John Locke - Box

“You tell him, Gideon!” Trudy says.

“You’ll want to stay out of this, Gideon!” he says, making fun of my name. “And don’t worry, I’ll come over there, soon as I finish dealin’ with my woman. Then I’m gonna fuck you up country style. Get out of the car, Trudy.”

“No! Fuck you, Darrell! Drive on, Gideon.”

“Yeah,” Darrell says, “Drive on, Gideon, if you think you can outrun Big Edna.”

“You named your truck?”

Trudy screams bloody murder as Darrell pulls her out of the car by her pony tail and throws her to the ground.

“Help me!” Trudy yells.

“Help me, Gideon!” Darrell says, mocking her.

Instead of jumping out of the car to defend my lady, I put the car in gear and spin out. I fish-tail around Darrell and Trudy, and start to speed away. Darrell runs five or six yards behind me, screaming at me, calling me a coward, and so forth, but is shocked when I suddenly throw the car in reverse, floor the accelerator, and plow into him before he has time to react.

I jump out of the car and help Trudy to her feet.

“Are you okay?”

“I thought you ran out on me.”

“I had a plan.”

“You sure? Or did you improvise after-the-fact?”

“I’m sure.”

“Thanks, Gideon. I always had a good feelin’ about you.”

I decide not to remind her we’ve known each other exactly two-and-a-half hours.

We follow the monster truck’s headlights with our eyes until we see Darrell’s body. He’s lying in a heap, like a rag doll dropped from a great height. I note the distance from the car bumper to Darrell is a full fifteen feet. I was probably going thirty miles an hour when I struck him.

It suddenly dawns on Trudy he’s not moving.

“Oh God, Gideon! Oh, my God! I think you’ve killed him!”

We hurry over to him. I take a knee and check his vitals.

“He’ll live,” I say.

“You’re sure?”

“Positive.”

“Why isn’t he moving?”

“He’s moving in slow motion.”

“What’s that mean?”

“He’s suffered significant trauma. It’ll take a few more seconds for his brain to catch up. He’ll vocalize his feelings soon enough.”

“What’s that mean?”

“You’ll hear him.”

“When?”

“Any second.”

She does. He starts screaming, crying, rolling around in pain.

“He’s hurt bad,” Trudy says.

“I won’t deny it.”

He rolls around some more, but he’s fussing about it less. His strength is failing. His energy winding down.

“It’s like watchin’ cheese slide off a cracker,” Trudy says. Then asks, “You sure he’ll live?”

“Yes. But it won’t be pretty.”

“He weren’t pretty to start with.”

“I’ll get the morphine.”

After sedating Darrell, I say, “That was weird, how he called you his woman.”

“He’s always been protective,” she says. “Of course, he’s a meth head, so that carries some blame for his disposition.”

“It also helps explain his delayed reaction to the pain.”

“He earned it,” she says. “He’s a first-class jerk.”

I look at her. “What now?” I say.

“Walk with me.”

She leads me fifty feet away from her noisy brother, and uses his truck to block any possible view he might have of us. The monster truck’s tail lights are casting a red glow on our faces and bodies.

“How bad is he, really?” she says. “Be honest.”

“It was pretty dark, he’s clothed, no way to make an accurate diagnosis.”

“Best guess.”

“Broken ribs, ruptured spleen, internal bleeding, probable multiple fractures in both femurs, assorted bruises, cuts, possible concussion. We should call for an ambulance now.”

“No way. Not yet.”

“Why?”

“There’s a lot to be done.”

“Like what?”

“First, zip up your pants.”

“Okay.”

I zip them and say, “Check. Now what?”

“Now we’re gonna get Darrell’s work gloves out of his truck.”

“Why?”

“Because you’re gonna put them on after you do the next thing.”

“Which is what?”

“You’re gonna give me a shot of morphine.”

“Why?”

“So it won’t hurt so much when you do the next thing.”

“What’s that?”

“Beat me up.”

“What?”

“You need to beat the shit out of me.”

“What?”

“It’s the only way.”

“I don’t understand.”

“You saw him hit me, pull my hair.”

“So?”

“You’ve hurt him really bad. He’ll probably have permanent injuries.”

“I think he had it coming.”

“Me too, but he’s still gonna have you arrested.”

“What?”

“We’re rednecks, Gideon. He’ll press charges, hire an attorney, and sue you.”

“On what grounds?”

“He’ll say you ran him over for no reason. And Daddy’ll say you tried to molest me.”

“Daddy’s not going to say shit, because Daddy tried to hang me.”

“It’s your word against his.”

“And yours.”

“Yes, of course. But he’s the deputy sheriff.”

“I like our chances,” I say. “We can prove the rope brought the roof down. And I can feel the rope burns on my neck.”

“And I can see them, even in this light,” she says. “So you’re right, we’re probably okay with Daddy. But that won’t stop Darrell from pressing charges and suing you.”

“I get that. What I don’t understand is why you want me to beat you up.”

“We’ll have to say you ran over Darrell to save my life.”

“That’s the truth.”

“You know it and I know it. But sometimes the truth needs to be helped along.”

“What do you mean?”

“When the sheriff looks at Darrell, and then looks at this little swollen place on my cheek, he’s not gonna be convinced you had to run him over.”

“What you’re saying-”

“You’ve got two choices. Either beat the shit out of me and I’ll tell the sheriff Darrell did it, or we kill Darrell and haul ass out of town.”

I sigh. Then, for the third time in a half hour, trudge back to the car to fetch the morphine.

Trudy Lake.

“I’ve got some good news and bad,” Dr. Box says, after preparing the syringe.

“Bad news first,” I say.

“It takes a full thirty minutes for the morphine to take effect.”

“Shit.”

“I thought you should know.”

“We can’t wait thirty minutes to do this,” I say. “Please. Try not to hurt me too much, or ruin my face.”

He says, “I’m uniquely qualified to rough you up.”

“Why’s that?”

“I’m a surgeon. I understand how to cause the most bruising with the least possible tissue damage. You’ll want some heavy bruising, maximum swelling, profuse bleeding in areas that can be easily stitched by a qualified plastic surgeon.”

“Try not to sound so enthusiastic, okay?”

“Okay. But you’ve got to admit, doing this in the dark is an exhilarating challenge!”

When Dr. Box talks like that it creeps me out worse than the way he ejaculates.

“What’s the good news?” I ask.

“Good news is, by injecting you now, we’ll stay ahead of the pain. When the sheriff and EMS get here I can honestly say you received the injection the same time Darrell did.”

“Keep an eye out for Cletus and Renfo.”

“Who are they?”

“Darrell’s crackhead meth partner twins. If Darrell’s here, Cletus and Renfro can’t be far behind. Unless they’re stoned.”

“Is that likely?”

“It’s almost a certainty. But just in case.”

“Okay. Will do.”

She says, “Let’s do it. Give me the morphine.”