Hey, Nice Hat!

Speculative Fiction by Donovan Douglas Thiesson

Mitch and Arty had walked past the basement apartment dozens of times, never once paying it any mind. This time, however, something was different. Not a noticeable change for most people, but Mitch and Arty were not most people.

The curtains hung open.

More importantly, just within sight, in plain view upon an oak coffee table, sat a five-inch thick stack of hundred-dollar bills, bound together with thick rubber bands. Just like in the gangster movies Arty loved so much. In other words, they caught a glimpse of their future retirement fund.

They kept walking as if neither had seen the pile of money, carrying themselves like they belonged there. The kind of guys you’d expect to see outside a three story, low rent disappointment.

Just like our own place, Mitch thought.

Neon purple flashed from across the street, and the despondent, muted twang of country music drifted over to greet them. Mitch hated country music, but Arty hated looking for parking even more, and the Saddle was the only bar within walking distance. Once inside, Mitch took his beer to the outside patio, and Arty trailed behind him. Cold air smothered him, but he could smoke, and right now he needed to smoke.

A tall fence closed the patio in, and they leaned up against the boards, shivering and hunched against the winter’s bite. Mitch peered through the slats in the fence, and the apartment from across the street beckoned back.

“We’re gonna’ break in there,” Arty said, his voice hushed.

“The fuck we are. Where do you think someone gets that kind of cash? You’re gonna’ get us killed.”

Arty didn’t talk. Instead, he gulped at his beer and watched the apartments. Breaking into homes was a way of life for them. As children, it had started as a thrill. A way between brothers to vent the steam built up from multiple foster homes. As adults, it had evolved into a way to pay bills. They both worked, but had no other family to rely on, and Arty had child support payments to make.

“No, that’s why we’re doing it,” Arty said. He finished his beer and headed inside.

Just ignore him, Mitch thought. He’s already drunk. Let him drink it off.

He flicked his cigarette to the snow and followed his brother inside. Arty stood in a corner, a beer in each hand, talking to a loose group of tall blondes. One laughed at something Arty whispered in her ear.

Mitch envied the way Arty blended into crowds. People liked him. Mitch felt awkward around other people and lacked friends as a result. Arty, on the other hand, had no friends because he used people. He watched as Arty continued to whisper, trailing a fingertip up the woman’s arm. She laughed again and leaned into him, and he draped his arm around her waist in response.

Good, Mitch thought. He’ll take her home, get laid, and we can forget about the money. As Mitch thought these words, Arty stepped away from the blonde, and waved him over. She looked as disappointed as Mitch felt.

“Let’s get out of here,” Arty said. He set his beers on a table, both half empty.

“It’s early”.

“You hate this place. And the music sucks.”

As they crossed the street, Arty slowed his pace and Mitch’s heart sank.

“Whoever lives in that apartment is not someone we want to fuck with,” he repeated.

“I’m not saying we break in. I’m just saying we… we take a look. See what happens.”

As they approached the apartment building, the languid music from the Saddle was sucked away, leaving only the insect hum of the flickering street lamps in the parking lot.

“Light a smoke,” Arty said.

Mitch didn’t question him. He lit a camel as they approached the apartment building, dragging hard, the cherry briefly spilling its orange glow across his face. Now they were just two guys, enjoying a butt outside the building.

The apartment’s curtains were now drawn. Through the glass double doors of the building’s entranceway, the front door of the apartment was visible in the half-light. One of the bulbs of the fluorescents in the foyer was burnt, and the other pulsated like a heart attack. They did not talk as Mitch smoked. The disappointment on Arty’s face was obvious.

It’s suicide, and he knows it, Mitch thought. If he wants to kill himself, then he can do it without me. He was about to voice his thoughts when the door to the apartment opened.

A man stepped out into the building’s hallway, partially obscured behind the grimy glass of the entrance. He hunched slightly forward, and on his head sat an old suede top hat. He closed the door to his apartment, not bothering to lock it.

Fuck, Mitch thought, knowing Arty had seen the same thing. The man pushed open the entranceway and cold air rushed around his wiry frame. Once again, he hunched down, ducking his head and his hat beneath the door frame. He stood there for a moment. The man was at least seven feet tall, and the hat on his head made him look like a giant.

“Nice hat,” Arty said.

Mitch caught his breath. Fucking idiot.

The man gave them both an icy glare. He tipped the top hat slightly but did not smile. His shoulders rippled as he turned his back to them and walked the way Arty and Mitch had come, his breath pluming out into frigid air like dragon smoke.  

Mitch tossed his butt into the old coffee can that sat next to the doors. “Let’s get the fuck home.”   

Neither spoke until they were inside their squat, two-bedroom apartment, a mere five minutes away. Mitch cracked the window, fighting the frost as he did so. He lit another camel, wishing he had picked up a second pack.

He’s waiting for me to smoke before bringing it up. So I don’t flip out on him.

“We need this,” Arty said.

“What we need is to forget about this.”

“I need this. I’m behind on payments… Sheila won’t let me see Amy.”

“Then we’ll do a different job, or get some fucking overtime−”

“Did you see all that cash?” Desperation crept into Arty’s voice. “If we do thisjob, we won’t need to do this anymore. Ever.”

“Bullshit. You always say the same thing, and it’s always shit. And this guy? He only lives two blocks away.”            

Arty shrugged. “We’ll have to go to a better bar. You hate the Saddle. Win, win.”

