Stronghold (1628 hits)
Category: UberMadness!Rating: 0.44 on 58 reviews (Rate this item) (V)
Submitted by UberMadness! (View user info) at 2007-01-09 10:50:22 EST
 |
This post is officially part of UberMadness!. Click here for more information on the rules and restrictions. |
Entry 1
Ain't gonna tell you where it was, but believe me, it was, and it was just as you'd expect: filthy and dilapidated -- that classic red neon above the door that flickered and hissed and stayed black in all the right places.Ah, fuck it, I'll tell ya where it was -- it was where the hunted people went.
Past the graffitied brickwork and broken glass and dirty puddles and through the red studded door. To the haze and the dim and the sunglasses and the hairy, muscled arms.
To where ten thousand dollars a night would keep you safe.
To a place as dirty and lonely and shameful as your state of mind.
As Joseph Hamilton's state of mind.
And having backed over a dog myself, I can guess what it was like for Joseph Hamilton to run over something like a kid. And having done some terrible and regrettable things in my day, I can also guess how he felt when that toddler bumped beneath his back tire and then his front and then appeared on the driveway instead of the cat or dog or two-by-four or whatever Hamilton had expected.
But I don't think that's anything compared to what Hank Bowman felt when he screamed home to find his son laying on the neighbour's driveway, covered with a white sheet and soaked crimson and sagging where his head should have been.
Yeah, that made the local news. Probably because they were both rich. Joseph Hamilton by way of trucking and Hank Bowman by way of drugs. Shady businesses the both of 'em, and I know shady business.
Didn't much surprise me then to see Hamilton's house on the news a few days later, this time with the police hauling bodies out his front door. Wife. Daughter. Dog. What Joseph had done was an accident. What Hank had done was not.
Joseph was lucky though, I guess you could say. Went out to get a pack of smokes in the middle of the night.
Bet he smoked 'em all that night.
Sure looked that way by the time he walked in anyway.
And not even with all my years can I say I know what a night like that feels like. But if I had to guess, I'd say something like a magician pulling your guts out through your asshole.
"I'm looking for a room," he said, scared and tired and dripping that wild kind of soul-sick.
"This here's a bar my friend. Ain't no rooms."
"This is The Stronghold, is it not?" he asked uncertainly.
"So says the sign."
He paused awkwardly. Let go of his suitcase. Looked from me to the thugs seated at the bar. Took a deep breath and puffed out his chest.
"Hunter Davies told me I might find a safe place to sleep here."
Figured he knew Davies. Most anyone involved with unions does. I hit the black button beneath the counter and the heavy bolts slid fast and hard into the door. It was loud and sudden and final and ten years ago I liked the sound. It made people like Joseph Hamilton jump.
"Strip," I said, and at this, one of the mean boys got up and walked to the back room.
"Right here?" asked Hamilton.
"Right there."
He took off everything but his underwear and looked at me expectantly.
"You know what I'm gonna say, don't you?" I asked.
"Underwear?"
"Underwear." And the mean guy with all the leather and denim and hair came walking back into the room and dropped a plastic tote on the floor, kicking it across the room.
"Everything you got goes in the tote. Everything in the tote, goes on you."
He obliged.
"Now walk into the bathroom, enter the first stall and stand until the buzzer goes."
He nodded weakly and shuffled to the bathroom. His x-ray was clean and I hit the buzzer. He came walking back out looking more defeated than when he went in.
"Ten-thousand a night gets you a room with a pisser and a bed and a stocked fridge and a phone and a TV. You will be locked in. Room service will bring you whatever you want. Anything other than three meals a day is on your tab. For your safety and ours you are under full and constant surveillance. There is a menu in your room with all additional services. Dial zero to speak to a customer service representative."
He smiled faintly.
Then, led by one of the mean boys, Joseph Hamilton disappeared into the back room. As he passed, he gave me a look that few visitors did. I nodded, grim and sympathetic.
On the monitor I watched them enter the back room and press the button that slid open the hall door. On the next they passed down the hallway and to the room at the end. Joseph Hamilton was ushered inside and the door shut after him. It sounded thin and distant through the speakers at the bar, but that's not how it sounded in the room. Most everyone started when that door shut, and he was no exception. He sat on the edge of the bed and buried his face in his hands. His shoulders shuddered and I closed my eyes and then released the bolts of the front door.
"Poor bastard," I muttered, digging for a beer.
"I bet he kills himself."
"Jesus, Donnie. You say that every time a business-type walks in. Why would he come in and drop ten grand if he was just gonna off himself?"
"Well he ain't paid yet, has he?" Donnie retorted.
"They always live and they always pay," I said, and the phone rang. I checked the display. "Any bets on what he wants?"
"Whiskey. And his briefcase."
"Hello?"
"I was reading the menu."
"And did any of our fine assortment of services catch your eye?"
"I'd like someone assassinated."
"Ah yes -- a very popular choice. Anyone in particular, or just the next person to walk in?"
"Hank Bowman."
"Alright. Anything else?"
"A fifth of whiskey and my briefcase."
"Briefcase hasn't been properly processed, but once it has been I'll send it along immediately. The whiskey is on its way."
"Thank you."
"Not a problem, and thank you for choosing The Stronghold."
I hung up the phone and Donnie chuckled and the front door swung open and much to my dismay, there stood Hank Bowman, glistening with the night's rain.
Donnie raised his glass to him.
