Nemesis - 10. Chapter 10: Georgia Trailer Park

Georgia Trailer Park

“The love which belongs to common Aphrodite is truly common, and works at random. It is the love of inferior men.
When they love, they love bodies rather than souls.”
—Phaidros in Plato’s Symposium (redacted)

Nemesis

When I came down to the kitchen, Death and Gary were sitting at the table talking about basketball. It was a friendly argument over which teams were going to be in the finals of the college playoffs. Gary’s phone rang. He glanced at it.

“Oh, oh. Important corporate donor. I have to take this in the office. Nemesis? Would you entertain our guest?” As the economy worsened, donations to the foundation were drying up; Gary had to scramble just to keep things going.

I squeaked. “Who me?” Then, I blushed.

Gary nodded as he rushed out the door. Death took a sip of coffee.

“You’re not afraid of me, are you, Nemesis?” he asked.

“Uh, not really,” I said. “I mean, you’re not as scary as the federal marshals that Dike sent.” Then I whispered, “They were really Scions of Hermes.”

Death chuckled. Yeah, this was the guy you usually see as a skeleton in a cowled robe with a huge honking scythe. He chuckled. Oh, and he was wearing “regular” clothes: worn blue jeans and a pullover shirt. His leather bomber jacket hung on the pegboard by the back door.

“They’re pretty ugly, all right. And maybe a little frightening the first time you see them. But,” Death added. “You’re not afraid of me, but you’re not entirely comfortable with me, either.”

I fiddled with the orange juice so I didn’t have to answer right away.

“You know that I was jealous when I thought that you and Gary were going to be friends?” I asked.

“Um, hmm,” he said. “And I know you’re over that. So that’s not it.”

I fiddled with bread and the toaster while I thought.

I don’t know where I came up with the thought. Perhaps it was something left over from that philosophy class I’d taken in college. I no longer remembered what college I had attended, but I could see the professor standing in front of the class.

“It’s not you. It’s what you represent. It’s that my job has already required me to kill, and will require me to kill, again. I’ve got this …”

The man who took philosophy in college plummeted into the interstices of my mind, and the little boy took over.

“… I’ve got this great honking sword and all it does is kill people!

“I know most of them deserve it, but still … ”

Death

That was wrong! I thought. The Nemeses are retribution, but retribution isn’t always death! I heard what was unspoken: all he knew to do was kill! Those swords do a lot more than kill.

“Didn’t anyone teach you how to use your sword?”

The boy shook his head. A few tears began to run down his cheeks.

He cries more easily than any Nemesis I’ve encountered. Perhaps he’s in the wrong job? No … I don’t think Dike would allow that to happen, no matter how bad things in the world are getting, and no matter how stretched her resources are.

Nemesis had wiped his tears and composed his face before Gary came back into the kitchen. Gary gestured toward the coffee carafe.

“Top it off?” he asked.

“No, no thank you, Gary,” I said. And then I surprised him, Nemesis, and, maybe myself.

“Gary? May I borrow your protégé for a few hours? His training … it was incomplete. There are some things I can show him … and some folks I know who can show him other things he needs to know.”

Nemesis

I felt Gary hesitate, tense, and then relax. I realized that Gary trusted Death. He trusted Death with me. But he had to think about it, first. I think I liked knowing that.

“Sure,” Gary said. “I would appreciate that, and I suspect Nemesis would, too. Can you be back for supper? I’m thinking Dave and Busters. And, I need someone who can compete on my level in skee-ball. I don’t suppose …?”

Death grinned. “I don’t know what you mean by your level, but I’d be happy to give it a go.”

“Nemesis?” Gary asked. “Is all this okay with you? And is it okay if I invite Bobby and Benji tonight, too?”

I just nodded. I was still a little dumbstruck.

“Then … sword and chiton, please,” Death said. The instant I switched, he grabbed my hand and …

… popped us to a rocky plain. Nothing grew except some scrubby weeds here and there. It was hot, dry, and dusty.

