Drive-By

He was already two hours deep into a furious, daytime alcohol OD. Drinking from 10:20 in the morning and now it was six 'clock. State he was in, no way he'd remember anything much past 12:00. He'd marked the lunch hour by burying three double Grey Goose and sodas in under seven minutes. The vodka tsunami redoubled itself in mixing with the 14 Bud bottles stagnating and degrading in his swollen gut. The effect was quite something, apparently shutting down his ability to speak actual words whilst ramping up his determination to make noise with his mouth. By 12:17 even the crack heads huddled in the derelict vinyl booth began rolling eyes and smirking, occasionally letting fly with a disbelieving

Ooo!

All in unison, and then murmuring and gesturing in whispered secret, waiting with delighted anticipation for the shithead drunk to fuck up again.

Ooo…AhAAAAAAhhhhhhh!!!!

It was red-top that called it. He was eyes-wide pointing too, pumping a scarred index at the guys chair. There was a creeping stain bubbling up from the stool, down from the dude’s upper thigh, turning dingy brown polyester into a smelly dark-brown soaked color. The dude was shelling peanuts, throwing the inside-nuts up like to catch them in his mouth. His spatial awareness was out of whack, though, and he - despite obvious intentions to do otherwise - kept leaning back, and throwing overhand. To somebody just arriving he’d have looked like a guy just randomly throwing peanuts around the bar.

The ethyl-tide rolling on his cerebral cortex was shorting out entire years of memory, millions of good and bad minutes dissolved in the relentless alcoholic siege. He began getting some shit because, by now, the guy was now crossing over from the merely hilarious, into a kind of emotionally manipulative performance art. He needed to do a little damage control. Leaned in for a side bar with the bartender, and the smile blooming on both their faces sent an instinctive kind of optimism through the dive. Shot glasses were set up in front of everybody in the place. Not the tiny 1-dog jigger measures but real-deal four-finger rocks glasses. The old fashioned kind with the thick glass coming halfway up and a great big tub for the whiskey.

After a long time, the guy had given up on the peanuts, but when he turned around the crack heads saw that he’d never stopped pissing. It was still coming out with force though, and had created a mini-pee fountain in the guys saturated crotch. On he peed, and he’d noticed. Looked down at his pissing crotch with hands in a jesus position. He either said…

Oo No…

Or

Ohhhhh

The arms stayed out as - sensing viral potential - two of the crack heads take out their I-phones and one begins to skype the man's pants-peeing. He speaks into the web cam of a tabled laptop…

The guy's been (convulsive laughter and a long hoooooo!!!! Noise)…His been pissing for 10 min (guffaws evolving into belly laughs) And and an an …an….Juslooog!! (more spastic, uncontrollable laughing)…

He spun the laptop around and saw that the pissing had stopped, but the saturation was still moving up the guys belly, highlighted piss soakings against gray oxford. There’s waterfalls still seeping out of booth cuffs. He almost falls backwards and saves it and bellies unsteadily up to the brass. Speaks. Mumbo-jumbo gibberish slowly evolving into a fucked mega-slur.

Shhhelllllllm…hmmm.hmI…I…Iahhh jum ummershiblenerneeeeeeb lefeen freegy leffrer..eeemangopl! Emmang !!c NO Not gunna. He him think he edfff twionmmmm. You, buddysh

He turned to the bartender. Singled him out with a shakey cocaine-finger that rose and fell with it’s owners imbecilic ranting:

No Now. No my…My friends. My friends would like a drink. I’m going tot seeth athey get it. You’re not quite best bourbon. Shhhhhumpther merkan.

Fuck no dude. You just pissed all over the floor. It smells like asparagus in here. That’s so fuckin’ gross! Get the fuck out before I call the cops.

A guy in a warm up suit hailed the bar guy from the corner. He got up and covered the distance across the floor in a lightning series of skips and feints. He hovered over to the barkeep and leaned in over the brass. Looked at the guy.

Just don’t worry dude. He’s with us OK?.

The guy didn’t want to, but he found himself saying…

OK. Get your friend out of my bar before I shoot his nose off.

Green warm up suit looked over at the drunk. Said:

Howdy.

The barkeep took out his cell phone, hovering a cocaine finger shaking absurdly around the touch pad. The crack heads switched over towards him in unison, tennis fan-style. The one with the zoom crouched-hopped up forward to get a better vantage, splashing in the pee on his way by.