“You talked to him. He saw your face−”

“He saw two random guys smoking outside his building.” Arty shook his head. “He’ll probably think it was another tenant. This guy is perfect.”

“This guy is dangerous,” Mitch spat, becoming frustrated. “Didn’t you see him? He looks like something out of a horror movie. He looked at us like we were slugs fit to step on. And what was up with that fucking hat?”

“That’s how lawyers dress, not drug dealers.”

“When you were arrested, your lawyer didn’t wear a fucking top hat. That’s how nobody dresses. There was something really wrong about it.”

“Okay. So he dresses weird and looks weird−”

“I’m still on probation, Arty!”

Arty shrugged. “So am I. That’s not the kind of money you earn working nine to five, you said it yourself. So if we rob this guy… well, he ain’t gonna’ call the cops, now is he?”

“It’s not the cops I’m worried about…” Mitch slumped his shoulders. He was the brains of the operation, and Arty usually listened to him. When it came to Arty’s daughter, however, he listened to no one. This was not the first time he had pushed for a risky job to catch up on child support.

“You’re right,” Arty said. “You’re the smart one, mom always said so. And I shouldn’t ask you to do this with me. I’ll do it myself.” Arty was silent for a moment. “Fuck it, I’m gonna’ do it right now. Before he’s back.”

Mitch tossed the cigarette out the window and immediately lit another. Fucking asshole, he thought. Arty knew he would never let him go alone. “Fine. Bring the Olds. And don’t fuck this up.”

***

“This is stupid,” Mitch muttered to himself as the Oldsmobile pulled over a half block away. The car coughed twice into the frigid air and the engine died. The exhaust tickled his dry throat, seeping into the car from an as of yet undiscovered hole in the undercarriage.  

“You’ll thank me in ten minutes,” Arty said from behind a black scarf, wrapped around the lower half of his face. Winter was the best time to pull a job. No one expected burglary when it was so cold, nor did they bat an eye at a concealed face.

Mitch cracked the door of the Olds and winced at the grating sound it made. They needed a new car. There’s enough money for that, he thought to himself, frowning immediately after. Now I sound like Arty.

They both put their hoods up and the Olds pulled from the curb. This is too close to home. Too close, too risky, and we’ve been too lucky. He had already spent two stints in the correctional for theft and break and enter. How much time for the third strike? Arty’s voice echoed dimly in his mind. Do you think a guy like that will call the cops?

The series of apartment complexes shimmered in the frosted air, forming a U shape around the parking lot. They were identical, save for the variation in gang tags graffitied across their sides. A flicker of light from the Saddle’s marquee provided ambiance, neon pink splashed against cold shadows.

Mitch led the way as they cut along the concrete footpath that snaked between two buildings. Again, it occurred to him just how close they lived, and a tingle of fear and adrenaline danced along his vertebrae like a panicked ballerina.

He kept himself concealed as he stood next to a dark green dumpster. From here, the other tenants in the building would not see him. Mitch had the advantage. He could see all the other footpaths that snaked between and behind the nearby apartments. Most important of all, he could see the entire parking lot itself. If the tall man approached, he could shoot Arty a quick text. This time, he didn’t need anyone to tell him to light a smoke.

The curtains were drawn on the apartment and the lights were off. He hasn’t come back yet, Mitch thought, begging it to be true. Arty went to the buzzer and pushed the first button, the one that belonged to the tall man.

Silence.

Arty waited for almost a full minute, and pushed it again, holding the button in. The faint sound of the buzzer’s whine floated through the curtained windowpane. He let go of the button and looked at Mitch.

“No one home,” he mouthed.

It’s a trap! Mitch didn’t know where the thought came from, but everything felt wrong. The chill moved from his spine and instead danced the nutcracker in his abdomen. It’s a trap, and you need to run. Arty will follow if you do. You can make up something, anything, the curtain moved, the man peeked around the corner−

Instead, he gave Arty a thumbs up.

Arty pushed all the buttons, one after another. When he got to five, the intercom crackled.

“Piss off!” a voice slurred.

Arty waited for a few seconds to pass. He looked back at Mitch, and Mitch nodded. Arty pushed the fifth buzzer again. There was no voice this time.

Mitch held his breath, hoping something would go wrong. Someone would see them and yell they were calling the cops. They could give the finger and go home.

A few more seconds passed. Like an omen, the buzzer sounded, and the heavy latch clicked, echoing across the parking lot like a distant gunshot. Mitch exhaled as Arty opened the door. He shot Mitch a grin and vanished into the grease-stained interior.

In the distance, a figure passed around the back of the adjacent apartment building. Mitch pulled his pack of camels out of his jacket pocket and lit another one, dragging deep. Out for a smoke, bud, he thought. Nothing to see. Keep on walking. The figure didn’t bother to look in Mitch’s direction as it disappeared down one of the footpaths.

Mitch finished his cigarette, his parched throat now tickling, dropped the smoldering butt and crushed it beneath the heel of his boot. Don’t cough, he thought, immediately lighting a third.

Calm down, Arty’s voice crooned in his head. One minute and it’s done. You can forget about this shit. Go home. Pop an Ativan. Watch Netflix. Smoke a joint. I’ll bring Amy over tomorrow, we’ll go for ice cream. How long since you’ve even seen her?

Arty burst through the glass doors of the apartment building. Mitch hadn’t even seen him leave the apartment itself. He held the backpack outstretched from his body. Mitch couldn’t read the strange look in Arty’s eyes; excited, glazed, but also frightened.

