Something Entertaining
SOMETHING, ENTERTAINING
Gritty Action Thriller, commentary on popular entertainment today.
I show up about twenty minutes before showtime. It’s how I tend to do things. They want a show, so I give them a show. By now I’m a big enough name in this funny little business of ours that people are accustomed to my shtick. I’m a professional, you see, and with that comes certain responsibilities. I need to be immersive and entertaining while still doing my best not to die doing it. That last bit is only important to yours truly, the crowd came for blood and they’d get it one way or the other. In fact, I often get the feeling that some crowds are hoping I bite it during their performance; then they get to say: ‘I was there when Peter Grain finally bit the bullet.’ But I had no intention of giving any crowd that pleasure. They want to watch guys get shot, killed, beaten, that’s their choice; whatever gets you off, I guess. But it wouldn’t be me, not tonight, not ever. What do I do? Oh, I get it, you’re not from around here. Jesus, I could almost hear the corny southern drawl in my voice when I said that. Not a terrible thing, just not really my style. My style was, for stage purposes, somewhere between a private investigator with a drinking problem and a jaded accountant who got in too deep. I’m in my early thirties but look a few years older, stress of the job and all. I pull up in a beat-up black sedan, best to keep the Mustang at home for immersion purposes. I step out wearing my traditional attire. Best to have a ‘go to’ outfit so the audience recognizes you. The outfit consists of a long sand colored over coat, a white button-up and tattered blue jeans. Also, my prescription glasses, can’t have a name like Peter and not wear glasses. I’ve got my Glock tucked in a holster on my left side, and a 9 mm Reuger strapped to my rear waist. The overcoat did an excellent job of concealing the handguns. The whole outfit was designed to look conspicuously like a guy trying to be inconspicuous, the audience eats that shit up. My hair completes the persona, always looking as though I just rolled out of bed, jutting wildly about on each side.
But you’re probably still wondering what this is all about. Well, it’s difficult to explain what I do to someone unfamiliar with it. I’m an exhibitionist. No not like that, pull your head out of the gutter. I’d hope I wouldn’t need a pair of handguns if I was in the adult entertainment industry, but then again, like I said, I wouldn’t know. I’m actually an exhibition shooter, also a bit misleading. Not the type of exhibition shooter who sits in a field with a hunting rifle and aims for the bullseye, picture that but with a more intimate setting and replace the targets with hired dickheads who shoot back at you. Yeah, violence for entertainment. Nothing all that new, I’ve been a boxing fan my whole life and always loved 80’s action flicks. Regardless, civilization had steered away from the genuine article for centuries ever since people lost the stomach for Coliseums and capital punishment. However, in my world, we had a war, a bad one, and like a lot of wars it was tough to say who won: the good guys or the bad guys. I like to say, the world’s pretty grey so don’t lose sleep over the details. Of course, that answer doesn’t do much for you. So, I guess, here are the details. After the war ended, respect for human life was at a record low, people struggled to cope. Mass shootings reached an all-time high and suicide rates were as high as the buildings they were jumping from. Jobs were needed, and new forms of entertainment arrived to fill these gaps in society. That’s when the ULE came along; the United League of Exhibitionists. It was a polite way of saying: The League of desperate, jobless, killers. In a nutshell that’s what we are, a bunch of homicidal/suicidal dipshits who couldn’t move past the war. Funny, now some of us are on cereal boxes and opening gyms for aspiring exhibitionists who look to follow in our footsteps. I know, it sounds sick. But you gotta understand, we were all sick. It was an idea born from tired sick minds, now we’re just a lingering symptom, a reminder of how bad shit gets. I bet I sound like a real douchebag right now. Anyway, that’s what we do. That’s what I do. I kill people for entertainment. Entertainment for others, that is.
I’m personally beyond all of it at this point, I won’t say I hate it, but I don’t love it either. I’m just good at it, what can I say? It’s hard to hate something you’re great at, even if it’s a little disgusting. Some say I’m the best, I don’t know about that, but I know I’m good. The pay is good to, and I’m paid better than most. Some guys bitch about it, because they tend to be cleaner than me. Double taps and headshots, no mess except for the obvious brain matter and blood. But they don’t get it. You’re not paid the big bucks to kill the other guys, your paid for entertainment. The crowd likes a little mess, they like when things go off script. Now I’ll be damned if I’m going to let some fuck face kill me because I wanted to drag out the drama too long, I mean sometimes a bad night is a bad night. But I try to keep it fresh for myself and the audience. They’ve seen surgical precision; they’ve seen clean and tactical. That’s not me, I pull my gun after the other guy makes his move. That’s the key, doing the little things right. Selling the drama; great song and a good rule of thumb. That’s what separates me. I was always going to live a violent life, like anyone crazy enough to get involved in this business, but I had the acting chops that the other square jawed Joes didn’t. Sure, some guys try to create persona’s but most of that shit comes off too corny. Not to mention their isn’t anything more embarrassing than saying your shitty catch phrase a little premature and then getting brained through the one door you forgot to check.
Nikki Tietto, the infamous ‘catch phrase incident’, still makes it on every top ten fail list online. Even beat out the butt-fumble for the all-time fails’ compilation. I guess they figured, that the death of a quarterback’s career didn’t really stack up against an actual death. Anyway, he had this saying he did after each of his shows, a catchphrase of sorts. He’d save one guy for the end, one guy who he’d box and usually beat senseless. The guy whose ass he beat was usually grateful, because it meant they weren’t going to catch a bullet. Not that Nikki beating the shit out of you was much better. He was a golden gloves champ before he enlisted in the war, afterward he knew he wasn’t going to make it big, so he built a gimmick for himself and joined the ULE. The company took him in with open arms, but he never made it out of the regional circuits. Even in this business he couldn’t quite cut it big, but plenty of people knew the name, his gimmick was unique enough to earn him a decent cult following. Everybody who was actually in the business knew Nikki though, even if most crowds didn’t. We’d snicker behind closed doors about his catch phrase. See, after he dropped the last guy, usually with a left hook to the liver, that was his signature punch, he’d say: “That’s why you never go toe-to-toe with Nikki Tietto.” The crowds didn’t know what to think of it at first, but we all thought it was gold. Like a bit of bad acting in an action movie, it just fit. Now, at Nikki’s expense, it was legendary.
Like a lot of legendary sports clips, it was helped by a few of the little details. Most importantly, the camera angle was perfect. It zoomed in on Nikki’s face with enough dead space in the background to see the look of the spectators closest to the action as the last performer snuck up behind him with a Louisville slugger. He was panting when he began the catchphrase, it was an especially tough show for him that night. See, Nikki wasn’t any good with guns, so his performers were outfitted with bats, chains, and knives. He would beat on em’ and take what he could get to fend off the others. The last guy would drop whatever he had and take him on man to man. On this night, Nikki had already taken quite the beating himself and barely got by what he believed to be the last guy. Anyway, he starts saying “That’s why you never go toe-toe with Nikki Tietto.” And right on cue, he gets wise to the guy behind him and turns.
