Bobby Akart - First Strike

Phoebe finished distributing the slices of pie and stood back as everyone tasted it. Nearly everyone closed their eyes to savor the flavor.

“Oh. My. God,” said the oldest sister in single-word sentences. She quickly shoved a second bite into her mouth before the first one was completely consumed. “One word. Heavenly.”

Hank chuckled. “That it is. Because we grow the limes here on the key, we can pick them while they’re still green. Phoebe is an expert in determining when the perfect level of ripeness occurs. She says the secret ingredient is the fact that we grow them here. In actuality, it’s the love and attention she gives to picking just the right ones.”

Erin laughed. “Hey, Phoebe. It sounds to me like a good time to ask for a raise.”

“Yes, Mr. Hank. How about it?”

Hank was about to answer when Erin’s phone began to vibrate and emit a text tone that resembled an emergency warning. She quickly pulled it out of her shorts pocket and studied the display.

“I’m sorry. I need to make a phone call.”

A look of concern came over her sister’s face. “Is everything okay?”

“There’s been a terrorist attack in Abu Dhabi.”

Friday, October 18

Curry Hammock State Park

Fat Deer Key, Florida

Marty Kantor was a drifter. He had no roots. He had no sense of purpose. He had no soul. There was no way out of the downward spiral he’d succumbed to the day he’d tried his first joint as a teen. Drug experimentation was the first stage toward full-blown addiction, and the readily available hallucinogenic had been a logical place to start.

Soon, the high wasn’t good enough, and he turned to Google. His mom, a functioning alcoholic and manic-depressive, had a treasure trove of goodies to choose from in her medicine cabinet. Kantor researched them all and began taking a few here and there. The highs and lows were glorious.

His mom was too oblivious to notice the missing pills until she tried to get refills and the pharmacy refused to accommodate her. So Kantor mastered the art of placeboing , if that was even a word. Perhaps it was, not that it mattered. It was one he made up, but at least he understood it. Kantor learned how to empty the contents of his mom’s medicine capsules and replace it with a placebo, usually baking starch or flour. He’d ingest the drugs, and she’d get to swallow a baker’s secret ingredient of no medicinal use.

Initially, she didn’t notice the difference until she began to descend into madness. Her meds weren’t working; she’d complained to the pharmacist and then her doctor. When the doctor fired her as a patient for all intents and purposes, she’d try to find another one. However, government regulations made sure her medical records followed her everywhere. Soon, she became desperate to keep her mind sane and sought alternative ways to self-medicate.

This new program worked well for Kantor. Mom would score some heavy shit like crystal meth or even heroin. After she partied with Christy and the Dragon , her dutiful son would rob her of the remaining drugs and use them himself.

Then, one day, the Kantor party came to an end. At least in Miami, anyway. His dear mother unexpectedly became the dearly departed Mrs. Kantor. This sucked for Kantor because he still had a life to live, sort of. For a while, he toughed it out with his mother’s dead body lying in a heap on the far side of her bed against a wall.

You see, he had to keep her alive, ostensibly, so he could collect the myriad of government checks that came her way. Kantor cashed them at a liquor store, begrudgingly paying the required twenty percent you-ain’t-the-payee fee. He’d immediately roll right around the corner to pick up some more crystal meth. Now he was partying hearty with Christy .

This worked for Kantor for a month or so. He’d score a diamond of the dangerous drug, get his high, and try to function. Jobs were plentiful, as the economy was roaring, so warm bodies were in high demand. He’d work for a while, cash a paycheck or two, and then increase his drug intake.

Marty Kantor decided to move on when his dead mom began to stink so bad that he couldn’t mask the smell with bonus hits on the meth pipe. He really didn’t have anywhere to go, but he’d always heard the Florida Keys were a party place. Since partying was all he knew, he loaded up dearly departed Mom’s Chevy Lumina with anything of use and headed south.

Kantor made it all the way to Key West before the Lumina crapped out. It was a piece of shit anyway, but it had enough gas to get him to his destination. No matter, Kantor convinced himself. He wasn’t goin’ back to Hialeah anyway. He got settled into his new digs, the backseat of the Lumina.

He tried to party the old way, scoring crystal meth and sailing out to sea in his demented mind. He soon realized Key West was a different kind of party town. It wasn’t full of dope dealers on every corner. There weren’t opportunities to trade sexual favors for a few bucks. The place wasn’t full of pawnshops to exchange stolen valuables for a few bucks. They ran a clean operation down there, and that sucked for him.

Kantor had to change his approach to life, so he made an effort to clean up. He shoplifted a pair of shorts and a polo shirt from a local boutique. He ripped off a bicycle from the cruise ship docks. He found a drunk college kid on the beach and pilfered his flip-flops.

All in one day.

That night, he snuck into a hotel room while the housekeeping team wasn’t looking. He hid in a closet until they were gone. He took a shower, dressed, and studied himself in the mirror. He’d lost a ton of weight. Every tweaker did.

He pushed his shoulders back and tried to stand straight with confidence. The skin sores on his chest revealed themselves through his polo shirt, so he returned to his customary slouch.

He smiled and said to his mirrored self, “Hello, sir. I’m Marty Kantor. I’d like a job.” His smile revealed his decaying teeth and gums indicative of meth mouth. Kantor quickly closed his mouth and scowled at himself. This was never gonna work.

Plan A, finding a job that could support his habit, wasn’t a viable option. So he moved on to plan B. He recalled a saying from when he first discovered puberty and began to show an interest in girls. They’re all hot at 3:00 a.m., referring to women in a bar at closing time.

Plan B was simple. Try to stay presentable and search for unsuspecting women, or men, in the dark recesses of the local bars at the end of the night. Key West was a party town, and it was full of inebriated something or others interested in a sexual encounter for the night. Marty Kantor was just the guy for the job, although the crystal meth had taken its toll on his manhood, a fact he considered irrelevant. He just wanted their valuables. Cash, credit, or payment in jewelry was all acceptable.

That night, Kantor went to work. He found the perfect bar, well off the beaten path of Duval Street, where the parrothead revelers tended to congregate. His head was in a good place that night, and he easily hooked up with a woman, or at least he thought she was.

The two shared a bottle of vodka and jumped in the target’s car. Kantor didn’t care where they were going because he was getting drunk. They shared a joint. They laughed about stupid shit. They drove and drove up A1A until his new friend suddenly slowed the car and pulled down a sandy road into Curry Hammock State Park. That was when the whole dynamic of plan B changed.

One minute, Marty Kantor thought he had the upper hand and was ready to make bank from this unsuspecting loser. His mind raced as he thought of the diamond-shaped crystals ready to take him away to another dimension. The next minute, he found his head forced down into the woman’s crotch—only, it wasn’t a woman.