God Is Bleeding

Crime Fiction by London Baker

I hardly recognized the bloody pulp that stared back at me from the mirror.

 I glanced at my bruised knuckles, a paint splatter of greens and purples. Always throw your punch with the top two knuckles. That’s what Blake Culman—the man who taught me to fight—had once told me.

I raised my cigarette to my mouth and took a deep drag. The acrid smoke tickled the back of my throat. Every day it was the same thing. Breathe in. Breathe out. In. Out. Again and again.

Maybe that was why I stood there bleeding, bruised and battered. Because I was tired of that stupid breathing thing, tired of keeping myself under control.

“You oughta get out of here.”

That was Steve Beltman. A weak man. The kind of man who sits down to piss so he can spend an extra thirty seconds flicking at his phone.

I nodded at him, turning away from the mirror. I wonder if that meant that the person reflected within disappeared. When I turned, did he cease to exist? If I peaked over my shoulder would he still be there watching me?

I opened the bar’s door and stepped out onto the street. The sunlight made me wince, closing my eyes. My head throbbed. Sirens wailed in the distance. Steve was right. I probably should make haste. Take flight. Flee the scene.

I glanced behind me one last time. Steve Beltman’s back was to me. He was fiddling with something at the bar. Through the door’s narrow frame, I could see the feet of two corpses strewn on the ground.

The sirens were louder now.

Time to bounce.

A woman walking past shot a glance at me, averting her eyes when I looked her way and picking up her pace. Not a walk, but not a run. It’s a shame women like her didn’t look at me unless I was soaked in blood.

My steps pounded on the sidewalk, quick and sure. The heels of my cowboy boots tapped, echoing down the street. Tap. Tap. Tap.

Tap.

Tap.

Tap.

I saw the police car turn the corner and ducked into the alley. If they saw me now they would surely stop, what with me being soaked in blood and all.

There was a dumpster to my left so I dove in, an Olympic high diver competing for gold. Splash. Apple cores, cardboard boxes, used tissues, coffee grinds and a baby doll. Ten points from all the judges! I take first. Pass me my medal, will you?

The sirens passed by and I clambered out. I debated whether or not to strip my shirt off. Would I draw more attention walking around half shirtless or walking around covered in blood?

I decided to keep the shirt and darted out of the alley. There was a thrift store a block ahead. I once bought a pair of blue jeans there. That was what, two years ago? Yeah, two years ago.

The sign on the door read “OPEN” so I pushed and stepped in. The interior smelled like lake water. Dust. Grass on a summer day. That was probably the mold I was smelling. Wonder how long until the clerk gets cancer from it and dies…

“Can I help you?” A voice calls as the dinky little bell above the door rings loud and true.

“Are the clothes still in the back?” I ask.

“Yes, I can show…” he’s a short, hunched old man. Nose hairs poking out like those sea anemones you see on TV. The ones that clean the fish. His voice trails off as he sees me.

I don’t have a gun with me. I make it a habit to not take the easy way out. No need to shoot when I can punch. In two long, quick strides I stand in front of the old man. He looks up at me.

A dark circle spreads across his crotch. Did he just wet his pants?

I smile, still tasting the blood in my mouth. I guess I should probably say something—intimidate him and all that, “No need to show me. I know where it is. Call the police and I’ll kill you.”

He just nodded, running to crouch down behind the counter. I know he’ll listen. Guys like him don’t stand up for themselves.

 I think I already killed someone today. No need to kill anyone else.

The selection of clothes in the men’s department was abysmal. I decided on a white undershirt and a well-loved pair of khakis. Of all the things I’d done today (robbery, maybe manslaughter, grand theft auto…the list goes on), stripping in this thrift store was the thing that made me the most uncomfortable.

I threw the blood soaked clothes I’d had on out the back window and watched them land in the dumpster. I then headed back out the front door, but not before stopping at an antique mirror that rested by my exit.