All Nikki sees when he turns is a baseball bat connecting clean with his head. Yeah people got a laugh out of that one. First time I saw it I laughed, but not the second or third or anytime after that. Not because it wasn’t funny, it was damn funny. The way he drops out of view of the camera when the bat connects looked like something out of the Three Stooges, timeless. It was after I took a closer look at the crowd that I stopped laughing. It might not seem like much, or maybe it does, I don’t know what counts as cruel or ugly anymore. Nikki had no clue about the last guy, and there’s nothing in the contract that says the last guy needs to make himself known, that’s Nikki’s job. But the whole crowd knew; they knew, and they didn’t say anything. In fact, they all exchanged knowing glances, smirks, and snickers; like grade-schooler’s who catch a classmate with their fly down during a presentation. He was being mocked up until the bat knocked his lights out. The only reason he caught on to the guy behind him was because he felt the crowd snickering and mocking him. Yeah it was pretty funny, until I heard the crowd erupt with laughter as the camera panned down to what was left of Nikki’s skull once the fifth or sixth swing from the final performer left its mark. I don’t think he had to kill Nikki, after all, if anyone deserved sympathy from the performers it was him. He always let one go, or almost always. But this guy didn’t stop swinging the bat, not until there was nothing but shards of skull and reddish, pinkish soup where Nikki’s head used to be.
In the end, I don’t think Nikki would’ve made it out of that room even if he saw the guy. He was pretty fucked up at that point and the last guy was fresh. I don’t blame the guy for braining Nikki from behind either, I just wish he stopped swinging. I only met him once or twice but Nikki was a good guy. Anyway, his death taught us all a couple of lessons, lessons I take with me into every performance. First, check everything, but in honesty I was always pretty good about that anyway; my stint with the CIA after the war made me a stickler for details. Second, don’t leave anyone alive. Those fuckers aren’t doing you any favors so don’t do them any. You might think I’m heartless or cruel, and maybe I am, but these assholes are here on their own free will just like me… so fuck em’. Most of them are convicted rapists and murders, ex-gang bangers and the like. The others are just troubled, manic depressives who were planning on plugging ten people just to put the last bullet in themselves. The kind of people who can’t and shouldn’t get a job doing anything else. Everyone wins, except the losers of course. So, like I said, I clear the room. But finally, the most important lesson I took from the unfortunate death of Nikki Tietto is… No. Fucking. Catchphrases. I’m not letting myself end up like the dozen or so guys who entered this business looking to check out in a blaze of glory and then end up dying in a sea of laughter. I mean, this job gets you thinking about your mortality, I’m sure you can imagine, and the last thing I want to hear when the lights go out is laughter.
So, like I said, I do the little things. That’s what makes me special. For instance, I walk with my head down, slouching and lumbering. I give the appearance that I’m at the end of a weekend binge that started last Wednesday, and this hangover is killing me. Sometimes, I even go on a bender the night before just to sell the hangover. Some real Hollywood, method shit. Not that alcoholism doesn’t come naturally to me anyway, but still. I even pull one side of my tucked button-up out in the front of my waistline to complete the slovenly appearance. I’m a naturally attractive guy, don’t mean to brag, with my five o’clock shadow and light brown hair, all complete with ghostly blue eyes. This way I get both ends of the crowd on my side, I’m attractive and troubled so the ladies root for me, but I’m also sarcastic and modest so the men are pulling for me to. The ‘Every Man’, sort of vibe. So now I’m walking toward the venue, it’s a small one. A good thing in this line of work, less to look out for, more intimate; easier to work the crowd. The venue was a small Italian Restaurant in the center of a larger plaza. The plaza was owned by the local football team and was a mini city of sorts. It had a hotel for commuters- like me- a cinema, and two different parking lots surrounded by an assortment of retailers. We were in the section that was meant to resemble an old town portion of the city with its elevated walkways and cobblestone. ‘The nice part’ as the average pedestrian would call it. As affirmation to that point, the restaurant was very nice indeed. It had mood lighting and brass railings around the host stand which was made of a fine wood, perhaps Mahogany or something meant to resemble Mahogany. Regardless, it was at the center of what is best described as an outdoor rotunda or crossroads. It was on the south end of where three of the walking paths met. There was a bar to the left of it and a coffee shop to the right. Each of the surrounding buildings were the more respectable versions of their counterparts in the plaza. Of the four bars in the plaza, this was the finest. The coffee shop was part of a chain, but its aesthetic deviated from the other’s in the area to avoid disturbing the upper-class vibe of the rotunda.
I approached the host stand and could already feel the many sets of eyes shifting toward me, the man in the ragged brown jacket. They sat with hushed murmurs, barely audible over the sound of clanging silverware and rushing wait staff. The girl behind the host stand looked between sixteen and twenty, judging by her practiced smile and cordial greeting, she didn’t recognize me. She lacked the social acumen to read the room. It was as though a wave of curiosity had crashed through the restaurant. The quiet drum and rhythm of dinner conversation was quieted from table to table. Curious eyes peeked over at the tall, bespectacled man in the trench coat. I always enjoyed this moment, the way my presence sucked the air out of the room as though the entirety of its dwelling took part in one collective anticipatory sigh.
“It should be a reservation for one, under Grain.”
Her eyes opened wide with sudden realization.
“Oh- oh okay, Mr. Grain. Right this way.”
She didn’t recognize me by appearance, only by name. Her sudden surprise was no doubt a result of my reputation, having been booked by the company a week ago her manager and coworkers must have made my credentials known to her. Like the friend of a fangirl who unwittingly meets her best-friend’s idol, she felt both excited and embarrassed. I gave a charming smile and a subtle motion with my hand to help her calm down. It was gratifying to see the weight of your own reputation worn on the face of a young woman. She smiled and nodded but her face had turned from silky white to rosy red. The freckles on her youthful face almost lost in the red hue, she turned to escort me.
She gave a gesture toward the table with an outstretched hand but failed to gather the courage to look me in the eye. I thanked her and sat down. Like I said, I was good at the little things, so I sold it. I sat and placed the napkin on my lap. I looked about the restaurant as though I was expecting to meet someone. In reality, I was panning the room for potential ‘performers’ hiding amongst the crowd. I never gave details about my character’s story, just visual cues. As a result, many onlookers and fans preferred to build a mythos around me. They attached a story to me: the private investigator who could never quite catch the mastermind, the accountant with a checkered past who was in too deep. All those types of stories came to their sick little minds, that’s what made me special. Plenty of guys tried to look cool wearing all black, and women would dress slutty to attract more fans, but those tactics were one dimensional. My shit was cerebral, multidimensional. I let them create the story, then I just play the part and kill the bad guys. I’m not sure if people took to my niche because it allowed them to feel closer to me or more distant. Did a story make me more human or less? I suppose if I die as a fictional being, why should they care? Of course, who doesn’t nearly cry when their favorite character bites the dust? I guess I wouldn’t know until I bit it. So, I guess, sadly, I’ll never know. Despite the many executive meetings and business dinners I had taken part in off stage, I made certain not to let that show in my persona. I had to look out of place, while remaining entirely in my element. I adjusted my shirt nervously, looked about the room with one hand on my jacket as though contemplating if it were more polite to remove it in such a fancy place. Of course, I would never do that. It would ruin the look, and expose my firearms which, for peek excitement, can’t be seen until the action starts.
