Fucking Let Them Eat Cake
Kenneth James Crist
Sometimes
Wichita is a shithole.
Sometimes she’s the Peerless Princess of the Plains. Oh, please. Give me a
break. A lot of times, I wish I worked somewhere else. Doing what I do would be
easier in a lot of large urban places, say Chicago, where they have weekends
with sixty shootings. No police department anywhere would be able to pay much
attention to murders with that shit goin’ on all the time. Around here, the
cops don’t have enough to do, so whenever there’s a killing, they get right on
it, like it was a big deal or something.
My
most recent assignment came
as all assignments do, in a plain manila envelope with no return address.
Regular self-adhesive stamps. No one had ever licked the flap. The only prints
on it would be the postman’s and whomever else handled it en route to my humble
abode.
That
be-it-ever-so-humble is room one hundred in the Shady Way Motel, 1611 South
Broadway. Skid row. 23 Skidoo, and fuck you too. The shower was working that
morning, so I took one. Tepid though it was, it got the smell of nasty woman
off my crotch and face, got me woke up from the coke and Wild Turkey. Got my
beard soft enough to hack at it with a semi-dull razor without too much blood
loss. A few million corpuscles down the drain won’t make that much difference
in the timeline of my life, such as it is.
Took
a few antibiotics, just in case Janey might have given me a present. Neither of
us like latex all that well. We like our meat raw. Even bloody, on occasion.
She woke up as I was headed out. “Where ya goin’, Hun-nie?” Her whiny,
sing-song voice made me cringe like fingernails on chalkboard.
“Gotta
go out. Gotta job ta do. Be back later. Maybe. Probably. Shut the door when ya
leave.”
“Wait!
Wait!” She piled outta the love-sack and ran wobbly over to me. Kissed me. Nasty-breath,
ugh. “Be careful, K?” Her eyes red and vacant. Hardly anybody home there. Hair
a slovenly mess of tangled blonde. Dark roots. Blue streak dyed down one side.
Big tits thumping against me. Stretch marks on ‘em. Nipples as big as my
thumbs.
“I
left a little somethin’ in the fridge for ya,” I say. About four lines of coke,
just to get her cranked up and runnin’.
“Gawd,
I love you so much,” she says, and another nasty-tasting kiss and I flee.
The
rusted old Crown Vic use-ta-be cop car cranks up on the first try and I figure
if I look in the newspaper in the horrorscope, I must be up for a five-star
day. While the A/C is cooling the interior, I check weapons. Colt 1911, loaded
with pop-open hollow points, check. Mossberg 12-Gauge pump, loaded with .00
Buckshot, check. Ruger Target Model .22 caliber semi-auto with silencer
attached, fully loaded, check. 750,000 volt Taser, check. Large canister pepper
spray, check. Brass knuckles, check. Five different knives, from folding Tanto
to large Uncle Buck skinner, check.
I
turn on the 480-channel trunking police scanner and head off to find my target.
The chatter from the radio keeps me company and I find it soothing. Back when I
was on the job, I could sleep in the squad and be instantly awake when I heard
my number. Now I don’t have a number. Just a pension, which isn’t enough to
keep Janey in Coke or me in pussy, so I moonlight just a bit.
I
never know why a person is given to me as a target. My knowledge is cut off
from that and I have no personal stake in whatever happens. Sometimes the line
where “Method of death” is filled in will be very specific. “Subject will be hung,
drawn and quartered”, or “Subject will be drowned in tub.” Sometimes, like this
time, the method is unspecified and in the dossier I have on the seat beside
me, someone with a sense of humor wrote, “Subject will run out of heartbeats.”
Hyuk,
hyuk, hyuk. I head for the west side to see where this goober lives and plan my
attack.
I
would imagine by now, you’re
wondering how in the world a retired cop becomes a killer for hire. But if
you’d spent an entire career in law enforcement in the country with the most
guaranteed freedoms and the fucking Bill of Rights and about two million slick
defense lawyers and another million black-robed pussies sitting on the
bench…well, the level of frustration in law enforcement in the good ol’ USA is
just mind-boggling. When you see killers and rapists and child predators going
free because all the “T’s” are not crossed and “I’s” dotted perfectly, you get
to where you could kill someone very easily. I just decided, when offered the
chance, to take the money and work off some frustration.
