Bloody Thursday

THURSDAY MORNING

Ah, the joys of the public bathroom; the blinding fluorescent light, the odd mingling smell of toilet cleaner and waste that all too often doesn’t end up in the toilet. There’s the porcelain, the mysterious stains (is that water or…?) there’s the graffiti EVERYWHERE. There’s graffiti on the stalls, on the walls, on the shitters, on the pissers, on the sinks, on the ceiling. Some people probably graffiti the toilet paper before they wipe their ass with it. In fact, if you spend more than ten minutes in any public bathroom anywhere in the world, there’s a good chance you’ll end up covered in graffiti, so it’s often best to hurry.
Matt Fontaine was in one such hurry one such bleak but not entirely unusual Thursday morning following a Wednesday night that he didn’t remember much of, just that it was one of those nonacademic all-nighters that in the long run probably had adverse effects on his already dismal GPA. Now he had about two minutes before college prealgebra and it was imperative that he get in, do his business, and get out seeing as when it came to math, he was as hopeless as Helen Keller at Woodstock.
It had been a crappy enough morning already. Matt had awakened in the backseat of his own car but didn’t know why, seeing as he didn’t drive at all the previous night, that he knew of at least. Then when he started the car he discovered he was so low on gas that he had to coast to the nearest station in order to buy two dollars worth of petrol from quarters accumulated under the seat, since he hadn’t had actual paper money for what seemed like a few months now. When he arrived at campus he realized he was wearing the same clothes from the previous evening, and the last strap on his four year old backpack broke as he hurried to relieve himself before having to deal with mathematics on an empty stomach, three hours of sleep, and a hangover. The now strapless backpack was the proverbial cherry atop the shit sundae god seemed to have laid on Matt that morning.
So with a sigh Matt set his ancient backpack down on the sink counter and proceeded to the urinal closest to the far wall (necessary procedure according to Man Law), unzipped, and prepared to let nature do its work. But it was then that he sensed a disturbance in the force.
The door swung open with a bang to reveal one of one of the most haggard fiends Matt had ever seen. He looked to be of Mexican descent and appeared much older than he actually was. What was left of his thinning dark black hair was plastered to his forehead with sweat and something Matt could only guess was dried vomit. He wore a pair of worn Nikes that were probably once white, stained black pants, and a sweat soaked brown windbreaker He must have kicked the bathroom door open as he lugged a sleek black suitcase in each hand. A mysterious little white booger dangled from his right nostril. He was breathing heavily, almost like an excited dog but way uglier. His eyes darted around the room. His pupils were pinpoints in the bathroom’s fluorescent glow. The man was perspiring severely and seemed nervous, not the regular kind of nervous but the criminal kind or nerves people get when they’re fucked up on something powerful or surrounded by people that wouldn’t think twice about killing them, or they’re fucked up on something powerful and surrounded by people that wouldn’t think twice about killing them, which is never a good combination.
Matt didn’t have much time to register the stranger’s bizarre appearance because he had already strode across the room, skipping all five of the free urinals closest to the door until he reached the one right next to Matt where he set down the suitcases, executed an immediate about-face, and, in one fluid motion, unzipped and began relieving himself in the nosiest way possible.
“Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh,” the man sighed in pleasure as he unleashed a torrent of urine upon the smooth porcelain surface. “Oooooooh.” Matt stared at him, disgusted yet astonished. The man continued on, clearly undeterred. Matt wondered to himself what this asshole was on. And furthermore, why was he carrying around two extremely expensive-looking suitcases when he clearly hadn’t bought clothes since 1984?
Matt couldn’t even focus on getting his own flow going now, as the pleasure moans were somewhat distracting. After several unsuccessful attempts he gave up and took to staring blatantly at the stranger in disbelief. Clearly not bothered by this, the man continued on with what sounded like the single most joyous piss he’d taken in his entire life. Utterly frustrated, Matt decided that getting stabbed to death in the community college restroom was worth it as long as he could urinate in peace. He cleared his throat and tentatively spoke. “Do you mind?”
The man turned his neck so fast that Matt was amazed he didn’t get whiplash. “Whadidyasay mayne?” The guy spoke fast with a heavy accent and his pupils were like tiny pinpoints in the bathroom’s fluorescent light. He was on cloud nine but Matt didn’t know what had taken him to that point and didn’t particularly care. He was slightly hungover from the Wednesday night of boozing and loosing with his equally unambitious friends and didn’t really feel like dealing with creepy old dudes with nice suitcases in public bathrooms.
“I said do you mind? It’s kind of hard to take a piss when you’re there making all that noise.”
The guy stared at Matt a minute then, apparently finished with the most relieving piss of all time, walked away without a word. “Fucking finally,” Matt muttered as he turned back to the urinal and let nature do its work.
But out of the corner of his eye he watched the guy snatch his strapless backpack off the counter next to the sink and calmly push through the door with it tucked in his right arm.
“Hey! Hey what the fuck!” Matt glanced down desperately but there was no way he could pinch off mid-flow; those kinds of shenanigans just weren’t healthy. He did a little impatient dance as he emptied his bladder, stamping his feet and continually turning his head to the door. The wait seemed like an eternity. His eyes darted from his member to the door, and finally he hurriedly performed the customary three shakes. Turning toward the door Matt took off and tripped over one of the man’s suitcases mid-step.
He fell hard to the tile floor and groaned, hoping it was somewhat clean but knowing deep down in his heart that it was not at all and that he was now likely infected with MRSA and possibly super AIDS. He got to his feet immediately, hurried to the door, yanked it open and darted out into the hallway. He turned his head left and right. No one was there.
Matt returned to the bathroom disappointed. The bag, regardless of how ragged and strapless it was, had some sentimental value. After all he had owned it for four years, although that was mainly because he was too lazy to purchase a new one. On top of that, it held all his work. Not that it was anything exceptional, but goddamit, he had spent at least fifteen minutes on it.
On the other hand, there were now two seemingly pricey suitcases lying on the bathroom floor. That didn’t make any sense. Why would someone trade two immaculate suitcases for a ratty ass old backpack? Matt reasoned that the guy did it for him interrupting his piss-gasm, as some sort of bizarre act of revenge, but was too whacked out on god knows what to realize he was leaving the only two valuable items that would ever be associated with him (besides those he had already shot or snorted into his bloodstream) behind. Goddamn dope fiends.
Hesitantly Matt knelt down and unlatched the one he had tripped over, hoping to whatever deity he was supposed to believe in that it didn’t contain some sort of pissed off feral animal, or, even worse, a human head.
No, it did not. Neither did the second one. It took his mind a while to comprehend what he was seeing because each suitcase each contained several large, heavy individually plastic-wrapped bricks of something very white and very powdery that glistened like tiny jewels in the bathrooms eerie fluorescent glow. Matt slowly closed each suitcase, trying to keep himself from shaking with excitement. His eyes grew as wide as the monetary possibilities that this odd fortune that had somehow befallen him appeared to bring. He stood up straight and clutched a smooth leather handle in each hand and strode out of the stank ridden shitter and into the suddenly bright future of a new day, with the kind of doucebagesque swagger being in possession of several hundred thousand dollars worth of cocaine seems to give people.
However, as with any drug, illegal or otherwise, there is no such thing as free cocaine, especially not in staggering amounts such as the one Matthew Fontaine stumbled upon that fateful Thursday morning in bathroom of Aztec Community College. As always someone would have to pay, whether it would be with money or with their life. But in this case “someone” means “a lot of people” and everyone pays with their life.