“Where are we?” I asked.

“Plains of Marathon, in ancient Greece,” Death replied. “Very ancient Greece. It will be more than 10,000 years before the battle that made Phidippides famous.”

“Isn’t that just a myth?” I asked. “That Phidippides ran to Athens and died from it?” That was a random thought from some history class I’d taken. I had no idea when or where, though. It was as if some memories were tucked away, and came back only when I needed them … or, when something triggered them.

“Yes, that part is a myth. However, the battle is important. It kept the Persians from conquering Greece, and gave the Athenians time to invent Western Civilization. Phidippides’s run was a myth; however, he was a real person: a hoplite and a good swordsman. He was also a hero.

“His sword was about two and a half feet long. Your sword is that long, too, when you want to be. Wait!” Death cautioned as I reached for my sword.

Death didn’t seem to do anything, but without warning, a dude about 20 years old, wearing a chiton (longer than mine—it covered his butt) and armor, carrying a shield and wearing a sword appeared. Death spoke to him—in Attic Greek. I knew what it was, and I understood it. I didn’t think I’d ever taken Attic Greek in college.

“Hero, we salute you and thank you for coming to our call,” Death said. “Here you see Nemesis … god of Retribution and servant of Dike, goddess of Justice. He … he needs some instruction in swordsmanship.”

The Greek dude nodded. “I see you, Death, and I know you. I also know you do not ask the help of those in Elesia without reason. You honor me.

“So, boy, you have a sword but know not what to do with it?”

Okay, I was standing in Greece, really ancient Greece, talking Attic Greek with Death and a dead hero. Why did it feel so normal?

“Yes, sir,” I said. “I know it will kill, but I don’t always want to kill.”

Phidippides nodded. “Were you a soldier, I would chastise you; but I know who you are. You are right to think that way. Draw your sword.”

I did, and was surprised that the great honking sword was only about three feet long … the same as Phidippides’s sword.

Death nodded. “There are times, in close quarters, for example, when you don’t want a great honking sword.”

Actually, I thought he chuckled when he said that, but I had other things to think about. Phidippides had drawn his sword, and was menacing me.

Phidippides was a good swordsman. He was also a good teacher. We spent a couple of hours together. He taught me a lot, but warned me I’d lose what I had learned if I didn’t practice.

I looked at Death, when Phidippides said that. Death nodded, and said, “Gary can arrange training for you.”

Death thanked Phidippides; so did I. He disappeared.

Death looked … sad? wistful? It was really weird. He knew what I was thinking. and explained. “Even the Elysian Fields—his heaven—must get … boring after a while. I suspect he appreciated this more than we did.

“Come on, you have more to learn.”

He grabbed my hand. We popped.

Death

Phidippides was a real hero, despite the fiction that had grown up around his name. The myth and truth about the next person I had in mind had been created and manipulated similarly.

We arrived in a field in France, around the year 1700 C.E. A young man, who would later become Lieutenant Captain of the First Company of the King's Musketeers, rode toward us. I held up my hand.

The boy reined in his horse.

I addressed the boy in the French of the era. “You ride to Paris to join the King’s Musketeers. Pray, rest your horse a while and show my young friend some of your skill with the sword.”

The youngster was happy to oblige. When Nemesis drew his sword, it was a rapier, the same sword the French boy wore. The boy was a natural swordsman, but not the best instructor. Still, he instilled a sense of confidence—and flair—in Nemesis that he had lacked until this point.

We shared a lunch of bread and cheese, and then sent the French boy off to his destiny … and history.

Nemesis

I watched d’Artagnan ride away.

“That was way cool!” I said. “Even better than Phidippides. I remember … I remember reading all about him when I was a real kid.”

Death knew better than to pursue my childhood, or my memories. He let me feel his concern.

“Thank you,” I whispered.

“What’s next?” I asked.