 It was a part of one of those old dresser things, the kind where the glass is built into the dark wood frame. I did my best to spit shine the blood off my face, running a calloused hand over my buzzed head. It was hard to see through my beard, but my jaw was most definitely swollen. That lawyer hadn’t gone down without a fight.

The store’s bell twinkled once more as I made my way back to the streets—head still throbbing. My head hadn’t hurt like this in a long time, probably not since my last match with Tom Caper. I’d won by knockout.

I’m a boxer. Have I mentioned that?

I was a boxer at least. My professional future is a little questionable at the moment.

I could still hear sirens. They wouldn’t stand around at O’Bill’s Bar and Grille for long. Eventually they’d come a lookin’ for me.

Where do I go? What do I do? I glanced up and down the street: a grocery, gas station, the thrift shop, a strip club, laundromat, liquor store…

I slapped my palm to my head—I knew where to go. I took off at a sprint, darting left at Main Street and heading down the block. How hadn’t I thought of this before? Maybe what they said about getting punched in the head a lot was right. Maybe I am losing it.

I found myself at the base of a crumbling apartment building, speckled with broken windows and crumbling awnings. A giant, handwritten “Rooms Available For Lease” sign hung in the window.

I went over to the apartment’s call box and dialed for room 30-2. It rang a few times before a gruff, groggy voice snapped on, “Whadayawant.”

That was Blake Culman for you. A hard one to understand on a good day. He’d always told me his good days were the ones that ended in “y,” except he’d said it like, “Mygooddays…well theyallendtheyend in ‘y.’”

Blake was one of those rare men who became clearer with booze in their system.

“It’s me,” I said, still holding down on the call button.

There was silence for a moment on the other end followed by a buzzing. The door clicked open and I stepped into the building.

Fluorescent lights greeted me and my headache flared up even worse, dispelling all notions I’d held that it had already reached its apex. Clambering up the stairwell, my calves burning, I arrived at apartment 30-2.

As I banged my closed fist on the door, I heard Blake muttering to himself. The lock clicked open and he stood there for a moment staring at me.

Blake was a balding man, short and squat. His figure had once been a woven tapestry of sinewy, defined muscles honed from years of training the best boxers around. He now resembled a saggy, stretching porpoise. Blake’s belly bulged forward like he was hiding all of his boxing trophies in his salsa-stained Hawaiian shirt.

“You look ‘orrible,” Blake said, chomping on the end of his cigarette.

“Can I come in?”

He stepped aside and I stepped in. The apartment’s decor was sparse: pizza box here, ratty couch there, pile of laundry in the corner. The only thing that stood out was the smell.

“Really nice place you got here, Blake.”

He grunted, “So, whadayawant?”

“I need to lay low for a while.”

Blake walked over to the tiny window and gazed out, “Those sirens fer you?”

“Mhm.”

“You know my rule—I never ask questions,” except he said it like “yaknow my rule—Ineveraskquestions.”

He walked into his bedroom and I heard him throwing some things around. A few moments later he came out, duffle bag in hand, “Here.”

I poked through it—clothes, some cash, a gun. “Thanks, Blake.”

“Go to the docks, I’ll have someone there fer you,” he replied (“Gotodadocks, I’ll have someone therefer ya”).

I hefted the bag over my shoulder and headed for the door, “Thanks again, Blake. You were always good to me.”

“Adios amigo.”

The door was halfway closed when Blake stopped me, “Ya kill someone?”

“I thought you didn’t ask questions.”

“Did ya?” He repeated, ignoring my remark.

I met Blake Culman when I was fresh out of college, a useless philosophy degree in my front left pocket. I had rage and no place to put it so I went out looking for trouble. I’d stumbled upon a boxing gym and started hitting the bag. Soon I was sparring, and I wasn’t getting knocked out every time. Culman saw me spar one day and came up after the round to chat. “Yer good ‘nuff” was what he’d said.

I’d gotten my license to fight and soon I was competing. Nothing big time, no checks bigger than four figures, but I was competing nonetheless.