"He's here, ain't he?" demanded Hank.
"Now Hank, what kind of safe house would I be running if I told you that?" and I flicked the switch beneath the bar. He didn't so much as flinch. "And you know as well as I that the only people that learn a damn thing in here are the paying customers."
The mean boy who had taken Joseph Hamilton to his room returned. "Hey Hank," he said.
"Hey Bunny."
"You staying tonight?" asked Bunny.
"You didn't see my face on TV? Man, I'm wanted by the cops and at least one other person, and I'm fucking bored, so I figured I'd come hang out with you guys." He pulled out a thick roll of cash and dropped it on the bar.
"Strip," I told him.
"Oh, fuck off."
"You know the rules."
Bunny walked into the back again and grabbed another tote. Hank changed into the sweats and stepped into the bathroom without me having to ask. I sounded the buzzer and he came back.
"Is he here?"
"You gotta be in your room for us to talk."
"Fuck you old man. How long have we known each other?"
"A long time, Hank."
"And is this how you show it?"
"There are people I've known longer than you, and I would do the exact same thing if they came asking for your ass."
He shook his head and walked to the back without a word, Bunny following him. I watched the monitors as he was shown to the room right next to Joseph Hamilton.
Donnie laughed. "Right next door, eh?"
I said nothing. Just watched as the door shut and he walked to the phone. The portable in my hand rang.
"Hello."
"Well?" he said.
"Someone's offering money for your life."
"And who is that?"
"My confidentiality policy prohibits me from telling you."
"So he's here then."
I sighed.
Hank laughed into the receiver. "I want him killed."
I sighed again. "Who do you want killed, Hank?"
"Fuck you Roger," and he slammed the phone into its cradle. I watched as he paced the room and returned to the phone.
"Yes Hank."
"I want Joseph Hamilton dead."
"All right. Anything else?"
"Yeah, go pop some viagra and fuck yourself."
"Just business Hank," and he hung up on me again.
Donnie and I sat in silence. I sipped at my beer. He picked at his teeth. He smiled. I did not.
"Mind if I turn the jukebox up?"
"Go ahead," I said. "Door's locked for the night. Put on something dirty and stupid and confused."
Just then Bunny returned. "Well this is a new one, isn't it?" he said grinning.
"Sure is, and we were just gonna put on something to celebrate. What were you gonna put on, Donnie?"
"Zappa."
"Right, we were just gonna put on some Zappa to celebrate and get drunk and stupider with while we all mull it over."
And it really was a new one. Not in some thirty years had this come up. Not in some thirty years had I ever even anticipated it. Looking out my ass, even with the cataracts, I guess I should have. The same circles knew and used the place.
But to have two people like this, and in the rooms right next to each other, well...
"You know what Hamilton wanted right before Hank walked in? He wanted Hank killed."
"So why didn't we kill him!?" exclaimed Donnie.
"Because no one dies in this place and no one is refused service. You know that."
"Seems like a silly rule right about now though, don't it?" said Bunny.
"Silly rules have gotten us this far," I observed.
Donnie pulled the knife from his boot and put it on the table. "I say we do the killing part. They pay more for that, and in the end customer satisfaction is all about value, right?"
"When word gets 'round that people die in here, suddenly it's not such a popular safe house, Donnie."
"Let 'em stay, wait 'till they leave, then kill 'em," he offered.
Bunny cleared his throat. "Tell them both the situation: they're stuck here forever paying ten grand a night and we're getting filthy rich for it."
The phone rang. It was Joseph Hamilton. "What is the 'information' service?" he asked.
"You tell me what you want to know, and then you know it."
"Alright, I want to know if I need to be in here."
"Philosophical questions have long, expensive answers." The boys chuckled.
"Okay, what I mean is, is Hank Bowman still a threat to me?"
"That I can't say, but I can tell you your life is in danger, yes." Donnie stuck a finger to his chest and nodded.
"And are you going to be able to take care of him?"
"If you mean Hank Bowman, the answer is no, not right now." Donnie shook his head dejectedly.
"And why is that?"
I felt a hollow rot in my belly. "That you have every right to ask, but my business dictates that I cannot answer. Do you understand?"
Silence.
Then he hung up.
"Fucking hell," I said to no one in particular. The phone rang again.
"Hello."
"Kill him yet?"
"You're a pain in my ass, you know that?."
Hank groaned on the other end of the phone. I heard him spit and looked to the monitor. There was a slick dark pool between his feet.
"Are you chewing tobacco in there?"
"Uh huh."
"How did you get it in?" I asked.
"It was in my mouth."
"And you feel the need to spit it on the floor?"
"What the fuck do you care old man? You don't clean it up."
"Holy shit you're an asshole. Get a fucking cup you slob." I hung up, exasperated. Before my head could hit the bar the phone rang again. Hot and unwanted.
"What?"
It was Joseph Hamilton. "I'm sorry," he said. "Am I calling too much?"
"No, no -- it's fine. Busy day today, that's all. What can I do for you?"
"Well, I was sitting here thinking about why you can't kill Hank Bowman and I figured it's probably because he's in here right now. And then I was thinking about offering you more money to kill him, but I figured you wouldn't kill him even if I did, probably for the same reason I'm not dead right now. And that got me thinking about what I was doing in the first place. I mean, this isn't me -- paying to have people killed."
His voice began to quiver.
"I have enough on my conscience. I just want this over with." He cleared his throat. "What are my options?"