LATER THAT SAME EXACT THURSDAY MORNING

Horatio Enriquez was not a man to fuck with. Sure, at social events he’s a big, jolly guy. And sure, when it comes to the kids, he’s like Santa, if Santa kept several high powered fire arms and several more high powered drugs around him at all times. Sure every few months he donates half a mil or so of cold, hard, dirty cash to the orphanage where he grew up in a small village in Mexico. But he was not a man to fuck with and he most definitely was not the man to bring a backpack full of school papers and textbooks to when he explicitly told you to “check that the bag had the fucking money in it before you left the fucking cocaine you pinche fuckhead!” But that was in the past now, the man responsible for the mishap was lying facedown in the sun-soaked garden of Mr. Enriquez’s foothills mansion with a bullet lodged in his brain, and now Horatio was more concerned about the whereabouts of his cocaine.
“I can’t fucking believe this! Garcia said his guy would be in the bathroom with the money; instead this fucking pendejo leaves the coke with some idiot college student and brings me what? A fucking backpack, that’s what! Not the backpack full of money, the backpack full of some asshole’s homework! What kind of bullshit is this? I am surrounded by COMPLETE FUCKING MORONS!” he emphasized the last three words by shooting a bullet into the courier’s already dead body for each corresponding word.
He turned to Antonio, his right hand man, not an exceptionally intelligent man but nonetheless a man so badass he didn’t even need a last name. “Has Garcia called?”
“No boss, we tried to get a hold of him but no luck.”
“You call his cell phone?”
“Yeah.”
“When?”
“Like two hours ago when you told me to after Roberto came back with the money.”
“Goddamit Tony that was an hour ago and Roberto didn’t have the fucking money! That is why he is dead now!” Horatio said all this slowly and loudly, enunciating each word as if he was explaining all this to a four year old, which he often had to do when conversing with Tony. He gestured wildly towards the corpse of the very dead Roberto with the gun that killed him still in his hand. “Roberto is dead because he fucked up. We are trying to get a hold of Garcia because he fucked us over. I would not tell you to find Garcia unless something like this happened. I hate that prick. Now tell me Tony, after you called that puto Garcia’s cell and got nothing, did it, at any point cross your fucking mind to call Garcia on his fucking house phone?”
“His house?”
Exasperated, Horatio threw his hands up in disgust. “Jesus Christ Tony when I tell you to get a hold of someone you don’t give up after one goddamn number doesn’t work! Are you a complete fucktard?” Frustrated he turned and shot two more rounds into Roberto’s corpse. He then kicked it several times as hard as he could. Apparently having exercised out a small portion of his sheer anger, he turned back to Tony, wiping his brow. “This smells like a set-up,” he said.
“How so?”
“Christ man, sometimes I think all you’re good for is killing motherfuckers for money. Think about it pendejo, Garcia wasn’t gonna make money off this, he was just gonna move it into the streets so the spooks could start cooking quality crack rock and get hooked on it and start killing each other over it so he could get more fucking power in the hood. I wouldn’t put it past that sneaky little prick to try to get some power and fuck me over for a profit.”
“So how’s it a set-up?”
“Think, for once in your life, carbrón, think. Garcia doesn’t send his guy with the money, he has some dumbass college kid wait there with his bag, apparently he knows everyone that works for me is a fucking moron junky,” he shot the corpse again, for extra emphasis, “So he decides to fucking Jew me on the cash and—”
Horatio was interrupted by his cell phone. The ringtone was the Macarena. No one gave him shit about having such a lame song as a ringtone…not anymore. One guy did once. His name is not important now. That is because two weeks following his mockery of Horatio’s taste in music and ringtones his family received his head in a box via Fed-Ex. Because of that incident, among a multitude of other reasons, it was widely concluded that Horatio Enriquez was not a man to fuck with.
Horatio stared at the phone in disbelief. The caller ID read: PUTO GARCIA. What kind of crazy bastard would have the balls or lack of brains (or both) to rip off Horatio Enriquez then call to gloat about it?
There wasn’t time to worry about that, Horatio answered the phone with feigned delight. “Garcia! Amigo! We were just talking about you!”
“Oh yeah? What was it you were you talking about Mr. Horatio?”
Horatio grimaced; he hated it when the little fucker addressed him like that, but he bit his tongue for now and kept up his pleasant tone, which was more transparent than some sort of transparent film. Yeah, solid analogy. “Nothing much, my friend, just talking to my main man Tony here about how you cheated me out of fifty fucking grand worth of cocaine. What’s up with that?”
Garcia hesitated. “I don’t what you’re talking ab—”
“You know exactly what I’m fucking talking about you fucking piece of shit. I send my guy with the coke and you figure he’s too fucked up to check that you have the money so you give him some dumbass kid’s backpack—”
“Horatio, listen. I was calling about the cocaine. My guy waited at the bathroom for half an hour, amigo, your man never showed.”
“What?”
“I said my man was there. The men’s bathroom of the third floor of the Catalina building at Aztec Community College West Campus, just like we agreed upon. Maybe you should ask your man if he made a mistake, yes?”
Horatio lowered the phone in shock; he knew exactly what the mistake was and whose fault the said mistake was. There was no one to blame for this but himself, for he had instructed his man to go to the Downtown Campus. But Horatio Enriquez was not a person that readily admitted his mistakes. He also was not a man to fuck with. So, without thinking, he brought the phone back to his ear and spoke.
“Well I’d ask him if he made a mistake but his brains are satisfyingly splattered all over my tomato plants, Garcia. You know why? Because he went to the West Campus, our agreed upon meeting place, where your guy ripped him off. My man didn’t kill your man like he should have, so I took the necessary action.”
“Jesus Christ, Horatio you killed him for nothing because I didn’t rip you off. In fact, I’m starting to wonder if you’re ripping me off.”
Forgetting he had made the initial mistake at all, Horatio tore into Garcia. Who the fuck was he to insinuate Horatio would rip someone off? “Listen pendejo I know you’re trying to fuck me over and I know this-this—” he pulled a paper out of the backpack and examined the name—“This Matthew Fontaine motherfucker you have working for you stole my fucking cocaine for you.”
Garcia protested, “I know no one named Fontaine. There is no one in my employ named Fontaine. I still have my money Horatio, but not the yayo. Do you think I’m happy here? I’d rather be sitting on a shitload white gold but no, I have a backpack full of unmarked bills nothing to do with it. Do you think that you’re the only one displeased with this situation?”
“Don’t you try to reason with me motherfucker, I know you’ve been planning this for a long fucking time. I’ll admit it takes balls to rip me off, but pretty soon yours are going to be attached to a car battery because this means war Garcia. This means fucking war!”
Ignoring Garcia’s protests, Horatio flung the phone to the ground, stamped on it angrily for a minute, but seeing that that act left no immediate visible damage he pulled out his gun and shot it several times.
It was a masterstroke, really. Horatio knew Garcia wasn’t at fault for this; in fact the botched deal was entirely Horatio’s fault. But it gave him an excuse to kill Garcia, something he had been looking for during the past five years of their uneasy truce. He was confident he could crush him like a bug; he easily had twice the men Garcia had in his employ, even if most of them were dumb fucking idiots. He had efficient killers like Antonio. He had guns, he had knives, shit, he even had a rocket launcher.
But believe it or not, knocking off his rival wasn’t on the top of Horatio Enriquez’s to-do list. He had to get his cocaine back first. Still clutching Matt Fontaine’s D minus-worthy term paper in his hand he turned to Antonio. “Tony, I want you to find out everything you can about this Matt Fontaine kid. I want you to track him down and I want you to kill him. I want you to kill his entire fucking family. Tie them to the couch and set the house on fire or something, use the goddamn meat cleaver, get creative, y’know. I want you to kill his girlfriend, his dog, his friends, whatever the fuck you feel like killing that has any relation whatsoever to Matt Fontaine, feel absolutely free to kill it.”
“What if he doesn’t have a dog?” Antonio looked slightly puzzled.
“Then kill his fucking goldfish or something!”
“What if he doesn’t have any pets at all?”
Horatio sighed and stared at him in disbelief. Antonio had been his main man for years, the man that was always ready to slap a bomb on a vehicle’s undercarriage or kill a government official at Horatio’s word. But sometimes, just sometimes, Horatio really did wonder if all he was good for was killing.
“Then go to the Humane Society, adopt a fucking dog, give it to him, and then shoot the dog in the fucking head right in front of him!”
“Alright, got it boss.” Tony turned and began to leave.
“Tony.”
“Yeah?”
“You don’t really need to go to the Humane Society. Just kill Fontaine. Kill him however the fuck you want, just make sure it takes a long time and he suffers like the fucking cockroach he is.”
Tony laughed. “Oh good, cause I think it costs a lot of money to adopt a dog. Ha, ha.” And he turned and left with a big goofy smile plastered on his face, content that he was finally going to get to do what he did best. Behind him an exasperated Horatio Enriquez emptied the rest of his clip into Roberto’s already stiff body. The dirty brown windbreaker was now soaked with blood.

MEANWHILE, ACROSS TOWN…

Matt Fontaine was tearing ass through the streets with the suitcases in the backseat of his shitty Hyundai Sonata. His mind was racing with the possibilities his unexpected good fortune brought. Little did he know his mind would soon be racing with ideas on how to survive the wrath of a very pissed off Mexican mobster, his idiotic henchman and several people out for his head.
But first he would have to deal with the cop.