I wanted to look as though I was meeting an affluent client or maybe high-ranking member of a sinister syndicate. I could tell by the hum of quiet conversation that it was working. It had become a topic of some interest in the many entertainment magazines which covered the ULE, ‘What is Peter Grain searching for?’ The tabloids all featured some variation of that title accompanied with a picture of me looking pensively into the distance. I thought it was a little much if I’m being honest, I’m an entertainer not a philosopher, but my agent assured me it was the right move. It was tough at times; I came into this job as a guy looking for a dollar, a desperate dollar. But the tabloids, television coverage, and rush of the performance did reinvigorate some boyish vanity. I don’t consider myself vain, mind you. Maybe I would if I got into this a few years sooner or made it this big in another line of work, but honestly, I don’t feel enough these days to register vanity. ‘Oh no, the dick head who kills for money has issues grappling with the moral ambiguity of his actions?!’ I know you don’t sympathize, and frankly I’m not asking you to. You came for a story and so I’m giving it to you. Don’t worry, I’m used to it. I’ll admit, looking at the trophies in my apartment (two time ULE Performer of the Year) while nearing the end of my fourth year in the biz’ does help a little. A little piece of plastic and metal that reminds me, while what I do isn’t good, at least I’m good at it. Granted, I could’ve won all four years, everyone knows that. But if they gave MJ the MVP every year, what debate would have been left for Lebron twenty years later. Not that I’m MJ, but you understand. So now this waiter comes walking up with a big fuckin grin on his face. Excuse the ‘fuckin’ but I swear he just had the kinda face you want to punch. The personality wasn’t much better, he walked up and grinned the whole way through taking my order.
“What would you like Mr. Grain?” Still grinning, tall goofy kid with a Jew-fro. The kind of curly brown hair, that screamed ‘bully me!’ to anyone who attended high-school before the year 2000.
“Just Coffee thanks, I’m expecting someone.” Mr. Grain?! Who the fuck is this kid? Just got to keep my persona in check so the audience doesn’t check out.
“Expecting? Oh, Right! I get it, Mr. Grain.” Now the dipshit is winking and pointing a finger gun at me, Jesus… “I’ll be right back with that coffee.” He smacks my shoulder playfully and walks off.
I thought the manager promised me professionals, instead I get a girl who can’t look me in the eye and a tall goofball without a filter. What is it with kids now a days? I look over to see the many peering eyes of the audience looking over at me as I shake my head in disbelief. One of the men in the front row, early thirties with a fancy haircut and a sports jacket, looks back at me and shakes his head, gesturing with his eyes to the young waiter. The crowd was still on my side, they understood that I had no control over outside influences like that kid. Fortunately, the crowd’s aggravation was growing audible, hopefully audible enough for the manager to take action and remove that dumbass before he ruins the show. As the crowd sat in agreement with my internal conclusion the same boy approached the table with my coffee.
“Here ya’ go, Mr. Grain.” He leaned in closer, “I just wanted to say, I’m a huge fan and would love an autograph. I mean, ya know, if you have the time.” I clenched my jaw and turned with a glare. If I spoke it would ruin my façade, he had killed the atmosphere, but the character had to remain intact for the sake of the performance. I watched as a switch flipped in his brain, unfortunately not the one I was aiming for. He whispered even lower and deeper this time. The irate silence that surrounded us, however, allowed the crowd to hear every word as they looked on in dumbstruck horror. “Oh, right. I get it, I get it. What if you write it on the check at the end, ya know? But- but only if the performance calls for it. Then maybe you could say something cool after signing it?” Jesus-fuckin-Christ. “How does that sound?” I turned, refusing to speak. I looked to the man in the sports jacket to help get the point across. He nodded and looked at the kid while clearing his throat as forcibly as he could. The kid looked at him, almost annoyed at first. Soon his eyes opened wide and he looked from the man back to me. It took a few moments but soon his tiny brain put the pieces together. My eyebrows were raised with a mixture of irritation and amusement as the boy’s cheeks turned a ghostly white. “I’m so sorry.” He whispered more humbly this time, I gestured with my head for him to get lost. He scurried off and I gave a seated bow to the crowd. They applauded graciously, a few whistles and woops; both at my ability to maintain composure and for what was certainly the last time the crowd would be putting up with that moron tonight.
The boy covered his face as he darted to the kitchen, away from the sound of the scornful applause. Amateurs, unbearable. I knew then and there, if I lived through this, and I felt fairly certain I would, I was going to have a word with the manager.
While the interruption was jarring, my irritation had less to do with the performance and more to do with my own mortality. The kid’s insistence on wasting my time had put me in a potentially tight predicament, I now had a little over seven minutes to spot my targets. Usually the contract comes with info on the number of targets, fellow ‘performers’ who signed up for the show. A chance to gain fame and fanfare by plugging the great Peter Grain. However, now a days, to keep things interesting, I request that they withhold that information. Now you’ll say, ‘What? Do you have a death wish?’ and to that I’d reply, no. I’m not all that concerned about when or how I die, obviously. But I’d prefer to stick around a bit longer, for a few more drinks and a few more memories. Besides, I’m not reckless. Just bored. I put a cap limit in my clause, ‘no more than fifteen targets’ it allows for up to twenty guys but only if half of them are unarmed. So now, because of jew-fro, I had seven… six minutes to find potentially twenty guys. So, you can’t blame me for being a little tense. Of course, I don’t break character for a second, I’m a professional after all. I just use the nerves to add to my character. I look about the room nervously, jittery, playing the role of a character who was beginning to understand that his expected dinner companion wasn’t going to make it. All the while, I’m panning the room looking for the usual calling cards of a fellow performer. Usually it’s the bulky ugly guy with a face tattoo that I spot first, there’s always one. However, this time I don’t see him. I already filed away the guy in the front row who had my back against the kid, he might be one of those clever fucks who uses the fourth wall as a barrier to get a jump on me early. I check my watch as though I’m growing more concerned at how late my dinner-mate has become. Really, I’m checking how much longer I have: four minutes.
I suppose I should give them credit; they had outdone themselves this time. I had potentially twenty targets to find and had only logged away a couple of soft maybes. At this point I was desperate enough to suspect Jew-fro, it would at least explain away his behavior as something other than stupidity. But as we entered one minute to show time, I had only logged away one more maybe. A particularly nervous and sweaty looking man in the second row of seats. The dull lighting was good cover, and he had a look of particular exasperation. It was difficult to pin down, however. He may be a performer who was getting cold feet, wouldn’t be the first time, but he might just be a first-time viewer. He was sitting beside a stunning Greek woman in a blood red dress, which was more lingerie than dinner wear. Hell, of a seat if this was his first show, sitting in the ‘splash zone’ as we called it. That being said, if I had a girl with tits like that, I’d be willing to do some pretty stupid shit myself. There’s only about twenty seconds until show time at this point and I hadn’t found a single target. I guess you could say I was up against it. I thought of the contents of Nikki’s skull splattered about the floor like a crushed watermelon with hard white seeds.