He looks like a cornered animal, Mitch thought. Something happened. His heart jumped into his throat.

Arty skidded to a stop. “Why do you smoke so much. Stinks so bad I could smell it inside.” He held the bag in front of him, as if begging Mitch to take it away.

Mitch dropped the cigarette and snatched the backpack.

“Why do you look so fucking guilty?” He no longer concealed the frustration in his voice. “Do you want us to…”

The bag was too heavy, and it shifted wrong.

“No. Look,” Arty said.

Mitch shot him a glance. He realized Arty was sweating, despite the cold. Mitch looked back down at the backpack and opened it slowly, as if a jack-in-the-box might leap out. At first, he could not make out what was in the bag. Several objects filled the interior. He gave the pack a shake and Arty reached out, alarmed.

“Don’t!”

Soft moonlight caught the inside of the bag, caressing the shape of a gun. The gun was sitting on what looked like two bricks.

Mitch stopped breathing.

“What… the fuck…? What… Are you retarded?”

“It’s fucked up is what it is−”

“Where’s the money,” Mitch hissed.

Arty shrugged.

“Where’s the fucking money?”

“There was no fucking money. This is the fucking money. There was… weird shit everywhere. I just grabbed what was on the table.”

Mitch reached down with a shaky hand and lifted the brick. White. Saran wrapped. Mitch had a strong feeling it would weigh exactly one kilo. He gently set it back, careful not to agitate the gun.

“Fuck, we gotta’ get outta’ here.” He flinched as police lights flashed to life across the street.

Arty grabbed his arm.

“Don’t run.”

The cruiser was parked in front of the Saddle. An officer exited the car and approached a small crowd standing outside.

“I’m gonna’ get the car and pick you up,” Arty said.

“Fuck that shit.” Mitch grabbed his arm. “I’m not sitting here with drugs and a gun.”

“You wanna’ walk down the street with this?” Arty pulled his arm out of Mitch’s grasp. “How many people have you seen while you sat here? Don’t be stupid. Didn’t even break in, door was open.”

“What the fuck we gonna’ do with…?” Mitch pointed at the bag. He didn’t know what the bricks were: heroin, coke, meth, it didn’t matter. “That’s a life sentence, or a death sentence, depending on who sees us.”

 “We’ll sell it,” Arty said. There was a hint of fear creeping into his voice.

“To who!?” Mitch gasped, spittle flying from his lips.

“I don’t know, you weren’t there, and I reacted, ok?”

And with that, Arty turned and jogged towards the street, hands in pockets, head lowered.

“Wait−!” Mitch took a few steps as well before he remembered he was still holding the backpack. The squad car’s lights across the street flashed blue and red once again, but the car did not leave. He back pedaled behind the dumpster, hoping he didn’t look suspicious, knowing he looked suspicious as fuck.

 “Hurry your dumb ass up,” Mitch moaned to himself. He pulled his dwindling pack of camels out from his pocket, stuck one in his mouth, and then thought better of lighting it. Someone might see the glow. And now, I’m not just casually smoking with nothing to hide. He went to put the cigarette in his pocket and dropped it with trembling fingers onto the backpack.  

He opened the bag again, tentatively, knowing he shouldn’t. There it was. The gun. He got why Arty took the drugs, he was impulsive, and drugs meant money. But why the gun?

This is it. I’m out. Arty’s on his own from now on.

He reached tentatively down the side of the bag, careful not to touch the weapon. There were the two bricks, and beneath it, something else. Something fabric.

I just grabbed what was on the table, Arty’s voice echoed in his head. Weird shit everywhere. Mitch pulled out a drawstring bag and gave it a little shake. Something rattled inside. He fought back his apprehension and opened the bag. He squinted his eyes but did not understand what he was looking at. Several objects, familiar−

Mitch dropped the bag, and a human tooth bounced out. It couldn’t get worse, he thought, and then it did… A sudden ball of anxiety rose up his throat, threatening to erupt into the same kind of laughter that bubbles up during a funeral. His hands shook as he reached down, picked up the bag, and dropped it back into the backpack. He ground his foot on the tooth lying in the snow next to his pile of cigarette butts.

The dumpster. Get rid of it, now. He opened the dumpster lid and slid the backpack in. Drop it. Drop it and run!

He did not drop it. He had picked up one of the bricks. And had he held the gun as well? He couldn’t remember.

You’re fucking fingerprints, Arty’s fucking fingerprints. And your fucking DNA, all over a dozen cigarette butts scattered across this parking lot.

Break and enter. Theft. Possession of a firearm. Possession of narcotics for the purpose of trafficking. And a bag of… what? Not exactly body parts, but close enough. How many years did that add up to? And you’re also on probation. This wasn’t jail time, this was penn time.

He pulled the backpack from the dumpster and set it down on his feet. They would dispose of it later, after wiping everything down and filing away any serial numbers from the gun. In the forest, at the bottom of a lake, Timbuktu, it didn’t matter. Just not in an empty dumpster, in a neighborhood where people went through dumpsters daily.

He slouched back into the dumpster’s shadow, flinching away from the sound of a revving engine. It was a truck, much too nice for Arty.

He squinted into the darkness, resisting his constant urge to smoke. They had not parked far. The longer he sat behind these apartments, the more risk there would be that a patrol car would pass by… or that the tall man would return home.

He remembered how small he had felt standing next to the tall man, the look he had shot them both. Like he was looking right through us, he thought. Like we were less than bugs.