“What I propose next will not be nearly as pleasant,” Death said. “Still, it is something you must know.”

He took my hand. We popped. We stood in a parking lot beside his Mustang. Cool!

He gestured. The doors opened. “Get in,” he said. Cool turned into a hard freeze. I knew where we were going.

I could only see a blur through the windshield, and nothing at all through the blackened side windows. I watched the screen of the GPS as it zoomed in on South America. Columbia. Puerto Carreno. The airport. An alley off of Calle _____ between two warehouses. Two men loading a truck. One driving a fork lift; the other with a clipboard, counting crates.

A car darted into the alley. The men turned and reached into their waistbands. It was too late. Men jumped from the car; the men held automatic weapons—AK-47s with sawed off stocks. Bullets were fired. The two men who had been loading the truck fell. One of the men from the car threw a flash grenade at the truck; it was enveloped in fire. The car sped off.

Death got out of his car. I followed.

“Look,” Death said. “Look at his eyes. Look behind his eyes.”

Death put his hand behind my head. I felt him helping me see. I watched the light that was the man’s soul dim and blink out. I watched Death pull the gray soul from the man’s chest.

“He had a family: a wife and three children. He, like most of the people here, are poor. A cousin got him a job with one of the drug cartels. The cartels are the only economy this country has any longer. That and providing prostitutes and slaves to people in the United States, China, and a few other countries—people who still have money. This man loaded crates of cocaine destined for the United States of America, which has been for decades the world’s largest consumer of illegal drugs. He knew what he was doing, but knew no other way to provide food for his family.

“These are the deaths that I … I hate the most,” Death said. He lifted the man’s soul. Like Jeffie’s, it ascended into the sky.

“Will he be okay?” I asked. “And, what about his family?”

“He will be okay. Eventually,” Death said. “Unfortunately, we can do nothing for his family.”

I opened my mouth, but Death scowled. “Please, do not ask,” he said.

I did, anyway. “Why? Not why can’t we do anything for his family, but why are things to bad, here?”

“It’s not just here, you know,” Death said. “And there isn’t a single reason.

“The people of this area were conquered by the Spanish and corrupted by the Catholics around 1500. Then, after some experiments in representative government, the country was forced by the United States of America to cede Panama in 1903.

“Its people have been engaged in a three-way civil war between the government on one hand, leftist and Marxists on another, and rightists on the third, since about 1960. Around 1980, Columbia became an important part of the cocaine trade—cocoa leaves from throughout South and Central America, converted to cocaine in jungle laboratories and then shipped north, through Mexico, to the United States. The billions of dollars this trade creates has armed rival gangs and increased death and violence.

“Further, since money in the cocaine trade is so plentiful, people have abandoned primary industries: farming, forestry, mining, and so on. Easy money—even with the risk of death—has replaced fundamentals … ”

Death looked at me. I must have looked a little glassy-eyed. I think he wanted to chuckle at my reaction, but knew he wouldn’t. This was a serious part of his job.

“Someday, if you like, I’ll tell you more,” he said. “For today, we have other things to do.”

Death showed me more. There were a couple of times I would have upchucked, but he was always close, touching me, showing me the nature of what we saw, showing me the rightness of what we saw. Then …

“Come on … it’s nearly five o’clock. I want to shower and change before kicking your butt at skee-ball.”

The sun was just coming over the horizon. It was morning where we were, and we’d been together for more than twelve hours. But I knew he meant five o’clock in Chicago. I got in the Mustang, and watched the GPS. Just as it faded, the windshield unfaded. I looked out. We were parked in the driveway of a home in a cookie-cutter suburban neighborhood. I had no idea where we were.

“Um, school clothes before you get out, please? Just in case one of the neighbors sees you,” Death asked.

“Give me fifteen minutes,” he said once we got indoors. “There are soft drinks in the ’fridge. I’ll get you back to Gary’s in time for you to shower and change.”