OFFICER CANARKEY

It is not everyday one inadvertently stumbles over a couple of suitcases packed with Satan’s dandruff. It’s certainly not everyday that one literally stumbles over two suitcases of cocaine after their four year old and now apparently unimportant backpack is stolen off the counter of a bathroom sink.
No, that is most definitely not an everyday sort of thing. But today apparently was a special day for Matt Fontaine, as, if the reader even bothered to skim through the preceding pages would know, he did quite literally trip over a couple of suitcases full of cocaine. If the reader instead had for some ridiculous reason skipped straight to this page without at least scanning over the others and missed this important and extremely relevant information, he or she will undoubtedly face a lifetime of sexual impotency, humiliation, and poverty before meeting their untimely end in the bathroom of the Greyhound bus depot and subsequently receiving burial in a pauper’s grave. Then again, if they read the proceeding two paragraphs they more than get the gist of the story. So in the end, only the author’s time is wasted here.
Anyway Matt was in fact in possession of several pounds of cocaine, which, contained in their suitcases were thrown haphazardly into his backseat through the back window that never rolled up. The car was a technological marvel, Matt highly doubted anyone else he knew had an automatic that stalled. That, and the fact the vehicle had no turn signals and the key had a tendency to slip out of the ignition made for Matt not having the most ideal vehicle to transport such large quantities of cocaine in.
And, as if the fact that he was already driving a not so inconspicuous car didn’t cross his mind, Matt had to go and drive like a dumbass.
If you ever watch the news you see the stories, people getting pulled over with a ton of drugs coming out of Mexico because they were going 90 on the freeway and had no lights on. A lot of people watch these reports and wonder how someone could be so dumb. You’d think that if you were carrying a metric ton of pot in the back of your ‘89 Ford Astro you would probably slow down a little. Common sense, right?
The fact is that the effects of having a small fortune of drugs in your possession are sometimes akin to the effects of having those drugs in your system. There’s a certain rush, your teeth grind, your heart races, you sweat profusely. That’s just the adrenaline. Matt didn’t even need to sample the coke; just seeing it in all its profitable glory was enough to give him the rush. His mind could still not quite grasp what had happened. One moment he was in the middle of an awkward and annoying encounter with one of the strangest dope fiends he had ever encountered, the next he was being robbed, then, out of nowhere he stumbled on something that more than made up for the stealing of his backpack. Then he was walking calmly out the door. Then adrenaline kicked in and he was running madly across the parking lot, the suitcases flailing comically in the air as he pumped his arms to gain speed. Now he was going precisely 26 miles per hour above the posted speed limit, roaring through an area of town that contained two elementary schools, a high school, and a community college within a three mile radius. Yes he was hurtling down the street at a dangerous speed with his mind still trying to grasp the fact that there were possibly millions of dollars worth of powder in the backseat of his two hundred dollar car. Yes he was far too busy wondering about how much a swimming pool full of diamonds would cost to notice his excessive speed or even the dark blue Crown Victoria that had been on his ass for the last two minutes.
Yes indeedy, Matt only noticed all of these critical mistakes when it was far too late; after the Crown Vic had flipped on its siren and increased its proximity to him.
Matt now had three options. He could pull over and encounter the police officer, he could try to come up with a reasonable explanation as to why he was speeding so dangerously. Then he would have to refuse to let the cop search the suitcases, which he would inevitably ask about. So even if he refused he would probably end up getting hit with the taser, beat down a little, and thrown handcuffed and somehow shirtless and barefoot into the back of the black and white while the cop slowly opens the suitcase, cuts open one of the bricks, tastes it, and turns to Matt and with a devilish smile that tells you you’re going away for quite awhile and says, “Busted.”
Or Matt could try to outrun the cop. Not in his car, no way. There was no way in hell he could outrun a cop in his pathetic excuse of a vehicle. He was surprised it even exceeded 40. But he could pull over, get out and book it on foot with the suitcases. But those would weigh him down and cops in the city were somewhat notorious for shooting fleeing, unarmed suspects in the back.
Or he could pull over to the side of the road. He could try to come up with a reasonable explanation as to why he was speeding so dangerously. He could then try to refuse to let the cop search the suitcases, then watch hopelessly as the cop searched them anyway. But then he could hit the cop in the face with the one of the suitcases, grab its companion, and make a run for it in the cop car.
The cards were on the table. It was all up to him. Which option would he choose?
“Fuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuck,” Matt swore under his breath like his name was Horatio Enriquez as he glanced in his rearview mirror and faintly made out the figure behind the Crown Vic’s dark tint motioning for him to pull over. He then glanced at the speed limit sign he happened to be passing, which read 30. Then he looked at his own speedometer, which was hovering around 55.
“FUCK!” Matt exclaimed as he slowed and turned right onto a side street. With a tremendous sigh he pulled over to the side of the road and killed the ignition, hoping to god or Allah or whoever the hell could help him that the cop wouldn’t ask about the suitcases, but, realizing he undoubtedly would, Matt focused on trying not to think about what 30 years in jail was like.
There’s a little game cops like to play when they pull someone over. Especially if it’s someone in Matt’s position, an anxious looking young man in a very conspicuous vehicle speeding through town as if someone was holding a lit match under his ass. They call dispatch and report the crime. They always do a quick check to make sure the vehicle hasn’t been reported stolen or used in any recent crimes and all that exciting shit. But sometimes they wait an extra few minutes or so, just to make whoever they have pulled over a little extra nervous. It makes them think something’s wrong, that the cop’s calling back up or something. This can be extremely nerve wracking, especially if you have a guilty conscience because you just happen to be in possession of a massive amount of cocaine that you just happened to find on the bathroom floor. It puts a lot on you, you’re wondering why it’s taking so long for the mean bastard with the badge and the gun to come yell at you for driving like an asshole and it makes you think something is wrong and it makes you more nervous than usual, which is particularly bad if you weren’t the definition of calmness to begin with.
* * *
Officer Frank Canarkey typed the white Hyundai’s license plate number into his dashboard computer with callous disinterest. He sighed at the fairly clean record; nothing particularly exciting aside from a joyriding charge over a year ago. Canarkey took a sip of coffee and looked through his windshield at the young man’s figure in the next car up. The fucker seemed a little twitchy, but Canarkey suspected it was nothing more than a little teenage mischief. The kid was probably burning a doobie and didn’t realize how fast he was going right until Canarkey was right behind him and now thought he was fucked. Canarkey was sure the kid wasn’t up to anything too illegal. He would probably just mess with him a little and let him go off on his merry way with a ticket and a generic cop talk on why speeding is bad. He opened the door and with considerable effort got to his feet. He was approaching 20 years on the force and 250 pounds on his gut and he knew now that his life was truly meaningless if the most fun he got all day was from fucking with the high fliers.
Officer Canarkey wasn’t exactly the picture of health. He looked like a typical cop, with coffee stained teeth, aviator sunglasses, and a magnificent mustache but at 5’10 248 pounds didn’t exactly fill out his frame. He had become way too fond of jelly donuts and BLTs with the lettuce and tomato replaced with more bacon. He had also been an avid smoker up until a year or so ago when the wife had him go see this weird hypnosis fella who held a watch in front of Canarkey’s face for a few minutes, counted to three and snapped his fingers. The hypnosis was successful, but a disturbing side effect emerged, where Canarkey would sleepwalk, sleepdrive, sleepeat, etc. One time he woke up on top of the Congress Theater at 4 in the morning in his boxers with Cheeto stains on his shirt. Those kinds of shenanigans don’t fly, especially for an officer of the law. And on top of that, he began to smoke cigarettes in his sleep, which just made the whole hypnotizing process worthless. He never craved a fine burning cancer stick when he was awake, but sometimes when he slept he would rise from the bed, walk out to the driveway, grabbing a muffin on the way, and drive to Circle K to get a carton of smokes. Story of his life; every time he tried to do something to improve himself it ended up coming back and screwing him over in some sort of new, unimaginable way.
As he walked up to the Hyundai’s window Canarkey wondered if his place in the world could possibly be more insignificant. He was purely average when it came to both life and police work. He was locked in a hellish marriage for much of his time on the force with a woman who he despised almost as much as she did him and had a somewhat annoying habit of calling him “Bill” on the rare occasions they did have sex. He had been driving the same patrol for the past 10 years, never seeing anything more exciting than the second grader that maced him. Before that he had been on the same beat for eight years, then spent a couple years at a desk job in Precinct 409 after he discharged his weapon into his own leg while pursuing a suspect who had stolen an orange from a Korean market. As far as Officer Canarkey could recall that incident hurt quite a bit. The last couple decades of his life seemed to be a clinic of mediocrity. Nothing terrible, nothing exceptional, just disgust in his daily routine, the same old shit. The days blurred together into weeks and the weeks into months and Officer Frank Canarkey couldn’t tell one from the other and frankly, he no longer gave a shit. All he had to do was wait another three and a half months and he could start collecting that twenty year pension and retire. After all, he had a feeling he would get fired as soon as he hit his twenty years and be forced to collect the pension so it was kind of win-win, well, more like draw-draw, but Canarkey would take what he could get. All he had to do was put up with the same ol’ everyday shit for a little while longer and he could slowly ease from an unimpressive career to an equally unimpressive retirement.
But today was unique. Officer Frank Canarkey was not going to be putting up with the same ol’ shit today. He would be thrown into something much larger and complex than he ever imagined.
* * *
If there was an award for Nervous Person of the Year Matt Fontaine would be a strong finalist, right up there with the haggard old tweaker who had delivered those suitcases full of mixed blessings in the first place. How could he be so stupid? Why did if he have to drive like a moron now of all times? And what was taking that cop so damn long? These were the questions he asked himself as he fidgeted in the hot seat, covered in a cold, anxious sweat.
Then all the sudden there was a knock on his window. Matt gasped and swiveled his head to the left so quickly it popped. The cop was bent down, leering at Matt through his dark, mirrored aviators. Matt gulped and tried to roll the window down. It took him about twenty seconds of furious tapping on the automatic window button to realize he had already turned the car off. Realizing his very suspicious looking mistake Matt attempted to give the cop what he hoped was an apologetic smile but the stone-faced officer didn’t return it. He looked thoroughly unamused.
In actuality Officer Canarkey was very amused. Stoned teenagers trying to act nonchalant always gave him a chuckle. He watched as the kid fumbled with his keys, trying to get them in the ignition but his hand was shaking too much. He dropped them on the floor, grabbed them, and after what appeared to be much effort, turned the accessory on and got the window rolled down.
Officer Canarkey bent over again, one arm on the top of the Sonata. “License and registration, please.”
Again something Matt could’ve taken care of while he waited for the officer to do whatever the hell it was he was doing that took all that time. Officer Canarkey waited as Matt fumbled with his wallet, dropping his license a couple times with shaking hands. Canarkey drummed his fingers impatiently on the Hyundai’s frame. After an eternity Matt handed him the license. Canarkey glanced at it and looked back at Matt, then raised his glasses up to his forehead so his small brown eyes stared directly into Matt’s darting eyes. “The registration?”
“Oh shit, sorry,” Matt mumbled as he reached for the glove box and got it open with a little less effort than it took for him to roll down the window or get his wallet. As he handed over the registration he realized that this situation was admittedly not going that well for him.
The cop looked over his paperwork for a minute. “You’re Matthew James Fontaine, correct?”
“Uh, yeah—yes, that’s me—I’m him.”
The cop looked at him curiously. He raised his glasses again and squinted at Matt. “Are you okay, son?”
Matt swallowed, which was hard with his suddenly parched throat. “Yeah, I’m alright.”
“Alright, then,” he gave him a lingering suspicious look but looked back down at the license. “Where were you born, Mr. Fontaine?”
“Um, well, here.”
“Here in this very location? This car?” The officer looked at him with feigned incredulity. Matt was aware that he was just messing with his head at this point but was more aware that he couldn’t do a thing about it so he bit his bottom lip and answered.
“No, here in Noscut y’know, the town we’re in.”
Apparently that sounded too sarcastic because the cop looked up from the license again. “Oh so we got a wiseass on our hands.”
“What? Me? No, what do you mean sir? I wasn’t trying to be a wiseass I was just trying to be a little more specific.” Matt bullshitted, trying to cram as much ass-kissing as he possibly could into one sentence.
The cop clearly didn’t buy it. He snorted and muttered “Yeah, right,” before continuing his interrogation.
“You know how fast you were goin’ back there son?”
Matt went braindead. The whole time he had been tormenting himself with visions of arrest and jail he hadn’t even practiced answers to the cop’s simple yet tough questions. “Uhh…”
“I’m sorry I didn’t realize ‘uh’ was a unit of speed, Mr. Wiseass,” the cop said sarcastically. “Now do you know how fast you were going in miles per hour?”
Matt twitched, he knew his eyes were darting around suspiciously but he couldn’t stop that anymore than he could stop his heart from racing or the sweat from pouring out of his body. Finally he managed to squeak out, “Thirty?”
The cop laughed. “Are you asking me a question or telling me how fast you were goin’?”
“Yes sir.”
Canarkey couldn’t believe it. This kid honestly made it too easy. “Yes sir what?”
“Yes sir, I was going forty—I mean thirty.”
Canarkey snorted again. This wasn’t even fun anymore. The kid just kept incriminating himself. Canarkey almost didn’t want to give him the ticket, but he figured he’d mess with him a little more then give him the fine and send the poor bastard on his way.
“Buddy, I clocked you in going 58 in a 30 mile per hour zone. That’s 28 over. Now 15 over is considered reckless. 25 over warrants me taking you to jail, impounding and searching your car, which could be bad for you, depending if you follow the law when it comes to illegal substances, which you clearly don’t do when it comes to driving, and overall that just adds up to a whole lotta trouble for you. But partly because I’m a nice guy but mainly cause I really don’t want to waste my valuable time doing all that shit I’m giving you a ticket for 15 over. You’re gonna be paying a big fine and going to traffic school but consider yourself lucky.”
Matt did consider himself lucky as the cop scrawled out the ticket. He was even more relieved than the old cokehead from the bathroom. He had somehow, somehow, gotten out of one hell of a sticky situation with what seemed like a warning compared to the shitload of jail time that inevitably accompanies possession of two suitcases full of cocaine.
The cop tore the ticket off the pad and handed it to Matt. He leered at him, “I’m sure you don’t have any illegal substances in the car anyway, do you?”
It was one of those moments where Matt did a couple of things wrong. First, for some subconscious reason he glanced at the two suitcases in the backseat, which Officer Canarkey hadn’t even noticed in the first place, but now took into account. Then he said the opposite of what he meant to say. He meant to say “No sir, I do not have any illegal substances in my car or on my person.” But what he said was “Yes.”
The cop did a double take. “What?”
“I mean no—no I don’t have anything illegal…”
The officer stared into his eyes, or at least that’s what Matt assumed he was doing, he couldn’t see through his dark glasses. “I think I’m gonna need you to step out of the car, son,” he said.
Matt felt his stomach drop to the floor and knew he was fucked. All color left his face and his lips quivered. The cop reached down and opened the door then backed up a few steps, his hand hovering near the holster of his gun. Matt swung his feet out to the pavement and got shakily to his feet.
“Alright, why don’t you grab both those suitcases and set them on your trunk?” the cop suggested but Matt knew it wasn’t really a yes or no question. If he didn’t grab the suitcases the officer would surely be glad to handcuff him and take the suitcases himself.
Even on twenty years of cop duty Officer Canarkey hadn’t seen anything quite like this. He wondered what the hell some scruffy college kid was doing with such nice suitcases but already had a pretty good guess what was in them. He had caught the kid off guard and was sure that Fontaine kid had just experienced a slip of tongue but the look in the backseat would have done him in anyway.
Matt walked around to the back of the Hyundai. With a little strain he lifted the suitcases up and set them on the trunk.
The cop walked over a little cautiously and laid one of the suitcases down flat. With a sideways glance at Matt he said, “Why don’t you open this up for me?”
Matt audibly groaned. “Look, officer, those aren’t mine—”
“Oh yeah? What, were you holding them for a friend?”
“No.”
“You steal them or somethin?”
“No, look, I—I found them.”
The cop stared at him skeptically. “You found them?” he repeated in disbelief.
Matt nodded, then figuring that he was fucked anyway launched into a long explanation of the preceding events of the day. Everything from the bathroom encounter and haggard man with his strange urinary habits to the abandoned suitcases. But Matt stopped short of telling the cop what was in the suitcases. Even when he asked him “What’s in the suitcases?”
“I don’t know sir, I didn’t look.”
The cop still looked unbelieving. Matt looked at his badge, number 420, Officer F. Canarkey. He said, “You said the suitcases belonged to a homeless man?”
“Well I don’t know if he was homeless, he just looked pretty, um, pretty…unwashed if you know what I mean.”
Officer Canarkey nodded vaguely. “So you didn’t open the suitcases?”
Matt stole a glance at the suitcases and hesitated, perhaps too long, “No.”
“And you didn’t think to turn this into the lost and found or something? Possibly see if the school’s administration could do something with it? You had to take it yourself. What were you going to do with two suitcases that don’t belong to you? Why did you want them so bad if you didn’t know what was inside?”
Now Matt truly had no answers, “I don’t know…”
“Well you were going so fast it sure seemed like you had to get somewhere in a hurry.”
No response.
“So,” Officer Canarkey continued, “I’m sure you wouldn’t mind me having a look at the contents of these here suitcases, as they allegedly don’t belong to you and you allegedly have no idea what’s inside of them.” He put a scary amount of emphasis on the word “allegedly.”
Matt bit his bottom lip again. He knew if he refused it would look even more suspicious and the cop would be taking him to jail. His best bet was to let the cop open the suitcases and feign surprise when he unveiled the cocaine.
“I’ll take that as a ‘no, I don’t mind, officer,’ ” Canarkey said.
“Go ahead,” Matt said, somewhat bravely.
Canarkey stopped for a second. “Go ahead?”
“Yeah, go ahead. I got nothing to hide. Those aren’t mine anyway.” There was still some adrenaline left. It gave Matt a false sense of bravado, as if he was exercising some extent of control of things even though he had no control over anything whatsoever.
Officer Canarkey shrugged. Whatever. “Alright, come here and open this one up for me then.”
Matt looked at him. “Me?”
“Yes, you Einstein. Do you see anyone else here? Now come here and open this first one.” Officer Canarkey backed up a little, his hand still hovering near his gun. He didn’t want this Fontaine kid trying any funny stuff. There was no way in hell he was getting shot so close to retirement. That was such a lame cliché and was far too overused in the movies, or, let’s say a short story or some other work of fiction. Way too overused.
“Okay.” Matt took a deep breath and a step towards the suitcase closest to him. With trembling hands he unlatched it, then, with his eyes clenched shut he threw it open.
Behind him he heard Officer Canarkey whistle. He opened his eyes and stared, once more, at the cocaine. He stared for almost a whole minute before he remembered that he wasn’t supposed to know it was in there.
“Whoa, what the fuck?” he exclaimed, but his acting was worse than Larry the Cable Guy’s.
Officer Canarkey came up next to him and picked up one of the prepackaged bricks, weighing it in his hand. He produced a pocketknife and slit it open. He dipped his pinky finger in the powder and brought it to his lips and tasted it. Part of his tongue instantly went numb. Good shit. He felt a rush, but he knew it wasn’t from the drug. It was because finally something new had been introduced to his world of redundancy. He was going to be a hero. His name would be in the papers, he could already see the headlines: HERO COP CANARKEY CLEANS UP THE STREETS. He would probably get a promotion and he could get off this hellish patrol. He could tell his superiors to suck it. People would love and idealize him. He could finally divorce that bitch he was married to.
But it occurred to him this couldn’t possibly belong to Fontaine. Sure, that bathroom story was straight bullshit without a doubt but he knew there was no way the nervous 18 year old with the shitty car had the money to buy so much cocaine or, for that matter, the means to distribute it. No, he was probably just some dumbass kid who wanted to make a name for himself and ended up getting manipulated by some very bad people into transporting the drugs somewhere for very little money and now he was going to have to pay for it regardless.
But in the time he had taken to entertain himself with visions of that long evasive lady called success and to consider that not many 18 year olds carry around such massive amounts of such expensive drugs Matt had formulated his own plan. As Officer Canarkey stood there dumbfounded with a brick of top quality cocaine in his hand, Matt snatched the unopened suitcase from the trunk, gripped the handle tightly with both hands and spun around in a full circle. Just as the words “what the hell?” were escaping his mouth Officer Frank Canarkey was hit very hard in the face by a very heavy suitcase full of very good cocaine.
Officer Canarkey crumpled to the ground, hitting the back of his head on the Hyundai’s bumper on the way down. He dropped the opened brick, spilling valuable white dust all over his dark blue uniform. Some of it inexplicably clung to his bristly mustache. The impact had knocked his shades off and he blinked the stars out of the corners of his eyes and squinted into the suddenly bright day just in time to see Matt Fontaine, with both suitcases in tow, get in the dark blue Crown Victoria, start it, and drive away.
“No!” Officer Canarkey stumbled to his feet just as Matt began rolling past him. He tried to reach into the passenger side window but Fontaine sped up just as Canarkey got his arm through the window. He ran alongside the car, his left arm reaching out to try to grab at least one of the suitcases.
Matt looked at him, frustrated. “Why are you doing this to me?” he yelled, on the verge of tears.
Officer Canarkey couldn’t believe someone driving off in a stolen police vehicle with two suitcases full of illegal drugs would ask such a question. “You broke the law!” he panted. “Stop the goddamn car!” With his free hand he reached for his holster. Somehow, while running alongside a speeding car with one arm stuck in the window he managed to extract his firearm. Now that’s some damn fine police work for you.
“Stop the fucking car or I’ll shoot!” he spat at Matt, attempting to aim straight.
Matt didn’t stop. He just braked extremely fast and cranked the wheel to the right. The old Crown Vic’s tires squealed as it drifted around the corner and Officer Canarkey stumbled, and accidentally discharged the weapon. The bullet passed inches from the tip of Matt’s nose and exited through the driver side window. Canarkey lost his footing and fell to the asphalt in a roll as the “suspect” sped away.
Officer Canarkey stood up and brushed some of the white powder and dirt off his uniform. He felt slightly dazed from the suitcase to the head. He walked back to the Hyundai Sonata and looked at the spilled cocaine. Then he looked at the empty space where his vehicle used to be. He stood there as the tantalizing visions of success slowly and agonizingly slipped away, replaced with ones of termination on his superior’s part and figurative castration on Mrs. Canarkey’s part.
Yes, this surely was not an ordinary day for Officer Francis Canarkey.

