Blood, Bullets, and Broccoli: Issue #5
A Psychopath Is No Match For A Taser To The Balls
COMBAT LOG #5
Wednesday: 1700hrs.
Mustache: Growth. Black as space. Soft as silk.
Note to self: Reschedule prostate exam.
Last night’s dream: My head was a stock of broccoli and I was being chased by a lactate intolerant cow.
Mood: We Care A Lot.
There’s a knock at the door.
To the uninitiated, most knocks sound the same. Knock, knock, knock. A series of sounds indicating a friend or a murderer sits outside your door waiting to crack open your skull. But, if you study the subtle intricacies of a simple knock, you can extract all sorts of useful information about the crazed axe murderer and plan accordingly. Is he tall? Short? Confident? Weak? Maybe, he’s a she. The volume of the knock could indicate a man or a woman. A soft, or a subtle knock could also indicate a lack of confidence and not necessarily a prejudice based on gender. It can reveal mood, or if the person standing outside your door is a dickhead. Most are dickheads. All that said, a psychopath is no match for a taser to the balls.
This knock is calm and idiotic. Without a care in the world I open the door and scream, “Holy shit, Charlie!” There was a time not so long ago when I wouldn’t open a door without a magnum, knife or a cyanide pill tucked underneath my tongue. Or at the very least asking who it was.
The quiet voice coming from my mustache says, “I did warn you, Ian.”
“No, Judith,” I say, “you didn’t.”
The voice sighs and says, “I said, grab your gun, and don’t open the door without confirmation.”
I say, “You’re too quiet Judith. I can’t hear you.”
Judith shouts, “Because I’m still growing, you idiot, and you’re old as dirt. I shouldn’t have to say anything. It’s standard operating procedure.”
I say, “Jeesh, I heard that.” Staring at Charlie I say, “It’s only Charlie anyway and the only threat he is, is to himself. Ok?”
Judith says, “Are you sure about that? He literally looks like the undead. Show him a crucifix and protect your neck, Ian.”
Charlie is standing on my doorstep observing an argument between me and my mustache. Well, my side of it anyway. Only I can hear her voice. The relationship between a man and his combat mustache is mostly complicated. Geez, when I say it out loud, it sounds a little ridiculous.
Judith, she’s not wrong. Charlie is mostly bald with bunches of scorched ponytails scattered across his skull and tied together into one braid. He’s drawn thick, black, Jack O’lantern eyebrows that float high above his Jackie O sunglasses.
Charlie says, “Who are you talking to, Remington? Have you finally lost your mind?”
I say, “It’s classified Charlie. Come in. I didn’t know you got back from your visit to Chernobyl. And those are woman’s sunglasses by the way.”
Charlie flops down on my sofa and says, “Found them in the garbage at the mall. Can you believe it? Petting Mr. Mojo Charlie says, “Have any Almond milk? Maybe a sliced apple and honey.”
I say, “Do I look like the type of man who steals honey from those hard working beautiful bastards? You know they hold a grudge longer than any other species?”
“Steal from who, Safeway? No, you can use debit, dude.”
I shout, “The bees, Charlie! One of the hardest working things on this planet.”
I pull something from the closet and throw it at Charlie and say, “Here, put this on.”
Charlie holds up the black ski mask and says, “I’m not robbing a bank, dude. I gave that up ages ago.”
Shaking my head I say, “It’s for your disgusting face Charlie. I’m sorry, but you’re turning my stomach.”
Charlie slips the mask over his head and says, “Dude, it’s not so bad.”
“You look like a failed science experiment, Charlie. You should join the circus immediately. Your face should be on posters promoting abstinence.”
Passing him a glass of Almond milk and a plate of sliced apple with cinnamon I say, “What’s the word on the street, Charlie?”
Placing an apple slice through the small mouth hole of his balaclava Charlie says, “Not much dude. No ones talking to me anymore.”
I say, “Did you find out how those guys are doing those magic tricks?”
Charlie says, “I think the magic is real dude.”
“Magic’s not real, Charlie.” It’s an illusion. Slight of hand. They’re an unground organization with black market tech.”
“Not these dudes, dude.”
“Those dudes, too Charlie,” I say.
Charlie pulls the mask off and says, “Well it wasn’t a sleight of hand that did this.”
“Hot damn, Charlie. Put the mask back on. Point taken.”
Charlie slides the mask back on and says, “There’s something else.” Charlie takes a drink of Almond milk, the milk soaking into the fabric around the mouth hole and says, “And you’re not going to like it.”
Charlie slides another apple slice through the mouth hole and I say, “Well?”
“There’s a vigilante running around town. Cops can’t catch him and they’re pissed to the max.”
I say, “Vigilante? Goddamn, there’s nothing more putrid in this world than a vigilante, except for maybe honey farmers. Fuck those guys.” Pacing the kitchen I say, “Any self-respecting law enforcement officer will not tolerate a vigilante, even in a town this bent. Williamstown Police need to stomp that behavior immediately. It’s the highest form of disrespect, Charlie.”
Curling a fifty pound dumbbell I say, “What’s his name.? All these weirdos have names.”
Charlie says, “Dunno, dude. All the cops and newspaper are saying is, the vigilante is unknown.”
I finish my set, switch arms and say, “You watch, some dipshit is going to call him, The Unknown Vigilante.”
“Dude,” Charlie says, “I’ve been posting that over the Internet all day.”
“Of course you have, Charlie.”
Charlie says, “Wanna go out tonight dude? See if we can find him?”
I drop to the floor and start doing push ups and say, “Not tonight, Charlie. The Great British Back Off is on and it’s the finale.”
Truth is I have orders. Radio silence until further notice. After fifty push ups I jump up and grab a liter of water from the fridge. Need to stay hydrated. Hair follicles love water. Promotes growth and supports vitamins. My combat mustache needs to be fully operational before being reinstated into service. Standard operating procedure. Now that I’m retired and drawing a pension the only way I can come back to Nomad Division is as a independent contractor. It’s a union thing. There’s a waiting period and a lot of paperwork to be done first, blah, blah, blah, I won’t bore you with the administrative details.
Charlie says, “So you’re sending me out alone then?”
I say, “Not at all. I advise you to go home and get a good nights rest. Maybe read a book. Evaluate your life decisions Charlie.”
Charlie gets up off the couch. Still wearing the mask, and in a terrible British accent says, “Not bloody likely.” He walks to the door and I say, “Charlie.” He turns back and there’s an unlit cigarette hanging from the mouth hole of the mask. I say, “Be careful. Don’t go getting yourself killed. Okay? Go home and play some Xbox.”
Charlie says, “What do you care, dude?”
Charlie walks out and I say, “Because then I’ll have to avenge your death my buddy.”
I have another swig of water and say, “We’d be talking about seven to ten bodies after associates, witnesses and family. Could be as much as fifteen by the time I’m done.”
Judith says, “Now we’re talking.”