by Henry Dillon
short story

It’s four in the morning on the 7th of December, this I’m sure of. This is my seventh cup of coffee since midnight, but I might be wrong about that. It’s about 4 degrees outside and the wind feels colder than it did last night, or the night before for that matter. For some reason it almost feels like I’d feel worse with every degree if the temperature were to rise.

I decide to turn on the radio to maybe get sidetracked from the suffocating sensation I have spreading like a soft mist through my head. The best thing I can find on the dial is by some wanker who is dancing in the dark. This clearly does nothing to blow the mist back as I’m starting to feel it swell cold and moist behind my eyes. I light a cigarette to try and fight it with a similar mist. In the plumes of smoke that seem a little too eager to escape into the night air I begin to see a river of fatigue and confusion, cascading over the steering wheel and running blindly into the bug splattered windscreen. Before I’m hypnotized by the smoke dancing in front of me I’m brought back to the present by the Mullet. The Mullet, one of Gods creatures that he must have either taken a lot of pleasure in designing or put straight into the trash can. I’ll wager that the Mullet was nimble enough to scurry his way out of that trash can, breath life into himself, jump into a womb and come screaming out nine months later. And on the way out some how manage to rip out a couple of vaginal pubes from his carrier to stick on that nodule between his shoulders that only a medical physician would call a head. But what God deprived the Mullet of as far as looks go he certainly made up for by giving him the skill and dexterity to wangle his way into and out of almost any situation. And this is the only reason I’m connected with this tonsil. Looking at the whole picture I suppose looks are not the only thing God deprived the Mullet of. The list could include a conscience, a sense of compassion, the quality of consideration, a heart or the ability to feel any form of remorse, but in some circles those are all attributes rather than inefficiencies. And this is without a doubt one of those circles. And right now I should be appreciating the fact that the Mullet can walk into a hotel room where a woman is rocking her baby to sleep, shoot the father in the legs and systematically cut of his fingers until he spills the beans as to where the Velvets are next meeting.
Not a simple question, and one that never can expect a simple answer. In this case the question is being posed by the Mullet who to me is a rather simple person but to Neville “nose to the ground” Mc Milan who to me and everyone else is not. With five fingers on the floor however there is very little a man wont simplify, and taking everything into account, the Mullets attributes those he has and those he lacks, the five fingers on the floor in the apartment across the road which also includes, a more than likely dead mother cradling a kid now up for adoption, and a dead father that used to have ten fingers. I am not surprised in the least when the Mullet hands over the information I need.
-That was easier than I thought, he started talking after three fingers, but I took of two more just to make sure.
I’m not shocked at the man’s methods but what really pours acid on the wound is the manner in which he always reflects on his deeds. It’s always done with a nervous excitement that could be compared to obtaining a backstage pass to see Jim Morrison performing in hell.
As he splutters out his words his warm breath forms a misty illusion on the upper part of my window, which I have no intention of lowering any lower than what I have. Note to self, got to get this car washed tomorrow, and don’t stop there. After tonight you wash your hands of this mad man and the circles he keeps as well.
Yes, after tonight I take a new road, one that leads as far away from this puddle as possible, this puddle of mud that I’ve been sinking into so slowly that I only realized I was sinking when I started *bleep*ting mud. One plus one - it dawned on me, if you *bleep* mud it’s cause you’ve been eating it. Up to my neck in mud, up to my nose. And just when I was about to be deafened by it I heard that phone ring. Dragging this old and battered body of mine back up from the swamps and giving it a quick glimpse of the grasslands it once knew. Social evolution had made me into a downtown swamp creature and now I knew it for sure. Mr. Darwin sir, you have a believer in me. But if I became like this I can get back to how I was. In these circles you don’t bother planning for a retirement and there’s no Christmas bonus, in fact most people only last a couple of years, either going down big or just silently disappearing.
Unless that is, unless you learn to adapt.
I’ll stand in front of God himself and admit every weakness I have, saying oh God I suck at chess and my cooking skills are up the wall. My hygiene at times leaves little to be desired, I never remember birthdays, I always forget to feed my dog and honesty is a word that has obtained a rather obscured meaning of late. But my ability to adapt, now that’s *bleep*ing floorless.
- Where is it? I ask, with the kind of enthusiasm that would be displayed by a blind person winning contact lenses for life. If this scorpion had the vaguest idea why I needed such a small piece of information so badly he’d either up the price or go around cutting of a couple of more fingers of a couple of other hands. And that would not help my cause, especially not when it’s the hands of people I still have to shake, and I’ve always had this inability to act normal around deformities. Maybe that’s why I find it so hard to be normal around him.
- Here.
He hands me a piece of paper that looks like he used it to blow his nose but accidentally sucked it in and crapped it out a week later. I take it with the same kind of enthusiasm displayed by the same blind person. I’m tempted not to look at it and just stick it in the top pocket of my favorite retro cut suede jacket, but if a man lost five fingers for this information, his life and that of his wife and child, I reckon I’d be giving away the importance of the words scribbled on this tissue come toilet paper come document that’s going to ensure my ass sees another day.
I read it.
SOME SOUNDS WILL ECHO - BUT THAT’S NOT UP TO THE SOUND.