My stomach was full of butterflies and my leg began tapping nervously. I could feel part of me wanting to panic, wanting to break character and stand with my gun drawn, daring someone to stand up. I felt myself wanting to turn the gun on the crowd just to give them something to remember me by, send a few of the sick fucks down to hell with me, but I didn’t. I sat, still playing my character, still being the Peter Grain that the people paid to see. They whispered to each other, as electricity filled the air. They had wide eyes and smiles that bordered on salivation. They expected a show, a gritty classic; and, if I was going to leave here alive, that’s exactly what they were going to get. I felt my own salivatory glands fill with anxious copper flavored spit. It almost felt like those few brief moments before vomiting, when you’re certain your past the point of keeping it down. I kept calm, like I always did, and reminded myself that there wouldn’t be twenty targets. There wouldn’t even be fifteen. I was too valuable right now, at an all-time high in fact. I never argued with management, never made enemies, just went about my craft with a workman’s mentality. There would be a handful, a couple skilled ones. They’d make me work, but they wouldn’t risk me, not yet.
My persona was a form of defense in itself. It was the intrigue that surrounded my ambiguous character that had made me a household name. If I died now, there would be no satisfying conclusion. Granted, the performers who knew they were more than likely never leaving this room alive could care less about public intrigue, but the ULE cared. They wanted to capitalize on my persona, and I wanted to live to see its conclusion. It’s why I keep his story, my story, vague. I could be more specific, I even played with the idea of some more fleshed out concepts of my own, but I decided against it. The company pushed for it a couple of times, even my agent, fuckers, but I pushed back. You need to understand that if I give Peter Grain too specific of a story then suddenly that story has direction, an arc, an expiration date. Then, they could do away with me. Grant my character a tragic death in a climactic fight that satisfies the public and allows them to capitalize long after I’m gone, with DVD box sets and documentaries on the key streaming networks. But I’m a step ahead, at least for now. Once the intrigue of my ambiguity wears away, I’ll accept a deadline. I’ll allow the headlines to read ‘What was Peter Grain looking for?’
Three, two, one… Showtime.
No one moves, but everyone feels it. I suffocate my cigarette in my napkin and light up another. Keeping with the look of a man who doesn’t belong in a place with white tablecloths and black ties. Inside, my heart is racing, and my stomach feels lodged in my throat, but on the outside, I look like a man enjoying a cigarette in silent contemplation. My eyes subtly pan the room, waiting for any sign of a man or woman reaching beneath a table or into their waste band, nothing. I could understand why some people might panic in these circumstances, even if I wouldn’t. For me, it’s like the flip of a switch, when showtime hits I trade in my nerves for excitement. The butterflies in my stomach are still fluttering but now it’s a gentle dance of anxious joy. My saliva still tastes of copper, but now its tinged, not ready to puke but starving, like a prize fighter when he crosses under the ropes and into the ring; I’m in my element.
Of all places my eyes returned to the Greek woman and sweaty man in the second row. Specifically, they returned to her perfect breasts. The longer the silence lingered the more certain I was that the man beside her wasn’t a performer, just a nervous viewer. Her, on the other hand, sat like a statue, a cold unfeeling work of art. I hated her, and I wanted her. Funny, even faced with death, all I could think about was sex. I peeled my eyes away and noticed a waiter leaning against the wall in the corner of the room. He looked professional, the type of server that immediately wins the respect of his table with posture alone. The type of waiter I had expected to serve me when I first entered. In fact, so professional was his appearance that- had it not been for the tip of a faded tattoo peeking out of his shirt collar- he might have fooled me. He was a definite, not a maybe. He had the eyes of a wolf, a seasoned killer. They were fixed on me. So, naturally, I grinned at him. Just as a professional courtesy, the type of look that says ‘gotchya.’ he acknowledged me with an adjustment of his collar. Part of me was tempted to fire, to kill him quick and get the show underway, but it didn’t work that way. That’s not how Peter Grain- how I do things. He hadn’t pulled yet, so how could Peter Grain be sure he was a killer, unless he was in on the joke. Just like that, I’d become some shmuck with a pistol, not a performer. So, I’d wait, still not certain who the other performers might be. I know the audience wants blood, that death gets them off. But these moments just before the kill, when the adrenaline is pulsing through me- even more so than the Greek woman in the second row with her amazing tits- this shit gets me hard.
I took a drag on my cigarette. Partly because it tastes ten times better when my brain is bathing itself in endorphins and partly because the crowd loves it. They see a man who’s taking a drag on what might be his final cigarette, a modern cowboy. On the other hand, it drove Mister Mater Dee crazy to watch me act so calm with him still in the room. His eyes never left me, but he still refrained from pulling on me. I’d give him extra points for patience, but something tells me it was part of his contract. My best guess, and only guess, was that he’s the Ringer. The others are out of sight waiting for their cue. Tends to be the case that the less skilled they are the more likely they are to group up. Not Mister Mater De though, he put the ‘pro’ in professional. He’d be last, or close to it anyway.
The swell of conversation was invigorating. The people were catching on, this joke was going to have a punch line, a damn good one. As the Pro in the waiter get-up continued to eyeball me, I couldn’t shake the gladiatorial rush that throbbed in my chest. The Coliseum with a modern twist. Brought straight to the paying customer, the convenience that only modern entertainment could provide. Supply and demand. Of course, if the punch line was going to be a showstopper, all I could do now was make certain the joke wasn’t on me. I decided, as we approached ten minutes past, that the clock wasn’t the ex-factor. Mister Pro wasn’t making any moves, not until he was cued, and whatever the cue, the clock wasn’t part of it. I snuffed out my second cigarette and stood up. The buzz of conversation was smothered the moment my chair scraped against the floor. I stood and dropped a random number of dollar bills on the table, with a visible disdain that spoke for itself, ‘keep the change.’
I pushed my chair in and placed my hands in my trench coat pockets. I resisted the urge to place my hands closer to the Reuger in the back of my pants and walked toward the exit. The crowd’s eyes were wide and mouths agape. No doubt some of them had begun to wonder if they had been screwed out of a significant amount of money. I knew better, knew it was just the boys and gals in the ULE creative team trying something new and daring. Sure, if it went wrong, it was my ass, but you couldn’t keep things fresh without taking a few chances. I looked down at my watch and then back at the Pro in the corner. My back had been to him for several paces and he still did nothing but look at me with his jaw tense and his eyes narrow. The man in the second row was still sweating and the woman beside him still pierced through me with her indifferent gaze; meanwhile the man in the front row was still smiling and nodding approvingly. Fuck, the boys had really outdone themselves. As I opened the door from the restaurant and into the outdoor rotunda on the affluent corner of the Football funded Plaza, the punchline hit me so hard I almost laughed, but settled for a cocky smile.
The evening sun beat down on the rotunda. What would usually be teaming with shoppers and local football fans, as well as self-sufficient adolescence on summer break was now quiet and subdued. The lively tunes of daily commerce replaced with a vacuous silence. The many locals replaced with three stiff shouldered strangers in all black. I stood in the doorway faced with three men. Each looking like the sort who had served a stint or two in lock up for crimes of the violent variety. One was lean and tall, with a narrow face and big nose, he was to my right. The one in the middle was a heavy-set white man with an unkempt goatee and at least one ring on each finger. To my left, I almost snickered, was the bald Latino with a face tattoo and the type of traps you only get in a prison yard. Bingo.
