Victor Gischler - The Pistol Poets

Morgan didn’t even see the lamp until it was an inch from his nose. It shattered against his forehead, and Morgan went down, blinked blood out of his eyes. He climbed to his knees, shaken, opened his mouth to yell. A fist caught him hard on the jaw, rattled teeth. He bit his tongue, more blood.

Morgan lay on his back, legs curled awkwardly under him. He looked up into the grinning face of the man over him. Stubble. Bloodshot eyes, dark circles. All disturbingly familiar.

The man’s left arm ended at a red stub, which had been wrapped in white gauze, blood spots seeping through.

“Oh, no.” Morgan heard his own voice, small and without breath. It sounded like fear.

Deke Stubbs laughed, a low wicked mix of scorn and amusement. “I thought you might remember me, Professor.”

“I thought…” Morgan rolled over, wiped the blood out of his eyes. His head throbbed.

“You thought I was dead?” Stubbs shook his head. “Nope. But I can see how you might think that since you left me trapped in the back of a goddamn car that was sinking into the fucking ocean.”

Stubbs kicked Morgan hard in the ribs, and Morgan whuffed air, went into a fetal position. Stubbs kicked again. A third time. Morgan felt something give along his side, wondered if a rib had cracked.

“I want to tell you something, Jay old boy,” Stubbs said. “When you’re halfway through your own arm with a saw, you really learn how to hate. I’ve killed you so many times in my imagination, I’ve lost count.”

“Please.” Morgan backed away, tried to stagger to his feet but froze when he saw the automatic in Stubbs’s only hand.

“In one scenario, I shove broken glass up your ass for an hour before I put a bullet in your head.” Stubbs stood close to Morgan, stuck the barrel of the automatic against Morgan’s temple. “But that’s too quick. After what I been through, everything’s too quick for you. You’re going to learn about a whole new bright world of pain. There’s going to be jagged things and sharp things and fiery hot things, and it’s all for you.”

Morgan said, “I just wanted out of the car. I thought it was sinking.”

Stubbs slapped the barrel of his gun across the side of Morgan’s head. Little fireworks went off behind Morgan’s eyes. Bells. Morgan felt something cool on his cheek. It was the floor.

Morgan was dizzy, couldn’t get his bearings. He lost track of Stubbs, allowed himself the fantasy that Stubbs had left, changed his mind for some reason.

But Stubbs was too in love with vengeance. Morgan felt his wrists being bound together. Some kind of thin cord. Then he was being dragged into the bedroom. Morgan could only get one eye open, the other caked closed with blood. He tried to twist around, see what Stubbs was doing.

Morgan felt himself lifted by his wrists. He was half on his bed, half on the floor. The cord holding his wrists had been lashed to the bedpost. Stubbs’s footsteps retreated into the next room, but his voice carried. He was still talking, telling Morgan his gruesome story.

“After I sawed off my hand,” Stubbs said, “I think I was in some kind of shock. The memory is a bit hazy, but I think I climbed out of the Mercedes.” Stubbs voice was closer now. “I threw up too. My gut was tossing pretty bad. Like I said, shock. Also, I swallowed about a gallon of salt water.”

Morgan smelled smoke, heard Stubbs inhale. A cigarette.

“Anyway, I wasn’t much good to swim with only the one hand. I couldn’t work against the tide. I floated along even with the shore for a while until my feet touched bottom and I trudged ashore.”

Morgan felt the white-hot cigarette butt grind into his left ass cheek. He screamed, tried to twist away, but Stubbs held it in place. Finally, he let go.

Stubbs flicked the butt away. “Look at that. My cigarette went out for some reason. Guess I better light another.”

The burn throbbed, made Morgan nauseous with fear and pain.

“I had to tie a tourniquet with my belt, pull it tight with my teeth,” Stubbs said. “If things slow down, I’ll tell you how I cauterized the wound. By the way, as if you couldn’t guess, yes it was pretty goddamned awful.”

Morgan realized with cold dread that this was only the beginning. Stubbs had nursed his hatred since Houston and wouldn’t be satisfied until Morgan suffered every possible agony Stubbs’s warped mind could generate.

Morgan filled his lungs with air, screamed as loud as he could. “Help! Help! Police! Call the-”

Stubbs’s body crushed against Morgan’s. Stubbs forced the professor’s face into the mattress. He clubbed Morgan twice more with the butt of the automatic pistol.

“No, no. That’s not how we do this.” Stubbs’s breath was hot on Morgan’s ear. “I know what you think. Maybe the police will hear or maybe not, but anyway maybe I’ll panic and kill you quick and clean. No way. I got plans for you. You’re going to beg for a quick death before this is over. And, buddy, just scream your fucking head off because nobody’s going to hear you over that blizzard out there.”

Morgan only half heard, was only half-conscious. Black spots claimed his vision. He didn’t think he could take any more blows to the head. Maybe that was better anyway than being awake for Stubbs’s torture session.

“Session,” Morgan said out loud.

“What?” Stubbs lifted Morgan’s head off the mattress by his hair. “You trying to say something, Professor?”

Morgan wasn’t paying attention. He’d stepped one foot into a dreamland, saw Valentine smoking his bong, DelPrego and Lancaster in his writing workshop. Was this what they meant by your life flashing before your eyes? If so, Morgan was disappointed.

“Disappointed,” mumbled Morgan.

“What?” Stubbs frowned. “Dammit, don’t you go out on me. I need you awake for the fun.”

And this Harold Jenks son of a bitch, thought Morgan. This is all his fault, getting me involved with drug lords and gunfights and cocaine.

“Cocaine,” Morgan said.

Stubbs shook Morgan, slapped him lightly on the face. “Come on, now. Wake up. What was that about the cocaine?”

Morgan didn’t move. Stubbs shook him again. “The cocaine, Professor?”

“What?” Morgan’s good eye flickered open.

“Don’t play dumb. You were talking about the cocaine. Where is it?”

“I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about,” Morgan said.

“Did I mention I was going to put things up your ass?” Stubbs said. “Now start talking, goddammit!”

Morgan forced himself to concentrate. “You’ll let me go if I show you where the drugs are?”

Stubbs laughed, a sick wheezing sound. “Hell, no. But I promise not to do all that sick shit. Show me where you’ve stashed the coke and I’ll kill you clean. No pain.”

“Untie me,” Morgan said.

“Fuck you.”

“Untie me and I’ll show you.”

“Just tell me.”

“No,” Morgan said. “I don’t like being bent over like this. You’ll do something to me.”

“Tough shit.”

“Untie me.”

“Oh, for Christ’s sake,” Stubbs said.

He unlashed the cord from the bedpost but left Morgan’s wrists bound. As Stubbs did this, Morgan turned his head, saw that Stubbs had stuck the gun under his other armpit so he could use his good hand to untie the cord. Morgan saw what was probably his only chance. He wanted to hit Stubbs in the face, make him drop the gun, surprise him, anything. If he could get past him, Morgan would even run out into the blizzard naked, maybe try to flag down a car.

Morgan lurched to his feet and lunged, swinging two-handed at Stubbs.

Stubbs sidestepped easily, popped Morgan in the nose with a right cross. Morgan felt cartilage snap, felt warm blood pour down his face and over his lips.