Blood

He didn't say "yessir!" to a guard fast enough one day and they stuck him in solitary for two months. Two months. Lights always on, one little peep-hole for air. Hundred degrees outside, a couple pieces of bread a day, maybe some water, if the guard remembered. Shit in a bucket. Some men been in there so long, he heard, they played with their shit, painted with it on the walls, just so they'd have something else to look at. Cryin' all the time, like a dog in a cage.

And yet, right after his release a black man was elected president and suddenly all that hate just kind of disappeared under a wave of hope. Hope You Can Believe In, or some such shit. But that Hope was palpable, something he could feel, something stronger than Hate he could, indeed, believe in.

For a while, anyway.

Then one day he watched a brother get gunned down in the street by The Man, and then he saw the black president was just like all the rest, maybe even worse, because his reaction was two faced. Telling the people what they wanted to hear, then going along with The Man's agenda -- and his Hate started bubbling back to the surface. And then one night he was stopped again -- for Jaywalking this time -- and he was arrested for resisting arrest -- again. Second offense, aggravated, so three years down this time, three more years of school, three more years of honing the dark edge of his Hate.

And after three years, his Hate had taken on a very sharp edge indeed.

When he got out he laid low this time -- laid low with his brothers -- waiting. Waiting for just the right time -- and when Carpenter was elected everyone knew it was time. Hate had been turned loose by all sides with his election, but the battle lines had been drawn ages ago. The battle would be joined, this time, with more organized opposition. Starting with a lightning strike to the heart of the beast.

And Cleetus Owen was ready. Ready when men in green uniforms came calling, ready to answer the call of duty once again. There was still time for a little revolution, the men who recruited him said, time for some payback, if that's what he wanted. To remind all the Monday morning patriots they couldn't shit all over constitution -- without some payback? Yessiree, every dog has it's day, and the politicians had lost touch with the people, they served a new master now, but their payback was comin' soon enough.

He was taking the bus home one afternoon and looked up, saw a billboard beside the road -- Carpenter For President -- all there in red, white and blue, and then he looked up at all the fat white clouds drifting free on carefree winds -- and he smiled at his chosen fate.

'Oh my,' he thought to himself. 'I wonder if my edge is hot enough to cut a cloud?'

+++++

Richard Krumnow tried to ignore the sound of his wife in the other room. The calculator spitting out numbers, the pen scratching out checks, paying bills they could hardly afford to pay. Always paying bills -- and never enough money to balance the books.

Always enough work, but half his customers these days were stiffing him. Same story, different chapter, but the money just wasn't comin' in like it used to, and he almost wondered how bad it would be this week, but not really. No, not really. You have to care to wonder about things like that. You have to know, really know, that things are getting better, that things are going to change. You have to believe the promises politicians make, instead of realizing that all their promises are empty, that your despair means nothing, means absolutely nothing to the people he voted for.

But times had changed once again, and people didn't take responsibility like they used to -- and he felt the thought oddly funny. Given what had happened...

Because something inside snapped a few weeks ago, and after that he'd stopped caring about everything. So what if he did work for people and they didn't pay him? If they didn't care -- well then -- why should he? If they called at two in the morning when their toilets overflowed, when they called after their hot water heater fractured and spilled layers of rusty sludge out on their new carpet...well, if it was so important then, why not when it came time to write the check? People didn't care so much anymore when that time rolled around, did they? No, things were breaking down, people felt no responsibility to anyone but themselves. The things that used to hold communities together were rusty now, crumbling before his eyes, spilling out like sludge on the carpet.

"Dick? Looks like we're about three hundred short this week..."

"That's nice," he said. He stood, went to the kitchen and got another beer from the 'fridge, walked back to the sofa and picked up the remote. "Well, what'll it be this fine afternoon? Kelly's Heroes -- or, let's see, looks like True Grit?" Did he want his virtue soiled this afternoon, or shining pure, either way another layer of empty Hollywood corn to fill his mind?

"Dick? You hear me?"

"Reckon I did," he said to the fat shrew in the next room.

"What do you want me to do? I can't call the bank -- again...?"

"Okay...?"

"Remember," she said -- her reply at the ready. "We need to get another collection agency."

