program placed before him. Lucky for me I’m a fast learner.

  Why was I like this? Fuck, who knows? I could say no mother or father but that’d be me making shit up. My life is what it is, and all I can do now is push forward and acknowledge my attempt at change. A planner now, everything I do is put down to paper and everything on it is then scoped out. No more cash and grabs for me. No more going in on a wing and a prayer. Two little things need to happen before I fully embrace this
new way of life. It means facing certain fears already stated, sure, and only because the man instrumental to the big one is released just last week. Vic Sessions. Head queer of cellblock nine.

  The man who made me his bitch.

  Vic was actually Big Vic and he was larger than most of the men on the inside, in muscle as well as meat; my backside as tender today as that very first day, especially if the chair I choose is mostly made of wood. “You been duckin’ me, I know.” Eating at the worst type of mean he was the kind of bull queer who liked his eyeliner thick and his mustache thicker. The first time he and his boys come looking they find me in the laundry. I wasn’t alone. Not then. But the silence their presence brings causes that to change, the place clearing out faster than fat kids to cherry cola. After that it’s the cold steel of a big industrial trying to take an imprint of my face. Done, it’s a sea of orange above me, and then a happy ending for all. “Not bad, Hollister. Not bad at all. Thing is, we’re still gonna have to do something about them teeth.” Monstrous. Evil. Prison-issued leather a taste no man would ever think to acquire.

  Shit was enough to drive even the most well-adjusted straight man insane.

  Vic wasn’t done with me, though. Not for another nine months, three days, and as many goddamn hours.

  Only then was I reborn.

  Reborn by way of freedom—time served in lieu of good behavior. Vic doesn’t miss a beat at this, ensuring the honeymoon stage of our relationship is resurrected the night before I’m released. “You best not be shittin’ on my dick none either. You do, it’s you who pulls clean-up duty. You get me?” And just in case you’re wondering, I did try to kill him during my time inside, once, but the attempt was by the old me, the Jimmy who Feared. The Jimmy I am now is going to rectify this oversight, having had a good long time to figure things out. I believe that. I really do. And only because there’s more than a lovely shade of brown in the bottom of the bowl whenever I stop to wipe.

  I also gag if I let myself think about things too much. Hard enough not to, not with how many times I’d been forced to perform. I will change this though, as I think I’ve said, the outcome I seek worth every goddamn thing they’ve done to me.

  Am I bitter? I counter: Can you fucking blame me?

  I have to force these thoughts to the back of my mind though, ensuring they won’t fuck up my plans. This is easier said than done and anyone who suggests otherwise is either lying or straight up doesn’t know.

  “You want me to do what?” said Brady Aldeen. Of my childhood friends he was the last to remain and the second little thing to this plan I have set in motion. And just so we are clear, I didn’t like him much, not anymore. The old Jimmy liked him well enough, the one who really couldn’t be bothered to put the pieces together and see how he might have ended up in the joint to become Vic’s bitch in the first place. This was another thing I was getting better at by approaching life with new eyes; at seeing the forest for the trees. It’s liberating really, what it offers a man. I say this not because of what I have learned but because of the opportunity it presents me. All told, they will never see me coming.

  “It’s only for a night and it’s only pretend. Five hundred if you say yes.” What I wanted him to do was minor, his role only to get Vic into the car. He had to act the part however, and this was the thing giving Brady second thoughts.

  “And you think this guy is gonna believe I’m a queer?” What could I say? That yeah, maybe, especially with the length Brady now kept his hair. Or maybe I go and mention the overly soft features he’d been born with. Maybe that. Instead I lie, saying it would be a hell of a stretch but if anyone could pull it off it’d be him. I also suggest an extra five hundred just to smooth the shit out.

  Brady exhaled, closed his eyes. “Make it fifteen and you and me got business.”

  “You have to be able to sell it though. I mean, this is one mean mother he gets to thinkin’ something’s up.”

  “Now you saying I might not be up to snuff?”

  “No, I’m just sayin. Christ, Brady. Gimme a bone here. This piece of shit had his way with me for almost a year. If anything, you think you could understand that.” For a moment I couldn’t believe the words I hear coming from my mouth. Seems I had changed already. Understandable, sure, but be it a good thing or bad was still up for debate.