The dude said something and hung his head, and for a second, there was a look about him that said the end was indeed near. His eyes took on a hazy pale cast, and his feet were moving like cement. But then he looked up, brightened and reached into his back pocket. He took out the contents and laid it on the table. The crack heads took a look, came back up to the rail.

***

When he did finally leave, It was 6:45 and he’d been at the bar all day. He’d drunk through to a level of inebriation reserved for only the most determined of booze bags. That holy grail of intoxication: the extended-blackout drunk. Like an airline captain switching to autopilot in the eye of a hurricane. A strong tolerance to heavy drinking and an ability to function for days at a time. Then all that’s left to do is just eventually…

Wake up. Wake up!! Dude…

He was seeing double. He recognized the faces though, from a long time ago. Somewhere before he was, what he’d become. Maybe ranger school? The double vision was so sharp. Looked like two guys standing in front of him. Both looking down on his with genuinely concerned faces. Did the sweat suits match? One of them, the one on the right, backhanded at the shoulder of the other. The double-vision was all out of synch. He decided to table that. Come back to it later. The right side , the one that tapped, said:

Dude. This is the guy? This cannot be the guy.

This is the fuckin’ guy. Look at him. That’s him. I’m inside his head too. ‘S fuckin him.

Moving as he was speaking, he underhand-displayed an I phone display and the other looked down. More tennis-watching back-and-forth. The guy thought of the crack heads. Then he saw them. They were somewhere in the middle distance. Out beyond the car he was in. Must be a car. It’s sunny out though. Bright. His eyes ache and burn. He covers up with one in each hand. In seconds he was back in the ether, orbiting special sections of his own private collection of planets. He did not hear:

Well lets go find his car. Lu there’s supposed to be some shit in his car.

***

When he woke again it was wind.he was traveling fast. He felt a back seat surging forward underneath him. The motion of the travel was that particular kind of hover that signals the breaching of 100 miles per hour. He’d heard it described as “driving on a tightrope”

Tightrope? Is that what he said?

Wake him the fuck up it’s up here somewhere.

Then he was being nudged, slapped at. He opened his eyes.

Where are we?

Ten minutes.

Ok. Where’s…

A portable rocket launcher and a key to arm and fire it were thrust into his chest. He looked down, years more alert now. He looked up with a goofy eye-brow twitching.

OK. This’ll do it.

***

The day was warm and wet even at 8:30 am. The gross humidity, drenching after minutes outside. Even Anwar Youbar - around “Gladiator City” long enough to be well-used to the heat by now - was almost overcome stepping outside his air-conditioned trailer to hit up the roach coach. He also continued one half of a conversation he’d started inside, when he could think and breathe normally. The part of the conversation he kept on with was the part of the conversation where he cursed and muttered under his breath, blaming
his still-ac’d antagonist for most wrong things.

Moherfucker. MotherFUCKER. How’s he gonna? MotherFUCKER!

He walked and swore and placed blame:

This motherfucker is actually gonna sit there, and tell him no bonus for him or the boys, and then tell him how bad business is. And he’s showing up two weeks in a row with two different color high-end Benzes, crying fucking poverty. Leasing at a G per week. He said they didn’t count both of them, because one he gave to his 17 year old son for straight C+ ’s on the last report card. A shoe-in, was the kid. Any school without admission requirements. Meanwhile, it’s hot, and the coach parked at the front door instead of the dock. An extra 500 steps for a tired, discouraged gentleman on a 95degree, hot-bath humidity day.

Now coming up on the coach he saw another dick-hurt. He’s looking at the drink bay, he’s looking for it…Looking…No. Not there. He’s got one request. Some of the other guys come with lists! Fuckin’ Lists. And this stupid motherfucker can’t even keep the coach in Yoohoo so he don’t run out.

Motherfucker!

Roach-coach Tim snapped his head away from customer with a breakfast burrito.

Me?

You! MotherFUCKER!! You f…

And that’s as far as he got.

***

Sam and Felix Twinze had their doubts At first. They hadn’t seen the dude in umpteen years, never really knew him to begin with. The dude looked really different than he did even then. Besides, way back when they weren’t in the relationship for the long term. Context had evolved. Observations had been made. Felix and Sam had come to conclusions. Namely: the guy was a gutter-sliding, low-bottom, fuckin’ rummy. Both Twinze twins conspicuous booze-hounds, and both of them blanched - more than a little - at their new associate’s dedication.

