Thursday Story

Kim Forrest heard the scream from the bathroom and instantly developed a shitty, two-temple headache. Before she could shout back a response there was another scream and she figured she’d have to be on-site to investigate the awful scene in the bathroom. Yet another scream - this one the loudest by far - rang out as she jogged over. She entered the bathroom ready for anything, except for what she actually found there. Her son - the three year old - was standing by the bathtub where her daughter had been soaking peacefully. He was holding the removable bowl section from his toilet trainer in two hands, upside down, over the bath. The girl - eight years old in scant weeks - was positioned directly under the bowl. She wasn’t screaming anymore, and seemed to be having fit in her once placid bathwater. Kim deduced why almost five whole seconds before visual confirmation: Her son had pooped and peed (yeah!), and then dumped his waste into his sisters bath. The fire alarm went off then, because Kim had run to the bathroom and left veggies to burn on the stove. The house was soon filled with the scent of burned broccoli and her son’s shit. When the phone began to ring a few minutes later Kim had to laugh.

Hello

Hello, is this Cort?

I’m sorry?

I’m looking for somebody called Cort. I was given this number. Is he available?

I’m sorry, that person doesn’t live here anymore.

(silence)

Hello? I said…

I heard.

Uh…OK.

You sure? Cort’s not around?

Nope. I never met him. His kid just shit in the bathtub though. You wanna come help me sort through this? It’s not your buddy Cort but it is screaming kids and poop. Fun!OK. Thanks.

OK.

She hung up, and entertained - just for a second - the idea that the person hadn’t believed her.

***

She says no. He don’t live there anymore. She says she don’t have his number, doesn’t know the guy. Now what?

Oh well then, I guess we just give up. She says he’s not there, I’m sure that’s the truth if it. Just go to the next item on the to do list right? Asshole. Go there. Find this guy. Shoot his kid in the face if he gives you any trouble. Find this fucking guy.

(silence)

Gordo…You still there? I hope fuckin’ not. Go! Get Pierce first.

Pierce. Right.

You’re gonna find Cort there. Kill him. Anybody else that’s there too. Then Pierce.

Yeah? Pierce…

Yeah. He’s involved here somehow an I don’t feel like asking. Shoot his head when he’s not looking would be my advice. Have him help with Cort, then pow.

Pow. OK.

Call me when it’s done. Leave them all there. Make it look standard.

Standard. Got it.

And hurry the fuck up. My money…

***

Denton Pierce had decided long ago that he would kill Gordon Penns. The only question was when. It wasn’t personal, DP just Knew the guy would fuck something up, or - more likely - do something stupid and force him to take martial action. On that day he’d be losing a valuable asset, and probably have to work harder himself for the loss. Gordo - pathetic and dull-witted as he was - seemed to have a hypnotic effect people. Penns stood a robust 6’8” and seemed to Dent to be ever gaining weight. He almost as wide as he was tall, and had a head like a medicine ball. With all of it tweaked and flashed to maximum effect, especially in the enthusiastic performance of his job’s daily accountabilities as head scary guy for the “Deadly Demon of Roxbury”, Penns had probably saved him thousands in bullets alone.

Even so, he would have to go. He’d tried to sit down with Drey about it, but his boss had bigger things on his mind. Now, with Drey in Mexico for at least three weeks, maybe Penn’s time had come. The boss man would have the ass coming home, and when his boss was displeased, people usually died. Mostly though, it was Denton and Gordo doing the killing.

Drey’s reputation billowed around him like acrid black smoke, each tale of heartlessness and cruelty more fantastic than the last, but Pierce was skeptical. His boss was a murderer and a thief and a grifter, but he was the shortest fucking murderer, thief, and grifter in the history of history. Dent had trouble looking the guy in the eye without having to suppress a massive gut laugh. Five feet, nothing - in generously healed boots - was Mr. Meldrik Drey, practically a midget. And the short thing didn’t even begin to cover it. It’s not that he was particularly brutal or even particularly violent. Dent had been a hired killer for 35 years, assholes were part of the job description. No, lil Meldrick was a riddle far too vast and dynamic to be labeled with only one convenient slag.