Dom Wars: Round Five Page 10

  He shook his head with a pained grimace and knocked the box over and dumped the contents onto the floor and stared. He gently used the toe of his shoe to separate them. "Hell's angels of anarchy," he breathed. "Pussy foot?" He leaned over the pair of feet in a package. "I don't get it."

  I pointed to the vagina on the bottom of the foot and he gasped.

  "Oh dear God, I thought that was a laceration!"

  "Why would they have a blow up ball with a happy smile?" I asked.

  I looked at what she held. "Ah, because it comes with a dildo attached to it." I pointed to the cute ridged third “handle” on the ball. "For happy bouncing."

  He gave a groan like I'd stabbed him in the gut then spied another strange item and shook his head rapidly. "I don't want to know what that toilet bowl cleaner on a strap is for," he whispered.

  "Umm, no." I put it back in the box. "You really don't. But…just in case you do, it's a poop shoot cleaner."

  Steve drew a sharp painful hiss, turning a horror stricken face to me. I could only nod in agreement as he fixed his attention back to the shit on the floor.

  "Why have they done this to me?" He reached down and snatched up a small package. No doubt thinking size had something to do with the measure of horror. He gave a hack of disgust and threw it down. "Baby Jesus BUTT PLUG?"

  The preacher let out a growl on that one but there was no throwing anything away this time. All items in the box had to be sold. Those were the strict instructions. Impossible instructions. This was clearly a set-up. They chose the most impossible toys to sell at the most impossible place. There was a fucking mole, an anti-Lucian and Tara mole in that organization. Or maybe…I looked at Preacher. Maybe it was him they didn't like, not us.

  He leaned to read another small package. "Musical condoms?" He looked at me like each item was another knife wound in the gut and he was about to take his last breath. He fell to his knees and grabbed his head.

  "It's just the game Steve," I said. "Take a breath."

  He shook his head repeatedly. "It's not that, you don't understand. This is a curse," he whispered. "My failures have caught up to me. Oh, I knew they would. Hell has expanded its boarders and formed a canyon of doom around my life. My eternal torment has come. It's here, I feel it. The demons have secured my failures and purchased a sick little mansion in hell for me." He gave a bitter sob. And then another.

  I looked at Tara and the preacher and Becca. All seemed distraught. Except the preacher. He seemed to be lost in another time and place.

  "Let me tell you about failure. Steve."

  Steve looked up at the preacher's words, wiping his face with the palms of his hands.

  "Sit down. It'll take a minute," he drawled, his voice that same rumble of doom when I'd first met him. I realized it was his ominous, get shit done voice.

  Scowling, the preacher shook his head and drew Becca to him. His lips brushed her temple in what I now recognized as his way of gaining a little control when he was pissed.

  "You think you know something about failure, mah brothah? Listen up, 'cause I'm an expert on the subject."

  I knew this wasn't going to be easy to hear, but somewhere in what he was about to say was the key to who the preacher was. That secret I'd wanted to unravel.

  "Growing up in the Bronx wasn't exactly easy for a fatherless boy. My ma tried, hard, but she was busy working two jobs to keep us fed and off the street." He paused and closed his eyes a moment and I sensed him pushing down the ghosts so he could continue. "Like a whole lot of kids in the same spot, I ended up in a gang. At first it was good, like more family. We had each other, and if one had a problem, we all did. But then our little neighborhood gang was absorbed by a bigger one. We had to meet expectations or pay up."

  He stopped again and just stared out the window for a minute. "I quickly learned I was good at being an enforcer. I was tough, could beat the shit out of guys twice my size. It wasn't long before I moved up in the gang. Me and this other guy started getting sent on secret missions. No one else knew, and we didn't wear colors. If we got caught, we were on our own. So this one night, we were supposed to go remind this guy he owed money."

  Becca patted his hand when he paused again, silently encouraging. "We always went armed, ready to shoot or cut our way out. So we went into this dude's building and when we knocked, his old lady opened the door, holding this little kid, with a couple more clinging to her legs. She stepped back, like to let us in, and there he is, sitting behind her with a shotgun. He shot first." Preacher pulled his shirt up to point out a series of scars on his belly and chest. "I took most of it. The guy with me started throwing lead, shooting as fast as he could. When he ran out of ammo, the dude we'd come to see was dead." He seemed to suddenly have to hold his jaw shut, the muscle in the corner ticking hard. "So was his old lady. And the kid she was holding. Another kid was down… dying. The other had managed to duck behind something."