Light flooded the entrance to the parking lot. The Olds pulled into the lot, headlights on, and Mitch released a shaky sigh of relief.

The car slid into the parking spot alongside the dumpster, and Mitch ran around to the other side, grimacing as the hinges of the passenger door screamed into the night. He tossed the bag to the back.

“Let’s get the fuck out of here,” he said, letting the anger flair in his voice as he slammed the door shut.

The door locked.

His elbow bumped something soft, sitting in the middle armrest. A suede top hat.

Mitch froze as the tall man, hunched over the steering wheel, pierced him with the same cold gaze as before, and something else: surprise. He looked equally as surprised as Mitch felt.

Do something. You have to do something now−

“You’re not going to do anything,” the tall man said. His voice was higher than Mitch expected.

“Look, we won’t…” Mitch’s voice cracked like he was going through puberty.

The man let go of the steering wheel with his right-hand. Mitch caught a glint of metal from the brass knuckles snaking across his fingers. The tall man struck Mitch twice in the face. His head cracked the window. Distantly, he heard Arty kicking against the inside of the trunk.

Mitch tried to unlock the door again, his vision swimming, but his hands were sweaty and slipped off the plunger. The man punched him a third time, and everything went black.

***

Mitch woke to freezing, dripping pain.

He tried to struggle as he gasped, but an extension cord dug deep into his arms and neck. He blinked the stinging water from his eyes as the evening’s events came flooding back to him.

The tall man faced him, perched on an old, metal folding chair, the kind used for town hall events and public schools. A metal bucket sat next to the chair. His top hat was gone, revealing a thinning clump of grey hair, folded over into a combover.

He leaned towards Mitch, and smiled, revealing large buck teeth. Normally, Mitch would have found it comical. Now he found it terrifying.

“It’s not like in the movies, is it,” the tall man said.

Mitch’s eyes darted around. They were indoors, somewhere big and dark, the walls concealed in all directions by an expanse of shadows. They were illuminated in a dim halo from an overhead tungsten bulb.

“Cold water thrown on you,” the tall man continued. “In the movies, you see them sputter. They cough, wake up, swear, and make threats. ‘It must be terrible,’ you think to yourself.” The man stopped smiling. “But it’s more than just terrible. It feels like you’re choking on ice. Wouldn’t you agree, Mitch?”

He knows my name, Mitch thought. Arty told him. What did he do to make Arty tell him my name?

“Maybe you’re not a movie fan after all.” The tall man leaned back in his chair. “Or maybe I hit you too hard. Broke your jaw.”

“You broke my tooth,” Mitch mumbled, his tongue sliding around the empty space where his eyetooth used to be.

“I took your tooth. It was loose, so I gave it a quick tug. One more for the bag.”

“Where’s my brother?”

“Not dead.”

“I want to see Arty−”

“You. Two. Brothers.” The man slapped his knee with each word. “You ruined my night.”

“I’m so sorry−”

“Movie night.”

Mitch didn’t know what to say, so he said nothing.

“You saw something. And I saw you see it. But I never thought you’d be stupid enough….” The man shook his head, as if he had been let down. “Usually, I get a feel for these things, you know? I can read people. And I felt you guys were stupid. But this…?” The man stopped talking, as if expecting some kind of answer from Marty. “Why did you get in the car?”

Again, Mitch had no answer. Despite everything, he felt his face flush, as if scolded by an adult.

The tall man pulled an iPhone out of his pocket. He waggled it in front of Mitch. “I saw your brother on camera. But I didn’t see you at all. You just ran up and… got in.”

“When we found out it wasn’t money…” Mitch’s heart pounded against his temples. “When we found out, we…” But he could think of nothing.

Keep him talking, his thoughts begged. Play his game.

“You took my things, from my home, why my teeth?”

“Look, we didn’t even want the drugs,” Mitch stammered. “We’re not junkies or dealers.”

“Yet here you are.”

The tall man reached into the backpack and pulled out one of the bricks. “I don’t care about this,” he said flatly. He dropped the brick back into the bag with a thud, clucked his tongue and shook his head.

“I don’t understand,” Mitch said.

The tall man reached into the backpack again and pulled out the small drawstring bag. He bounced it in the palm of his hand, and the teeth within clinked audibly together.

“Have you ever seen Marathon Man?” The man stuck the drawstring bag into his pants pocket and stood. He raised his eyebrows as he waited for Mitch’s response.

Mitch shook his head no.

“Such a pity,” the tall man said. “A classic. You’d remember it from one very specific scene.”  

 He seemed to Mitch even taller than before. The tall man came close and leaned down, his face above his own. His breath stank like old meat.

“Every now and again, a scene comes along. Not a movie, there are dozens, hundreds of movies released each year. But every now and then, there is a special scene which never, ever leaves you. It becomes a part of you. And if you see enough of them, they start to define you.” The man stood tall again, his shadow blocking out the light like a spindly eclipse.

“Martyrs, Meghan is Missing. The Talented Mr. Ripley. When Evil Lurks. Do any of these ring a bell?”

Mitch shook his head, swallowing hard.

“Let’s just say, I’m a connoisseur of unforgettable cinematic moments. And no one fucks with my mementos… until you. Two. Stupid fucking brothers.”

There came a mumbling sound from the dark. Sobbing.

“Hold on,” the tall man whispered conspiratorially. “Your brother’s awake again.”