"Why? They're all thieves."

And he heard her then, muttering the same words under her breath, "They're all thieves, aren't they, Dick...they always are, every one of them...all out to get you..."

How had he ended up with such a raging bitch? Nag-nag-nag, and always about money, too. It wouldn't have been so bad if the cunt hadn't gained four hundred pounds since she'd gone into menopause, but she'd gained so much tonnage he'd had to buy two seatbelt extenders for her side of the car -- and the fucking freezer was full of ice-cream bars! A box a day, 3,000 calories in fat and sugar, then another 300 bucks in monthly copays for her insulin. What the fuck was wrong with her? Had she lost all self-respect? Had EVERYONE lost all self-respect?

And how long had he been cheating on her?

He had to stop and think about that one for a minute. Three years? Maybe four? Usually girls after their shift at Burger King, come over to Joe's Place for a drink or two before heading home to their vibrators, but more than a few of his customers who wanted to renegotiate their bills, too. And why the hell not? He had needs, didn't he? He needed love as much as anyone, but all love was gone when he walked in the front door these days. Love was a cold memory that offered no comfort, just the stinging bite of her shrewish voice nagging about money...

And that's when it all hit the fan. When need exploded in his face and found him wanting.

One of those nice houses out on Exbury. Stopped-up sink, cute little blond, flirty as hell. He guessed she'd clogged the sink deliberately, maybe because she wanted a little work done on her own plumbing? She'd gone down on him so fast it wasn't even funny, and she'd been the best little cocksucker he'd ever run across in his life. She took him to the edge and let him drift down, then brought him all the way back up again. When he couldn't stand it any longer he told her he wanted to fuck her, that he NEEDED to fuck her, and when she said "Only in the ass, Dickie..." he'd thought he'd died and gone to heaven. He plowed his raging hard-on up her ass and for the first time in ages felt an ethereal love for this vixen, the siren's song of a million better tomorrows dancing through the cobwebs...

And after he'd filled her ass she'd turned over, and the little bitch had a six inch cock dangling between her legs...

And so, yeah, something inside the cobwebs snapped, gave way, and he drifted over the edge for a moment -- then pulled back.

He'd turned and gone for his tool belt, and the little bitch looked like she, or he, was just waiting for it...like the kid had always wanted to be knocked around a little bit...but she couldn't see the danger she was in, could she? She wanted her place in the world, a place without prices, without due dates...a place without consequences...

He'd taken a three inch pipe wrench from his bag and turned, swung it into the kid's face.

About fifteen, maybe twenty times.

He stopped and looked at the kid when his own breathing became erratic, but he didn't even have to check for a pulse. Brains all over the room, on his uniform, in his hair...so he'd cleaned himself up as best he could and left. He got to the truck and sat there in shock, crying for a while -- until he knew he had to get the fuck out of the neighborhood, had to wash away the evidence. When he drove home he thought about words like responsibility and consequence and suddenly saw this little murder as symbolic of the age he lived in. Nothing was what it was supposed to be anymore...love and desire had grown into dark, inverted things. Boys were girls and men were...? What?

But so what? There would be no consequences, would there? Because that too was the way things were now. Yet he'd been waiting for a knock on the door ever since. How could the cops not put two and two together? Just look at the phone records and bam, they'd have him.

Then he'd figured it out. The murder was on the evening news the next night, and they'd identified the kid as a habitual crossdresser, a transsexual and a troubled teenager, his parents out of town on business. And that was that. Nothing more about it on the news, no knock on the door. The kid was a fag and he'd gotten what he deserved, and that was the end of the story. Hell, they had about a million gallons of his cum up the kid's ass...what the fuck else did they need? Apparently nothing, because his had been a crime truly no one cared about. Even the kid's parents seemed like they knew an end like this was coming, and they seemed almost glad their ordeal was over.

But his ordeal wasn't over. No, not in the least.

Because he'd never enjoyed himself with a woman like he'd enjoyed his time with that kid. He'd been working up the nerve to ask if she'd like to, maybe, you know, go out on a date or something sometime? He'd been attracted to everything about the kid, hadn't he?

Maybe that's why he snapped?

