Here’s a new, little crime story. I’ve been writing a lot of this type of stuff lately. Not entirely sure the reason.

———-

Over and Over and…
by Joel Durham Jr

“Here. You know how to use this, kid?” Laroq was trying to hand me a huge, nickel plated semi.

“I don’t need a gun,” I replied. The large, dark skinned man towering over me rolled his big, bloodshot eyes.

“Who are you, Batman?” he said.

“I have a push dagger, five balanced throwing knives, and a hunting knife, all in this jacket. I’m cool.”

“A knife won’t stop a bullet, kid,” he said.

“Neither will a bullet. I don’t like guns,” I said.

He looked knowingly at the guy standing opposite him, Reeve. Reeve ran the whole operation. We refused to call ourselves a gang. We didn’t have turf, unless you count school. I sold most of my shit to my eighth grade classmates.

I also enforced. How, why, at my young age? I could take down a motherfucker twice my size and carve him like a jack-o-lantern before he even swung a fist. That’s why.

Reeve didn’t know that yet, but he was about to find out. I was also a hell of a tracker. I knew enough people and had enough, well, influence, I guess is a good word for it, to get folks to fess the hell up when I was looking for someone.

“He’s in the Water Street projects,” I said, of a junkie who didn’t pay Reeve. soon enough. “Apartment 232. It’s a studio, so he won’t have room to hide. Big gnarly Laroq here will kick the door in, we’ll duck aside to dodge the bullets, and when he empties his clip we’ll shake  him down.”

“I like this guy,” said Reeve.

I’m not proud of that. I was at the time, but today, as I hunt once again, this time without any help, I’m not proud. I hate what I am.

“Fuck him up?” said Laroq.

“It’s his first infraction,” said Reeve. “Knock a tooth or two out, but don’t break any bones. Let him know next time will be incredibly more painful.”

That was my favorite part. I’m not proud of that either. Nor am I proud that it still is my favorite part. Today, I’m tailing my enemy at a safe distance. I have to find out where he lives or hangs, if he has friends who might muscle in, and so on. I have to surveil him.

Then, Laroq and I drove to the PJ’s. I was already looking toward the deadbeat’s window, and the curtain moved. “He sees us,” I told Laroq.

“Think I give a shit?” he said.

In silence, we parked, walked up an outside stairway, and took our places on either side of the door.

That was then. Today, my soon-to-be victim parked in the dark lot of a dive bar.

I’m not proud of the fact that I’m vengeful. Back then, I thought I was being loyal by roughing up delinquents. Today…well, today I have a better reason to ruin a guy’s life.

Today, I turn off my headlights, drop the transmission into neutral, and cut the engine. I coast down a gentle slope toward the Wing Shack, where a man named Jason was about to get the beating of his life.

Then, Laroq moved to kick the door in and flinched back to the side of the jamb when bullets started to blast right through the door itself. The fucker didn’t even wait.

When we heard clicking, we burst in. The deadbeat was alone and rapidly trying to reload his revolver. I produced a throwing knife and placed it, from a distance, neatly into his right arm. He dropped the gun just as Laroq closed in and pistol whipped his face.

The guy dropped like a towel into the ground, his nose all fucked up. Laroq pointed his firearm at him and said, “Where the fuck is Reeve’s money?”

That, then, was enough of an infraction to incur my wrath. Today, it’s different. I haven’t done this for twenty-five years, but it’s still part of me. The hunt. The rage. The attack.

The sick satisfaction.

Jason threatened my daughter with sexual assault.

As of a moment ago, Jason will never walk again.

As I drive home, I can’t help but grin. I’m not proud of it.