Gary

Death and Nemesis popped into the kitchen at about 5:20. Nem ran into my office for a quick hug, and then was off for a shower. Didn’t know what he and Death had been doing, but he was whiff. I was really glad he wanted to shower.

I closed down the computer and went into the kitchen.

“Coffee?” I offered Death. He shook his head and replied with a no, thanks.

“You’ve just spent nearly eight hours with Nemesis. Your own work must have backed up. Thank you. Thank your for caring so much,” I said.

Death smiled. It was a small smile, and brief. Then his face took on its usual stony mien. “Actually, Nemesis came along on some of my jobs, today. He learned some things about his sword and how to use it; he saw death up close. He knows how to use the sword to do more than kill: to stun, to defend himself … as well as to kill.

“You must find him an instructor … someone who can teach him foil, epee, sabre, katana, Claymore, all kinds of swords. Oh, and you’ll need to get him real swords of various kinds, too. He can’t be carrying a magical sword to lessons. But, he’s learned enough today to keep him for a while.”

Death got a kick out of pizza with the boys. After talking privately with him, I introduced him as “Uncle George.” He was, I think, reluctant at first, but accepted—and give—hugs before he left. Oh, and I kicked his butt at skee-ball, but he agreed to a return match.

Later, while we cuddled in bed, Nemesis told me what they had done. He was excited about learning how properly to use his sword, and about meeting real heroes from the past. He was quieter when he told about the rest of his lessons. I hugged him, and kissed his forehead, and we fell asleep.

Nemesis

I would never describe what we did as routine, but at least things were settling down. Gary worked with the foundation and the police. He’d pass on leads to Bobby, who checked them out using Gary or Dike’s access to the police computers. The most desperate ones, Bobby went over with me. He and I picked the worst … the ones who needed help the most … and went after them. Sometimes, I’d hear someone who needed help right away, and we’d go straight there. Yeah, we. I thought I was going to be a solo act, but usually Gary or Bobby went with me, sometimes Benji, depending on the situation.

At first, I wasn’t sure about that. I was a god, after all. Why did I need help? That changed when I started understanding how big the problem was. There must have been a jillion kids needing help, but only a few met the criteria Dike had set.

I couldn’t have done alone all that needed to be done. I couldn’t have done it even with Gary, Bobby, Benji, and—sometimes—the Scions of Hermes. Dike told us that there were others: other Nemeses, and other Garys and Bobbies and Benjis. Still, there weren’t enough. We knew that, but we also knew that we couldn’t save the entire world, only a little piece of it. That was hard, sometimes … Gary helped me understand that we couldn’t spread ourselves so thin we burned out until we couldn’t do anything at all … I thought about the Nemesis I’d replaced. He had burned out, and warned me that I would, too, someday. I realized that if that happened, I’d lose Gary, and I would not let that happen!

It was a Sunday morning when Bobby came running into the kitchen from Gary’s office. Gary followed him, closely.

“Nem! Got a hot one. Need to leave right away!” Bobby said. He had his backpack slung over one shoulder.

“Come on! Dike called. It’s chiton time!” he exclaimed.

I changed … instantly … got a hug from Gary … and grabbed Bobby’s arm. “Where?”

“Here,” he said, and then filled my mind with what he’d gotten from Google Maps during Dike’s call: the image of a trailer park in … Georgia? We hadn’t been out of Chicago since the Alabama case. A little out of our territory, I thought, but popped us there.

We appeared outside the door of a singlewide trailer. The humidity was high. So was the temperature. I was glad I had on the chiton.

“In here,” Bobby said. “His name is Kevin. His brother … his brother rapes him whenever he can’t get it from his girlfriend. He didn’t get it, last night.”

I’d learned a long time ago not to break off door handles. I pushed my fingers between the door and the frame, popped the door open, and stepped inside. The windows had been covered with aluminum foil to keep out the southern sun. My eyes adjusted instantly. I gave Bobby a few seconds. Meanwhile, I was trying to figure out where was there a boy who was about to be raped.