I pulled a hand down my face, stretching the loose skin beneath my eye and pulling down on my lip. I could feel them both water. I had done it far harder than I intended. It was one of the few moments I didn't know what to say.
Joseph Hamilton saved me. "Well he's here right?"
I thought long and hard about it, Hamilton's breath heavy and hopeless in my ear. "Yeah," I conceded.
"Well do you think we could work it out? I mean, I killed his boy, sure, but it was an accident," he stressed the last word, "and he murdered my entire family." The anger and sadness rose within him. "He killed my dog for fuck's sake! Surely he's had enough!?"
"I don't think so, Joseph," and I winced, feeling his pain and hating it.
"Alright," he said through open tears.
I turned off the phone.
"Shoulda just killed Hank when he walked in," said Donnie. The smile left his eyes when my expression didn't change.
I looked about the bar. The dank, dirty pit I had crafted with such care and pride. Not even a savage, desperate drunk would stoop to drink in this place -- not even if I was giving away the booze. This was of course the intention. The floors hadn't been washed in twenty years. We drank nothing but bottled beer the taps were so dirty.
It was what I wanted.
Was.
I picked up the phone. Turned it back on. Dialed Hank's room. Watched him move his eyes slowly from the television to the phone, and only long enough to pick it up.
"Killed him then, didja?" he asked -- the strains of pornography creeping through the receiver with his voice.
"No."
"Well, what then?" He sounded bored.
I paused. Grimaced. The boys stared intently. "Nothing," I said finally.
I heard him mutter something and then spit. A girl with bleached-blonde hair screamed disinterestedly for more. He hung up.
I took a deep breath. Tired and raspy. Wiped the sweat from my brow. The phone rang again and I closed my eyes.
It was Joseph Hamilton. He stayed quiet for a long time. "Well shit," he finally said, "couldn't you just let me sneak out? I'll pay -- I'll pay whatever it takes."
"Sorry Joseph. Business. I'm no kind of hitman and I'm no kind of safe house if I let you go or kill you."
I hung up. I shook my head but my hands shook on their own.
"What's it stressing you out so much for Roger? You're making a mint here."
"I know, I know, but it just ain't sitting well with me," and that goddamn stupid fucking nonsense phone rang again.
"Fuck it. And come to think of it, fuck you, Roger. I'll give you the money ya wrinkled cunt. I'll wait him out. His pockets aren't deeper than mine. Sooner or later he's gonna leave and you're gonna have to kill him and I know you don't want to and that makes me happy and it's worth the fucking million. Now bring me some gear and a case of Heineken you piece of shi--"
I hung up on him. Sucked in my lower lip and nodded slowly.
"Well boys," I said, ducking beneath the bar and pulling out the bottle of Dalmore, "looks like this is it."
"Whaddaya mean, Roge?" asked Bunny.
"I mean this is it," and I slid out three highball glasses and filled them generously. "Take it all back and take it all in."
I raised my glass and so did the mean boys, looking for once more confused than mean.
"You guys have been good to me and I hope I've been good to you. We've all done some rotten things and we thought we were doing a good thing here and maybe we were, but that was just a maybe."
I drained the glass and the boys did the same and we all coughed. We talked quietly and soberly a moment and then they left me to be alone.
I wandered over to the front door and waited on the pop of the gun. It came, and not long after it, so did Joseph Hamilton. I opened the door and he passed with a grateful look but not a word. Then, with heavy hand and heart, I flipped the switch on that big red flickering neon, and wiped the wetness from my cheek.
Closed.
- VS -
Entry 2
"We've got the lab work back on our friend Jane Doe. Blood alcohol level of .19, well in excess of the legal limit. I really don't think the jury is going to hold the boy driving responsible for some drifter's decision to sleep it off in the middle of First Street." The man on the phone thumbed a picture of a young woman with a candy cane scarf, lying face down in the road, left leg bent impossibly behind her."No one has called looking for her and I doubt anyone's going to try to claim the four dollars worth of cans from what's left of her cart. I say we drop this one and move on. I'll finish the brief tonight." With one click 'negligent homicide' was switched to 'dismissed.'
Brian Lancaster, the appointed assistant to the City Prosecutor, considered himself a defender of justice, the stronghold of society. He had the perspective of the privileged. He hung up the phone and looked at the stack of case files on his desk. Across the room, floor to ceiling windows framed in sculpted architecture displayed the moving city below. People running through their routines in accordance with the rules of the law brought the city to life. Mr. Lancaster's job was to prosecute those who crossed the line - to correct the wrongs and keep the equation balanced.
He aimed to provide as many educations through the public prison system as was necessary to achieve his quarterly bonus. Careful assessment of which cases were winners and which cases were losers was an important part of the process. Jane Doe was a loser.
Brian dropped the folder marked 'Jane Doe 06-11-20-715' on the floor next to his desk. The case summary stapled on the front told what was relevant. November 20, 2006, 3:20pm -- Unidentified, female, Caucasian approximately twenty-two years old, pedestrian killed by motor vehicle in dry weather conditions. Vehicle driven by male, Caucasian eighteen-year-old. Elevated levels of alcohol identified in victim. Trace amounts of marijuana identified in driver. No recorded witnesses." Next.