THURSDAY AFTERNOON

Somewhere in the midst of the crazy adrenaline rush he was experiencing as he sped away in the stolen cop car Matt Fontaine numbly realized he was guilty of several felonies, any of which could put him away for a long time but the combination of which would probably put him away for life or something worse. Reckless driving, narcotic possession, assault on a police officer, and grand theft auto were all he could come up with off the top of his head but he was sure there were more, most likely with a few misdemeanors thrown in as well.
But the fact of the matter was he was now driving a stolen police vehicle with a bullet hole in the window and several kilos of cocaine in the back. If anything, it was even more conspicuous than his previous vehicle, but he would just have to deal with that.
By the time Matt had left the car in a Walgreen’s parking lot and began walking vaguely southeast he had accepted that his life had been irreversibly changed by the past two hours. Even if the cop had believed his story about the origin of the coke he was still guilty of possession. Even if he had knocked Canarkey senseless with the suitcase he still had his ID. He had left his car behind. He was probably wanted by every cop in town by now and he had heard tale that they became quite aggravated and vengeful when assaulted, especially when assaulted by degenerate drug users.
So it was with a heavy heart and a brain abuzz with conflicting emotions that he concluded the only reasonable thing he could do get rid of the cocaine, drop out of school, get reconstructive facial surgery, and flee the country. But he would need money for all of that and there was no fucking way he had just gone through all that trouble with Canarkey to just leave the suitcases sitting in, let’s say, a bathroom or some other such absurd place.
No, he needed to turn the white gold into cold hard cash and he knew only one person that could help him with that. The revelation hit him like a freight train. With a small grin Matt crossed Speedway and hurried down a side street. For the first time all day he knew exactly where he was going.
SPEEDWAY DEREK

Derek, much like Tony, doesn’t have a last name. Well he does, but only a few people know it; this author does not. He didn’t live on Speedway either; he lived a couple of blocks south of it. But he did most of his business on that said street, thus earning him the nickname Speedway Derek.
Speedway Derek didn’t deal drugs. No sir, that was not his business. He sold “sweet herbal tea leaves” (hydroponic marijuana), “serotonin facilitators” (ecstasy), “fantasy fungi” (mushrooms), and other such substances of questionable legality. But he was not a drug dealer. Derek fancied himself to be a traveling salesman of sorts, one who traveled up and down Speedway all day in either a blue Mazda Miata that had had its back windshield smashed out or a 1968 Volkswagen van with a missing side mirror. It did, however, have a bed in the back, which was convenient because, as Derek put it, he could “drive it, sleep in it, and fuck in it.” Sometimes he delivered mushrooms on a Segway, just because it looked badass. Sometimes he rode about on a rusty old Huffy bike, simply because he had ingested too many of his own products to drive without attracting the attention of the authorities.
Derek was in his early twenties. No one knew his exact age, not even his various “business partners,” “business associates,” “employees,” lovers, or children (he had two…that he knew of.) Derek was the man that always had three hundred dollars worth of tens and twenties in his wallet and at least a gram of something illegal in his pockets. His bank was a shoebox under his bed. He had a permanent bed head, and an eternal 5 o’clock shadow. His eyes were always red, his clothes always reeking, and his fingers always sticky with the crystals of his sweet herbal tea leaves. Derek had connects in California, Mexico, New York, and Amsterdam to name just a select few. He could get you virtually anything at anytime with just a phone call and a small (or large) fee. But most importantly, he was Matt Fontaine’s longtime pot deal—ahem—herbal tea leave supplier and therefore the guy Matt approached with his predicament of what to do with all the disco powder that had inexplicably fallen into his possession.