  When he stopped again, his hands were shaking. "I passed out from blood loss. The guy with me ran. When the police came, I was arrested, treated, and indicted for killing two adults and two kids. The surviving kid wouldn't talk, wouldn't say it was someone else. Too scared. Thankfully, my public defender managed to show that the bullets that killed the victims weren't from my weapon. I was charged with attempted 3rd degree murder and since I was seventeen, given an option to serve time in the Army instead of prison. I thought I was getting a break." He gave a low dry laugh. "I was a damn good soldier. I was deployed to Iraq, Desert Storm. First I was in the push for Baghdad. That was sheer nastiness. Then my unit was pulled for another detail, escorting convoys, guarding this or that.

  "One night, we were pulled for special duty, to guard a prisoner transport. We passed by this little bitty village, just a handful of buildings and a well. But it sat at the opening of this narrow pass, and when we got in there, we got cut down by cross fire. The next thing I knew, mine was the only American heart still beating there and I'd been hit three times. I was taken prisoner, figured I would die."

  He pulled Becca into his arms and took a shuddering breath. I really wanted to ask questions, but I didn't think he was finished. I wasn't about to interrupt.

  "After maybe six months of being held in a dirty goat pen, my wounds were healed, but I knew I was going to die. Bit by bit. I stayed sick and weak, partly from malnutrition. They always sent two boys to feed the goats. One held a gun on me, the other fed the goats and left my little bit of food. The younger one, the one that fed the goats, talked to me a little, taught me some of the language. And one evening he brought me a good meal and said goodbye. That meant I was either going to be shot, or traded to someone else. When he left, he didn't completely lock the door. After dark, when I checked it like always, it opened. I walked out.

  "I couldn't go back to the States, couldn't face all that. Instead, I worked my way southwest, through Jordan and Egypt, moving slow, staying out of sight and under the radar. I was still sick, and my wounds were causing me a lot of trouble. I have no idea where I thought I was going, just kept on keeping on. I made it as far away as I could go. To Africa. I just wanted to escape the death. I couldn't go home, didn't want to, really. Too much blood in my mind and heart."

  He shook his head, the memories turning him into a stiff statue. "I ended up in the Congo. I don't know what happened to me there," he said quietly. "Contracted a sickness and nearly died. A little village found me half dead and took care of me. Nursed me back to health and treated me like family." He shook his head. "Poor. Destitute. Hungry. But they took care of me like I meant something to them. It was the first time I'd ever felt….

  “Anyway, three weeks in, and the little village was hit by the rebels." His fists clenched and unclenched. "What they did was so far beyond evil…" His voice was a raspy tremble now. Everything about the way he acted said he didn't want to go on but he couldn't stop. He was stuck in the confession. "They gang-raped… baby girls. Killed men… disabled them… cut off arms or legs, whatever. Rape
d women and girls to dishonor them…so their husbands wouldn't take them back. I tried to stop them. I fucking tried. I killed the majority of them eventually and ran off the rest. But…when it was all said and done… I'd done nothing. I'd saved nobody.”

  Tara's tears streamed and she wiped them.

  "I knew it was a miracle that I was once again, the only heart beating. But it wasn't a good miracle. This one woman came to me after the raid, carrying her little girl, about three fucking years old. The mother had been raped so brutally, she was bleeding everywhere, weak, but that baby… My God," he gasped. "Her tiny limbs were all crooked…blood all over her. They literally tore her apart." The preacher wiped his face on a shoulder and kept on, his voice turning harder and louder. "I held that mother and baby in my arms while they died. And…" his voice choked up. "For the first time…I felt God. It was such…an awful fucking feeling. This crazy…knowing. This weight. It was so un-fucking-bearably-heavy," he gasped. "And filled with His pain. His sorrow. For the whole. Fucking. World, man." He looked up at me and my breath froze at the weird light in his eyes. "The pain of the world…" he pounded his chest. "He gave it to me, my brother. He gave me that burden. He said this. This is now yours. Help me."