Brian grabbed the next file from the stack on his desk. He swiveled his chair around and watched as intermittent gusts of snow flew past the upper floor windows and settled on those below. An oversized bronze clock hung on the wall behind him "Go home to your wife!" was written in permanent marker across it's face. Lilly had written those words months ago, before she understood what was required to be the wife of someone who executes the law. Having him home for dinner was no longer expected. It was her contribution to getting the two-story brownstone in Lexington Court, one of the safe strongholds of the suburb.
Though the baby wasn't due for several months, Lilly filled her days selecting nursery decorations and coordinating pastel linens. The Lancasters kept in touch throughout the day, and whenever possible Brian would sneak away from the office for an intimate consultation with his wife.
. . . . .
Charlotte didn't come home.
It was well past nine, well past the Paul's ability to come up with an optimistic explanation for her absence. Something was wrong. He took the candle and checked the opening. Darkness stood its ground and offered no sign of Charlotte. The couple had met last fall when, right before the eleven o'clock curfew at the First Street Shelter for the Homeless, a wild haired young woman wearing a red and white scarf burst through the entrance and picked the cot next to his.
"You're not one of those bed bugs my mom warned me about are ya?" She asked as she plopped onto the adjacent canvas and began shedding layers of mismatched outerwear and a pair of heavy black boots. She tied the laces around a leg of the cot intended to at least slow any would-be takers. She tossed the provided foam pillow on the floor and replaced it with her rolled clothing tied in her scarf. "I prefer to drool on things I'm familiar with," she explained to the not unappealing stranger in the bed next to hers.
"We'll let me tell you about myself," Paul leaned on one elbow and watched his new beginning get ready for bed.
They whispered their stories late into night to the annoyance of the other temporary residents. Two years overseas with the army had left him twisted. He had difficulty differentiating the enemy from the people he was supposed to protect. He was starting again, here, from the beginning. Charlotte gave up her magic wands and bunny costumes at the same time her mother was handed an eight-year sentence for possession of large quantities of heroine. Charlotte had never met her father and wished she had never met the series of foster parents that followed her mother's conviction. On her eighteenth birthday, she upgraded her life and became a homeless wanderer.
As they talked though the night occasionally they had to bury their faces in the coarse wool blankets to keep their laughter from disturbing the muffled coughing and snoring of those around them. For the first time in the shelter neither was aware of the stench of stale clothing, urine and alcohol. By morning Paul and Charlotte agreed they should meet again. But then, before leaving, they agreed they shouldn't part.
The days that followed were spent together roaming the city streets seeking daily work, food and cheap vodka. They saved what they could in anticipation of moving into one of the studio apartments in the commercial district. They moved under the radar of the corporate onlookers who hid within the concrete fortress of the city's commercial high rises.
They stayed with others like them at the shelter or huddled against the pending cold in tarp-covered cardboard villages erected in alleys throughout the city. Safe houses constructed for those starting over and those near the end.
Conditions improved when they found a loose panel on a sheet metal storage building at the abandoned rail yard. Each night they returned and shared the day's offerings by candlelight in their makeshift home. Charlotte decorated their space with stolen flowers and pictures of far-off places cut from travel magazines.
Monday's Paul worked the back alleys hauling garbage from the weekend after-hours clubs, while Charlotte washed dishes from the lunchtime rush at the Westwood diner.
It was past midnight on Monday and Charlotte still wasn't home.
Early Tuesday morning a disheveled and frantic Paul stood impatiently behind the red line at the police station for the secretary to finish her massive blueberry muffin. "May I help you?" she finally asked wiping crumbs from her mouth and sounding completely unwilling. Clearly Paul was at least two steps below being a public servant and she intended to treat him that way. He could keep checking back or accept that young women of Charlotte's type often just moved on when the mood struck them. There was no need to take his name.
. . . . .
By Wednesday Paul knew.
"I'm telling you, the punk didn't even slow down, just kept right on driving through the red. He was messing with his cell phone, not looking at the road then BAM!" The bearded man known in the backstreet community as Big Jake, slapped his hands together to make his point. "Hell, he checked to see if his new VW was ok before he bothered to look at the girl." Paul listened tightening at the brute force description of Charlotte's last moments. "I told the cops I saw everything; but they were more interested in talking to the kid's father who showed up with one of them high numbered Mercedes. Guess they weren't impressed with my wheels, bastards." He placed a loving hand on the shopping cart next to him.
While the incident failed to make news around the water coolers in the corporate fortress, Charlotte's death saddened everyone within the stronghold of the underground safe houses. But only Paul felt its true impact. Only Paul felt the loss of her warmth in every thought that managed to continue. Every action had been in anticipation of her and now he was left with nothing. His world had been ripped apart, and the responsible party was left to play video games in the suburbs.
He stood with his toes encroaching upon the red line, the third time in as many days. The woman behind the counter had seen him come in, recognized the scruffy beard and soiled clothes and refused to make eye contact. She had better things to do then placate this man chasing a ghost. The minutes passed, but time was something Paul had in excess.
"Next." The obese woman tilted her head and glared at the lone man in line. Paul stepped forward.
"I've got the name and how to reach Jake, the guy who saw what happened to Charlotte," Paul laid a carefully folded piece of paper on the counter between them. The police station smelled of industrial cleaners and coffee.
"I can't take that." The woman stated matter-of-factly. "Besides according to this morning's report, that case has been dismissed." She lowered the words with the delicate hand of a lumberjack.