It was so perfectly set up that I half expected a tumbleweed to roll through the center of our little standoff. Risky stuff, three on one. The boys at the ULE were playing with fire. A lot of risk, but potentially a big reward; a highlight for the decade. There was one positive in this set up, and I’d be a fool to believe it wasn’t intentional on the part of the Creative team. They were an obvious threat, three stiffs with heat strapped to their hips. It freed me up, gave me an out, I could pull first if I wanted and not shatter the illusion. Peter wasn’t thick in the head, quite the opposite. His cunning was legendary, and he sure as hell knew these three jokers weren’t here for the uppity aesthetic. I could hear the fans behind me growing giddy with excitement. Cameras posted on each corner of the crossroads, all aimed at us. It went without contention that the television sets inside, which had previously been displaying local news and baseball games, had turned to a private channel giving all the customers inside a perfect view of the action.
“So, what d’ya say we all go inside, sit down and have a drink… talk this out.”
I projected a sarcastic confidence in my words that earned an anxious laugh from the audience and a contemptuous scowl from the performers across from me. As was expected, the performers in front of me were cannon fodder. This was their first show, all of them ex-cons with irredeemable records. They weren’t accustomed to their prey talking back. By the look of them, they were used to screaming women, gangbangers with their backs turned on the street corner, and traffic cops who made the mistake of pulling them over. It was their first show, and their last; I’d be sure of that. They remained quiet, each waiting for the other to initiate. It appeared my reputation proceeded me. I could tell by the stiffness in their shoulders contrasted with the slackness of their hips that they were nervous but confident. They didn’t want to die but they liked their odds.
“C’mon boys what’s wrong? Cat got your tongue? Might as well speak up, it might be the last thing you ever say.”
I spoke with a cold confidence now, as if I had already seen how each man died; I suppose in a way, I had. I knew exactly how I’d play them and knew beyond any doubt that it would work. They’d be slow, and then they’d be dead. Their scowls had deepened now, their hands itched, jaws clenched. The Latino with the face tattoo was particularly restless, his hand already creeping toward his waistband. He was likely the most comfortable with firearms, even if he had no experience drawing down on someone. I extended my right hand as if beginning a great oration, while my left hand adjusted my waist band.
“Speak now or forever hold your peace.”
I stared him down.
He stared back.
“Caliette puto.”
His nostrils flared as he spoke, and his hand muscled the gun from his waste. As the gun cleared his hip, I had already plugged two precise shots into his chest. His white under shirt burst violently as a crimson mist filled the air around him. His face turned as pages in a book; murderous rage, shock, vacancy. He crumbled to his knees, lifeless.
The others pulled and fumbled for their guns. I dropped to the ground as the bullets rained out. A succession of cracks and pops. The amateur gunmen adjusted poorly as I hit the deck, missing with every shot as I fired a succession of seven shots. The first four tearing through the midsection of the heavyset man in the middle, the next two missing through the several feet that separated the two remaining shooters, the final shot hit the thin man on my right in the meaty portion of his narrow neck. The fat man stumbled backward as if slipping on ice. His feet no longer under him, he flailed and fell. The torrent from his four new abdominal holes flooding both his organs and his shirt as he lay twitching. It looked like something from an Achme animation. I would’ve laughed if the third dick head hadn’t still been standing. The tall bean-stock looking motherfucker, he wasn’t a threat anymore- if he ever was- he just stood trying, with no success, to close the wound on his neck with one hand while using his other to plead.
He extended it like a traffic cop, Stop. Please. The blood was running thick down his neck, in moments he was covered down to his ankles. Rule Number two. I stood up, squared my shoulders, lifted my arms and squeezed the trigger. The bullet passed clean through his head. He fell straight back into a table on the outdoor patio of the fancy bar/restaurant behind him; the pre-set silverware and chairs crashed and clanged around his corpse. It wasn’t quite me or him, but ‘rules is rules’ as they say.
They were slow, as I had expected. Fortunately, the audience wouldn’t see that. All they had seen was three men drawing down on one man, and the one man, unscathed, killing the other three. It had grit, style, skill and that little extra something that only I could supply, charisma. Granted it wasn’t a perfect highlight- it would make it to the top of every monthly top ten list- but it lacked that last special something. It wasn’t dirty enough for me, not dirty enough for the hardcore fans to really get their rocks off. Good thing I had a plan to deliver that last little dose of sex appeal. Of course, it all depended on Mister Mater Dee living up to my expectations, and hopefully not exceeding them. Now, if you haven’t yet decided if I’m crazy or just bored, this next piece of the puzzle might help you decide. A less dedicated performer would have pulled a ‘James Bond’ under these circumstances. Turned and pulled the trigger, plugging Mister Mater Dee in the head. Then posing triumphantly, having cleared the room and done so stylishly. But not me, I know you’re sick of hearing that, but it’s the key to my success: being the outlier. I can’t turn and pull, plug him clean and be done with it. Why? Because I’m not James Bond, I’m Peter Grain. How is Peter Grain to know that the random server in the corner is a shooter and not just a waiter? No. For this to be a masterpiece, as I planned it to be, he needed to fire first. Mind you, I was already sure that his gun was pointed to my back as I stood outside reloading my Reuger. The moment I turned, he’d fire, I was sure of that. The boys over in Creative had really outdone themselves, I’d have to tell them that when I saw them.
I exhaled, and prepared myself to be quick, but not too quick. He fires first. I reminded myself. I had been shot before, more than once. No matter how many times you get hit, it’s never pleasant; it hurts, really fucking bad. Not at first usually, like being punched in the gut, it hurts later, when you realize the muscles around the wound aren’t going to relax until it fully heals. I cracked my neck, like a fighter entering the deeper rounds of a slugfest, ready to take punishment and give it. I lit up a cigarette and turned back toward the restaurant. I took a few steps into the dimly lit room, my feet moving lightly across the wooden floors. There was a ghostly silence in the room, I refused to look up, knowing he wouldn’t shoot until I did. Every step I took, the more certain the audience was that I had no clue about the gunman in front of me. Each step the silence hung lower, heavier. A static tension filled the air as I dragged on my cigarette, I could feel the audience tighten with a perverse mixture of fear and excitement. Once I had taken my place at the center of the foyer, I looked up with the cigarette hanging from my mouth and sure enough, there he was. Arm extended, finger on the trigger. I even feigned surprise, as he smirked at me. Damn I’m good.
Crack!
His handgun cracked once. If he had been less of a showman himself, I would’ve been dead. Instead, he fired once. A statement, a conclusion, to both my life and career. The start, he believed, of his own. The collective gasp from the crowd as the bullet passed through me and I crashed backward onto the hard floor of the entryway was reward enough in itself. The bullet had pierced though the muscle of my shoulder. It would take surgery and physical therapy to fix up, but that’s fine, I could use a vacation. The cigarette flew from my mouth and my arms fell, sprawled out like Christ in martyrdom.