“Nothing!” I whispered. Then, “Come on … we’ll look.” I walked through a kitchen and into a short hallway between an HVAC unit and a washer-dryer. Nothing.

The first bedroom was empty. A twin mattress lay directly on the floor. Dresser drawers were open; clothes were strewn about. The second bedroom held a snoring but fully clothed young adult. Perhaps 20 years old. His belt and fly were undone, and one hand was tucked inside his undershorts. He stank of sweat and beer. I hoped I wasn’t supposed to rescue him. I shook my head, and led Bobby through the bathroom into the back bedroom.

A man, perhaps 40, lay on the bed. He was half-dressed, as if he’d fallen asleep before he could remove his clothes. There was no boy.

“Bobby, there’s no boy,” I said.

“But there was! Dike told me!”

Bobby’s mobile rang. He flipped it open and listened. Then he handed it to me. I saw the caller ID and put the phone to my ear. The only thing I said was, “Yes, ma’am.” After a few seconds, I flipped the phone closed. “The boy’s gone … he’s secondary, in any case. It’s the one in the first bedroom. Then the father. This is a job for Retribution.”

Dike had filled me in on the story: the older brother routinely raped his younger brother. The father knew, and tolerated it. Actually, he encouraged it, and forced the older bother to submit to him under threat of exposure. The younger brother had left moments before we’d gotten there. He was safe, for the moment.

I sat on the edge of the bed and thought myself visible. Then, I gestured to Bobby who threw a pan of ice water on the snoring teen. He sputtered awake, cursing.

“What the fuck! Kevin, I’ll fucking kill you!”

“It’s too late,” I said. “You may already have. Killed Kevin, that is. Or made it impossible for him to live. You may have given him reason to take his own life. Are you proud of that?”

“Who the fuck are you?” he sputtered. Yeah, sputtered: spit mucus and beery-upchuck between words. Sputtered.

“I’m your worst nightmare,” I said. “I’m a little boy with a really cute bottom, but you’ll never fuck me.”

“You’re fuckin’ crazy!” he said, and tried to get up. It would have been awkward in any case: his legs were draped over the footboard. I pushed his chest down.

“Nope … not me, but you’ll think you’re crazy before this is over.” I grabbed his arm and lifted him to his feet.

“Come on, we’re going for a little ride.”

Bobby grabbed my shoulder … he knew what was coming. In an instant, we were in the adjoining room: the empty one we’d first seen, except that now there was a boy, perhaps 12 years old, dressed only in pajama pants, lying on the mattress, shivering, and frightened. Standing beside the mattress was the boy I had in custody, except that he was four years younger, and not quite as drunk.

“Take ’em off,” the older boy said. “You heard me. Take ’em the fuck off!” He leaned over the bed and smacked the younger boy’s face. Then, he grabbed the ankles of the pajama pants and ripped them from the little boy.

“On your stomach, you little queer,” the older boy said. He was fumbling with his belt.

“I’m gonna give you want you want … what you want … ” he said.

“No, please, Ralph! Please don’t!” the little boy said. “Daddy—”

“Daddy won’t do a fuckin’ thing,” the older boy said. “An’ if you say anythin’ to him, I’ll kill you. You understand, you little fag?”

The older boy had dropped his pants. His penis pushed through the fly of his boxer shorts, red and ugly. He grabbed his little brother and rolled him over onto his stomach. Then, he knelt behind him.

Bobby grabbed my shoulder. “You’ve got to stop him!” he whispered.

“This isn’t real, Bobby. Well, once it was. It was very real to this little boy and to his brother. But it’s already happened. We can’t stop it.

“You could take a picture of it, though.”

Bobby nodded, and got out the Polaroid that was part of his crime scene kit. The people on the bed didn’t see the flashes.