I don’t trust people. The more you love the more you bleed, and I bleed enough in the boxing ring. I trusted Blake Culman, though. I trusted him with my life.

“Yeah, I think I did,” I said, stepping back into his apartment.

He puffed on his cigarette, face turned away from me. I took this as a cue to continue, “I was with Steve and the gang—.”

Blake interrupted, “Steve-O? Da guy wit da bum knee?”

“Yeah,” I nodded. “Well anyways, I was with the guys and we were drinking. I haven’t trained in a few days and when I’m not training, I drink. You know how it is.”

His head bobbled in agreement. I went on, “Steve broke into someone’s car and we hotwired it—drove it to a bar and headed in. The guy who owned it followed us. He’s some big time lawyer”

I reached into my pocket and pulled out a cigarette of my own. Blake flipped a lighter from his pocket and lit it for me. After a few long drags, I continued, “He pulled a gun on us, Blake, a gun. He shot Riley and tried to shoot Steve, but I jumped on him from behind.”

Blake began cackling, loud and gritty laughs followed by deep, phlegmy coughs filling the crummy apartment, “You punched da guy to def?”

I looked away, “Yeah, well I mean I don’t know if he died. I punched him, sent some elbows to the throat…”

Blake just kept on wheezing. I ran a hand over my head. For some reason my mind went back to a particular day last summer. It had been the Fourth of July. I had a match scheduled for the sixth. I’d been at a festival or fair or whatever those stupid things are called and I’d met this hot redhead. I don’t know why she came to my mind right now, she just did. Funny how those things work.

Placing a hand on my shoulder, Blake smiled. His cigarette jutted from the corner of his gap-toothed mouth, “Head to da docks. Good ta see ya, pal. Besta luck”

“Thanks for your help,” I said, walking back into the hall. Blake was a well connected man. Years of under the table betting on boxing matches helped a man to make some useful friends.

“See ya,” he repeated, shutting the door behind me.

The hallway reminded me of the hotel where the redhead and I had spent the night. She’d snored and smelled sweaty. It had been a one time thing.

Looking both ways, I headed down the stairs. Standing on the street, I was still for a moment. What is one supposed to do when they’re “on the lam?” How is one supposed to go from place to place? Do I take a cab? Strut confidently down the road? Stick to the shadow?

I spotted a yellow taxi and waved it down. The driver stopped and I hopped in. “The docks,” I said.

“Roger that,” the driver’s face was spotted with acne.

Even though I couldn’t hear any sirens, I still feared it was only a matter of time. Sure, I didn’t know if the guy from the bar was dead, but I’d still violently assaulted him…plus committed a plethora of other crimes. Just call me Tyler Durden, I suppose.

“Say, you look familiar. I know you from somewhere?” The driver asked.

Sweat beaded on my brow, my heart hammered a tribal drum beat. “No…no, probably not,” I stammered.

I saw his eyebrows crinkle upwards in the rearview mirror, “Are you sure? I really feel like I know you…”

This was it.

I was caught.

The rest of my life would be spent in a cramped jail cell with a roomie nicknamed Thick Frank who’d drop the soap on purpose.

 I shivered at the thought.

“Are you a boxer?” The driver asked after a moment. He went on before I could answer,“You are a boxer. I remember you. You’re—.”

I exhaled deeply, my heartbeat dropping back to normal, “Right, yeah. I am a boxer. You’ve seen me fight?”

“Oh yeah, I watched you and Durik live. Mind snapping a picture with me before I drop you off?”

“Not at all.”

And silence swallowed the car. Chewed and swallowed.

I gazed out the window. Life really had taken an amusing turn. Here I am in the prime of my career—no, scratch that—the prime of my whole life, and I’m in the back of a taxi hoping that my first trainer Blake Culman had called whoever his buddy was at the docks so that I could hightail it out of here.