THE BOUNTY

Horatio Enriquez was royally pissed off. There were four things he wanted very badly right now that were not in his possession; his cocaine, Garcia’s money, Garcia’s head on a platter, and Matt Fontaine’s head on a separate yet equally expensive platter. He did, however, have a new cell phone, his old one being rendered useless following his earlier tantrum which was admittedly minor and significantly less scary than some he had thrown in the past. After all, the doctors had told him he needed to take it easy, for his heart’s sake. Horatio had then told those doctors that if his heart gave out and he wasn’t at the top of the transplant list, all their families would be dead within the week. And that’s how Horatio Enriquez’s name got to the top of the transplant list at the University Medical Center.
But that story is for another time and right now it is important to realize that Horatio had a new phone and he was yelling very loudly and profanely into it. “Yeah, I know goddamn well Tony’s tracking down the Fontaine kid, who the fuck do you think told him to go find him? Jesus Christ, sometimes you assholes convince me that I only hire complete fucktards!” He poured himself a glass of fine brandy at the posh bar in the corner of his living room as the minion on the other line babbled more useless bullshit.
“Look, I don’t really give a fuck if he has the money or not. I wipe my ass with more bills than that on a daily basis. I just want that maricon Garcia dead. Get the word out on the streets. Half a mil to whoever caps Garcia. One mil if they bring him to me alive,” he took a big swig from the glass as he stared out the living room window at the mountains that towered over his house and continued, “Eh, what the fuck, go ahead and put the same price on this Fontaine kid, just in case Tony doesn’t come through.” Horatio surprised himself with those words as he hung up the phone. Even though he seemed borderline fucktarded Tony somehow, in some way always came through. But Horatio was already neck deep in a river of unanticipated shit and he reasoned that a little extra security was never a bad thing. Plus, it had already been two hours and Tony had yet to return with Fontaine’s severed nose as ironic proof of what happens when you steal Horatio Enriquez’s coke so he reasoned that Tony was either taking an extra long time torturing Fontaine to death or, being Tony, he was doing something totally and very stupidly unrelated to his professional duties. He’d better give him a call.

THE PETSMART MASSACRE

Horatio heard two rings before Tony answered. “Hey boss.”
“Tony! My man! How’s it coming with the Fontaine kid?”
Tony sounded dumb even over the phone. “Coming?”
Horatio sighed mightily and swore loudly. “Goddammit Tony IS FONTAINE DEAD YET?”
“I don’t know.”
Horatio spat out a mouthful of 500 dollar brandy. “What do you mean you don’t fucking know?”
“Well I haven’t killed him yet, but he could’ve been like, hit by a bus or something, natural causes y’know?”
Horatio didn’t know if he could possibly be more exasperated or if Tony could possibly be more of a dumb fucking idiot. What he did know was that he could actually feel the ulcers forming in his stomach as he sat there. Mustering every ounce of calmness he possessed he spoke very slowly and quietly into the phone. “Tony, do you know where Matt Fontaine is?”
“Uh…”
“YES OR FUCKING NO PENDEJO!”
“Um, no. Not at all,” he could hear a little apprehension in Tony’s voice. That was saying something. Not many people could scare Tony, partially because he was so ridiculously dumb, partially because he was known for popping out eyeballs with a rusty screwdriver.
Horatio took a deep breath and tried to calm himself again. “Alright,” he said, “Are you looking for Fontaine?”
“Um, well, I haven’t had the chance yet,” Tony responded.
The veins in Horatio’s forehead pulsed with pure rage. He struggled to keep his voice even. In a harsh whisper he said, “What do you mean you haven’t had the chance yet?”
“Well…”
“I told you to look for Fontaine, Tony. I told you to find him quick and kill him quick, so please, answer me this: WHY THE FUCK AREN’T YOU LOOKING FOR FONTAINE AND FUTHERMORE, WHY THE FUCK IS HE NOT FUCKING DEAD YET?!”
“I’m still at the PetsMart.”
Horatio sputtered with rage. His face was now beet-red. “What, in the fucking hell, ARE YOU DOING AT FUCKING PETSMART?!” he roared, wiping spittle off his chin.
“I’m buying the dog.” Tony said matter of factly. “Why else would I be here?”
“What fucking dog?”
“The dog you told me to kill in front of Fontaine. Look, I know you told me to go to the Humane Society but it was way too depressing and smelled terrible but I’m getting a good deal on a Bill Russell terrier.”
It took Horatio a minute to remember their conversation from earlier that day. When he did, his head almost exploded yet he also had to keep himself from laughing at the fact that Tony confused a type of dog with a famous basketball player and the general absurdity of the situation. But he was far, far too pissed off to laugh, and Horatio Enriquez isn’t often amused with absurdities. So he continued on with tearing Tony a new one. He put on the voice he usually used with Tony; it was akin to the slow voice of an adult trying to explain something to a brain-damaged child, but Horatio preferred to liken it to the voice of himself explaining the difference between the ass and the face to any of the various interchangeable idiots he had working for him. “Tony, I was kidding when I told you to get the dog. Now please, please, for the love of god, tell me you haven’t been looking for a fucking dog all fucking morning!”
But Horatio could tell by Tony’s hesitation that he had, in fact, spent all morning searching for the perfect canine companion for Fontaine. And, although Horatio would readily admit that Tony was only good for killing people, this act of sheer stupidity stunned even him.
Tony managed to get a word off before Horatio could fully funnel his ridiculous anger into words. “I know you said nevermind about the dog, but I still thought it was a good idea. I mean, I got this really cute little puppy don’t you think Fontaine would be sad if we kill it in front of him?”
The PetsMart employee who had been procuring tags and a collar for the little dog stared at Tony in frightened astonishment.
“I don’t fucking care how Fontaine feels before we kill him, just fucking kill him!”
“Boss I was just trying to—”
“NO! NO! NO! I don’t care what you were trying to do I just want Fontaine dead! Put a goddamn bullet in his brain, blow him up, fucking decapitate him I don’t care just kill that asshole!”
Tony didn’t respond immediately, when he did his voice was tinged with shame and fear for what he knew was coming next. “What do I do with the dog?”
Horatio didn’t hesitate. “Kill it. Then go kill Fontaine and if you waste anymore time on stupid shit like this I’ll kill both you and Fontaine myself.” He hung up.
* * *
Tony hung up the phone with a heavy heart. The PetsMart employee was eyeing him with a mixture of awe and apprehension. He looked down at the little white and brown-spotted puppy who sat on the cold linoleum floor, gazing up at Tony with happy eyes, a wagging tale, and a big dumb smile that reminded Tony a lot of himself.
“Sir?” the PetsMart employee interrupted tentatively. Tony looked him over. He had graying hair and the dead look about him of someone who has a shitty life. Even the intellectually unspectacular Tony could tell the man’s eyes had been dulled by failure, very much unlike the bright eyes of the little puppy that was now playfully attacking his ankles. It would by far be the most difficult thing Tony would have to kill, and he had once planted a bomb under a bus full of nuns.
“Sir?” the employee said again. “Is there anything else you need?” He clearly didn’t want to witness a massacre today.
With a heavy sigh Tony withdrew the .357 Magnum from his jacket pocket. None of this would be necessary if Horatio would just stop sending him so many goddamn mixed messages. Telling him to get the dog then “don’t get the dog, just kill Fontaine.” It was almost like he thought the only thing Tony liked to do was kill people.
The employee let out a girlish shriek at the sight of the firearm and dove to the floor, wrestling a bag of dog food off the shelf and using it as cover. Tony looked at him, confused. “Uh, I was just gonna shoot the dog, holmes. I don’t need it no more.”
He turned the gun back to the dog, who tilted its head curiously to the side as it looked up at Tony, wearing the same dumb, happy, and ridiculously cute expression it had on since Tony had entered the store. His tail wagged with abandon and he panted energetically. He barked at the gun as if to demand to know what it did. Staring into his eyes Tony couldn’t help but bite his bottom lip as he struggled to steady his suddenly shaky trigger hand. He blinked tears out of the corners of his eyes. The pup barked again, this time as if he was convincing Tony not to shoot. He choked back a sob. For once in his distinguished career, Tony had found something he was incapable of brutally murdering. It was sickening.
He lowered the gun in disgust. The pup jumped up on his hind legs and pawed at his shins. He laughed a little but was still distracted by the quivering, hysterical mass under the big bag of dog food, which, in addition to annoying the living shit out of Tony, seemed to be attracting the attention of other customers, who panicked at the sight of the big Mexican with the even bigger gun. Soon they were all following the employee’s example and diving for cover behind the most unconventional items. Tony fired a shot in the air to try to get their attention and ease the widespread panic but that did nothing but kill a parakeet that had somehow been released in the pandemonium and was flying overhead.
Although impressed with the shot Tony saw it really did nothing in the way of getting people’s attention. In fact, it seemed to scare them more. A woman in a PETA shirt shrieked, “MURDERER!” before ducking down to hide behind her oblivious German Shepherd. Tony kept trying to explain he met them no harm, and in addition to that, didn’t even want to kill the dog anymore. But when people see a man withdraw a powerful handgun in a crowded business place, they always assume the worse for some odd reason. Tired of being interrupted by his persistent screaming, Tony gave up and shot the employee hiding under the Kibbles n’ Bits full of holes. Evidently dog food wasn’t bullet proof, as Kibbles n’ blood poured onto the linoleum, and, amidst the screaming and crying Tony scooped the pup, who he had mentally christened as Tony Jr. off the floor and walked calmly towards the door, grabbing a chew toy on the way out. He figured shoplifting would the least heinous crime he would commit at PetsMart that day.