Was this rape was not as brutal as some? Or, is there a degree of brutality that is part of any rape that keeps one from being any less worse than another? I cannot say. Even after my trip through Hell, I cannot say. The older brother thrust deeply into the little boy four or five times. We saw his teeth and fists clench as his orgasm pushed his sperm into his brother’s bowels. We saw him collapse on the little boy’s back; we saw his flaccid dick slide out, covered with shit and seminal fluid. We saw the little boy’s tears.

I still held the current incarnation of the older brother. He shivered, and then turned to me and sneered.

“What do you think you are, the fuckin’ Ghost of Christmas Past? The little fag had it coming … and he liked it. Yeah, he liked it.”

Bobby

Nemesis took my hand, and the room dissolved. We were … back in the same room. Same players, except that the boy on the bed was 14 or so. He no longer wore pajamas with cartoon characters, but plain white briefs. He was, however, still afraid of his brother who was still four years older than he, stronger, and … if his attitude were any indication … nastier.

“Get ’em off, queer. My girlfriend’s OTR again and I’m horny.”

I saw a difference this time. The little brother had lube and condoms ready. Does this mean he’s okay with this? I asked Nemesis.

No … and that’s the evil of this scene. The little brother has been made to feel that the only way he can protect himself from disease and pain is to have this stuff ready. In his brother’s eyes, if the little brother prepares then he wants it; he likes it. It’s a dirty psychological ploy by the older brother. It’s also one that he learned from his father.

The rape wasn’t any prettier than the first one. The older brother let his little brother put a condom on him, and lubricate both the condom and the younger boy’s anus.

“Yeah, fag, you’re gonna like this,” the older boy said. The younger boy didn’t reply, but I heard his thoughts.

Kevin

As soon as Ralph stuck his dick in me, I got hard. I didn’t want him to know it, but I knew he did. He thought I wanted him to fuck me. I didn’t! I couldn’t help the reaction my dick had when he pressed against my prostate. Yeah, I’d looked it up on the internet. I knew what was happening, but that didn’t mean I liked it.

He pushed hard, I came. Oh, please don’t him know I came when he fucked me!

Bobby

Nemesis had brought me to this place: I was waiting in the twilight on the trail above the river gorge. There was a scenic overlook that jutted a few feet out from the trail. Two hundred feet below, the river danced and splashed over huge boulders. Nemesis appeared with Ralph. Just as they arrived, two boys came down the trail and turned into the overlook.

“Kevin!” Ralph called to the boys. “Mark! You gotta’ help me!”

“They can’t hear you,” Nemesis said. “Ghost of Christmas Present, at your service.” He giggled. Ralph got even more nervous.

Kevin took Mark’s hand and led him to the overlook. They looked at the river. Mark tossed a pinecone over the water, and watched it splash, before being caught in the current and drawn under the vortex below the overlook.

Kevin spoke earnestly to Mark. Mark shook his head. He shook his head again, and then hugged Kevin. Kevin kept talking. Then, Mark nodded. They kissed. Kevin kicked away the wooden guardrail. The two boys stepped from the overlook and into eternity. Ralph screamed, “No!” His voice echoed over the roar of the river.

“You know why they did it, don’t you? You know why they killed themselves.” Nemesis said. Ralph knelt and put his hands in his face. “Yes! I know. You showed me!” He stood and tried to run toward the edge of the overlook. Nemesis grabbed him.

“Sorry, it’s not going to be that easy.”

Ralph

The kid in the torn T-shirt grabbed me and wouldn’t let me jump. He said it wasn’t going to be that easy. I was afraid. It got dark, and then, it was light: candle light. Mark and Kevin were in a big bed in some kind of farmhouse or something: wooden beams, wooden shutters on the windows.

They were naked, and they were … they were having sex. Mark was fucking Kevin, but he was doing it from the front. Kevin’s legs were wrapped around Mark’s butt. I knew the little fag liked it.