I should be out right now, eating burgers and fries or something. I should be at home with a beautiful girl. I should be training or sparring. I should be…

Now that I was thinking it all through, it feels sort of trivial. Does any of that really matter? I eat, sleep, breathe, piss and repeat. Wash. Rinse. Dry.

Nihilistic? Maybe. Maybe it was, but—

“Here we are,” the driver said, stepping out of the car armed with his phone.

I posed, paid the fare and gave a weak wave as he drove away.

The air reeked of salt and brine. A touch of some chemical. Gulls flapped through the sky, singing a song only they knew the words to.

That’s when I spotted the police car.

The cop was in his early fifties. He wasn’t fat, but he was far from peak physical condition—the kind of guy I could take down easily. Bagel in one hand and coffee in the other, he leaned against his cruiser chomping away. It must be his lunch break.

I looked around, eyes darting, searching for Culman’s pal. I heard a whiny voice and footsteps approaching behind me, “Hey, by any chance do you know Blake?”

“Well do you?” I shot back, cautious.

The man laughed. He was Asian, hair cropped short. Judging by the cauliflower ear I guessed he’d been a boxer. Probably trained by Culman too. He stuck out his hand, “I’m Daniel.”

I shook it and he went on talking before I had a chance to reply, “Now let’s get you the hell out of here.”

“I like the sound of that,” I said, following him down to the docks.

I couldn’t help but notice the cop’s eyes following us as we walked past. Had they already put out a warrant for me? Was I a dead man walking?

“Are you a boxer too?” Daniel asked.

“I was,” I answered. “Probably heading to an early retirement.”

Daniel nodded knowingly, “I know how that goes. I used to train out of Detroit. Had an incident and—.”

“An incident?” I interjected.

He nodded, “Yeah, an incident. Had an incident and Culman hooked me up with this gig down here. Not quite like boxing, but I suppose it’s still a fight to make it through each day. Ya know?”

I didn’t know and I sure as hell didn’t want to find out. Life behind bars seemed better than a life trapped doing this. While grateful for all of Culman’s help, I began to fear what was in store for me.

“So here’s what’s going to happen,” Daniel began, motioning to a small boat bobbing in the water. “You’re going to take this boat and—.”

“I’ve never…I don’t know how to…” I stammered, for some reason uncomfortable admitting my lack of maritime talent.

“Yeah, Blake figured you didn’t. That’s why I’m coming with. I owe him big time and this’ll square us out.”

I leaned against the wooden guardrail, my eyes tracing the horizon. The sun was beginning to set, painting the sky in reds and oranges. It was as if someone had stabbed God and he’d collapsed into the depths of the ocean, his blood spilling out and soaking the sky. I almost had to chuckle to myself. Only man could kill God over and over again each day and call it beautiful. “Coming with to where exactly?” I asked.

Daniel looked at me, “Outta here, outta the country. There’s a job for you down in Cuba—somehow Blake has connections there. I’ll drop you off and head back up. We’re not technically allowed to boat to over there but—.”

I grabbed his arm and turned him around, “What are you talking about? Cuba?”

“Listen,” He replied, “Blake told me you messed up. Blake told me the law is after you. It’s the twenty-first century, pal. You can’t hide forever. Sooner or later someone will find you. I mean you just took a damn photo with the cab driver. As far as I’m concerned, if he posts that or sends it to the wrong person, that’s like a beacon pointing the cops your way.”

I was silent. Scenes from O’Bill’s danced through my mind like a twisted ballet. Rising. Leaping. Falling. I saw the lawyer pull out his gun. I felt my fists hammer into him—the dull thwack, thwack, thwack of flesh-on-flesh. Had I killed him? I mean I knocked him unconscious, no doubt about that, but had I killed him?

Say he’d lived. I would still have more legal problems than even God could afford with the carjacking and inevitable assault charge, but there would be no murder or manslaughter charge. Jail time would be limited. Was that worth running from? I may not be the richest man alive, but I made enough. I could get out of stuff. Would I really spend my life running from a slap on the wrist?