THE NEWS AT ONE

It was times like these that Horatio wondered if keeping Tony on his “staff” was worth it. He couldn’t argue with the satisfactory results the idiot produced but still, his dumbfuckery sometimes seemed to outweigh his efficiency, especially in crucial moments like this when he went out pet shopping instead of doing what he was supposed to.
Horatio was distracted from Tony for only a brief moment. The distraction came in the form of an upsetting phone call, the fourth so far today. And although the number was blocked and the voice on the other end was scrambled it didn’t take a genius to figure out who the caller was, although Tony the dog thief/killer would probably have trouble with it. But Horatio could tell. No one else called him “Mr. Horatio.”
The call came around one o’clock, a couple hours after Matt Fontaine had, for lack of a better description, fought his way out of a speeding ticket and only about twenty minutes after Tony had, for lack of a better description, bought his dog.
Horatio wasn’t even in the mood to let the ringtone play out a little, despite his intense love of the Macarena. He answered quickly. “What.” It was more of a greeting than a question. And it was probably the warmest greeting you could expect to get from Horatio Enriquez.
“Now, now, Mr. Horatio, that’s not a polite way to talk to a friend.”
Horatio stood up. His brandy glass shattered on the wooden floor. “Garcia you son of a bitch are you calling to plead for your life?”
“Who said it was me—I mean who said this was Garcia?”
“Pendejo I could practically smell you over the phone you fucking rat. Now why do you find it necessary to aggravate me before I inevitably kill you?”
“I was just calling to tell you I know what happened to your cocaine, as does anyone in the city who watches the Channel 9 News with Brick Winchester.”
Horatio massaged his forehead with his free hand. “What the fuck are you talking about pendejo? You stole my goddamn cocaine.”
“Turn on your television and see, Mr. Horatio.”
Horatio swore and turned on the 65 inch plasma screen that stuck to the wall opposite a bunch of priceless Japanese art. Horatio didn’t really dig any of it but it was expensive which meant he was fuckin’ classy for owning it.
The news on channel 9 started with one of the typical opening montages a city news team creates to deceive citizens but mainly themselves into believing that they’re doing something worthwhile when in reality they’re essentially reading headlines into a camera and making lame jokes. The camera focused in on the exotic yet generic, make-up plastered anchorwoman of mysterious ethnicity who was filling in for Brick Winchester while he served time for his latest alcohol-fueled indecent exposure incident.
“If you’re just tuning in we are currently following two breaking stories, our first is the brutal assault on a police officer. It occurred around 10:00 this morning, when Officer Frank Canarkey, a nineteen year veteran of the NPD shown here—” the screen displayed a picture of Canarkey from about ten years ago, less fat, more moustache “—pulled over a speeding 2001 Hyundai Sonata. After questioning the driver of the vehicle, 18 year old Matthew James Fontaine—” they then showed a blown up version of Matt’s driver license photo; two years younger and all pimples and Jew fro with the dead look people get in their eyes when they spend more than five minutes at the DMV “—Officer Canarkey conducted a search of the vehicle, which revealed two suitcases full of powerful narcotics. Apparently while testing the substance Fontaine allegedly assaulted the officer with one of the suitcases and made his escape in Officer Canarkey’s vehicle, leaving his own at the scene. Officer Canarkey has been placed on unpaid leave for the botched arrest and Fontaine is considered dangerous and a top priority for the Noscut Police Department. Anyone with any information about the suspect or his whereabouts is encouraged to call 88-CRIME.
“Our second story comes from the Westside where a tragic shooting at a PetsMart pet store has left one employee dead. Details are unknown at this time but authorities say the man’s motive was apparently to steal a puppy. There are no suspects yet in the case although police have released a composite sketch—” the sketch was flashed on the screen, an uglier, even dumber looking version of Tony—“and say the man is armed and dangerous. Anyone with any information pertaining to either of these suspects is once again strongly encouraged to call 88-CRIME.”
The anchorwoman turned to the next camera and widened her permanent botox smile. “In lighter news it seems Wally the water-skiing wallaby is at it again—”
Horatio threw the cell phone at the TV, leaving a giant crack right in the middle. Unsatisfied with that damage, he snatched the gun he had earlier used to kill Roberto off the coffee table, popped a new clip in, and shot the television several times. The picture died and the TV fell to the floor with a loud crash.
If Horatio thought he would get his cocaine back without attracting much public attention he was clearly wrong. That Fontaine kid had to go and steal a cop car right when Tony shot up the fucking pet store. Christ almighty this was surprising; usually Horatio could go about his shady business without the whole fucking town knowing about it.
What was more surprising was that Garcia hadn’t hung up. He was still on the line when Horatio walked over and picked up his slightly dinged up phone.
“Now do you believe me, Mr. Horatio?” Garcia asked, no longer using the voice scrambler. It wasn’t a welcome change however, the sound of that prick’s voice gave Horatio the urge to drown newborn babies. “I didn’t steal your cocaine, this Fontaine gentleman is apparently working independently. Now could you please call off the hit on me?”
Horatio was curious. “How did you know I had a hit on you?”
“Please, Mr. Horatio, no less than 10 minutes ago I sent one of my men out to fetch my car. However, someone appeared to have fashioned some sort explosive device to the undercarriage and now my Bentley and one of my dear employees are now, how you say, toasted.”
Horatio couldn’t help but laugh at that, especially because it meant he was successful in blowing up Garcia’s new car. Garcia continued, “The point is, Mr. Horatio, that you have far too much on your plate now to worry about killing me. When this Fontaine character robs you I feel it too. After all, I had a stake in this deal so this misfortune greatly sets me back. Now, if we were to join forces we could easily dispose of this nuisance, you would get your money, I would get the cocaine, and we wouldn’t be distracted by this whole business of trying to kill one another, sí?”
It wasn’t a bad point. It would be far easier for him and Garcia to take out Fontaine now, especially since his most effective killer was apparently busy cuddling furry animals and shooting innocent people. And after Fontaine’s death he could just as easily turn around and kill Garcia before Fontaine’s lifeless body even had a chance to turn cold in its grave. As much as it pained him to admit that that prick was right, and as much as the idea of them joining forces, even for a few hours nauseated him, Horatio had to agree, taking solace in the fact that he would soon be killing anyone and everyone that had aggravated him today anyway, Garcia included. “Alright Garcia, you got yourself a deal. We’ll kill that fucking cockroach together.” And I’ll kill you too, Garcia.
Garcia laughed joyously. “I think this may be the beginning of a prosperous partnership, Mr. Horatio. I don’t think this Fontaine character will be enjoying his time on earth much longer.” And neither will you, Mr. Horatio.
Both men obviously had their separate yet related bad intentions. Both had the means to carry them out. The only question was how high the body count would rise.

SPEEDWAY DEREK PT. 2

Echoes of reggae came pulsated out the walls of Derek’s small, two-room house, accompanied by a consistent faint bubbling noise and occasional hacking coughs. Matt set the suitcases down on the doorstep, rang the bell twice, knocked thrice, and examined the zoo that was the front yard.
The Miata and van sat side by side in the gravel, the Mazda being far more dinged and dented than Matt remembered it being when he last bought weed off Derek three days ago. In addition to the nonexistent back windshield it was now missing the front one. A tire was gone and the back bumper was hanging lopsided off the car. The van didn’t look anymore or any less fucked up than it had been originally. The Segway was nowhere in sight but the old Huffy bicycle rested, inexplicably, atop Derek’s roof.
After ringing the bell several more times and waiting for three and half minutes the door finally swung open and a sweet, skunky smell immediately permeated Matt’s nostrils producing a sudden lightheadedness and carefree demeanor. For a second he forgot why he was there.
It appeared to take Derek more than a second to even remember who Matt was. He stood in the door frame with his eyes half shut and bloodshot, a half-smoked joint in his fingers. His mouth hung slightly open. He stared at Matt with his chink-eyed gaze until he finally broke into a wide goofy grin. “Ehhh Fontaine what you up to you crazy mothafucka?” he laughed heartily, then, taking a giant hit from the marijuana cigarette he choked out, “What you need man?”
For a minute Matt, still slightly stoned from the heavy aroma that invaded his brain was about to ask for a bag of stinky purple weed when Derek said, “What’s in the suitcases, dawg?”
Snapping back to reality Matt remembered the shitload of cocaine sitting on the doorstep and the fact that he was now a fugitive, and being a fugitive it probably wasn’t an exceptionally bright idea to be standing on the front step of a known drug dealer. “I got something to show you man,” Matt said quickly and picked up the suitcases and brushed past Derek into the living room.
“Oh, just come on in man,” Derek said sarcastically as Matt set the suitcases down on his coffee table, almost knocking a two foot glass vase-like contraption to the floor.
“Hey! Careful man! Shit,” Derek picked up the waterpipe and set it on top of a stack of old records used more for breaking illicit substances up on than they were for listening. “What’s this all about, Fontaine?”
“I told you, I got something to show you.”
Derek carried on, “I mean you come crashing at my door unannounced early in the morning causing all sorts of ruckus—”
“Derek, it’s one in the afternoon—”
“—when I’m obviously busy—”
“You were just sitting on your ass smoking!”
Derek clearly wasn’t paying attention to Matt’s interruptions. “—and you almost knock my bong over—”
“Okay, I’m sorry about that one but—”
“—madness, starving hysterical naked—” He wasn’t even making sense now.
“Derek!”
“—talking about something to show me, couldn’t even call me first—”
“Derek!”
“—schnozberries—”
“DEREK!”
Derek’s semi-coherent rant came to an abrupt halt and he looked at Matt. “What?”
Matt was finally relieved to get his attention but realized he didn’t know how to tell his friend and drug dealer about the small fortune of cocaine in the suitcases. He better be quick though; pot smokers tend to have short attention spans, especially if they ingest it in legendary proportions like Derek was known to do.
But just as Matt was about to speak Derek beat him to the punch. “Say, what’s in those suitcases, man?” he repeated, oblivious to the fact he had already asked the question no less than a minute ago.
“That’s what I need to show you.”
“But I don’t need any suitcases man.”
“No, it’s what’s in the suitcases I need you to see,” Matt answered, somewhat frustrated. “I think you’re the only one that can help me with—”
“I mean they’re nice suitcases and all man, don’t get me wrong, but I’m straight. After all, carrying your stash around in a suitcase is just straight up shady foo.”
“Derek!” Matt was yelling now. “Fucking listen man.”
Derek threw his hands up in mock frustration. “Aight doggy-dog,” he said, sticking a freshly rolled spliff of Marley proportions in between his lips and fishing around his pajama pockets for a lighter. Matt hadn’t even seen him finish the last joint or for that matter, roll the new one. “I could be a dick about you showing up unannounced at my residence with two expensive ass suitcases and yelling at me in my own casa but I’m not so I’m listenin’ asshole. Say, what’s in those suitcases man?”
So Matt told him everything, up to him opening the suitcases on the bathroom floor to reveal their hidden contents. Derek interrupted with a loud cough and a stoned giggle. “Are you tellin’ me some cat just left a couple suitcases full of yackity-yack in the community college bathroom?”
Matt nodded. “Yeah, that’s exactly what I’m telling you.”
Derek laughed and plopped himself down on the couch, snatching the bong off the stack of records in the process. “I guess I shouldn’t have dropped out then,” he said with a chuckle and began operating the bubbly contraption.
“I’m not kidding, Derek. Go ahead and look for yourself.”
After a severe coughing fit Derek set down the waterpipe, managed to gasp out, “Good shit,” and leaned forward, turning one of the suitcases towards him. Clearly thinking he was humoring Matt, he unlatched it and opened it.
Matt watched as Derek’s half-open eyes went wide. His mouth dropped open, and as if he took a mega-hit from his bong, he erupted into another coughing fit. After that was done he picked up one of the bricks, examining it with awe. “Holy fucking fuck,” he said.
“Exactly,” Matt said.
Derek continued to examine the caine. “Is it legit?” he asked.
Matt shrugged. “How should I know?”
“You mean you didn’t test it or anything?”
“Nah man I don’t do that shit.”
Derek laughed. “Then why the fuck did you take it man?”
Matt had to shrug again. That was a good question. Aside from the possibility of monetary gain, the suitcases had brought him nothing but trouble so far. Maybe he took it because he was entertaining some sort of juvenile Scarface fantasy. Or maybe it was because it meant he wouldn’t be spending the next eight years of his life getting a two year degree from the community college. He really had no good answer for that.
“Well are you sure you’re not being punk’d or something?” Derek continued. “That dude could’ve left a couple suitcases full of sugar and hidden cameras in the bathroom to fuck with you, man. Ashton could be jumping out of the closet at any minute.”
Matt sighed. “I’m not famous enough to be punk’d.”
Derek considered that for a moment. “True dat. Fuck Ashton Kutcher anyway.”
“The cop seemed to think it was legit anyway so I guess it was.”
Derek actually dropped the coke brick on the floor. “Cop?” he said, eyes widening more than they had when he first examined the contents of the suitcase. The fear and paranoia was evident in his voice. “What fuckin’ cop man?”
Matt was about to explain his encounter and subsequent assault on the police officer when Derek sprung to his feet, executed a 360 degree turn and peered nervously out his window. “Did they follow you here?”
Matt was incredulous. Derek was hilariously paranoid. “What?”
“Did they fuckin’ follow you here man?”
“No! I mean, I don’t think so…”
“You don’t think so? You don’t think so, man?” Derek appeared to have been jerked out of merry stonerland and was now absolutely livid. “Are you fuckin’ sure about that man?”
“Well…yeah. I mean, I stole his car and shit and the guy was pretty fat so I don’t think he could’ve chased me on foot.”
“You stole his what?”
“Derek—”
But Derek had already embarked on a new rant. “Just what I need, more fuckin attention---”
Matt chose not to interrupt this time. Instead he let Derek carry on, figuring he was far too stoned to retain a coherent train of thought for too long. He was right; soon Derek stopped, looked up, and said, “What were we talking about again?”
Matt told him to sit down and hit the bong while he explained, in depth, his encounter with the police officer. When he got to the part about assaulting the cop with the suitcases Derek coughed into the device, shooting dirty water all over his pants. “What the fuck, man,” he groaned exasperated. He then looked up at Matt. “That’s a good story and all, Fontaine, but I still don’t see why you’re bringing this shit here. What the fuck do you expect me to do with it, man?”
“You’re the only one I know that’s able to move so many drugs and—”
“Whoa, whoa, whoa, man. Let me stop you right there. I’ve told you a thousand times dog, I don’t deal drugs, I’m a—a—a—” he snapped his fingers trying to remember. “Fuck,” he muttered. “What is it that I do?”
“Traveling salesman?” Matt suggested. He had heard this all before.
“Exactly!” Derek exclaimed, taking a victory rip from the waterpipe. “I don’t fuck around with that white girl,” he choked out, trying to contain the smoke in his lungs.
Matt sighed and shrugged. “Well I guess I’m fucked then. There’s no way I can move this stuff. I might as well go downtown and turn myself in right now.”
Derek had to weather another coughing hit before he could answer. “Well…there is one guy I know.” Matt raised his eyebrows. Derek got to his feet with a grin. “Grab the suitcases, young master Fontaine; we’re goin’ for a ride.”