He turned around and walked into the darkness. Mitch could hear his footfalls continuing but could see nothing of the man himself. What is this place? It must be a warehouse. It’s huge.

A scream filled the space, rolling echoes through the darkness.  

Mitch almost fell over in the chair. The sounds of a struggle filled his ears, then grunting, followed by a wet ripping sound. Finally, more sobbing, quieter this time.

“Arty!” Mitch yelled. “Stop it you piece of shit, don’t do this!”

Arty’s voice came drifting back. He sounded weak and muffled. “Don’t let him hurt me.”

Mitch struggled again in his chair, trying to free his hand from the ropes as he blinked back tears of anger. Clacking footsteps in the darkness announced the tall man’s return. His left hand was soaked in crimson and clenched into a fist.

“Don’t worry,” the man said. “He’s still not dead.”

The tall man sat back down. Blood dripped from his fingers. He opened his fist and in the palm of his hand lay Arty’s two front teeth. He dropped them into the draw string bag. “Part of the collection now. To make up for the one you took.”

“You fucking psychopath!”

The man didn’t answer. Instead, he reached into his pocket, pulled out Arty’s wallet and flipped it open. He brought it close to Mitch’s face. Inside the wallet, in the clear laminate section where most people keep a driver’s license, was a photo. Mitch knew it well. Arty, smiling his sideways grin, with his six-year-old daughter Amy sitting on his lap.

“Please, whatever you want…” Mitch asked.

“You know where I live,” the tall man said. “You were in my home.”

Mitch said nothing. The voice in his head echoed the sudden despair he felt. He’s going to kill us. He’s crazy, we fucked up, and he’s going to kill us and nothing I say can fix this.

“You ruined movie night, you snuck into my home, and you took my stuff.” The tall man thrust Arty’s wallet closer to Mitch’s face, pressing it against his nose. “You’re the smart one, right? At least, that’s what your brother said. The brains of the operation.”

“You won’t ever hear from us again,” Mitch stammered.

“So many films, so little time.”

“You don’t have to do this−”

“How about Misery? Are you a Stephen King fan?”

“Why are you doing this?”

“Why did you break into my apartment?” The man smiled his buck teeth at Mitch.

Mitch shook his head ‘no’ again, as if in disbelief of the whole situation.

The tall man dropped the wallet onto Mitch’s lap in response. Blood still dripped from his hand, making teardrop patterns on the cracked concrete floor. He wiped it on his slacks, leaving a scarlet hand print. “I have his teeth. It’s a start. A small… reparation, if you will”  

“We’ll do anything you want−”

“Your brother made his choice the moment he broke in.”

“I won’t go to the police…”

“That would be a dream come true,” the tall man said flatly. His face took on a ponderous look, then lit up, as if he had remembered a funny joke. “I’ve got it.” 

This is insane, Mitch thought. I’m dreaming and I need to wake up. A more pressing voice interrupted in Mitch’s head. Arty’s voice. Why did he show you a picture of Amy?

The man turned around and walked off into the darkness. His icy voice trailed back. “I always loved American History X. You know the scene.”

Mitch struggled, and this time the chair he was tied to fell over. His left arm went numb, but he could move his right hand slightly more than before. In the distance he could hear Arty sobbing, and the sounds of the tall man’s footfalls.

“Don’t hurt him!” Mitch yelled, already out of breath. He twisted his right arm back and forth against the cord that held him. Blood and sweat covered his flesh, making it slick. The pain caused his bladder to empty, but he twisted his arm regardless, and with the stench of piss burning his nostrils his wrist came partially free, up to the base of his thumb.

The tall man’s voice floated back to him. “Put your teeth on the curb!”

What the fuck is he doing−?

And then he remembered. Not the movie. The scene.

A muffled voice floated back to him. Arty. Begging.

“Put your teeth on the curb!”

“Don’t do this!” Mitch yelled. “Don’t you fucking do this to my brother!” He twisted his right wrist, hard, and felt both the cord and his bones stretch. His wrist popped free.

“Now say good night, motherfucker!”

A brutal crunch pierced the darkness.

Then silence. No more sobbing from Arty. Nothing but the mosquito hum of the light hanging up high. The tall man’s chuckle drifted through the black, settling like the dust caught in the beam of incandescent. “That one never gets old. I’ll come back tomorrow for a photo and a chunk of skull.”

Get up, Mitch thought. There’s no time for this. His right arm now free, he pulled himself up and stumbled in the opposite direction of Arty. The darkness engulfed him, but Mitch had no time to let his eyes adjust. His left arm was numb, but he could still use it, so it wasn’t broken.

With arms stretched out before him he ran− and immediately tripped, making a sound like a flipped pancake as he hit the concrete. In a panic he reached back with his good arm and tried to free his feet from twisted fabric.

His fingers closed on something heavy and familiar. The backpack. 

The sound of heavy footsteps approached. “I’ll take you to see the rest of the family. I’ve always wanted to do The Human Centipede. More a guilty pleasure than anything else.”

Mitch reached into the backpack, and pulled out the gun, grateful for the slick, cool weight in his hands. He had never fired a gun before, but he also watched movies. Now Arty spoke inside his head: pull the top part back, stupid. He stood, shakily, and did so.

The expected double click echoed off unseen walls.

The footsteps from the tall man stopped abruptly. He heard. In the darkness, he could just make out the man’s silhouette, barely twenty feet away.