He’d start at 8:30, and not with a breakfast beer, or a mimosa either. No, the good doctor would mellow his mornings with one of two things: Patron Tequila, or Ja germeister. He went to great lengths to make sure he never ran out of either. During most days he’d kill at least a case of nasty American yellow-beer. Referring back to “the Mexican” or “The Swede” (he called Jager the Swede, even though it’s not produced in Sweden) whenever he felt his confidence slip.

At night, an entirely different protocol was initiated. This one involved the systematic destruction of anywhere between 10 and 15 giant extra extra dry Grey Goose martinis. He joked that instead of trying to dab a properly tiny drizzle of Vermouth, bartenders could simply think about vermouth after tripling down on the important part. After the martinis it was either home to bed, and a long, dreamless rest, or - if he could get some of the cocaine - a booze-bath lasting until late the next night.

They’d been with him a week, and - if their client’s predictions were accurate - they had a good long time left in each other’s company. Felix and Sam didn’t know if they could handle the extreme pace.

We’re almost there doc. You ready?

The Doc squinted and kept to the business at hand. Since he’d been thrown the Rocket Launcher he’d been giving it a major once over. Setting his hands wandering about it outside and in. Reading things and pressing a few buttons. He said:

Ammunition?

Felix:

Next to you in the Dave’s bag.

Ha! If it were a dog it would it would have bit me. Sam, make sure that…

Yes you fuck yes! I’ll make sure we’re going good and fast so the fire-ball doesn't consume the car. Follow your plan to the letter. What the fuck are you doing?

It was obvious what he was doing, so the Doc didn’t answer Sam. Instead he looked in the rear-view mirror and help up the coke-bullet he’d just mauled.

Mmmm?

…He said, looking in Sam’s mirror-reflected eyes.

No-fuck-no Doc. Shit’s hard enough without that shit.

Amen d’ that.

OK. Pay attention…

Why do you have to swear so much dude?

This from Felix, holding up an I-phone and tapping the screen.

…We’re here.

Sam rolled down his window and the window in back of him, same side. He saw parts of the Doc in the rear view, wrestling and securing the rocket-device. Then he saw their quarry: seven massive oil storage silos grouped together, roughly 25 feet apart and completely exposed. The gigantic cylidrical beasts naked, gleaming white between the highway and the distant Providence River. They were clipping along at a sporty 112 mph when Felix yelled:

THIS IS IT!

***

Uuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuck!

He was flying. He realized it just in time to then realize he was now falling. Then he was rolling, and he realized it just after he’d stopped. Then he was falling again, flung into the air by some unseen escarpment-topography. He braced for impact but there was none, because he was still falling. He was flying. Still going up. Already (he saw in slow-motion) at the height of the oil drums, and each one of them was 120 feet high. Then he saw something else. Again, in slow motion, but this time he realized it as it was going on, and he paid attention. He was very high and still not dropping, His horizontal speed was considerable though, and he saw he would be smashed on the side of the enormous oil container. It was frustrating, he realized, to suddenly see you were about to die. He winced, and things began to speed up again. That’s when the oil drum exploded.

***

Behind them, but not far behind them, there was an impressive noise of an exploding oil refinery and storage facility. Sam smiled behind the wheel, Felix and the Doc both screamed. Then Sam felt the heat as the first of eight concussions bashed at them. Felix - spying from out the rear windshield - saw a towering black-and-crimson pillar, clawing and scorching the very air as it pushed skyward. They went airborne, surfing the edge of a firey concussion-wave. The whole car hovering, at speed, actually flying, it felt like, just a few feet off the road and completely out of control. It landed, beam-to, on the centerline of 95 Northbound, three quarters of-a-mile down the road from where it had begun it’s hover-surfing. As it touched down it began a seemingly frictionless four-wheel drift. Then, as if tripped-up on an invisible hurdle, the car began to roll. Maytag-ing and somersaulting violently before it finally righted itself almost a mile away from the conflagration they’d created.

***

.Anwar Yubar was beginning to think the impact was really going to hurt. He’d been hurled at least 250 feet into the air by the second blast, but now he’d apexes (enjoying an otherwise amazing view of the flaming destruction below him) and started to fall, his options decaying rapidly with every inch of drop. He was just about at roof level of the remaining drums, and fully conscious, fearing the pain and certain maiming to come. That’s when the last four drums burst at once, relieving Anwar of the heavy burden and responsibility that came with having a life. He left no trace, except a vague red mist that boiled to evaporation before it had the chance to properly exist.