"What? No! They can't dismiss it!" Paul jabbed his finger at the paper and felt the heat surge to his face. "They never talked with Jake. Who dismissed it? You don't understand...." Paul pleaded to the stone-faced woman. The good guys and the bad guys were starting to blur.
"You'll have to talk to someone at the prosecutor's office, I don't make those decisions." She gestured towards a city directory hanging on the wall. "The Assistant Prosecutor fields questions from the general public." Paul stared disbelievingly at the woman who had already returned her attention to the magazine in front of her.
Finding his name under the words "Directory of Civil Servants" Paul used the pen attached to the silver chain on the counter and wrote 'Brian Lancaster' on the palm of his hand.
. . . . .
"Mr. Lancaster," the manicured blond receptionist pushed a button on a phone console that hid behind a generous bouquet of fresh flowers. "A Paul Morgan is here to see you?"
"Who? Do I have an ..." An annoyed man's voice responded. The receptionist picked up the phone receiver and swiveled her back in the direction of Paul. A muffled conversation ensued and she twirled around and said with a smile, "Mr. Lancaster is in a meeting. He may be several minutes. Perhaps you would like to come back later? Or, if you prefer, I suppose you could wait." Paul took a seat in a leather wing-backed chair in the corner.
An hour and ten minutes later Brian Lancaster relented and emerged alone from the safety of his sizable office. "Mr., ah...Paul, is it?" Brian extended his hand making a mental note to wash it afterwards. "Thank you for waiting. Come into my office. Can I get you anything?" He looked at the clock. He wanted to make this brief as he was hoping to steal some time with Lilly before having to return to the office later. He motioned to a chair on the other side of a wide mahogany desk.
"I'm here because of what happened to Charlotte, Charlotte Ramsey," Paul began in measured tones.
"Yes, yes," Brian nodded and lowered his eyes in a practiced display of compassion. "It took us awhile to determine the name of our Jane Doe. Thank you for any assistance you may have provided." Brian folded his hands and leaned back in his chair.
"You understand, Mr. Mathews that we simply don't have the resources to ..."
"Morgan, Paul Morgan." Paul corrected, listening, as the man in the tailored suit was about to dismiss him.
"Morgan. Right." Brian allowed a twinge of annoyance to surface in his tone. He was obligated to deal with the public but this Mr. Morgan and his road kill of a girl friend weren't in today's schedule. "Regrettably, there simply isn't enough evidence to get any sort of a conviction out of this."
Paul extended his hand holding the folded piece of paper with Jake's information. "Big Jake saw the whole thing. Said the kid driving ran a red light. Said he didn't even try to stop."
Brian shook his head at the paper without taking it. "The police have been very thorough in the investigation I assure you. Believe me, they want to get these careless drivers off the street as much as you and I. Hell, some guy cut me off just this morning on Second Avenue and then gave ME the bird. Can you believe that?"
Brian saw by the penetrating stare and the clenched jaw of the man across from him that this meeting was going nowhere. People like Paul just didn't, couldn't, comprehend how things worked in the big picture. The world simply couldn't afford to stop every time some nameless social outcast got wasted. There were bigger things in the world than this guy losing his daily blowjob. But he could see Paul was nowhere near coming to his senses on this.
"Listen," Brian said as he stood from his chair, "I'm sorry. But it's out of my hands. I regret your loss but I can't help you any further on this. I have another meeting scheduled for," He glanced at the clock, "one thirty," conveniently five minutes away.
Paul followed his eyes to the clock and read "Go home to your wife!" then looked again at Paul.
"No you listen Mr. Fuckhead, is it?" Paul stood and leaned over the desk face to face with the attorney. "Charlotte deserves more than this. It's your job to make it right. To see that justice is done! Isn't that what you do? You think that because she was poor she doesn't mean anything? You're fucking clueless. Do you even know how it feels to lose someone you love, Mr. Head-up-your-ass lawyer? I hope someday you get the chance."
Brian pressed the intercom button, "Rachel, please send security to my office to escort Mr. Morgan out. We are finished here." He deliberately let his suit jacket fall open exposing the small handgun strapped to his belt. He had never used it, but liked the feel of it and the decision making power it represented. Most high-level attorneys working for the city carried them like business cards.
The office door swung open, and two brawny- looking men with security patches on their shoulders entered the room. Paul looked at Brain; their eyes met in a moment of mutual contempt. Paul turned, pushing past the approaching the men, "I'm leaving." His heart pounded as he left the office and stepped into an open elevator.
"10, 9, 8, 7," the elevator descended with Paul, "...4, 3, 2, 1" With each passing floor his rage multiplied. He looked at the name written in pen on the palm of his hand and decided a trip to the suburbs was in order.
There it was, "Lancaster, Brian, 1421 Lexington Court." Paul closed the phone book and stepped out of the booth in the courthouse lobby. He knew where he was going. What he would do once he got there had yet to be determined.
. . . . .
"Fucking indigents. Anyway, I'm going to stop by the bank and then swing by the house, I'll see you in a bit." Brian finished talking to Lilly and telling her and the others in the office the story of how he stood up to the hostile vagrant and sent him running - but not before giving him an education on who calls the shots. He grabbed his coat and headed for the elevator.
"I can find it from here, " The small pickup pulled to the side and Paul got out, forgetting to thank the old man who had responded to the call of his outstretched thumb. The ornate road sign read "Lexington Court." Paul began walking past rows of snow-dusted houses with neatly trimmed lawns. His breath betrayed the cold. Within moments, he stood in front of the brick edifice located at 1421. "Welcome" the doormat communicated indiscriminately.