  He shrugged then. "Of course I ran again. This time from God. From the terror of that pain. Terror of that weight. Of that responsibility. I made my way to Kenya, where I met Becca. But the fear was still there. It never let up. Demanding I do something.

  "Through her, I got involved with an orphanage. And I'll never forget when I walked into that stinky one room house where all the children sat. Soiled with days and days of body waste. Starving, sick, dying. And looking up at me with this…fucking hope in their eyes." He looked at me, his face pinched in pain. "Hope, man. They had hope. And… I was so fucking ashamed. But while standing there, staring at this…this insanity, I feel it." He gasped several times, a smile on his face. "Peace. Fucking amazing. Peace. Like I'd done a handful of Xanax and everything was going to be a-fucking-okay. I had found my soul drug. Those kids. Helping those kids."

  He scrubbed his face and groaned a little, putting his elbows on his knees and staring at the floor. "Pretty soon, I was going back and forth to the US, raising money for these kids, and back to Kenya to do what I could. But now, the economy is tight and the money isn't coming in. Corporate donations have totally dried up, and so have celebrity donations." He was silent several seconds. "This game…is a last resort." He lifted his hard gaze to mine then slowly sliced it to Steve. "Failure…is for those who give up fighting. I will never stop. I will die fighting to help those kids."

  He turned his gaze back to me, a twinkle hinting in his eyes. "Hey Bane," he said, like I was his childhood friend. "In this world you will have troubles…" he chunked his chin at me with a grin, "but take heart, my brothuh… God has overcome this world."

  I sat in shock. Immobile. To hear this from him was… mind boggling beyond description. There was nothing inside me but confusion.

  I realized we were parked in the lot of the Funeral Home now. Steve gave one more sob, a bitter burning sound. He hurried out of the car with the box and we scrambled to catch up with him. He made it half way, and came to a complete halt, did a one-eighty and headed back to the car. We followed again.

  He opened the door and got on his knees before the preacher. "Would you please…pray for me?"

  The preacher was leaning forward, elbows on his knees, hands clasped and looking down when Steve had entered. And now he angled his face at Steve. "I already was, my brother."

  Steve remained there for a few more seconds then gave a reverent nod. "Thank you. You have…truly inspired me," I barely heard him whisper.

  "Not me, my brother."

  Steve hurried out the car again and headed back toward the Funeral Home. If determination was a fire, he was leaving an inferno behind him.

  Chapter Fifteen

  We followed Steve through the extravagant interior. Despite the fancy décor, the smell of some strong cleanser covered with the heavy perfume of funeral flowers burned my nose. God what a sorry business to be in. Did you ever become accustomed to death working at a place like this? More accepting? Immune? How hard was it to appear like you gave a shit at all, after running dead bodies for twenty years?

  With delivering life, I could see how you'd be able to appreciate each new life. But dead people? How did you find the spark, the joy, when your business was sadness and sorrow? It was just fucking creepy. Like a show. A creep show. And now we were waltzing in with the cherry on top. The icing to this fucked up cake. It all lurked eerily close to necrophilia in my mind.

  Steve knocked on a door that read Private.

  "Come in!"

  Steve gasped at the cannon of a voice from the other side of the door. He suddenly looked like the lion on the Wizard Of OZ just before he ran and swan dove through the window.

  I held my hand on his shoulder and nodded.

  "You DEAF? I said come in!"

  Steve opened the door and we followed him in. He hurried to the man's desk and stretched a hand toward him. "Mr. Pierson? I'm Steve Harrison and I'm going to have to just be plain ole frank with you."

  The man across the desk glared at him from a cracked leather chair that had to be a family heirloom. "What the hell do you want? I'm not in the mood for chit chat, I run dead bodies here." He lit a cigar, eyeing Steve, then me, then Tara. "What the hell you all sellin?" He stated it like he knew it wasn't anything good.

  He worked his Zippo lighter into the top pocket of his western shirt, complete with the fancy pearly snaps, his brown gaze as keen as his cataracts allowed.