Because he'd been so shocked and disappointed?

Or maybe because he wasn't so disappointed? Because maybe the kid being a tranny turned him on even more, and when that inversion finally registered in his mind -- when everything he thought he knew about himself grew distorted and ugly -- he broke in two. And when he saw Doris once he got home that night he knew something inside was broken beyond repair. There was no going back this time. No excuses he could make to himself.

And he'd been haunted by that kid ever since, in his dreams mostly, but more often now he saw the kid smiling at him just before he came...and she came to him in his dreams pure as driven snow every time now, a girl so gorgeous it took his breath away, then he'd see himself in the dream, a caricature of himself, really, like he only existed inside a carnival mirror. His body all wavy and distorted, his face a mishmash of lies and betrayals, then the kid started turning over -- revealing himself anew in each dream, that little cock waving in the air like a white flag. He tried to fight his desire but there was only one end -- swinging that pipe wrench over and over until he woke up gasping for breath again.

And yet, when he woke up he knew the only person he'd ever lied to or betrayed was himself. Why else had he remained married to that loathsome creature beside him in his bed?

And now he heard her in the other room, grousing about not having enough food in the house, and his lips quivered in feral rage as he thought about her ice cream and insulin in the 'fridge. He sat in indecision for a moment, wondering if he'd rather beat her face in with the same wrench he killed the kid with, or just go to the bedroom and do her with his old Kimber 45 ACP.

He figured putting her out of his misery wasn't really worth that much effort on his part, so decided to go for his trusty old Kimber. 'Two rounds,' he said to himself, 'ought to do it...assuming a hollow point can get through all that fucking blubber...'

+++++

The quarterback took off his helmet and walked to the sideline, flexing his right shoulder as he walked. He looked at the coach standing there -- clipboard in hand, deep scowl etched on face -- getting ready for the inevitable barrage of sarcasm just waiting to boil over.

"You've got to get out of the goddamn pocket quicker than that, Dalton, if you're going to get that pass off, before the strong-side L-B nails your pussy ass."

"I know, Coach."

"You know? Do you, really? If Walker had hit you any harder we'd be straining the remains for pieces of your brains into the night." Coach was mad today, like he was for every Wednesday afternoon practice. Tomorrow would be 'build 'em back up for game day' day, while Friday would be filled with Skull Sessions -- so-called strategy and tactics sit-downs, but all he could think about right now was the pain his shoulder.

"Why're you moving your shoulder like that?"

"Feels like gravel in the joint, Coach. Don't feel right at all."

"Doc!" the coach shouted.

He waited while one of the trainers jogged over, still flexing the joint -- and not enjoying what he was feeling. Not one little bit.

"Yo!" the trainer said. Her name was Mindy Mendenhall, and she was a physical therapy intern, one of a half dozen working on the field right now. Everyone liked her, wished she'd stay on full-time, but she was already applying to medical schools for next year so this would probably be her last year working with the team. And John Dalton, Ole Miss's senior quarterback, thought she was about the most gorgeous creature who'd ever drawn a breath on this or any other planet.

"Get this lug-head to the locker room and call Doc Holliday; see if we need to get a new MRI of that goddamn shoulder."

They walked off the practice field together and Dalton was uncharacteristically silent as he shuffled along beside the girl, thinking only about her now, his shoulder hardly intruding on his thoughts as he looked at her short, blond hair.

"The same gravelly feel?" she asked, bringing him back to the present.

"Same, yeah, only more pronounced now, and in a different spot. Like there's something hanging up inside, a clicking kind of feel."

"Pain?"

"Shooting, down the arm," he said, pointing to his right forearm.

She nodded. "I'll call the doc, but we'll need another MRI. Sounds like more cartilage has broken loose."

"Did you hear from any of those med schools yet?"

"Nope. What about you? I heard the Packers talked to you after the 'Bama game."

"Yup, sure did. I think they want me, too, assuming the shoulder holds up."

"That'd be kind of a dream come true, wouldn't it? Playing back near home?"

He shrugged, thought about holding his tongue -- or about saying what he really wanted to say -- and then he saw her looking at him. "Maybe," he said, but he was holding back and she knew it.

