Bryan Smith - The Killing Kind

“Fuck you.”

“Again, you mean?”

Sean Hewitt’s voice: “Um…what? I think I, uh, misunderstood something.”

Emily laughed.

Zoe moved to intercede before the exchange could take an irreversibly ugly turn. “shut up!”

They all looked at her.

She sighed. “Emily’s right. Think about it. There’s no other explanation. It’s coincidence. That chick winding up here is just God fucking with us. These”-Zoe waved a hand at the television-“crazy fuckers have been too busy with their wild fucking spree to properly follow anybody.”

Annalisa stared at the screen again, but her expression now was less severe, more contemplative. A sliver of doubt had pierced her convictions. She shrugged. “Yeah. Okay. I guess I can see what you’re saying. It makes sense. It’s just…”

Emily laughed. “Fucked-up.”

Chuck headed back to the bar. “Somebody turn that shit off and put on some tunes. And I can’t be the only motherfucker in this house in dire need of a fucking drink. Who’s with me?”

It was an offer none of them could refuse.

Diary of a Mixed-up Girl blog entry, dated March 27

Today is my birthday. I haven’t told Roxie or the guy about it and I don’t think I will. There’s no real point to marking the day any other way than writing about it here. It’s just such a strange thing to think about. No cake or candles to blow out for me this year. And I don’t think I’ll be alive when this day rolls around again. Not trying to be melodramatic. I really feel like I can feel the end coming. What’s really sort of fucked-up is how okay I am with it. I think about it and it doesn’t bother me at all. The not-caring thing disturbs me more than the idea of dying, but even that’s just whatever. I fucked the guy a little while ago. Straight up asked Roxie if I could. Half expected her to kick my ass. But she was okay with it. I guess it makes sense. She’s so fucking cool. I could live a thousand years and never be half as cool as Roxie. I’d say I want to be just like her when I grow up, but I’m never gonna grow up, so that shit ain’t happening. LOL.

So anyway, I guess that little backseat tumble with the guy was Roxie’s b-day present to me. Only she doesn’t know that’s what it was. It was okay, I guess. Shit. People poking around outside. Gotta go. Later. Maybe.

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March 27

Chuck had a very pleasant buzz going by early evening. He felt pretty good overall. It was a pleasant change and it made him sad to realize how fleeting the feeling would likely be. He’d spent too much of the trip brooding over things. A man shouldn’t be so filled with anger during what was supposed to be a relaxing time. But there had simply been too much crap happening. This bullshit with Emily, for instance, and the subsequent dissolution of his friendship with Joe. That shit alone would have weighed on any guy’s mind. But the memory of the humiliation he’d endured at the hands of those redneck psychos kept coming back to taunt him. He’d suffered a deep wound to his pride that night, one he’d likely carry with him for years. It compounded all the other shit, like the thing with Emily, turning them into things that made him tremble on the edge of an explosion. At present, he could think of just two ways to cope with the emotional shit storm bearing down on him.

Go back to that bar some night and exact revenge.

Or drown all the bullshit in a sea of alcohol.

The glass in his hand was empty again. He tipped some more scotch into the glass from a nearly empty bottle. This time he had to grip the bottle’s neck a little tighter to pour the booze without spilling any of it. As he brought the glass to his lips again, he realized his pleasant buzz was two, maybe three drinks from crossing the line into genuine drunkenness. Not that he cared. Getting drunk was the plan. He just didn’t want to get too hammered too soon.

One of the balcony doors opened and Joe came wobbling into the house. The aroma of cooking meat wafted in with him. Sean Hewitt had some burgers going on the grill. The smell made Chuck’s stomach grumble. He realized he hadn’t eaten all day. Too distracted by drinking and watching the news, probably.

“Those burgers about ready?”

Joe turned a glassy gaze his way. “I always thought you were kind of a prick.”

Chuck took a sip of scotch. “That doesn’t really answer my question. I’m hungry and could seriously go for a tasty burger. Maybe two. Your opinion of me means jack shit.”

“Fuck you, man.”

Chuck smiled. “Tell me something, Joseph. What’s it like?”

Joe swayed and almost fell. The empty bottle of Bud he’d been holding slipped from his fingers and shattered on the hardwood floor. He looked right on the edge of passing out, probably would’ve dropped right then and there, but something in him wouldn’t let it happen. He swayed again and grabbed the back of a bar stool to stay upright. “What’s what like, bitch?”

Chuck was still smiling. “You know what I mean.” He mimed the flicking of a whip with his free hand. “What’s it like being led around by the nose by that bitch? Do you ever still feel like a real man anymore?”

Joe’s face reddened and the muscles in his jaw quivered as rage built inside him, restoring a semblance of near sobriety Chuck recognized as mostly illusion.

“I’m gonna kick your…your…ass…”

Chuck set his glass down and stepped out from behind the bar, spreading his hands in a bring-it-on gesture. “Give it a shot.” He made a whip-cracking sound with his mouth. “Come on. Let’s see who the bitch really is.”

Joe let go of the bar stool and lunged at Chuck. He had a good head of steam, but his intoxicated state made him slow and clumsy. It was easy to get out of his way. Even easier to get a fist up and crash it across his former best friend’s jaw. The blow was a hard, direct hit. It stung his knuckles and sent a shock of pain down his arm, but that was okay. The pain felt good. Hitting something felt good.

Joe pitched sideways and crashed into an end table. The table shot backward and the heavy brass lamp atop it hit the floor with a resounding clang. The noise and Joe’s howl of agony as he hit the floor brought the others running in from the balcony.

“Joe!” Emily hurried over to Joe and knelt next to his prone body. Her head snapped up and she glared at Chuck. “You asshole! What the fuck is wrong with you!?”

Zoe had a wary look in her eyes, but she came up next to Chuck and touched his arm. “Chuck…what happened here?”

“Joe wanted a fight. I gave him one. He lost.”

Emily sprang to her feet and got in his face. “Yeah, you’re really fucking tough. Big, bad Chuck. Congratulations. You knocked out a guy too drunk to defend himself. You’re a real piece of work, Chuck. And by that I mean real piece of fucking shit. You fucking dick.”

“I may be a dick, but you’re the biggest whore this side of the Mustang Ranch.” He smiled. “Maybe we should talk about that some.”

Her punch caught him off guard and was delivered with surprising strength, her fist slamming hard enough into his chest to drive him backward a few steps.

Zoe screamed and got between them. “Emily, stop!”

“Fuck you, Zoe.”

Annalisa coughed loud enough to temporarily redirect everyone’s attention. “You children can start fighting again in a minute, but I need to say something. Sean and I are leaving in the morning. We’ll take a cab to the airport.”

Zoe turned a despairing look her way. “But…Annie…I need you here.”

Annalisa’s expression remained stern. “I’m sorry, Zoe, but we’re going. I love you. I really do. But you need to make some changes in your life. And I do want to hear from you again if you can do what needs to be done. But Sean and I are leaving. We’ve had enough of this disaster.”