  Steve looked around the office quickly, as though trying to find a sales angle.

  "I see you hunt," I said, nodding at the buck on the wall above his head.

  He snapped his vicious gaze my way. "You see my name on that son?"

  "Uhh, no sir."

  "Look," Steve said, setting his box on the chair. "I'm not going to take any more of your time." He opened the box.

  "Good, you've already wasted too much. State your gawddamn business already. You better not be a travelling salesman either, I'll shoot you where you stand and bury you in my own personal graveyard. I got everything I need to do it." He burst out in laughter that sounded a lot like hacking up a quickly chewed chicken wing. "Boy!" he yelled. "I'm teasing, stop looking like a damn gut-shot dog.

  "Mr. Pierson," Steve said, boldly. "Brace yourself, because I am selling something. But nothing you'd ever guess."

  This seemed to get the old man's attention. "Fine, fine, show me, aint' got nothing better at the moment any gawdamn way. But be quick, my neice'll be here any second."

  This hurried Steve up. "I need room, do you mind?" Steve didn't wait for an answer as he slid items to the side on the man's desk, then began laying out his nasty packages. "Sir, now, I know what you must be thinking, what on earth is this man doing with these insane adult sex toys on my desk. First I'd ask that you not shoot me, and second I'd ask that you hear me out."

  The man stood up and Steve took a step back. Then he looked down at all the stuff. "Are you meaning to tell me you're trying to sell this gawdamn shit here?"

  We all stood there, looking as stupid as we felt.

  He stared back at us like we were the strangest anomaly he'd ever set eyes on.

  The door opened and in walked I'd guess his niece. Steve gasped and quickly began gathering the items into his arms.

  "Leave it!" the man bellowed. "You came here to sell that, now go on. Sell it. What you got there, big boy!"

  The old man's grin and devious look said he knew that feat was a lot to ask of Steve.

  Steve slid the items back in place and stepped back. "Well, first we have… musical condoms."

  "Ohhh," the old man drawled, "is that so. What does it sing?"

  Steve looked ill as he read the packet. "The tune plays…'You Light Up My Life"," Steve's voice dropped to humiliated as the man's laughter boomed out agai
n.

  I stepped forward. "And this here is our handy dandy Humiliator. Or poop shoot nightmare. Great for sadistic parties where you like your victims humiliated beyond recovery. And this." I held up the next package. "Is our highly favored Happy Bouncer." I pointed to the third handle on the ball and grinned. "Clearly this is what makes it so happy." I grabbed the next product. "Ah yes, for the avid foot fetish addict, we have this authentic looking Pussy Foot. Entrance to that paradise here," I pointed the laceration on the foot.

  Tara stepped forward next. "And this is a genuine classic. Perfect for those assholes you know could use a little religion? Well, plug this little Baby Jesus up their asses and you're sure to win a soul. Assuming they have one, that is."

  "And this," Steve snatched up the final product. "Last but certainly not least, the Area 51 Love Doll is a hot item with the…blind and such. Complete with three breasts and three out of this world gateways to a galactic paradise." He flashed his crazy grin. "Comes in pink, purple and blue."

  We all stared at the two awestruck people on the other side of the desk, the girl's mouth still hanging open. "Oh. My. God."

  "I'm sorry," Steve suddenly wailed. "I know this is nuts, I—"

  "Uncle Phil?" She looked down at the old man. "What if we added these to our business?"

  "What?!" He angled that vicious look at her but she didn't seemed intimidated at all. "I've got the gawdamn bloodsuckers selling me out, I ain't—"

  "Exactly! This is the answer. We sell a line of these products and attach it to our corporation. Remember who these people are uncle, why they're really buying us out?"

  "Because they're gawdamn lying thieves running guns and whores and are looking to clean their money buying up harmless businesses like Funeral Homes." He snapped his squinted eye to us. "They think I don't have connections?" he boomed at us. "Well I gawdamn well do. And I got enough crimes on them sums-a-guns it'd make a priest piss blood in a confessional." He tapped his temple. "They done messed with the wrong buzzard. They come over here to my gawdamn town, looking for small towners to take advantage of, blowin' more hot air than farts in a fan factory."