He raised the gun with a jerk and fired. Thunder roared, and through the flash of light he got his first good look at the warehouse. Not empty, but filled with rows of shelves and boxes, tracking back almost as far as his eyes could see.

The tall man ducked to the left, as quick as a spider, into the rows. Mitch tracked him, firing three more times, but the tall man was gone.

Fireworks danced tracers in the dark, and his ears rang. I missed. I missed, and now I’m deaf and blind.

So is he, Arty’s voice whispered back.

There should have been panic, but he felt none. Just anger. A deep, roiling fury. Mitch raised the gun and fired it into the light above, turning his head away from the raining glass and cloaking himself in darkness.

Arty’s voice laughed in his head. That’s the Mitch I know and love. If I’m fucked, so are you.

Mitch wanted to find Arty, what was left of Arty, but that was a mistake. Even if Arty was still alive, he needed paramedics, not his younger brother.

You’re the brains of this operation, so use your brains, Arty’s voice insisted urgently. Mitch pictured himself feeling his way down the aisles, in the opposite direction of the tall man, until he found a wall.

What then? Arty asked.

Mitch watched himself track along the wall, hugging it tight, until he found a door, and then… he saw himself, walking down the street with a gun.

That’s not how you do it.

Now he pictured himself sticking the gun in his waistband.

Don’t be stupid, you’ll blow off your own foot.

Mitch knelt down, picked up the backpack, and turned it over. The other brick hit the concrete with a thump.

Better. Now get moving, little brother.

He stumbled in the opposite direction from where the tall man had fled, his numb arm outstretched, the other cradling the gun to his body. He was aware of how loud his footsteps echoed, how easy he would be to follow, even in the dark. He began to shuffle, hoping it would make him less of a target.

He thought he heard a scrabbling noise from behind, and shuffled faster, trying not to scream. He collided with the wall. Not just a wall, but a door. Mitch fumbled his way in the dark to the handle, pulled on it and it opened. Light bit his eyes as he fell into the outdoors. He blinked until the spots left.

In front of him was the Olds.

Mitch scrambled to the car, pulling the stiff driver’s door open. It can’t be this easy, Mitch thought. The voice in his head had taken on a delirious tone. It’s only this easy in the movies−

The car keys were missing. Of course they were. He stole from houses, not cars, and he had no idea how to hot wire a vehicle. Frantically, he looked to the distant corner of the warehouse, then turned to the even more distant corner behind him.

He might return to the car. I can wait for him and shoot him in the head.

The man had run the other direction inside the warehouse, and he also had a phone. His own phone was missing, as was his wallet. No surprise there. The tall man could have simply called a cab, as opposed to taking the twenty-minute hike around the enormous warehouse. If he hid in the car, or under it, he would be stuck and vulnerable, and the tall man would easily spot such an obvious trap.

No. Get out of here. Let him think he has the upper hand. Go to his home, hide in the closet, shoot him in the face. The tall man might not go home, though. He knew where Mitch lived, and he might go there instead. Even better, Mitch thought. Then it’s self-defense.

Wincing in pain, and shivering in the wind, he thought of Arty, and the sickening crunch echoed through his mind again and again. He thought of his niece, Amy, and what the tall man could do to her. The man’s voice tugged at the corners of Mitch’s mind. Human Centipede. A guilty pleasure. Mitch didn’t watch horror movies, but again, you would need to have lived under a rock to not know that scene.

“Sick fuck,” he said to himself. Mitch barely recognized his own voice through his swollen, freezing lips. “Sick psycho fuck.”

He slipped the gun into the backpack and began to walk. He was in the industrial section, somewhere down 51^st. It was an hour’s walk, at least. His jacket was also missing, but he had a sweater.

Soaking wet. You need to get somewhere warm, fast.

As he grew colder, and his shivering became spastic, Arty’s voice chuckled in his mind. So, you’re going to walk all the way to this guy’s house, ambush him, and shoot him? Come on brother. Brains. Use them.

Questions creeped into his mind.How many rounds did the gun hold? How many had he fired inside? He didn’t know how to take out the clip or to check if there were more bullets inside, or how to put the gun back together again even if did.

So you’re going to beat this guy with the backpack. Arty laughed in his mind’s eye. One armed. This seven-foot behemoth. Just aim for the hat, right?

Arty was right. He needed to make a decision with his brain, not his anger. He needed warmth. More importantly, he needed someone who could shoot a gun.

Mitch made the decision to go to the police.

***

Mitch sat in an interrogation room, wishing he could smoke. In the movies, they always smoked. One ciggy after another. But this was the real world, and in the real world you didn’t smoke in government buildings.

The real world isn’t supposed to have monsters, either. But it does. And monsters wear stupid hats and have movie night.

He rattled his wrists, both cuffed tightly. He had asked for the cuffs to be loosened and was ignored in return. It turned out walking into a police station with a stolen gun, while on probation, made him appear less than trustworthy. Especially when his statement started with, ‘so we broke into this guy’s place’.

He had given his initial statement to an elderly man named Larry. Not the gunslinger Mitch had been expecting, but a police officer none the less.

After cuffing him, another officer, a short, pudgy man who introduced himself only as ‘Jack’ had ushered Mitch down a flight of stairs. Each step had made him feel safer. Now he sat in the blandest, most nondescript room he had ever encountered.

“A homicide detective will be with you when we can get a hold of one,” Jack said, sitting across the table from him. “After all, it is two in the morning.”

“You’re not a detective?”