He was moving on autopilot; his intentions unfolded with the moment. He pushed on the s-shaped brass handle and felt the door give. Apparently crime was not a factor in this neighborhood. He pressed the door inward, stepped inside and surveyed the marble floors and leather furniture. The smell of cinnamon and pine filled the air. A stairway curved romantically to the floor above where Paul could hear someone singing.
Outside, Brian pulled the BMW into the driveway and saw the opened front door. He sat and stared at the scene for a moment while his mind searched for a reasonable explanation.
"The itsy-bitsy spider climbed up the water spout. Down came the pain..." Paul moved up the stairs in the direction of the lullaby, "and washed the spider out." He stopped half-way listening to the woman sing, "Out came the sun and dried up all the rage."
Opposite the polished banister, family pictures hung along the angle of the stairway. He was slowed by each picture of the couple laughing in scenes from distant places. Places cut from magazines. Thoughts of Charlotte made him think. The enemy would not sing lullabies. "And the itsy-bitsy spider climbed up the spout again." He stopped almost at the top of the stairs, turned, and started down again. He was half-way down the steps when Brain Lancaster burst through the open door.
"What the fuck are you doing here?! Get out of my house!" Brian stood at the base of the stairs.
Paul said nothing but raised a deferring hand and continued descending the steps, eyes on the open door and the swirling snow beyond it. He heard a noise behind him and the singing stopped.
"Lilly!" Brian fumbled with his belt, releasing the gun from it's holster.
Lilly appeared at the top of the stairs, "Brian? What's going on?!" Brian looked at her, and Paul took the opportunity to run. Brian reacted by grabbing the gun and swinging it in the direction of the man on the stairs. Still looking at Lilly, he pulled the trigger.
The gun cracked. Both men watched as a small scarlet circle appeared on Lilly's forehead. Her expression froze as her legs buckled and she collapsed against the wall. "No!" Brian yelled. He dropped the gun and ran up the stairs in the direction of everything that mattered. "God, please! Don't ...please!"
Paul stood in the open doorway and listened as the Assistant Prosecuting Attorney pled his case to some higher authority. He turned in the direction of the cold November wind and thought of Charlotte.
"Dismissed," he whispered, as he closed the door behind him.
Entry 1:
Amontillado
Axolotl
Bubba2341
charminglybeef
cshape
DCWoody
EchoBoxing
ELG
FunnyAsCancer
ghola
goferforhire
HotWillie
indoninja
Jack_McCallum
JoeyG
JonnyX
lolabelly
nrduncan
nyxmar
orph
PMN
rad1101
redraven
Sacrilicious
snowclouds
sparkle_pink
supadupapupa
thecaes
thorpe
WingedFoote
25 eligible votes (30 total) *
Entry 2:
Adamdidit2u
CaptainThorns
drgoatcabin
Hiredugan
homer42
I_love_Kracka
joedaddy
littledan
ParlorTrick
ripple
rob_berg
Spuds002
stevie_says
UberSavedMyLife
Wicked
zakalwe
11 eligible votes (16 total) *
* Eligible votes are those made by users who had either (A) posted 3+ messages OR (B) written 100+ [lowered from 750+] reviews as of the beginning of the UberMadness! competition.
User Reviews
Submitted by peckerhead (user info) at 2007-01-13 12:10:28 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
I liked Entry 2... a lot! I missed the fu*king voting deadline by 20 minutes or something but obviously one vote wasn't going to make the difference anyway.
I'm sure that Entry 1 must be better technically as many of the better writers have stated. I guess what I am doing here is telling the author of Entry 2 that I really enjoyed your story and would have voted for it. Thank you.
Submitted by charminglybeef (user info) at 2007-01-12 20:13:25 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
That was a great story, ParlorTrick. And not only was the plot strong, but the way you delivered it beautiful and flowing as well.
I'm still in love with your 'Washed Up' -- I think that was one of the best entries of the comp.
You have a wonderful gift for writing. Keep it up.
Submitted by Sacrilicious (user info) at 2007-01-12 11:51:03 EST (#)
Ranking: 0
Submitted by homer42 (user info) at 2007-01-09 16:32:17 (#)
Ranking: 2
Drawn out or not it's producing good stuff. I can't see anyone giving this a zero when they rate complete and utter shit like this: http://www.ubersite.com/m/97519 up so high...
===
It's UM. When you're commenting, you're speaking for both entries. People don't tend to rate so much as they tend to vote.
Either way, you have almost nothing positive to say about anything, so I'm surprised you care.
Submitted by Sacrilicious (user info) at 2007-01-12 11:32:39 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
#2 was a good story.
#1 is excellent, and one of the two best entries this round.
Submitted by thorpe (user info) at 2007-01-12 11:23:09 EST (#)
Ranking: 1
Entry 1 was spectacular, the best entry I can remember from this UberMadness. The idea could be the premise of a pretty decent feature film if it's filled out.
Entry 2 would have beaten any of the other entries from this round, it's a pity it had to go up against 1. I liked the realism in this that's often lacking in UberMadness entries. The last line seemed really out of place though.
Submitted by thorpe (user info) at 2007-01-12 10:54:13 EST (#)
Ranking: 0
I hope you realise I really don't want to bother reading through all this.