I lay soaking in the suspense and shock of the crowd for a moment which felt like a lifetime, both for me and the crowd. The crowd suspended by shock, while I lingered in euphoria; a sadist under the boot of the dominatrix. The sick pleasure that coursed through me, accompanying the dull pain and shock. I raised my head from the cold, false-marble floor in time to see the look of satisfaction on the face of the faux waiter. He was also basking in the shock of the crowd. He bowed, a true professional, but not a seasoned killer. As my head raised, the crowd gasped. Women’s hands covered their mouths while men gave excited, hysterical laughs. Mister Mater Dee’s face shrank from satisfaction to pale horror, as though he had locked eyes with death itself. I don’t know if it was the surprise of my being alive or the giant grin upon my face as I peered up at him which frightened him, but it took him a long moment to gather the nerve to raise the gun again. With my right arm rendered useless and my Reuger resting several feet away from me under a vacant table, I slapped my left hand against my right side and, in one motion, unclipped and drew my Glock 19, with instinct that can only be built over a lifetime. I fired one clean shot through the upper right portion of his forehead. In all honesty, and modesty, I missed. Whether it be because I’m naturally right-handed or because my muscles were still tight from the shock of the gun shot, I can’t be certain, but the shot went a few inches up and to the left of the bullseye. Regardless, the hollow point round in the chamber had made swiss cheese of his brain. The intensity that had once filled his eyes was replaced with a dull, dumbstruck look. His mouth remained agape as he lay in a pillow of his own blood and brain matter. One eye slightly askew and out of focus.
The crowd erupted with excitement and joy as I got to my feet slowly. Slower, even, than I had expected. Small pieces of shattered glass glimmered and fell from my coat as the sun light spilled from the doorway into the entrance of the restaurant. The beautiful cascading light showering over the horror that had transpired here, the horror these fine people had payed to see. I hadn’t noticed until after that some fancy drinking glasses had accompanied me to the floor when I had fallen. I brushed the pieces out of my hair with my gun hand as I held my wounded arm tightly against me, though I could hardly feel it. The pain was dulled by the adrenaline as my hands throbbed, the veins running through them visibly pulsing. I kept my gun drawn, having noticed a distinct lack of Cleanup Crew and Medical Team customary at the end of every show. There were more targets, no sense in dropping my guard. Before you say anything, I get it. How could Peter Grain know there were more targets, surely, he wasn’t expecting any medic with an orange arm band to rush to his aid? Jesus, everyone’s a fucking critic. Well, to you I say, fuck yourself. Peter Grain was just nearly killed by four fuckin people, if he wants to sleep with his gun at this point, he fuckin can. Sorry to get pissy, but artistic criticism and gunshot wounds tend not to mix well.
Despite the woozy feeling overtaking me, I start panning the room for any irregularities. Granted, it’s difficult, many members of the crowd are already giving me a standing ovation, I ignore them. I see Nikki’s headless brainless body and remember the way the crowd laughed. Not me. That won’t be me. I drunkenly observe the room. The guy in the front row was close to tears, he was so excited. Some groups were hugging, others were toasting. If it was to my performance or to their own brilliant wisdom in deciding to see me, I couldn’t be sure. Then I see it. The red dress. A dress that barely earns the name, as its slit rides so high on her tan smooth legs, she may as well have worn a bed sheet. Her perfect breasts facing me, her eyes fierce and cunning. The man beside her, still seated, still sweating. He couldn’t look, only peek through his hands as he covered his face. Clever. She pulled the gun that was strapped to her thigh.
As she raised the gun, I dropped to a knee. We pulled simultaneously. Her shot flew past my head. The hairs on the back of my neck stood up as I felt the wind graze my cheek like a gentle kiss. Meanwhile, she looked down to see a small hole just above her left breast. The blood already seeping over her perfect figure and blending brilliantly with her scarlet dress. She fell back into her seat, just looking down at the wound seemingly impressed. Nice shot, Cowboy. Her final frozen expression seemed to say. Until her neck muscles went lax and her head hung forward as she slouched like a discarded marionette. The nervous man beside her was stock still at first as the relief washed over him. He cracked a smile, then a laugh, and then clapped furiously as he realized the danger had passed. By now, I was coming down. The pain in my arm was becoming more apparent as was the stiffness in my legs. Soon my whole face grew heavy with fatigue as I saw the man in a blue neon vest and a blue arm band run up to me. It had the standard medical cross on it; I sat back at the table I had eaten at, this time on the opposite side with my back to the crowd. They were still whooping and applauding. Was that as good for you? I thought. My eyes drifting back to the woman in the red dress, whose body was being ignored as it continued to slide into a deeper more lifeless slouch. Probably the first time since she came of age that the eyes of the room weren’t on her; not anymore.
Without hesitation I lit up another cigarette, before taking a drag I stared at it. I hoped, for a moment, that it would be lung cancer that got me, not a bullet. I hoped I’d die coughing up blood while refusing Chemotherapy, listening to my significant other cry and scream at me for being so careless, so selfish. I’d play it off like I was fine, while crying myself to sleep every night. Waiting impatiently for the cancer to spread and eat me from the inside out. My family the only crowd present to witness as the light faded from my eyes. My corpse looking ten years older than it ought to, my youthful good looks replaced with the dry grim look of a slow bed-ridden death. Better yet, maybe I would do the Chemo, just for the laughs and the hospital bills. Let my legacy hang around their necks as a burden, both financially and emotionally. I brought the cigarette to my mouth as I heard the snickers, a quiet laughter. Then one sound of surprise and horror from the front row, the man who took my side against the young waiter. My eyes panned from the slouching Greek woman with perfect breasts and long legs, to Mister Mater Dee on my opposite side, no cleanup crew escorting them out. I felt the Medics hand on my wounded shoulder. The arm band was blue, not orange. The thought shot through my head, as I turned and saw the knife coming down toward my face. In a moment I thought of Nikki Tietto one final time. I thought of the way his head looked like pulp, the way his legs twitched like a bug on a windshield, still not completely certain that it had been bashed to bits. Stuck in some thoughtless void, unable to accept the reality of its brutal demise.
I wasn’t Nikki, and I wouldn’t ever be Nikki, I turned and grabbed the blade with my good arm. The false medic wore death on his face with practiced ease. Feeling his hand halted by mine he pressed his other hand to the hilt and drove it closer toward my neck. He was lean and strong; my back was pinned against the dinner table. I struggled but could do nothing more than a turtle that had been rolled on its back. My other arm was still tight and numb as I tried to move it in hopes of evening the fight. The medic hissed through his teeth at me as he pressed down harder. Fortunately, as long as I didn’t surrender position, I could lay here all day and he’d never press it far enough to kill me. It was a matter of thinking my way out now. It all reminded me far too much of my least favorite scene in Spielberg’s Saving Private Ryan. The scene when the German soldier slowly pressed his knife through the heart of the Jewish soldier. That shit always made me cringe, I’d hate to go out that same way. I struggled for position with my legs and hips, but down an arm, and against a seasoned killer, the effort was proving futile. I saw only one way out; he was too strong and too practiced with his grappling to sit here much longer. I continued to grip his wrist tight with my left hand, but I shifted my weight and loaded it toward my left side. As a result, the knife had slipped uncomfortably close to my neck, but it was still only close enough to touch, not slice. He was cursing under his breath now, his eyes wide and wild. He believed he was winning. In one quick motion I reversed my weight and let my shoulders go limp as I twisted. My elbow cut across his face as he leaned in close, the knife sliced through the wooden table just beside my head. Close one.