Jack should his head. He wore a plain, button up shirt, and grey slacks. As bland as bland could be, except for the gun holstered beneath his left arm and the keys to the handcuffs hanging from a belt loop.

“I’m mostly paperwork now. But there are other officers here, who will take you to a holding cell for the night. Until we can figure this all out.”

Mitch nodded, eyes downcast, and Jack left the room. The door closed with a thud.. Mitch smelled like blood, piss, cigarette smoke and beer. He had admitted to a cacophony of crimes, meandering along various felonies from theft to drug trafficking to weapon possession to torture, and finally landing firmly on first degree murder. All in the course of only a few hours.

He ran his tongue along the ragged space where his eyetooth had been, tasting torn gums and copper, and shook his head. He needed to figure things out, to convince these assholes he wasn’t crazy or on meth. If I sit here all night, he could clean up the evidence.

Or, Arty whispered back, or he could go get Amy and Sheila. If he’s gone to our place, he could have found something… an old bill, an old id, you know I never throw anything away… Oh fuck… I never changed the address on my driver’s license!

Mitch heard footsteps from down the hall, faint and muted through the thick, mahogany door. He needed to call Sheila, to warn them the police were coming. That Arty was dead. That there were monsters after all, and to hide until he could fix this.

I’m the smart one. Until tonight, I was the smart one.

The door opened.

“I need to make a phone call,” Mitch said. “I need to warn my niece and her mom.”

Jack smirked. “Sure, we’ll get right on that.”

Jack’s smirk became a scowl, and he pivoted on his feet to the right.  

“Nice hat, asshole,” he called down the hall, with no amusement in his voice. “You can’t be down here. How did you sneak past Larry?”

Mitch began to sweat.

Nice hat. What does he mean, nice hat?

More footsteps, from the opposite end of the hallway. Two uniformed officers stopped outside the doorway.

Confusion clouded their faces.

The tallest one spoke, his voice commanding authority.

“Go back up those stairs! Someone will come see you at the front.

A voice answered, surprisingly high and horrifically familiar. Only this time, it had a strange, faux-Austrian lilt.

“I’ll be back.”

“What the fuck…” Jack said.

Footsteps led away, back towards the stairs.

A fourth officer joined them, a short, muscular woman. “What the hell was that.”

“Arnie, apparently,” Jack said, chuckling.

It all clicked into Mitch’s head. He was, after all, the smart one.

“Fuck, we gotta’ get out of here!”

They all turned their heads at once, startled by Mitch’s outburst.

“Hey, it’s fine, this happens sometimes. Larry’s old, and he doesn’t always catch the crazies who wander in.”

“It’s not fine!”

Jack clenched his mouth and shook his head. He pointed to the two male officers.

“Officers Janson and Hart will take you to holding.” He turned to the woman and mouthed, “He’s on something.”

“Did he have a top hat?” Mitch yelled in desperation.

Officer Hart scratched his bald head. “Well yeah, he did, weirdest hat ever.”

He turned to Jack. “What’s this about?”

Mitch leaped to his feet, careening against the heavy table, and stumbled towards the men.

“Get these cuffs off me, before he comes back!”

“Calm yourself!” Jack yelled.

Officer Hart’s hand instinctively flew to the butt of his gun, and the short woman stepped towards him, grabbing Mitch’s upper arm and steadying him.

“Please,” Mitch begged. “The cuffs, please…”

Jack’s voice softened. He spoke with a hint of anxiety. “Nothing’s going to happen, son. You’re safe here−”

The building shook.

A boom from above roared, rolling down the stairs and crashing through the hall. A heavy plume of dust followed.

Mitch fell to the ground, pulling the female officer down with him. His ears rang, and distantly someone yelled. Officer Jansen spoke into the radio attached at his hip. Jack crouched in the room with Mitch.

The female officer stood, her eyes dazed.

Everyone drew their guns.

Mitch scrambled back against the far wall.

The ringing faded out, and for a strange moment the world fell silent. Everyone held their breath, their faces hazy through the unsettled dust.

A gunshot, muted, cracked from above. Then another. And another.

“We need back up, now!” Officer Janzen yelled into his radio. “Shots fired! Shots fired! And… some kind of… explosion!”

The woman bolted out the door, gun raised, turned to the right and down the hall towards the stairs. Officer Hart followed.

Jack stumbled out the door, next to officer Jansen. “Hold your positions!”

Again, the world went silent.

“Larry!” the woman yelled. “Larry, can you hear us?”

And in the silence, there came a response. Footsteps, down the stairs.

“Put your hands in the air!”

A barely audible clunking sound.

Mitch pushed himself into a standing position. I’ll have to make a break for it−

“Grenade!” the woman yelled.

The force of the blast bowed the walls of the room in. Mitch fell back against the wall, harder this time, his head swimming. Smoke, dust and debris billowed down the hall.

Jack fell sideways, landing on Mitch.

“My cuffs! Unlock my fucking cuffs!”

Jack met his gaze, his eyes wild, panicked, and indecisive. He tried to stand and clutched his leg instead. A six-inch-long shard of wood stuck from his shin like a party favor. He stared down at the protrusion incredulously, grasped it, and gave it a yank. It did not move. He turned his leg, only to see the tip of the shard jutting out the other end.

“My fucking leg!”  

“My cuffs−!”

“Get under the table,” Jack hissed. “And keep your head down!”

Mitch scrambled to the table and rolled underneath.

More footsteps, running. Officer Jansen, framed by the bent door frame, lifted his sidearm. The barrel of his gun spit fire, three rounds.