Submitted by Jack_McCallum (user info) at 2007-01-12 09:11:32 EST (#)
Ranking: 0
I guess it would help if I did this in the right fucking window...
Submitted by Jack_McCallum (user info) at 2007-01-12 09:10:42 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
Been busy as hell lately, nearly missed rating this.
#1 by a long shot - some of it was a bit overblown, and with some editing this could be a really gritty piece. Still a good read, author #1.
Submitted by JoeyG (user info) at 2007-01-12 07:46:35 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
Best match up of the round, no questions.
Both extremely good.
Number 1 was just that little bit better.
Submitted by WingedFoote (user info) at 2007-01-12 04:44:33 EST (#)
Ranking: 0
I've got to say, quite disappointed with both. interesting that each story had people accidentally run over. number two, the ending just didn't make much sense. why does he shoot Lilly? I don't get it. numbet one, clever concept, not really sure you went the right direction with it.
Submitted by thecaes (user info) at 2007-01-12 01:06:50 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
Submitted by CaptainThorns (user info) at 2007-01-09 16:26:11 (#)
Ranking: 0
I think most of the Uber populace is just tired of UM being drawn out as long as it has been. Frickin' MONTHS.
***************************
Yes, how horrible for you all, to have three more posts on the front page that you don't have to read or acknowledge in any way. It's a wonder we haven't all gone mad.
Submitted by thecaes (user info) at 2007-01-12 01:03:05 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
Only entry this round where I liked both stories -- actually I think these are the only two stories I liked.
Entry 1 gets it because the premise is damn clever. Very cool angle to find conflict from, very cool idea. I just didn't like the fact that the phone calls seemed to come about thirty seconds apart. That whole process happened too fast. There should have been some "~~~~~~~~" breaks or something to give the impression that more time was passing.
Entry 2 was pretty good as well. Just didn't have the cleverness of entry 1 and not enough 'oomph' to overcome it. But the writing was pretty smooth and the situation was realistic and well put-together.
Submitted by ripple (user info) at 2007-01-11 11:34:27 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
even though some of the vocab usage/grammar in 2 wasnt great, i liked it a lot. the plot was above-par and it moved well.
1 was good, too. kind of a hard choice, in a positive sense.
Submitted by snowclouds (user info) at 2007-01-11 08:34:32 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
Really liked #1. It was well written. #2 was also a good story, but he lost me at the end when Brian shoots Lily. How exactly did that happen? It's all very unclear and badly explained/written.
Submitted by sparkle_pink (user info) at 2007-01-11 02:26:14 EST (#)
Ranking: 0
No Comment
Submitted by rob_berg (user info) at 2007-01-10 19:52:02 EST (#)
Ranking: 0
No Comment
Submitted by Hiredugan (user info) at 2007-01-10 19:44:52 EST (#)
Ranking: 1
Even Hobos need lovin'
Submitted by nrduncan (user info) at 2007-01-10 17:44:04 EST (#)
Ranking: 0
No Comment
Submitted by PMN (user info) at 2007-01-10 15:17:25 EST (#)
Ranking: 0
No Comment
Submitted by DCWoody (user info) at 2007-01-10 07:16:16 EST (#)
Ranking: 1
No Comment
Submitted by UberSavedMyLife (user info) at 2007-01-10 06:51:49 EST (#)
Ranking: 0
Entry 2 but only by a margin, thought it just flowed that little bit better than the first.
Submitted by orph (user info) at 2007-01-10 05:00:13 EST (#)
Ranking: 0
No Comment
Submitted by cshape (user info) at 2007-01-10 04:21:26 EST (#)
Ranking: 0
haha homer42's vote doesnt even count.
what a bitch.
Submitted by cshape (user info) at 2007-01-10 04:16:04 EST (#)
Ranking: 0
No Comment
Submitted by Spuds002 (user info) at 2007-01-10 00:39:42 EST (#)
Ranking: -2
No Comment
Submitted by supadupapupa (user info) at 2007-01-10 00:33:15 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
Wish one of you would have been in a different matchup this round, those were both pretty good.
Submitted by I_love_Kracka (user info) at 2007-01-09 23:19:52 EST (#)
Ranking: 1
No Comment
Submitted by HotWillie (user info) at 2007-01-09 22:55:09 EST (#)
Ranking: 1
No Comment
Submitted by Axolotl (user info) at 2007-01-09 22:05:47 EST (#)
Ranking: 0
1 - Jack McCallum
Submitted by Bubba2341 (user info) at 2007-01-09 21:27:53 EST (#)
Ranking: 0
No Comment
Submitted by littledan (user info) at 2007-01-09 19:50:27 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
I liked them both, but the ending to number one clinched it for number 2.
Submitted by ELG (user info) at 2007-01-09 18:21:10 EST (#)
Ranking: 0
No Comment
Submitted by nyxmar (user info) at 2007-01-09 18:05:37 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
No Comment
Submitted by JonnyX (user info) at 2007-01-09 17:27:50 EST (#)
Ranking: -2
Submitted by CaptainThorns (user info) at 2007-01-09 16:26:11 (#)
Ranking: 0
Submitted by homer42 (user info) at 2007-01-09 15:13:38 (#)
Ranking: 2
I'm still shocked and appalled that great creative works like this get an average 0 rating while retarded stupid bullshit 2 line crap from the clubby bunch of douchebags that basically run this site constantly get near perfect scores. Then again this site is just a microcosm of the world at large and accurately reflects it. Britney spears, McDonalds, fat idiots arguing about football - this is the mediocre worthless shit that people worship - the common man has no fucking taste and is a disgrace. Keep up the good work guys.