CHONDO VASSALLO

Ten minutes later they were on the Southside of town, waiting outside of what Matt thought looked a lot like a meth lab. Looking around he gathered the ground was made up mainly of dirt, rocks, and broken glass. There were bullet holes in the windows of the house next door and every house had at least two broken down vehicles propped up on cinderblocks out front. “Are you sure this is legit?” he muttered to Derek.
“Yeah man, me and Chondo go way back,” Derek said, rapping hard on the door again. “He’s cool y’know. Just don’t piss him off cause he’ll probably stab you but it’s all good.”
Matt didn’t really see how that was all good but he was too busy worrying about turning the coke into profit without ending up in a jail cell to care about some dude named Chondo carving his initials into his chest. Derek knocked again. “Ayo Chondo! You home, man?”
“Eh who the fuck is it?” came a muted response with a heavy Mexican accent. The door swung open and a crazed looking young Mexican man in a wife beater stood there with a switch blade. His eyes were wide and a little white dust was comfortably nestled under his left nostril. Matt backed up a little but Derek laughed. “It’s me dawg. Shit, put that knife away you could hurt someone with that shit.”
Chondo grinned and grasped Derek’s hand and patted his shoulder, being careful not to do so with the sharp end of the blade. He then turned to Matt. “Eh who’s this carbron?” he asked Derek.
“Oh that’s one of my top clients. Chondo Vassallo this is Fontaine. Chondo, Fontaine. Fontaine, Chondo.” Matt set down one of the suitcases and offered his hand. Chondo didn’t shake it. Instead he smirked and said, “What’s with the suitcases white boy? You a lawyer or something?” Apparently he found this very funny but Matt didn’t see the point of the joke. Maybe he had to be on coked out of his mind like Chondo obviously was as Derek, who now had more THC than blood in his body wasn’t even laughing.
“Nah man,” Derek answered while Chondo leaned against his house, doubled over with laughter. Matt wasn’t surprised to see that Derek was rolling up another doobie as they spoke. “We got a little—” he paused to lick the paper “—somethin’-somethin’ for you.”
Chondo finally ceased his laughing fit. “Fuckin’ pinche lawyer,” he said grinning and shaking his head. He turned to Derek. “What you got to show me, holmes?”
Derek smiled. “It’s probably best if we show you inside, man.”
* * *
Chondo’s reaction to the sight of the blow was virtually the same as everyone else who had seen it that day. “Holy shit, holmes that’s a lot of fuckin coke!” He was now pacing around the tiny living room while Matt sat nervously on the edge of the couch that looked like Chondo got for a discount from the alley behind some guy’s house. Derek, on the other hand, sat perfectly relaxed on the couch, nonchalantly smoking another joint (he was chainsmoking them now.) Apparently being in collective possession of a felony amount of cocaine didn’t make him particularly nervous or, for that matter, excite him at all.
Matt spoke. “So Derek said you could help us move this stuff quick.”
Chondo wiped his constantly runny nose with the back of his hand and snorted. “I don’t know, ese, that’s a lot of blow, y’know.”
“Yeah, no shit man,” Matt said sarcastically. He turned to Derek, impatient. “What the fuck kind of shit is this, Derek? You told me this guy was legit and instead it’s just some fucking cokehead who doesn’t know jack—”
Chondo was already across the room pinning Matt to the couch with a switchblade at his throat. “You talk a lotta shit for someone who’s about to die, holmes.”
“Hey, hey, hey, chill out, man,” Derek said, lazily taking a drag from a joint so large it looked like someone painted a traffic cone white and lit it on fire. “Fontaine, stop talking shit to Chondo. Chondo, don’t kill Fontaine. That’ll lead to nothing but hurt feelings and dead bodies, man,” he said philosophically.
Chondo slowly got up and backed away, still eyeing Matt with a hatred that Matt gladly returned. “That’s better,” Derek said. “Now, Chondo, didn’t you say you had a cousin that was connected or some shit?”
Chondo snapped his fingers and nodded excitedly. “Yeah, dog! My cousin Tony, he knows Horatio Enriquez real good, y’know?”
Derek stared at him expectantly. “What?” Chondo asked.
“Well maybe you should call him, man.”
“Oh yeah I should!” Chondo said, obviously fascinated by that new idea. He grabbed the phone, dialed a number and waited.
“Horatio Enriquez is the fuckin’ man, man,” Derek informed Matt. “Dude controls like, 90 percent of the white in this town. He could move that shit for sure.”
Chondo was already in the middle of the conversation. “Your cousin Chondo! Yeah, that Chondo.” He turned to Derek and Matt and mouthed, “Fucking idiot,” and returned to the phone call. “Oh yeah that’s cool man, you got yourself a new dog, what’s his name? Aw that’s cute, ese. Hey, listen I called cause I need help moving a grip of yayo. Yeah, some white boy showed up with my homie Derek, he’s got a shitload up in these fancy ass suitcases.” Chondo looked up at Matt while his cousin spoke on the other line then answered, “His name’s Faulkner or something like that—”
“It’s Fontaine!” Derek interrupted.
“Oh, yeah,” Chondo said into the phone. “It’s Fontaine—what? No shit?” He lowered his voice to a whisper. “You’re on your way? Hold them here? Alright, holmes, sure thing.”
Derek was looking down as he rolled another joint. Matt was still staring obsessively at the treasure the suitcases held. When they both looked up it was to find Chondo aiming a gun at them.
“My cousin Tony, he told me a funny story just now, holmes,” he said. “That homeboy says some white boy named Fontaine went and stole a couple suitcases full of Horatio Enriquez’s cocaine.”
“Whoa, man,” Derek said grinning at Matt, seemingly oblivious to the fact that Chondo held his life in his hands. “What a coincidence right? The day you find a bunch of coke in the bathroom some dude with the same name steals some from Horatio Enriquez. Crazy shit man, are you guys related?”
Matt and Chondo both stared at him dumbfounded. Derek had finally accomplished it. He had done something that only happens in the Above the Influence ads; he had smoked himself retarded.
Chondo continued, “My cousin, he said there’s quite the price on your head. Says half a mil if I kill you but a full mil if I get you to Mr. Enriquez alive. So we’re all just gonna sit tight till my cousin gets here.” He sat on a chair across from Matt and Derek, pointing the gun over the suitcases that sat on the razorblade-littered table. He grinned and Matt felt that all too familiar feeling of his life crashing down around him.