My head pulls back as my eyes shoot open, I can feel the cold night air entering my chest as I escape from my dream, but I’m frozen between confusion, my own thoughts and the sound of tires reeling through puddles.
- *bleep*! I hear myself say as a pain shoots up from my finger caused by a burning cigarette.
I drop the cigarette and quickly scramble to pick it up before it burns my favorite pair of Levi’s.
With the cigarette out the window I’m back to sitting and I feel a bit more awake. I’m alone, waiting, confused. And then it hits me, this is wrong, this is so *bleep*en wrong, and I’m the only one that can fix it.
I reach into my glove compartment and pull out the gun I know I’ll find and that’s always loaded. Get out the car and walk across the street. Funny how at times like this all you can hear are your own thoughts, louder than a fire horn and clearer than a cancer. Distances become blurred and time is a piece of dust farted of a window ledge in slow motion. My boots seem loud and confident on the pavement but my hand feels like it belongs to someone else as it turns the door handle. I’m walking down the corridor and all I can think about is that I hope its not to late. I don’t care anymore, time to take one last breath before I sink beneath the mud.
At room no. Twelve I stop to rub my eyes, stretch my mouth, swallow hard, and stretch my fingers. But then I grow numb, into operating mode, with my ear to the door I can tell that there is more than one person still alive in there. I step back, take a deep breath, lick my lips and kick the door with my left boot which is odd cause I normally kick with the right. I’ve always said confidence is everything and my theory stands true as the door fly’s open and I step inside to find the kind of scene that you would find hard to describe if you hadn’t seen it before.
Neville is lying gagged and strapped to a plumbing pipe that looks as though it’s been put there for just that purpose. He’s missing five fingers, which is no surprise; he’s left eye looks as though it might still work but when it sees what the right one looks like he might wish it didn’t. There are a couple of teeth missing and I see those lying on a neat pile next to the fingers that have been removed. He looks up at me with an expression that lays half way between shock, surprise, hope and could you please call room service to clean up this mess. I’d put my dinero’s on hope. On the other side of the room the Mullet has Mrs. Neville bent over with her pants down. Her arms are stretched out over the table with her hands tied, and the man responsible for all this chaos has his dick in his hand, which right now he seems a little unsure of what to do with

At that moment it occurs to me just what a service I’m about to perform. Some men are destined to find a cure for cancer; others will bring nations together and forge peace; I will rid the world of this scourge in front of me; how *bleep*en noble do I feel.
Before he can even react, cause I know he probably thinks I got bored in the car and was looking to join in, the bullet leaves my gun. I’ve never been much of a shot, and as a result I always tend to be over generous with my bullets. The Mullet goes stumbling back and trips over a fallen chair, drops and lies there with his head tilted up against a cupboard. Without realizing it I was striding him toward with each shot that I fired at the filth and am know standing over his body, which to no great shock is without a bullet hole. I find this rather fascinating and will most certainly at a future juncture wonder whether someone like this could possibly have a fairy godmother or any good karma owed to him, but not now. Now is this moment and now I don’t care about whether he lives or dies, now I’m back to thinking about myself. I kneel down next to the living corpse and feel through his pockets, voila. A man like this who views excess in the same light as which I view air, a basic requirement for life – will most certainly have a less than adequate short term memory and will always need to write things down.
So what do I do now, now that I’ve got what I wanted? With every second that passes I can feel myself again beginning to care about it all. How could I have ever not cared about the whole thing? Jesus what was I thinking? I walk in here with the intent of doing the Mullet in and at the same time sign my own death warrant, but through some divine interference I now have what I wanted, the Mullets down, no one has been killed or raped, and if modern medicine can join penises they can join fingers.
I look up and realize that I am out of sight of Neville and his wife. Conveniently a hideously bulky green couch lies between the man without the fingers and myself, and the nearly raped wife with her head flat on the table can only afford a view that begins at table height. Neither of the two would have any idea why I should burst in here on this evenings proceeding and empty my gun on the master of ceremonies, thereby putting an end to the show, this show that would never enjoy a second season or a standing ovation.
The paper in my hand is slipped into my pocket and I stand up to see a women staring at me coldly with half the clothes ripped of her, nice ass. I look over at Neville who seems unsure as to whether I’m going to finish of what the Mullet started or just burst into laughter and walk out, not wanting to get involved. That thought seems a little too absurd, if only he knew just how involved I am. There is no way I’m planning on helping this man remove the bolts from his hands so I turn to Mrs. Neville.
- I have seen the moment of my greatness flicker, I have seen the eternal Footman hold my coat and snicker, and in short I was afraid.
I always did love quoting Eliot.
I reach over and untie her hands. She says nothing but immediately drops to the ground and covers herself up. Compassion hits me on the back of my neck and it feels cold. I reach for the mobile in my jacket pocket and as my hand disappears I notice the women on the floor in front of me flinch. I shake my head knowingly, pull out the mobile and place it on the table. An echo fills my ears and it occurs to me that it’s actually filling the entire room and that all those present are aware of it. With each second it seems to be growing louder. I turn to Neville who seems to be in a better shape than when I first arrived. The echo at this point feels almost unbearable but ceases the moment I open my dry mouth and say
- ……..
Nothing, I say nothing for I suddenly realize there is nothing I need to say.
In the Bars and clubs around town tonight people are drinking, drinking for fun, laughter, and life and for what ever other reason people choose to drink. Men are hitting on women who will not look as desirable in the morning as what they do now. Women are hitting on men who they hope will look more desirable in the morning. Cigarettes are being lit, smoke is being exhaled and music is deafening the heartbeat of a thousand souls who are searching for shadows cast from objects they cannot see. Jokes are being told, toilets are being flushed, confessions are being heard, moneys is changing hands and now as I breathe in and out, I breathe with the city and it sounds like a cash resister ringing. In the streets intoxicated bodies are waving down cabs, in the churches believers are lighting candles, on the pavements drugs are being punted and out of a room where a mild apparition of madness has been witnessed, I am walking.