----------------------------
I think most of the Uber populace is just tired of UM being drawn out as long as it has been. Frickin' MONTHS.
But then YOU wouldn't know that, since you joined mid-stride in November of '06, now would you?
--------
OH NOES, BUSTED!
Submitted by rad1101 (user info) at 2007-01-09 17:13:44 EST (#)
Ranking: 0
this vote is based soley on the number of times the title was used in the piece - the fewer the better
Submitted by joedaddy (user info) at 2007-01-09 17:12:19 EST (#)
Ranking: -1
.
Submitted by FunnyAsCancer (user info) at 2007-01-09 17:06:14 EST (#)
Ranking: 0
"No you listen Mr Fuckhead, is it?"
Submitted by homer42 (user info) at 2007-01-09 16:32:17 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
Drawn out or not it's producing good stuff. I can't see anyone giving this a zero when they rate complete and utter shit like this: http://www.ubersite.com/m/97519 up so high...
Submitted by CaptainThorns (user info) at 2007-01-09 16:24:03 (#)
Ranking: 0
I think most of the Uber populace is just tired of UM being drawn out as long as it has been. Frickin' MONTHS.
But then YOU wouldn't know that, since you joined mid-stride in November of '06, now would you?
Submitted by CaptainThorns (user info) at 2007-01-09 16:26:11 EST (#)
Ranking: 0
Submitted by homer42 (user info) at 2007-01-09 15:13:38 (#)
Ranking: 2
I'm still shocked and appalled that great creative works like this get an average 0 rating while retarded stupid bullshit 2 line crap from the clubby bunch of douchebags that basically run this site constantly get near perfect scores. Then again this site is just a microcosm of the world at large and accurately reflects it. Britney spears, McDonalds, fat idiots arguing about football - this is the mediocre worthless shit that people worship - the common man has no fucking taste and is a disgrace. Keep up the good work guys.
----------------------------
I think most of the Uber populace is just tired of UM being drawn out as long as it has been. Frickin' MONTHS.
But then YOU wouldn't know that, since you joined mid-stride in November of '06, now would you?
Submitted by CaptainThorns (user info) at 2007-01-09 16:24:03 EST (#)
Ranking: 0
#2
Submitted by redraven (user info) at 2007-01-09 15:46:50 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
Whoops, that was supposed to be a +2.
Submitted by redraven (user info) at 2007-01-09 15:33:24 EST (#)
Ranking: -2
No Comment
Submitted by homer42 (user info) at 2007-01-09 15:13:38 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
I'm still shocked and appalled that great creative works like this get an average 0 rating while retarded stupid bullshit 2 line crap from the clubby bunch of douchebags that basically run this site constantly get near perfect scores. Then again this site is just a microcosm of the world at large and accurately reflects it. Britney spears, McDonalds, fat idiots arguing about football - this is the mediocre worthless shit that people worship - the common man has no fucking taste and is a disgrace. Keep up the good work guys.
Submitted by homer42 (user info) at 2007-01-09 15:10:39 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
Very tough call but going with entry number 2. Super writing on both accounts - really great.
Submitted by drgoatcabin (user info) at 2007-01-09 15:02:09 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
Jesus Christ....
Submitted by stevie_says (user info) at 2007-01-09 12:58:37 EST (#)
Ranking: 0
No Comment
Submitted by ParlorTrick (user info) at 2007-01-09 12:54:10 EST (#)
Ranking: 0
Submitted by JonnyX (user info) at 2007-01-09 12:43:26 EST (#)
Ranking: -1
Both of these had good concepts, but poor execution.
I'm guessing that both were written at the last minute. They had a forced quality to them, like they were dumped out as quickly as possible.
"Out came the sun and dried up all the rage."
heh heh, the only guy i know that makes typos like that is antius, but he's not in any more, so i dont know who this is
Submitted by EchoBoxing (user info) at 2007-01-09 12:40:45 EST (#)
Ranking: -2
didn't read either, just want this shit to be over
Submitted by goferforhire (user info) at 2007-01-09 12:37:34 EST (#)
Ranking: 0
No Comment
Submitted by Wicked (user info) at 2007-01-09 12:24:49 EST (#)
Ranking: 0
hm
Submitted by lolabelly (user info) at 2007-01-09 12:20:04 EST (#)
Ranking: 1
No Comment
Submitted by ghola (user info) at 2007-01-09 11:58:05 EST (#)
Ranking: 0
#1 was really good. held my attention.
Submitted by Adamdidit2u (user info) at 2007-01-09 11:55:29 EST (#)
Ranking: -2
i didn't read, i just voted
for this shit to be over
Submitted by Amontillado (user info) at 2007-01-09 11:39:39 EST (#)
Ranking: 0
No Comment
Submitted by zakalwe (user info) at 2007-01-09 11:22:24 EST (#)
Ranking: 0
No Comment
Submitted by indoninja (user info) at 2007-01-09 11:16:41 EST (#)
Ranking: 0
They both sucked, but the second one gave a horrible message that homeless people matter.
Submitted by charminglybeef (user info) at 2007-01-09 11:06:11 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
Holy shit those were both good.
"Yes, yes," Brian nodded and lowered his eyes in a practiced display of compassion.
That was a great line and there were plenty more just like it.