My
hatred for the human race is
infinite. Of course, since I too am human, that means there is a certain amount
of self-hatred involved, too. That just makes things easier for me, because
getting caught just means I’ll move to a place where the taxpayers can pay for
my meals, clothing, housing and healthcare. Won’t stop me from killing, though.
In fact, there are a number of fuck-wits in prison I’d love to be able to meet
again…
My
target lives in Rolling Hills, an upper-class neighborhood, eighty blocks west
of my digs on Broadway. Neighborhood watch signs all over. Not worried, though.
My ride looks so much like an unmarked police car, they’re glad to see me.
Plain gray Crown Vic with no trim, black wheels, small hubcaps. No less than
five antennas on the rear trunk lid, only one of which is actually connected to
something. Two yellow lights in the back window. Two sardine cans in the front
grille, one painted blue and the other red. Not real lights. Nothing I can get
in trouble for, but real-looking enough.
I
cruise by the house and I can see kids flying into the air behind the back
fence. Trampoline. What a good fucking daddy. He treats his own kids good and molests
the ones he teaches at school. He’s a soccer coach and history teacher in
middle school. The dossier doesn’t list specific crimes, but it doesn’t have
to. I’ve seen this shit enough to know.
He’s
sitting in a lawn chair in front of the three-car garage, watching the world go
by. I wave and he waves back. Tonight, fucker, you’re mine…
I
drive back to the motel to see if Janey wants something in her mouth besides a
dick. Bacon and eggs, maybe. She’s cleaned up a bit while I was gone. Not the
room. Fuck the room, it’s her ass I want clean and she’s done a great job for a
coked-out used-to-be South Broadway whore. I arrested her several times while I
was still on the job, then we eventually worked something out. I liked having
her blow me in the back of my cruiser better than locking her in the slam.
I
take her to breakfast at Don’s, where they can actually kill people with their
biscuits and gravy. True story. Old dude named Davey something had the ‘big
one’ while trying valiantly to get through a full order of their huge biscuits
and sausage gravy. Faced right into the plate, as the story goes. It was sad
that nobody noticed for a while. Until way too late, anyway.
I
put those thoughts aside and concentrate on my One True Like, Janey. I make
sure she eats all her brekkie, coz if I don’t she’ll try to live on coke and
tequila and the occasional load of splooge and probably die on me. Can’t have
that, now can we?
Of
course, Janey has no idea what I do and how much I make doing it. I have
stashes of cash all over town, because if ya put the money in the bank, the IRS
boys will wanna see taxes paid on it. I have a locker at the bus station and
another at the airport. I have safe deposit boxes, and I have an account in the
Caymans. I don’t intend to live like this forever. Janey will screw up and
overdose someday, most likely sooner, rather than later, and when I leave the
Peerless Princess to its own squalor, I’ll want some tail a little nicer than
her, anyway.
Back
to our sweet little corner of friggin’ heaven for some afternoon delight and a
nap. Janey likes kinky shit and straddling me and parking herself on my chin
while she holds onto the headboard is right up there on the old hit parade.
She’s cleaned up nicely down there and I always enjoy a little pussy for
dessert. Since I have an Altoid in my mouth when I start on her, the uncommonly
strong mint, she gets an extra burn and she comes uncommonly hard, while
grinding on me. Then she backs up and mounts me and rides me like a cowgirl in
a bad Western. I capture her bouncing tits like I’m holding two ripe melons and
rub them all over my face, kissing and licking as I go. When she comes again, I
go ahead and let myself go right along with her, because I’m tired and need to
sleep. I plan to be up a good part of the night.
“Jesus,
Baby, you’re so good to me,” she murmurs, when we’re settled down and her head
is tucked against my chest.
“I
like the way you take care of me, too…and don’t call me Jesus.” She’s still
giggling when I fall off the edge.