A machine gun retorted three dozen times in response, the sound nearly as deafening as the explosion. Officer Jansen crumpled like an empty beer can, a mist of blood hanging in the air.

Jack, still seated on his ass, kicked the door closed with his good leg. It only bounced against the broken frame. He pointed his gun at the wall, aiming just to the right of the door.

They listened together, Mitch and Jack.

Footsteps approaching. Slow. Methodical.

The fucking terminator, Mitch thought. He remembered the tall man’s words when Mitch had mentioned going to the police. That would be a dream come true.

Bile bit at his throat. Another footstep, just before the doorway.

Again, that strange, high voice. “Hasta la vista, ba−”

“Eat this,” Jack muttered, and fired twice.

Two smoking bullet holes punctured the wall, followed by a thudding sound on the other side of the door, as someone heavy fell back against the far wall.

Jack pushed himself up with his good leg, standing back against the wall. His hands shook, and his gun remained fixed against the wall.

The next five seconds were the longest of Mitch’s life… at least, so far. His heart pounded the count down. One, two, three, four, five−

“My fucking hat!”

A volley of machine gun fire tore the wall apart and ripped through Jack’s chest and abdomen. Mitch squeezed his eyes shut, huddled beneath the table. Slowly, he opened them, slits against the smoke and debris.

The fire alarms went off, screaming and beating the air with red, pulsating light.

Mitch cringed and cried out, unable to clap his cuffed hands to his ears. Under the table, he could see the space between the door frame and the door.

Doc Martin boots stepped into view, one slightly redder than the other.  Arty’s last scream echoed through Mitch’s head, louder than the fire alarms.

The boots continued on, past the doorway and down the hall.

Mitch wasted no time. He rolled out from under the table, and scrambled crab-like to what remained of Jack. Legs stuck out one end. Shoulders and a shocked face, mouth agape, stuck out the other. Jack’s sightless eyes stared up to the ceiling in disbelief. Red ropes of intestines and glistening shards of rib replaced his midsection.

Mitch didn’t think twice. He plunged his hands together into the steaming, torn remnants and scrabbled around for the handcuff keys. His fingers touched leather, and he pulled up Jack’s belt, a splash of blood peppering his face as he did so.

And there it was. A small little key on a metal loop. He reached for it, felt it, held it in his fingers.

Something hot and hard seared the back of his neck. The barrel of a gun.

Mitch could barely make out words under the blare of the sirens.

“Found you.”

The tall man hauled Mitch by the collar of his shirt and spun him around. His top hat still sat on his head, with the addition of two ragged, quarter sized holes near the top. His eyes blazed as sharp as diamonds, and a grin spread across his face like plasticine.

He grasped the handcuff chain, and pain spiraled from Mitch’s wrists into his shoulders as the tall man dragged him backwards out of the room. A submachine gun hung from his free hand, barrel pointing down, tendrils of smoke snaking from the end like wispy vipers.

Splinters and debris dug into Match’s back.

“No! No!” he yelled. He could think of nothing better to say. The blaring alarm drowned him out anyways.

The tall man pulled him over a leg that once belonged to a woman, and something wet he couldn’t identify. Ascending the stairs, Mitch’s hip bounced off each step, sending excruciating bolts of pain along his spine.

Out into the lobby.

Or rather, what remained of the lobby. The front was missing, replaced by a ragged hole. Tire tracks and debris led to a smashed-up Ford F-150. It had ploughed through the front desk. Likely into Larry, as well.

Another officer lay flat on his back, his face a meaty pulp.

“No!” Mitch continued. “No−”

“Oh shut up already.”

Mitch closed his mouth and groaned as the tall man dragged him through the improvised opening and into the sudden shock of frozen air outside. The shriek of the alarms grew muted, and for this small relief Mitch was grateful.

Arty’s Oldsmobile was parked out front, idling.

There were other figures inside the car.

The tall man yanked the back door open. The hinges squealed in protest.

Sheila and Amy huddled in the backseat, arms and legs bound, their mouths gagged with duct tape. Their shivering eyes screamed for them.

The tall man tossed Mitch into the empty seat, slammed the door, circled around and crawled into the driver’s side.

Do something, Mitch’s mind begged. You’re the brains of the operation! Do SOMETHING!

Someone else occupied the front passenger seat. Someone with a head much too slender, and much too red. Arty. Slumped against the door, a violet streak of blood and brains congealing on the glass.

The tall man turned to face Mitch.

“The whole family together again,” the tall man giggled. “Just like Arty wanted.”

Mitch didn’t laugh. Instead, he sobbed. This humor was too dark, even for him.

The tall man glanced at his watch. “Three AM. The night’s still young, guys! And we haven’t even touched the horror genre yet.”

Faint police sirens called from the distance, still much too far away. The tall man tossed his torn top hat onto Arty’s lap, and slammed his door. The Oldsmobile coughed as he pulled from the curb, and slid out into the greasy, early morning light.

---

Bio: Donovan Douglas Thiesson is an author from Meadow Lake, Saskatchewan, a lonely place lost deep within Canada’s Northern Boreal Forest. Donovan has been writing speculative fiction since childhood and enjoys mushroom picking, nightmares, and exotic pet ownership. Upon rare occasion, when overwhelmed by his own initials, he murders a baby falcon or two.

You can find him at his author’s page. HERE

Read more Speculative Fiction on The Yard: Crime Blog

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