The boy in the skirt thing slapped me, hard. I tasted blood. Crap! He’d pushed a tooth through my cheek. Blood ran down my chin.

“Yes, he likes it. But only when it’s with his boyfriend. Yeah, his boyfriend, his lover. Mark knows how to make Kevin feel good; all you did was hurt him. Mark and Kevin love one another; all you every felt was lust: horny, drunken, stupid lust.

“Even with your so-called girlfriend, all you felt was your pleasure and your release. You never wondered how she felt. You never took the time to make her feel good. You never … you never did what Kevin and Mark are doing.”

I looked. They were cuddling. Kissing softly from time to time. Both boys seemed to glow. I realized that they had found something I would never have. I cried. I cried like I’d never cried before.

Nemesis

“Come on,” I said. “We have to deal with your father.”

The father was still snoring. I dragged Ralph into his father’s bedroom and shoved him against the wall. “Stand there. Don’t move.”

I flipped on the light. The man in the bed snorted, coughed, snorted again, and woke up. He looked from Ralph to me, and then looked again. I could almost see his eyes trying to focus; I felt his mind trying to understand what he saw.

“Who the fuck are you?” he sputtered. Yeah, spit mucus and beery-upchuck between words. Sputtered. Wasn’t hard to figure who Ralph got his manners and vocabulary from.

“Ralph? Who the fuck is this kid? Fag friend of your fag brother? Where the fuck—”

He was sitting up by then, and my slap across his left cheek shut him up, but only for an instant. He tried to grab my hand, fell onto the floor, and started cursing, again. I put my foot on his back.

“Shut up,” I said. He did. Instantly. I felt him trying to speak. Wow! Didn’t know I could do that!

I ordered Ralph to put his father back on his bed. The man’s eyes were wide, his mouth moved, his chest heaved. Sweat poured from his head; the sweat smelled of beer. I waved my hand. He started cursing, again. I lifted my hand; he shut up.

“I am Nemesis,” I said. “I am retribution. I am also justice. Well, the servant of justice, but since she’s not here, I’ll just have to do.

“You,” I spoke directly to the man by voice and mind. “You raped your older son; when he was old enough, he started raping your younger son. You’re the cause of two boys’ pain.”

I didn’t take him to see things like we’d done to Ralph, but I made sure the memories I evoked were clear. As I talked, I listened, but there was nothing in the man’s mind but hatred and a little fear.

“What do you have to say for yourself?” I asked.

“Not a goddamn thing, you little fuck … you little fag … he’s my boy … he owes it to me.”

I tried again, and got the same reaction. And again. Same. The man grabbed at me. I ducked, and my sword banged against the bed. My sword. I remembered what Death had said.

I drew my sword. The man’s eyes got wide. I stuck the sword in his chest. He gritted his teeth; I heard one of them crack. I pulled out the sword. The man fell back onto his bed. His eyes got glassy and then closed.

“Call 911,” I said to Ralph. “Your father just had a heart attack. He’s dead.

“The police will be here in a few hours with your Mustang. They’ll have questions.

“Just so you know: Kevin and Mark had two futures when they left here this morning. You saw both of them. The second one, where they were happy, where they were lovers? That’s the one that happened. Just so you know.”

I felt like I was twisting a knife in his gut … and it showed on his face. There was only one more thing to do.

Ralph’s Girlfriend

Ralph came over, like he always did, just before suppertime. My mother was so happy that I was dating someone who had a job, that she welcomed him. For a while, I felt the same way. There were a lot of losers who wanted me; at least this loser had a job.

Tonight, I was ready. The little boy who said he was a friend of Ralph’s little brother, Kevin, had shown me the Polaroids. Left them with me. When Ralph came to the door, I threw them in his face.

“You fucked me with the same dick you stuck in your little brother’s ass! You animal! You … get away and don’t ever come back. If you do, the rest of the pictures are going somewhere that will take care of you for good.”