Blood streaming down his face, he took a few frustrated steps away from me as I rolled off the table. I wobbled to my feet as he turned. Smiling, the Murderous Medic slid his tongue across his upper teeth, tasting the blood running from his broken nose. He gestured with his eyes to my neck with the same lingering smile. I touched the right side of my neck with my left hand, my two fingers returned with blood covering their tips. It wasn’t a fatal or even serious wound more of a confidence builder for the killer in front of me. I didn’t bother returning the smile. He was good, maybe even very good, but it was a cheap shot and he knew it. A murderous medic, the kind of hacky fourth wall bullshit that made me reconsider complimenting the creative team after the show.
“Nice to finally meet you Mister Grain. You can’t imagine the rush.” He continued to lick the blood from his lips. “Cut yourself shaving?” He gestured to the fresh wound on my neck, this time for the crowd. He was good, I liked him.
“Just a scratch.” I wiped the blood, more smearing than anything, but that’s what the crowd wanted. They were quiet, fully invested in this final standoff. I was relieved that the medic was a true performer. Fourth wall breaks can ruin the illusion for the audience, and then I’m left to piece it back together for them, but he was good enough to prevent that. He was almost good enough for me to forgive the Creative team for their irritating misstep “Unfortunately for you, it’s the closest you’re gonna get.” I widened my stance and turned my body, so my left side was facing him, like a counter puncher with a broken arm.
His smile widened
“You don’t look so good, Mr. Grain. Maybe you should save the threats for the next guy. Oh, and don’t worry, I’ll try and leave your face intact when I cut your head off, that way your fans can still have their picture.”
He spun the knife playfully. Finally, someone who understands banter.
“That’s very kind of you. But you already missed your chance, and I’m all out of sympathy. So, I can’t promise that this will be painless. Besides,” I gestured to my limp, wounded arm “This just means you’ll be remembered as the guy I killed with one arm.”
He snarled and lunged forward. He was strong and fast, but his confidence got the better of him. He slashed violently and erratically. He swung a looping shot toward my left side, I parried it with my good arm and dug my heel into his stomach with a stiff kick. He heaved and his body went tight. He backed off again and reset. If his confidence had been shaken at all by that first shot, he didn’t show it. He just maintained a look of blind anger. Naturally, he wouldn’t have taken me lightly, but my wounded state put the pressure on him. Where usually I would be seen as the predator, I was now the limping prey in the eyes of a young lion. He juggled the knife back and forth, seething with murderous rage. He rushed in again. I stepped back and let him miss with the first few swipes. Mild movements of my head and feet kept him off balance. Finally, out of frustration, he settled on the same move as last time. I kept my breathing calm and composed as his looping right arm came over the top, blade facing me. I parried with my left again and shifted my hips, this time my kick met his chin and he fell into a seated position. He sprang back up like a cat, a look of mild embarrassment creeping through the mask of anger and death. The blood ran fresh from his mouth as he reset once more. A switch had been flipped, however, like an unruly child who had finally decided to behave, he calmed himself.
Mimicking my breath, he switched his stance and rolled the blade in his hands. He held the blade down and the hilt upward, his feet more compact and his mouth closed and stern. His brow furrowed as he focused. The crowd, who had ‘ooed’ and ‘awed’ at my quick counterstrikes had gone quiet once again. I knew he had made up his mind, the way only a killer or a pro athlete can. This next move would be his last, he’d lunge in and stay in close until one of us was dead. He was exactly what I wanted in a final performer, cruel and decisive. We circled each other as I carefully made my way toward where my gun had fallen at the start of our skirmish.
“This has been fun, Mister Grain. Thank you.”
“I’m glad you got what you wanted out of it. It’ll make this next part easier.”
“I haven’t got what I want yet, but I will.”
“I’m sure you’re right.”
He leapt forward. Staying compact as he worked his way inside. His foot work much better this time, I couldn’t shake him. I let him get in close, he made a short slash, I wrapped my good arm around his left. We spun in a circle as he pressed. I let the knife cut me just enough for him to fully commit. He stepped in close, we were cheek to cheek now. Seizing the opportunity, I bit down on his ear and ripped backward. The knife sliced my side, but not too deep. His ear flew across the room and into the lap of the nervous man who still sat applauding beside the limp Greek woman.
He wailed, like a hound dog. Only through pain did he come to realize that between the two of us, he wasn’t the monster. One step back was all I needed. I stomped violently against the side of his knee. The tendons inside erupted and folded back. Destabilized, he crumbled to the floor, clutching the knife as a final lifeline. I rolled to the gun on the floor and turned to fire. To his credit, he was already back up, lunging at me. His face now a deformed bloody mess. No longer the predator, but desperate prey. He came down with the knife. The blade caught on the barrel of the gun as I pointed it up at him. He could barely see though the blood covering his face as he screamed violently, still pressing hard on the hilt of the knife. I summoned what strength I had left in my right hand to push the pistol in line with his face. Through one eye, he saw the barrel, and I saw a vague look of recognition and dim disappointment. I pulled the trigger and whatever humanity had yet to be snuffed out from the man’s face was now gone. Due to the proximity, the back of his head exploded. The cranium bursting into chunky bits that showered a small, well dressed party of guests behind him. A woman in the front was particularly covered by the spray of cranial chunks and blood splatter. She wore an expression of embarrassed surprise, as though the host had accidently uncorked the champagne bottle in her direction covering her new dress. Her friends clapped and she laughed with coy embarrassment. The crowd erupted as I watched the skin on the man’s cheek peel away like the wallpaper in my childhood home. He crumbled, less a man then a crazed ravenous…thing.
The crowd must have roared for several minutes straight, I couldn’t hear them. I sat back down at the same table I had used at the beginning. I fixed the chair I had been sitting in, which had fallen in the scuffle. The cigarette I had been holding was still intact on the floor by my shattered glass ware and discharged shell casing. I lifted it from the floor and relit. I dragged, no introspective thoughts this time, just malaise and general discomfort. By now I was partly aware of the cleanup crew as they removed the corpses. Two large men, who looked like they worked Repo part time, picked up the ‘would be sex symbol’ who was slouching in the audience chair with a bullet in her heart. Her midsection was inches above the floor as, despite her lean figure, her body seemed to be giving the two large men a hard time. Mister Mater Dee and the Murderous Medic were closer to the door; thus, they were dragged across the floor with less reverence. I watched as the blood streaked the floor only to be followed by a disinterested man with a mop who worked quickly, as if the show had gone longer than expected and he had somewhere to be afterward. I felt a tap on the shoulder as the man in the front row who had helped me with the troublesome waiter- the annoying one not the killer- was smiling and extending his hand. I observed it suspiciously
“Big fan Mister Grain, that was exceptional. Some of your best work, and I’ve followed you for years, so I don’t say that lightly.”
“Thanks very much. It means a lot. I appreciate your support.” Three for three in the most generic celebrity responses.
“Not at all.” He waved the comment off “You put it all on the line, you’ve got crazy heart, not to mention balls of steal.” He patted my good shoulder with welcomed familiarity. Usually I’d hate it, but I was tired. “Just want you to know, no matter how things end for you, you’re the best in my book.”
I shook his hand and gave a genuine smile
“Thank you, really.”
Just then, a sleek grey-haired man in a suit broke through the crowd, walking with authority but also a hurried step that expressed a natural urgency. My agent, Timothy Wade, was working his way toward me. His eyes had a conflicting look of relief and exasperation.