"'Maybe?' That's kind of evasive, don't you think?"

"Playing football is fine, but right now I'm more interested in finding the right partner to share my life with."

"Right now? That seems a little backwards, John. You ought to be concentrating on..."

"I know, I know what I'm supposed to be thinking about. It's just that part of my life seems missing right now, the most important part, and I want to change that before I get too set in a rut. You know -- when you've met someone, someone who feels right -- well, your outlook changes? Like maybe your life won't be complete, or even headed down the right path without that person by your side?"

"You've met someone?"

"Oh, I know her, but apparently she doesn't date football players."

She stopped walking, turned and looked at him. "Oh?"

"Yeah, so I haven't asked her out, because it's like there's this wall and I'm not sure how to get around it."

"Maybe the best thing right now is to just let things be."

"I don't want to take that chance."

"Oh?"

"Yeah, well, because I know she's one in a million, and I'll never meet anyone like her again. She's the type of person that could be my best friend -- for the rest of my life. I suppose I'm just being selfish, but to me that's a big deal. A bigger deal that playing football."

"Wow. Sounds like you have high expectations for this person. Do you think she knows how you feel?"

He shook his head. "Like I said -- what's the point?"

They resumed walking. "I guess I see what you're up against, but if she doesn't know...? Seems like you need to make the first move, John. Let her know how you feel."

"I've known you for almost three years, Mindy. Are you telling me you don't know how I feel about you?"

"No, not really," she said as she looked away. "Look, John, I know you like me, but you don't know me, not really. Not what I want out of life, even who I am. And I don't think you should spend all your energy worrying about things like this right now, because you've got more important things to think about..."

"Do I?"

"Yes, John, you do. You've got to finish school, get through the draft next spring, find a team and make it on the roster. So yes, you have a lot to..."

"You won't go out with me?"

She shook her head. "No."

"Okay. But at least you know where I'm coming from?"

"I do."

He chuckled.

"What's that for?"

"Hmm? What? Oh -- the 'I do' thing."

"Why?"

"You said 'I do.' Those are the two words I think I'd most like to hear you to say with me one day."

She laughed a little at that. "That's sweet."

"Yeah, well, just so you know."

"Let's get those pants, uh, pads off. I want to feel the inside of that joint before I call Doc Holliday..."

+++++

Carpenter finished reading through the script for tonight's performance, underlined a few sentences he thought went too far and looked up, shook his head at a passing thought, then looked out the window as the 757s wing sliced through wattled clouds. 'No, let's rattle a few cages tonight,' he said to himself. 'It's time. I'm beginning to sound too much like a politician, and less like an outsider. And oh, how I miss Imogen...'

Imogen...he looked at the empty seat by his side and sighed. She'd have known what words to change...what tone to strike...where to stick the dagger for most effect.

He'd been, of course, a New Dealer -- just like his father -- once upon a time. He'd believed in government, in the role government could play creating a fair and just society. But reality had had a way of dealing with that.

No, he'd seen the reality of modern politics in the state legislature first. How well intentioned politicians soon turned into grifters, con-men raking in cash as quickly as they could. Lobbyists writing drafts of laws the slugs couldn't even be bothered to read, then taking cash for getting the package to the house floor. He'd stepped back from such idiocy, returned to creating residential housing developments northeast of Sacramento -- and done well at it, too -- until, in his fifties, he'd been approached to run for the Senate. The US Senate, this time around. He'd almost wanted to laugh at the offer, but not Imogen...no, she was ready, like she'd been waiting all her life for this.

"I'm not qualified," he'd said at one point, boasting for the cameras that had suddenly appeared everywhere he went, "for that bullshit palace!"

And the reporters had caught all his bluster on camera, and the next day images of his 'straight-talk' went viral. Soon it was 'Carpenter For Senate -- Straight Talk, Not Double Talk' and he'd easily beat an eighteen year incumbent, a woman who just couldn't escape the appearance of being on the take.

"Jesus was a carpenter," he'd said in the speech accepting his party's nomination for President four years later, "a carpenter who fashioned souls from the driftwood of human misery. I will be a carpenter, fashioning a renewed American Spirit from the wreckage of American liberalism!"