  “Yeah. Yeah. You were his bitch. I get it.” I see red as Brady says this, and any second thoughts I might have had in regards to him being the one who ratted me out are out the window and on their way to goddamn fucking Alaska before the man I grew up with removes himself from the bar stool. Hands going hard into his leather jacket I watch as he leaves without looking back.

  Who needs enemies, right?

  Granted, sucking a man’s dick day in and day out for the better part of a year would probably do some damage to even the most resilient of heterosexual minds. This is something I can’t quantify completely mind you. But I have to admit such things might be possible. Why else had I so easily lumped Brady into the back part of my plan? Instantaneously choosing to add him to the carnage meant for Vic? Yeah, something had broken inside of me. I just can’t give you the words. I can try. And I think I will. I’m just not sure you’ll understand. But most of that could be misconstrued, as Brady had always been in the running as the one who sold me out. I might not want to admit this but I have to. The old Jimmy refused this, his fears and the reprisals they could bring allowing the blinders to stay where they were, lapping the shit up. But this is the new me we are talking about, the one who got shit done. So maybe it wasn’t so easily I lumped Brady into my plan at all. He was only always meant to die. I just hadn’t known it yet.

  Or maybe it’s just the dreams, the one I wake from colder than I usually am. They are full of penises, these dreams, and they will not stop. Sort of leads me into what I’ve planned for Vic. If I wanted a chance at any kind of normalcy I was going to have to cut some things out. Trim the fat, so to speak.

  Because it concerned Vic, it was going to involve a pretty big knife.

  Good for him.

  “Back here, man.” I could only see the outlines of their bodies because the light in the alley was far from good. Underneath me the ground is wet with rain, it finishing not minutes before I hear Brady and Big Vic’s voices coming toward me.

  “Your mouth better be ready to take me, boy. That’s all you gotta know.” I’d heard the speech before, usually before lights out, but this time it would be different. If I wanted any type of life for myself it’s what had to happen. Doors shutting, I make my move and slide in the back, right behind Brady. From the passenger’s seat up front I see Vic’s eyes go wide as he realizes who I am and then that I’m holding a piece.

  As the commercials preach: motherfucking priceless.

  And I wanted to have a conversation with him; I really did, it too being part of my plan. This was not to be, not as I had hoped. No regaling of what I was about to do or gloating of any kind. Just screaming as the rage inside me steps forward and proves it has a mind of its own. Just pop-pop into each of them and then each of them goes forward. I have to pull Brady back to stop the horn from blaring but in the end it’s no real biggie. Vic’s penis is the exact opposite of this and I smile as I tighten the lid to the jar it still now rests in. Brady’s too is now behind glass but the size of his jar is better suited to jams. Each now sit on my bedside table, there for me to admire. I should be getting rid of them, both pieces being evidence and all, but I’m finding it hard to part with what I’ve done. This upsets me more than I think it should. Worrying me for reasons contrary to what I’ve already said; that by changing the way I approached things I might be able to purge certain tendencies inherent to my life. This has yet to happen. Not as I hoped it would. One step beyond is what scares me even more.

  What if I just like sucking dick now? Fuck, what if I always have?

  Back to TOC

  Gank

  It started when they found the fourth girl, her throat another mouth.
Only it didn’t. It started two years earlier with a girl named Rebecca Hall.

  Blue eyes. Honey Hair. But for everything she was, Batista said her dog was what neighbors remembered most; that the talkative little white girl who lived in the crack house on Brock was always on about it never getting enough to eat even though the same could be said of her. Habit, they said. The good kind.

  Sad, she was eaten herself. By a monster Culver P.D. had yet to radar. The day they do it’s Rebecca’s crack-pipe parents making the most noise of all.

  “You’d think this have happened sooner,” Batista spits to the ground as he says this, impatient as I’ve ever seen him. “Pieces of shit probably looking to cash.”

  I couldn’t disagree. Seen it too many times to believe otherwise.

  Victim number five is what provides the link. Marilyn Sims. Tall and sweet. Proud and loud. All but sixteen. Inside her stomach was what remained of the family dog, a collie named Frank. From there it’s only a matter of time.

  Batista and the rest of the department get to work. Dog walkers. Groomers. Vet and pre-vet. Anyone who’d enrolled and then dropped the field within the last five years. Eventually the investigation focuses on kennels, their owners, and then especially it’s a man name of Gank who’s looked at hard.

  Sunny smile. Sweet disposition. Co-operative until he wasn’t.