“Peter, Peter, bullet-eater. Aye? Not a bad headline, right?”
God he’s such a fucking cliché, I pinched my eyes shut and gave him a thumbs up.
“Sure, Tim. Whatever you say, we’ll run it past the guys upstairs.”
He laughed at my indifference; he often found my apathy charming.
“Peter, Peter, I’m kidding! Jesus Christ what do you take me for. If you’re the best Leading Man in the game, then you better bet your sweet ass I’m the best agent in the game.” He slapped my bad shoulder. I peeked at him with a sly but threatening smirk. He threw his hands up and smiled. “Woah, woah, killer. Just making sure you’re not dying on me.”
He laughed, I cracked a smile and stretched my back. I liked Tim, couldn’t trust him as far as I could throw him, but I liked him. Like the average housecat, I knew the moment I died he’d eat my softer bits without hesitation, no loyalty, but until then it was nice to have him around. For those who prefer lame men’s terms, he’d have fun selling away my assets when I was gone. Best of Peter Grain, The Man Behind the Character, or some lame biographical bullshit to that effect. He’ll subtitle it ‘From the perspective of his agent and closest friend’ and sadly be more right than wrong. In fact, I think I walked in on him typing it up last year. Some shitty rough draft of our time together, he got defensive and shut his laptop; so, it was either that or his Star Wars fan fiction. He’s really dissatisfied with the latest trilogy. Aren’t we all? Course’ if it becomes a threat to my security, I’ll just kill him… or fire him, whichever’s more painless.
He dropped his hands and looked at me with his head cocked cautiously
“What’s the matter champ? That was one hell of a show. You should be proud, be celebrating. Have a drink, grab a woman or two, you’re still alive. Not to mention,” He took a seat and leaned in “I just got off the phone and that shit put you in contention for your third Performer of the Year.” He extended his arms out and gave a toothy smile, trying desperately to squeeze a reaction out of me. I hate to admit that it almost worked.
“That’s great Tim. I’m glad it’s all coming together.” I took a long satisfying drag on my cigarette, almost sucking it down to the nub.
Tim sighed and shook his head “C’mon kid, talk to me. What’s wrong?”
My eyes watched, almost involuntarily, as the woman in the red dress finally made her way into the back room with help from the two large Repo men. I only caught the souls of her feet, the muscular shape of her calves and the sleek shaven skin on her shins. I shivered, not visibly of course. I’m not sentimental enough for that.
“Nothin’ Tim. No worries.” Then the appropriate topic to change the subject struck me “I have one question though, Tim”
“Fire away, kiddo.”
“Who the fuck signed off on the Medic?”
I stared at him accusingly.
“You didn’t like that?” He eased back in the rickety wooden chair as the cleanup crew mopped away behind him. I wiped at the blood and clammy sweat that dampened my neck. As the adrenaline steadily wore away, I was becoming increasingly more aware of the many bodily fluids blocking my pores.
“No, Tim, I wasn’t a fan.”
He put his hands up, this time palms facing the ceiling. He was used to my usual complaints.
“Don’t know what to tell you kid. The guys in Creative got a little carried away.”
I raised my finger
“I have a character, Tim. A very carefully crafted character. I’m not gonna have some random dipshit over in creative fuck it all up cuz he wants to put some post-modern twist on my performance.”
“Well, Peter, what can I say? I was outgunned. I looked at them and I said ‘Ya know Peter isn’t gonna like this.’ I looked at them and I said, ‘you pencil pushers know how he gets about his character. He’s very protective of his character.’” He patted my shoulder again “You know? I went to bat for you kid but those desk jockeys just don’t get it, ya’ know?”
“I appreciate you going to bat for me, Tim. I take it you didn’t love the idea then?”
“Me? No. But you know how those writers are when they get on a run, they start jerkin each other off. Start believing they can do no wrong. They were convinced it was a great idea.”
“Were they? They should tell that to him.” I gestured lazily with my head to the last bits of the Murderous Medic which were being mopped into a corner of the room and sprayed off the dress of the woman in the ‘splash zone’ with what looked like an unmarked bottle of Windex. “I think he’d have a different opinion.”
Tim looked at the mess with only a look of vague sympathy “Yeah, it’s a real shame, he was a solid performer.”
“He was. He was great. It’s a real waste.”
“Well Peter, to be fair, he was only armed with a knife.”
“Don’t start with me on this shit Tim. You know where I stand on this.” I pointed an authoritative finger at the silver haired man.
“Peter, Peter,” He had a funny habit of saying my name twice, as if calming an aggressive but familiar animal. “I know you have your rules, but they figured you might cut him some slack if he performed well enough. You know you could do big things for a young kid’s career. It would be great exposure being the first performer to live through a confrontation with Peter Grain.”
I spoke coldly
“I clear the room. No exceptions.”
“Okay, okay. I get it. You wanna keep your perfect clearance rate, that’s fine. I dig it. Not too many guys have done that.”
I winced. His inability to comprehend my situation was, at times, painful
“He threatened to cut off my head, Tim.”
He laughed, failing to grasp the point
“He certainly did, kid. He certainly did. So, you kicked his ass. Embarrassed him. Last time the company tries to use you to boost another kid’s stock.”
I decided to settle for that, it was the most I could hope for out of him.
“Look, Tim, if they want to build up some younger guy’s reputation, then put them in there with Walt, Crystal or Harris. They’re all about that development bullshit anyway.”
“Yeah but they aren’t you, Peter. Crystal and Harris are better coaches than performers, anyway. You know that.”
“That’s why it should be there problem, they want to coach; then retire and do that. Or have them build up the young talent. It’s not gonna become my fucking problem. I’ve got goals, goals that don’t involve indulging every twenty-something with a big mouth and a death wish… plus it fucks with my character.”
He chuckled, as though I was being unreasonable
“What? Peter Grain can’t have an arch nemesis, a side kick? Besides, the Company is too afraid that the talented youngsters might kill them.”
I raised my eyebrows and leaned in close “Then I guess it won’t be tough to find a replacement.” The aggravation was growing more apparent with my every word. Tim got the picture.
“Okay, okay, consider it dropped.”
We sat in silence for a moment before Tim spoke up again. By now the real medic, with an orange arm band, was standing behind me. He was asking me to sit up straight so he could do his best to stitch up the wound. I knew Tim had more to say, he didn’t do well in silence and he wouldn’t still be sitting here if the conversation was over. Our interactions always ended with either a contract being signed or a sudden phone call, often both.
“Look kid, I’ve got some paperwork here. Just an encore clause if you want it. I know your tired, so if you want to waive it feel free.” Bingo. He was predictable, I liked that about him. His tone was one of practiced sympathy. Like when your girlfriend says, ‘You don’t need to buy me anything.’ It’s all just lip service. “But before we get to all that, anything else you need to square up?”
My eyes, as they often do, acted on their own. They shot toward the tall, young waiter in the kitchen and pinned him to the wall like ghostly blue daggers. He only caught my gaze for a moment before his eyes darted away and he scurried out of sight. Still want my fucking autograph, kid.
“Yeah,” I said, still staring in that direction “I need to speak to the manager.”
To be continued in Encore.