***

Ok. Well, I guess that’s it for this car then. How’s yer credit Doc?

The Doc was still with them, but he was just gazing off into the middle distance. Felix and Sam stared for a bit at his (obviously) broken nose, and the blood running in sheets from his head and down his cheeks. He betrayed no concern, or pain or any real emotion at all. He’d killed people for years. Underground, and under the watchful, crooked eye of the Government, he killed them in every way manageable five, hell even ten times a day, some years. But here, out in the open, with people probably paying attention, he found himself bothered and distracted. The Goo: He should be carrying some now.

I’m fine. We gotta get moving.

***

They were on four lane industrial street heading into the heart of Providence. The car, smashed to hell from the concussion-wave and esuing crash, scraping and steaming it's last. In the road about 1000 feet ahead they saw the checkpoint. In his (all but destroyed) rear-view mirror he saw the oil fields burning hundreds of feet up into the summer-morning sky. He heard sirens of every description getting closer. They booth, they all saw, was empty. Sam pulled up right to the door though, about to make some wise-ass comment…

Stop Sir!

There was a dude in there. Military. Wearing BDU’s and carrying an M-14. Safety off. Ready position.

Stop Sir!

Felix: Hmm. Fuckin’ stayed at his post…

Smoke and soot like a ground-fog now. The guard approached with hands cupping red eyes.

Sir, be advised sir: I am well within my rights to shoot you and your passengers should you disobey me. I need you to turn this vehicle around. I need you to show me some identification. I need you to take a breathalyzer test.

There was a strange moment then. The guard stayed put, staring into the Buick with cupped hands, like he was looking across the sea in severe clear. He was silent. He passengers of the car were silent. Sirens and now official-sounding loud-speaker barking filled the air all around them. The flying soot got thicker and soon they all had to hit the deck. Felix said:

Ok dude. Just let us get back in the car and we’ll get off your gate. I don’t wanna get shot.

He guard said: Ok that’s more like it.

The sirens got louder for the next few minutes and then crested. Peaking out in an all-encompassing deluge of noise. The soot-mist died down though. Felix said to the Doctor:

Doc, can you be a doll and hand me the bag between your feet?

The guard, back on his feet and pissed off:

What the fuck sir!

He started to apply muscle action to the assault rifle. Muzzle up now, the guard had it, pointing at parts and places that would hurt to get shot in. Then, as quick as he’d become enraged, he calmed down. Felix saw the shoulders relax and shot Sam a knowing eye. Of the two of them, his brother seemed to have a better time getting to people in the great outdoors. It wasn’t anything consistent though, the effect couldn’t be sustained for any meaningful length of time when there was no roof to contain it. If Sam had him now, he certainly wouldn’t be able to hold him long.
Never mind guard. See the bag Doc?

Yep.

Good, hand it up?

Here.

He handed it up.

Sam said:

OK sir. Before we get on our way I’d like to do you a favor. It’s ok I do you a favor?

The guard said nothing.

OK then, so here it is.

He handed the guard a Big-Gulp cup full up with yellowish-tinted fluid he’d just poured from the Draino bottle. The guy looked skeptical. He whispered…

No. Please. No. I’m begging…

Sam said:

It’s OK! I have a treat for you…

No.No.No.No.No.No…

Bottoms up screw.

Nonono…

He drank the cup. When it was empty he burped. Then he sat down where he’d stood and began to die.

***
Doc said:

We just gonna leave him there?

Oh don’t worry he’ll be dead in 50 minutes, probably…

Bigger fish to fry now son!

And they were right. As they drove, at a crawl in the racked up Toyota into the deadliest piece of real-estate on the continent, the Doc knew they were absolutely right.

***

Coming back from the burning oil fields Brenton knew something was wrong. He’d told Dennis to stay back and watch during the blaze but Dennis hadn’t once answered the phone or called in for status report. The fire being the immediate, (not to mention very loud) threat, he’d back-burnered his concerns. Now though, he was through with the fire, and the oil had become somebody else’s problem. His problem was the man he saw writhing in the street directly in front of him. It was the guard, Mott. Not looking good.