* * *
I
start watching the target’s place again just after dark and about 8:30, I watch
him leave. I follow, more out of curiosity than anything. He drives to Skate
West and gets out of his SUV carrying roller skates. I figure this is just one
more venue where he can groom underage kids for whatever sex games he likes to
play. I drive back to his neighborhood and park a couple blocks away. I watch
for a while and see nobody out and about.
The
target lives on the next to last lot on his street and the corner lot is vacant
and grown up in weeds. I work my way silently until I’m behind his place and
make my approach to the back door of the garage. It has a cheap lock set that
yields to my lock-picks in a matter of a minute or so. Inside the garage, I
quietly find a ladder and, donning gloves, I move it to reach the electric
garage door opener. I pull the plug on that convenience item and carefully put
the ladder back. I step back out and relock the back door and settle in to
wait. It takes several hours, but I don’t mind. It gives me time to think about
things and to go over what I’ve done so far. No footprints, because I’ve walked
in grass and weeds only. No fingerprints, because I’ve worn gloves and wiped
the doorknob on the garage door. The target has seen me once in passing, but he
won’t be able to tell anyone anything. The old adage that the hardest murder to
solve is the ‘stranger murder’ is true. I continue to wait.
At
11:30, I hear the target’s SUV pull into the driveway. It sits for a minute,
idling. I can imagine him trying his garage door remote again and again.
Insanity. Performing the same actions over and over and expecting a different
result. Finally, he gets it. The remote isn’t going to let him into the garage.
Car shuts off. Car door opens, then closes. Footsteps on concrete, then grass.
As he steps around the corner of the garage, on his way to the back door, I
raise the silenced Ruger. It’s inside a large Ziplock bag and I doubt he even
realizes it’s a gun until it’s too late. The bag keeps gunshot residue off me
and catches the expended brass as it’s ejected from the firing chamber.
Pop.
Pop. Pop. Two in the heart and one in the head. He’s all done and the kiddies
are now safe from the bad man. I stand perfectly still and listen. No dogs
barking. No sirens. No screams. Always a good deal. I never run from a scene.
It does no good to run, especially if there’s no threat. It only attracts
attention. I walk back to my car. Take the time to stash my equipment in the
trunk, which has had the inside light removed. Get in the car. No dome light,
either. The Crown Vic fires up and I quietly drive away. On the way home, I
don’t feel like a scuzzy, murdering piece of shit. I feel like royalty. I feel
like all the kings and queens and princes and princesses rolled into one. My
peasant subjects have no bread. Fucking let them eat cake, then…
Shady
Way Motel looks just as shady as ever and I park under the busted parking lot
light and unload all my weapons. Not a good idea to leave stuff in your car
around here. I walk up to number one hundred and for the first time ever, I
notice the two zeros look like twin shotgun barrels aimed right at me. My hands
full, I fumble for the key, and at last get the door open. The first thing I
notice is Janey sitting in the room’s only chair to my left. Her hair is
freshly washed and styled. Her clothes are clean, right down to a new pair of
red shoes with three-inch heels. She looks better than she has in years. Then I
notice a suitcase by the bed, all packed and ready. On the bed is a plain
manila envelope with no return address. I switch my gaze back to Janey and her
hand is filled with a Beretta nine with a suppressor and it’s pointed at my
face.
“What’s
the deal, Babe?” My hands are full of guns, but in order to get one in a
useable position would require some fumbling around, and I have a feeling that
would be a grave mistake.
“You
really think I don’t know what you do, Mike? It’s time for it to stop, now.”
“Oh,
okay. So you’ve appointed yourself judge, jury and executioner?”
“No,
darlin’. I’ve been appointed by others…”
“How
much are they paying you, Janey?”
“I’d
rather not say, but it’s enough.”
“One
piece of advice, Babe…”
“Yeah,
what’s that?”
“Don’t
forget to recover your expended brass.”
The
muzzle flash is unbelievably bright, blinding and final…in my mouth, the
peculiar taste of cake…