Say I had killed the man, though. If they caught me that was it. See ya suckers. I’d be looking at life behind bars. Was it worth risking that?

“I mean you’ve got a point,” I said hesitantly.

Footsteps behind us, “You guys okay?”

My heart began to pound.

I turned slowly. It was the cop.

It was the cop.

“Yes, sir,” Daniel stepped forward.

“Sign over there says the docks are closed,” the cop stated.

“I work here,” Daniel said, heat rushing to his cheeks.

The officer glanced down at the employee ID tag Daniel had clipped to his belt, “I can see that.”

Daniel exhaled through his teeth. The cop’s glance flicked over so he was making eye contact with me, “But do you?”

“He, um, well he’s—,” Daniel began.

Something inside of me snapped. I felt everything. I saw everything. I was everything.

The gulls. The sound of the waves slamming against the docks. I heard a boat blow its horn from somewhere faraway. I smelled the salt, stronger than before, and I smelled boat oil. Boat oil and mixed with the salt. Something snapped and I was no longer in control.

I lunged at the officer. His eyes went wide, becoming disks, surprise splattered across his face.

That was the last face he ever made.

I drove my body into his and struck. I threw hammer fist after hammer fist. His face. His pulsing throat. His chest. He had no time to even draw his gun.

As I threw my hands against his face I could feel the bones shatter. First it was like punching a brick wall. Then punching a wood wall. Then leather. Finally, it felt like punching pudding.

An autopsy would later show that every bone in his face was broken.

I try to stand, stumbling back to my knees by the officer’s corpse. After two more tries, I managed to stay on my feet. Everything was shaking. I felt separate from everything. I had no feeling in my swollen hands. I was hesitant to even glance down. I’m certain there are probably multiple fractures at the least.

I looked to Daniel. His face was white, he’d taken a few steps back. “What the hell did you do…?” He said, staring down at the body of the officer. Before I could answer he turned away from the dock and sprayed vomit into the briny depths of the ocean. He wiped off his mouth and stared at me, “You killed a pig, man. You killed a goddamn pig.”

“He was onto me. He—,” I started.

“No, no he wasn’t. He was just asking why we were here. Do you know what’s going to happen to us if they catch us now? Do you know how much a cop’s life costs?”

I was silent.

“What the hell were you thinking?” He muttered, running his hands through his short hair and facing out towards the ocean.

What was I thinking?

Had I even been thinking?

Was I just paranoid now?

“Get in the boat,” Daniel said quietly.

“Huh?”

“Get in the boat.”

I immediately stepped over and onto the deck. I felt Daniel’s anger, fear and confusion pulsing in the air.

“I’m going to push the body over into the water. That’ll buy us a little time.”

I heard Daniel grunt. There was a splash.

He hopped in next to me, “You’re insane. Absolutely insane.”

I guess Daniel was committed. He flipped a few switches and turned a few dials and the boat roared to life. Whatever he owed Blake Culman was a debt greater than the value of his life and freedom. It takes one hell of a debt for someone to help get rid of a body.

The sun had vanished. God had put on a bandage and was done bleeding for the day.

 Twenty-four hours ago I was just me. A boxer. A twenty-almost-thirty nobody. Now? Car thief. Cop killer. Headline.

People would read about me with their coffee in hand (two creams, one raw sugar packet). They’d turn to their spouse and talk about how the whole world is going to hell. They’d reminisce about the “good ol’ days” when things were better. Safer. Back in the day when there was less crime and less strife in the world—though that was only because by the time news reached the other side of the country it was so irrelevant there was no need to print it.

Yeah—that’s what I’d be. A headline. Someone’s hushed breakfast chatter. Former boxer turned psychopath. I killed that cop because I was scared, okay?

What about the lawyer guy back at the bar, you ask? I beat him because he pulled a gun on us. I don’t even know if he’s dead.

I’m not a bad guy, right? I did some nasty things, but I’m not a bad guy, right?