THE FINALE (finally, man)

Tony had gotten the word out as quickly as possible. He alerted Horatio Enriquez, mainly because he wanted to redeem himself for his actions at the PetsMart and not end up using his small brain as fertilizer in Horatio’s garden.
Horatio, realizing he could kill several birds with one stone, called Garcia and told him to them there, alone, with the money. Horatio then left his house with three heavily armed employees. Unbeknownst to him, Garcia did the same.
Officer Frank Canarkey was a mile and a half from Chondo Vassallo’s residence drowning his sorrows in a jelly donut. Nineteen and a half years down the fucking drain. The interview with Internal Affairs was the biggest embarrassment of his career and that was saying something. There was no telling what Mrs. Canarkey would have to say on the matter when he got home. All he knew was the figurative vise she had on his nuts would only be getting tightened.
With a sigh he tossed the jelly-stained napkin on the ground. If he was still a cop he could’ve written out a $500 ticket for that. Shaking his head sadly and defeated he walked across the street to his civilian car, a Dodge Neon that could give Matt Fontaine’s Hyundai a run for its money if there ever was a competition for who in this fine work of fiction has the shittier car. Officer Canarkey was halfway across the street when he heard the screeching breaks and was struck by a car driven by Tony.
Canarkey landed face down on the hood and looked through the windshield. He recognized the guy immediately from the composite sketch at the station when he turned in his badge and gun; it was the pet store murderer.
Tony turned the wheel hard to the left and accelerated, dropping Officer Canarkey off the hood. “Get out of the road, asshole!” he yelled as he drove away. The dog in the passenger seat barked in agreement.
Officer Canarkey got to his feet and brushed himself off for the second time today. The only difference was that he wasn’t covered in cocaine this time. He ran the rest of the way to his car and started it up, reaching under the seat to reassuringly grasp the butt of the 9mm he kept there. Just in case.
* * *
Tony got to Chondo’s house first. His car skidded to a halt across the gravel in the front yard. Grabbing the .357 he commanded Tony Jr. to stay. He didn’t bother to look behind him, where Officer Canarkey had parked a few houses down to scope out the situation.
* * *
Inside Chondo laughed as he looked out the window behind Matt and Derek. “Looks like my cousin’s here, homies.” To Matt he said, “You’re gonna die pretty painfully white boy.”
Matt dropped his head into his hands, covering his eyes. Why was this happening to him? Probably because he took the coke in the first place. Yeah, that’s most likely it. How ironic that he would be dying because of a drug without even doing any. He had already accepted that fact the minute Chondo pulled out the gun, just as he had accepted that he was a fugitive the minute Officer Canarkey examined the suitcases, but it still sucked nonetheless. For now he could just sit there and try not to listen to Chondo describing how excruciating his death would be. Derek, on the other hand, was smoking what had to be at least his tenth joint of the last hour and maybe the last of his life with a disturbingly carefree demeanor. But apparently he was formulating a plan because when a knock came at the door, he turned to Matt and mouthed, “Follow my lead.”
When Chondo stood up and said “Come in,” it became apparent that Derek’s “lead” was to leap over the table in the most unathletic way possible and tackle Chondo, with a joint still clenched between his fingers all the while.
But Chondo managed to squeeze a shot off just as Derek tackled him to the floor. The bullet entered right under his heart just as they both hit the floor and the gun went flying, landing in front of the door. Chondo tried to shimmy out from under Derek, who was white in the face and clutching at the gunshot wound. “What the fuck Chondo?” he yelled in agony. Tony was still banging on the locked door outside.
Chondo had gotten up but Derek managed to trip him. He was reaching desperately for the gun; his fingers were inches away when Matt jumped on top of him and started swinging at the face. Chondo reached up with his right hand and started clawing at Matt’s face while straining for the gun with his left. His hand closed around Matt’s throat while just as his right got a hold of the gun. Desperate, Matt looked left and right and spotted Derek’s still-burning joint on the floor. It was his only hope. He picked it up, and, just as Chondo raised the gun to his face, he stuck the burning end of the doobie into Chondo’s left eye. He pressed it in hard while Chondo screamed in excruciating pain and dropped the gun. The joint was extinguished with eye discharge and blood. Matt grabbed the gun off the floor just as the door crashed open and Tony entered, raising the .357 Magnum with a small dog at his heels.
Matt ducked as the powerful gun blew a giant hole in the wall behind him. He dragged Chondo, who was writhing in agony with his hands cupped to his eye to his feet and put him in a chokehold. He pressed the gun to Chondo’s temple and backed up a little, staring straight at Tony who took a step forward. His ugly face broke into a dumb grin. Matt tried to back up a little but hit the wall. The gun shook in his hand despite how hard he pressed it against Chondo, who whimpered, blood leaking from his gnarly eye wound. Matt was breathing hard. He had only seen this done in movies before.
“Come any closer and your cousin gets it!” he shouted at Tony. His voice quivered and broke. Tony laughed. He raised his gun and shot Chondo in the head, practically using his wounded eye as a target. Matt gasped as Chondo’s limp and partially headless body slid to the floor. Matt looked down in shock. When he looked up it was to see the wrong end of a gun barrel, waiting to deliver him to death. He dropped the gun and raised his hands in surrender but Tony shook his head with a look that told Matt he was going to die anyway.
But both men were distracted by the sounds of car doors slamming and voices outside.
The police, Matt thought hopefully, but only fleetingly. He heard arguing, “You fucking dumbshit Garcia you were supposed to come alone!” followed by a gunshot. Then several more gunshots. Horatio Enriquez entered the house with three armed goons a minute later. Garcia and his men lay dead outside. Horatio looked from Derek, doubled over on the floor, breathing harshly to Chondo’s virtually headless corpse to Matt, who stood against the wall with his hands in the air. He then looked at the coffee table, where the suitcases awaited him. He looked towards Tony, who still had the gun focused on Matt but now held Tony Jr. in his other arm. The dog looked around excitedly and licked his face. Tony giggled. Horatio sighed in disbelief and chose to address Matt instead. “So you’re the dumb fucking idiot that stole my cocaine.”
Matt put his hands down. “I didn’t steal anyone’s co—”
But Horatio interrupted him with a gunshot to the shin. Matt went down instantly, grabbing his leg in agony. His pants and hands were instantly soaked in blood.
“I don’t like it when people fucking steal from me!” Horatio shouted and kicked Matt hard in the ribs. Matt felt like he could’ve grasped that point with needing to be shot in the leg but Horatio apparently did not. He turned to Tony who had stowed his gun away and was now petting the hyper little puppy. “You did real good, Tony,” Horatio said. “Real good today.” Tony smiled and let the dog down. It went over to Derek and licked his face while he lay dying on the carpet.
“You did real good,” Horatio continued, “But I thought I told you to kill the fucking dog.”
Tony’s grin melted off his face. He started, “Boss I—”
But Horatio interrupted him. “You’re a good guy, Tony. No matter how fucking stupid you are sometimes, I still consider you a friend. But when you aggravate me like that puto Garcia—” he gestured outside, to where Garcia and his bullet-ridden colleagues bled out on the gravel—“Or this fucker—” he pointed at Fontaine, rolling on the floor in pain—“Then I gotta do something about it.”
Understanding dawned on Tony’s face but it was too late, for Horatio had aimed his gun and blew that look of comprehension off his face, along with a lot of flesh, brain, and skull fragments.
Then three very fortunate events occurred it a very short amount of time. First, Tony Jr. barked viciously and attached his teeth around Horatio’s ankles, growling ferociously. Then the door once again crashed open, this time to reveal Officer Canarkey, who managed to squeeze off several shots into one of Horatio’s thugs before absorbing the collective bullets of Horatio and his two remaining goons. He stumbled into the door and slid down to the floor. Horatio turned back to Matt, just as Derek rose from the ground and jumped on him, fastening his arms around his neck. Horatio stumbled, tripped, and accidentally fired his gun, killing one of his own men.
In the ensuing ruckus of the previous events Matt managed to regain possession of Chondo’s pistol. He supported himself against the wall as blood gushed out of his leg and checked out the spectacle of Horatio Enriquez trying to wrestle the blood-soaked drug dealer and tiny dog off his body.
Horatio’s remaining goon turned to Matt only to receive a bullet in the throat. He gurgled and choked on his own blood as he hit the floor. Matt stared at the man in shock, not sure if it was from the bullet in his leg or the act of killing another person.
Horatio managed to kick the dog away. He spun around and sent Derek flying off his back. Derek slammed into the coffee table which collapsed with a crash. He groaned loudly, muttered, “What the fuck, man?” and stopped moving.
Matt was far too busy watching Derek die to notice Horatio Enriquez carefully aiming his firearm at him. By the time he realized there was still work to be done he was on the floor, soaked in blood from the gunshot to his lung and gasping for breath.
He drifted in and out of consciousness. His vision was blurred. He blinked a very angry looking Horatio Enriquez into focus. His face was red with rage, very unlike Matt’s which was now ghostly pale.
He passed out just as Horatio said, “You’ve been an aggravating little shit,” and aimed his gun at Matt’s head. He thought he heard sirens, getting closer and closer, followed several gunshots as he floated away into nothingness. He thought that was a bit strange, after all, Horatio only really needed one more shot to kill him. Anything more was just overkill.
But when Matt blinked and opened his eyes he realized he wasn’t dead. Sure, he was in excruciating pain. Sure, there were blood gushing bullet wounds in his leg and chest respectively. Sure, he was probably close to death. But he was not dead. Strange.
Horatio Enriquez on the other hand, was dead. He was lying facedown next to Matt, blood pooling out from under his immaculate white suit, five bullet holes in his back. A few feet away Tony Jr. was licking at what was left of his master’s face and crying pitifully when Tony wouldn’t respond. Matt raised his head up and focused on Officer Frank Canarkey, who stood over the wreckage of what was once the coffee table with his shirt unbuttoned to reveal a bulletproof vest with several holes and tears in it. He held a suitcase in each hand. The sirens were getting louder now. He best be making his exit soon.
Matt wanted to say something to Canarkey but all he could do was cough up some blood onto what seemed to be the only part of the shirt that wasn’t yet covered in it.
“Shitty day, huh, kid?” the cop quipped. Matt was too concerned with his seemingly eminent death to appreciate the humor.
“Don’t worry, kid,” Canarkey said, for Matt seemed to be eyeing his bloody wounds with some concern. “The ambulance will be here soon. You’ll be okay.” He looked around the room, from the bodies splayed on the floor to the bullet holes in the walls. In contrast to the several lifeless forms strewn about Matt had excellent luck. “As for me,” he said, looking at the suitcases with a grin. “You didn’t see shit.”
With that, Frank Canarkey turned and walked towards the door and the waiting arms of destiny, pausing once to turn around to deliver the moral of the story to Matt, “Don’t fuck around with the drugs, Matt. This is where it leads you.”
Matt almost laughed but opted to cough up more blood instead as Canarkey exited the house and walked past the very dead Garcia and his henchmen in the front yard. He calmly to the corner and crossed the street towards his car before looking both ways.
Officer Frank Canarkey heard the loud, droning honk of a horn and turned right in time to get a full-on view of the speeding city bus less than a second before it struck him, killing him instantly. The suitcases were opened on impact, sending the fine white powder flying everywhere. The wind picked up and blew the valuable cocaine into oblivion.
Such is life. One minute you’re on top of the world, the next, you’re roadkill. You’re riding high in April, shot down in May. Oh yes that’s life and it’s a bitch.
And that’s the true moral of the story.
FIN.