Mass Murder

He looked closer, and couldn’t believe his luck. A payphone. And, more importantly, intact. He walked over, dabbed a scarf around the coin slot and receiver to preempt accidental tissue stains. Listening for the dial tone after dialing a twenty digit code from memory, he noticed a picture on the wall in the small wooden vestibule. The words “To Charlie” were scrawled across an action shot of Keith Richards. Another, completely unintelligible scribble crawled the bottom border. A voice came on the line:

You’re calling, so it must be done.

Sharp you are luv. Me money? It came out: Shah yahloo…eemon-ee

The usual account?

That’s perfect baby. Perfect. It came out: Peerfle….Perflebaye

***

Two or three random drunks at the bar. Charlie lookin’ deep into number, like, forty-seven on the night. Martinis. No vermouth. Just big gullet-fulls of Grey Goose and olives. He’d become so drunk that he’d actually stopped slurring, and had starting annunciating conspicuously. He was on a roll. Keith Richards from 1972 two stools away, nodding off, supporting his head on a wobbly, albino-white, elbow-bent forearm.

A bartender had been tidying up and probably getting ready to call it, but Sheen felt unfinished. He took out a 1,000 dollar bill, folded it into a diagonal table tent and placed it next to his latest empty martini stem. The bartender abandoned his break-down procedures and now he was just listening. Sheen kept on:

So you see, It’s worthless. The money is not backed by anything. There is no corresponding piece, no single entity fulfilling the “promise,” part of the term “promissory note”. Way back, not far in time from when money was first exchanged for goods and services, that’s when money, like real MONEY started. Back then, there was only gold. Can you imagine? The group-mind actually decided that gold was cool enough, in and of itself, to give people in exchange for them doing something, making something, killing somebody important. I mean of all the fucked up shit I’ve ever heard, the dawn of commerce is, to me, amongst the most puzzling. I mean why? The Indians had wampum, but fuck the Indians. You know what Wampum is? It’s like little beads strung onto leather thongs. It’s like fuckin’ silly bands. And I hate those fuckin things too! What the fuck? Why do certain things catch on? It’s like we’re do desperate as a race that even our children need to stress about having a little parcel of…of…of fuckin’ things. What’s it for? You notice that almost every major invention since the personal computer is one that involves sitting and looking at a screen. That or telling people where you are and what you’re doing. That’s not paranoia, not fuckin’, suckin’ SPIN. No, that’s real! That’s what’s happening. Cell phones, video game consoles, flat screen, plasma screen, DVR, fuckin on demand cable, Nintendo DS and Wii, smart phones, virtual reality, home theater, social networking…Oh.

It was amazing, cause the bartender was sitting there three feet away and he didn’t see the knife until it was WAY too late. It was a matter of seconds. Sheen got to “virtual reality,” and the hand that been bent in support of Keith’s nodding head slipped down. By the word “theater” the hand was holding a nine-inch, heavy gauge switchblade made of carbon black aluminum and steel. A weapon illegal in fifty states. By the time Sheen finished the word “networking,” the evil blade was buried to the hilt in his left eye. His other eye rolled over to look at it and then black, bloody looking fluid started pouring from both of his nostrils. He coughed and sprayed the stuff all over the bar, the floor, the bottles across from him. The two drunks took a beat and then moved for the door. Richards from ’72 didn’t get up. He rotated 180 degrees while bringing up a gigantic, suppressed Sig Saur .45 from someplace. He caught the first one at the base of the spine 10 feet from the door. The other was just reaching out for the handle when a hollow-point from the sig laser-beamed through the back of his neck, his vertebral column, exploding his C1 and C2 and then booming out, severing the ceratoid artery and jugular and embedding itself in the wooden wall. The spatter from that one covered something on the wall that was of great interest to Richards ’72, who had no cell phone. He said to the bartender:

Well…

The guy looked back at him.

Dude, c’mon. I got kids.

Wow, really? Tell me…

Jason is four, Terry is seven. Wife is waiting at home with them right now. Please.

Richards relaxed his shoulders, the gun came down, kind of.

Well old boy, today’s your lucky day. Close her up and go home.

Wow really! Thanks man. Thanks. And don’t worry, I never saw this. Any of it. Uh, Uh. I’m just, I’m blind right? THANK you man, thank YOU!

He turned to cash out the drawer. Keith raised the sig, blew the guys face into an open jar of pickled eggs. Then he picked up Charlie’s thousand dollars and went over to the entranceway and the machine of interest hanging on the wall.

He looked closer, and couldn’t believe his luck. A payphone. And, more importantly, intact. He walked over, dabbed a scarf around the coin slot and receiver to preempt accidental tissue stains. Listening for the dial tone after dialing a twenty digit code from memory, he noticed a picture on the wall in the small wooden vestibule. The words “To Charlie” were scrawled across an action shot of Keith Richards. Another, completely unintelligible scribble crawled the bottom border. A voice came on the line.