Right?

*****

“BREAKING: Former Boxer Kills Cop In A Fit Of Rage—Motive Remains UNKNOWN”

*****

Sherry White: Detective, thank you for joining us live on the show this morning. Folks at home are wondering if the department has any leads on the assault and murder at the bar last Thursday. Any updates?

Detective Alan Watts: Yeah, actually. The department has, uh, made an arrest. We busted a twenty-six year old male named Steve Beltman. He actually, as of um this morning, has confessed to being the sole perpetrator of the carjacking, murder of Riley Andrews and the subsequent assault on local lawyer Matthew Desk.

Sherry White: And how is Mister Desk recovering?

Detective Alan Watts: He’s uh recovering quite well actually. Steve Beltman gave that guy quite a beating. Damn near fatal if you’ll forgive my language. Riley really wasn’t as lucky. He was dead when we arrived. Steve confessed to shooting Riley with Mister Desk’s gun.

Sherry White: Woah…so the department is certain Steve Beltman acted alone?

Detective Watts: Fairly sure. Though for whatever reason, before Mister Beltman left O’Bill’s, he deleted all footage off the security camera’s database. Mister Beltman left the bar and ran to a thrift store where he robbed local store owner Ketih Elling.

Sherry White: And there’s been a..hiccup…with Mister Elling, right?

Detective Alan Watts: Correct. Uh, Elling has not been able to give us a um positive ID on Mister Beltman. He claims it was another man who robbed his store. I suppose we can’t know for certain, though I will say that Elling is getting along in years if that makes sense…

Sherry White: Perfect sense. Is it true that Mister Beltman had a connection to that boxer who killed one of your department’s officers?

Detective Alan Watts: Yes, they were friends. The assault on our dear friend Mister Desk, however, is entirely unrelated to the tragic slaying of Officer Kiltman. We are quite certain Steve Beltman and the boxer had no contact that day, that day the tabloids have so affectionately deemed “Bloody Thursday.”

Sherry White: And the boxer’s whereabouts are still unknown?

Detective Alan Watts: Yeah, still unknown.

***

Daniel told me about Steve getting busted for my crimes yesterday. I felt horrible, but at least now I could say that I respected Steve. For whatever reason he didn’t implicate me. It’s sort of funny how we don’t know our true friends until it’s too late to thank ‘em.

Three weeks have passed. We have enough dry goods in the boat for three more. Sitting cross legged on the deck, I watched as God bled again. I hated myself. I hated myself more than probably anyone who knew about my crimes hated me. I was the one who’d lost control. I killed that cop, that Officer Kiltman guy. For what? To avoid a slap on the wrist that Steve ensured I wouldn’t have gotten anyways?

I think Daniel is scared of me. We hardly ever talk. I sometimes catch him staring at me—maybe wondering when I’m going to snap again. I’d go back in time if I could. I’d had it good. The boxing and the drinking and the women. What did I have now? Nothing. Goddamn nothing. And whose fault is that?

Some people out there will blame my upbringing. They’ll pity me and curse my father for hitting me and making me into who I am today. I am not my father, though. This is my fault. The only thing I am a victim of is my own weakness.

Once again, I find myself staring out at the ocean. A dolphin jumps in front of the boat. The blood of God is so red.

It begins to rain.

God is crying.

God is crying because of what I’ve done.

So much cruelty.

So much pain.

The water laps at the boat as I lean back on my hands and watch God bleed.

END

Completed on February 17th, 2025 at the desk of

Ernest Hemingway at his home in Key West, Florida

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Bio: When not scribbling away at his next yarn, London Baker can be found wandering the woods of northern Michigan or wading waist deep in a river searching for trout. Black coffee and a deep love of Hemingway fuel the dozens of tales London has penned. 

London is the bestselling author of the novella “Pull of the Tide,” as well as numerous short stories and articles.  

Connect with London on Instagram at @londonthewriter 

Checkout his book through the affiliate button below.

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