Post series: HowMuchDidYouTake

We stood on the porch.

“Should we knock?”

Ramone shot me a half smile. 

“Might as well.”

He pounded the front door with his fist. For a second the door seemed to cave in and then bounce back into its original shape. I wondered if every door was like that and gave it a whack as well. Again, the door changed shape, rippled and groaned and then went back to normal. I was going to bang it a second time. 

“Don’t.”

“What?”

“We want Jimmy to answer the door. Not run out the back.”

“What’s the difference?”

I still didn’t really know what was going on but Ramone thought I had come to. 

“It will take too long to search the house. And the car might draw someone’s attention. What we want is to go in and out.”

Fuck. This was making me nervous. I reached to the back of my belt and unfastened the machete. Ramone dawned another demonic grin. 

“Good idea. That will scare the fuck out of him.” 

A couple more seconds elapsed. There was the sound of a door opening in the house and then a voice near the front door.

“Who is it?”

I squeezed the machete. 

“It’s Ramone hombre. Open up.”

I heard some cursing from behind the door. 

“I’ve got nothing. Come back tomorrow during the day.”

“Hey man, I drove all the way here.”

“I said fuck off and come back tomorrow.”

“Hey! Open the fucking door man!”

The cursing behind the door had grown louder. 

“If you don’t get off my porch, I’m getting my gun.”

That was a mistake. Ramone hated being threatened. Especially by Jimmy. They hated each other. This was only going to get worse.

Ramone pounded on the door. 

“What the fuck is your problem man? I’ve got five bills so open up. Stop messing around.”

Once he mentioned the five hundred, I heard the locks opening. Jimmy was opening the door. For a second, he stood there and said nothing. He was fat and balding in the front. What was left of his hair had grown long and hung down about his shoulders in a greasy mop. He had a large nose and eyes that flittered like that of a rat. It was then that I realized that he was eyeballing the machete in my right hand. 

“What the fuck are you guys doing?”

Neither of us said anything and Jimmy was getting fidgety. As the seconds ticked away, his fidgeting became unbearable. The more he moved the more he looked like a giant grey rat. I heard the tail hit the floor and his hands… his fucking hands had claws and his teeth… they were the color of piss and there was fur everywhere. I fucking hated rats. Part of me wanted to run back to the car and the other half wanted to stomp the meaty tail that now lay on the ground between his legs.

“You fucking assholes are here to rob me.”

We didn’t say anything. He continued to squirm and he couldn’t stop squeaking. It was awful. 

“You guys go fuck yourselves! I’m not giving you…”

If I’d let it go a second longer I knew that Jimmy would have attacked me. There was nothing else to do. No other options. I lifted the machete and struck down as hard as I could. I closed my eyes. There was a terrible shriek and then it was over, a heap of fur lay twitching on the floor.

***

Five minutes later, we were speeding away, back on the road. Ramone was driving and sweating even worse than before. 

“Why’d you do it man?”

The drugs had taken me in another direction and I felt cool. Impossibly cool and relaxed. 

“What are you talking about?”

“Man, Mike, you’re crazy man, totally crazy…” There were tears in his eyes.

I shrugged. He was going on about some bullshit again. I moved my face towards the open window to get some air. Ramone wouldn’t stop looking at me. 

“Hey Mike?”

“What?”

“Just tell me, why’d you have to take it?”

“Because that’s what we went there to do,” I said, thinking about the haul. All in, we’d collected about 20 grand in cash from Jimmy.  

“Fuck.”

I glanced at him through the corner of my eye. 

“Just relax Ramone. You can stay at my place tonight to lie low.” 

Ramone didn’t say anything. We drove the last ten minutes in silence. He pulled in until the car stopped in front of my porch. 

“You coming in?”

Ramone was still sweating and his eyes were wet. He looked like he was having a hard time. 

“No man.”

“Alright. Suit yourself. Take your cut.”

“No man, I’m good. You hang on to it.”

“Fuck. You live thirty miles from here. Take some cash and grab a cab.”

“I’ll be fine. I just… have to leave.”

I figured he must be tripping really hard to not want to take the money. 

“Alright, then I’ll save your half for when you want it.”

Ramone looked at me and I could tell that he was afraid. 

“No Mike, I think I’m just going to go.” 

The door creaked open, Ramone got up and he walked away. I figured the shrooms must have taken a turn for the worse. Poor bastard. I was sure he’d be back. Ramone wasn’t the sort of guy to say no to money. That’s why I’d asked him to help me out on this job. Finally, I remembered.  

I pulled out the keys and stepped out of the car. Popped the trunk. There it was. The black gym bag, full of cash. An easy job. I stood there for a moment and then felt an urge to look at the money. I fidgeted with the zipper. When I opened it, there was the cash strewn about like confetti and in the midst of it all was Jimmy’s bloody, severed head.

Fuck, I wondered, how much did I take?

The car sped down the street. Half the time Ramone didn’t even appear to be looking at what was in front of him. I wondered how long it would be until we hit something. The windshields were wiping cold red off the glass. Did it already happen? Was somebody already dead? I looked back but saw nothing. The sun was going down. As I watched the lines in front of us that kept getting sucked under the car, I felt as if the world was slipping away. Ramone picked up the tumbler that was sitting in the cup holder between the two front seats. The ice chips clinked as he pressed the glass to his lips. He knew I was watching him and he eyed me. His pupils were now the color of blood. 

“You alright man?”

I wasn’t sure why we were in the car. 

“Where are we going?” 

Ramone’s mouth spoke but no sound came out; just like before. His teeth were black as tar, a dark treacle dripping down his chin.

“Maybe you should wipe that off.”

His face turned away from the road again. Ramone’s lips were moving.

“Are you ready to do this man?”

I tried to speak but everything came out garbled; I knew what I wanted to say but nothing came out right. I couldn’t hear myself speak. I took a breath and stared out the window.

“I guess… what’s the plan?”

I felt the eyes again. His tongue was pink and dripping. His breath was like smoke. He ashed a cigarette. I couldn’t hear. There was only the sound of the tires and a ringing in my ears. I repeated the question.

“What’s the plan?”

“Huh? I can’t hear you. Stop mumbling.”

I didn’t know it but I had been talking into my sleeve as I repeatedly wiped the sweat off my face. It was like a nervous tick. I forced my hand down on my lap. 

“I said where are we going?”

I could see he was sweating too. He took another gulp off the tumbler. The ice clinked. He was dripping through his shirt. The shrooms had taken us deep and I was also probably drunk. 

“What do you mean man? This is your plan.”

He seemed almost upset. The air in the car now stunk of scotch and butts. I didn’t know what was going on but believed that somehow it would be worse if I admitted it. I had to play it cool and fidgeted around in my short pocket until I found a crumpled pack of smokes and lit up. I pulled hard on the cigarette. 

“Right… I was just testing you is all. All right here. No trouble at all.”

He kept looking at me at intervals. With one eye on the road and the other constantly shifting towards me. 

“That’s good Mike. We’re almost there. I hope you’re ready to use that thing.” 

I peered down at my feet and noted the black 9mm lying relaxed between my shoes. 

“Right. I mean, sure I am.”

What the fuck was he going on about? I looked out the window at the road. His mouth was still moving but I ignored it. It was no use. No use trying to make anything out of this gibberish. It was all muck. Impossible to understand. I’d need special translating equipment; at least a grand worth. I figured that pretty soon we’d all be drowning in it. Black tar everywhere. My eyes retreated from the open window like to two hunted animals and slowly moved back to Ramone. He was sipping his scotch again. Again, I heard the clink of ice. 

“So, you ready to do this?”

I didn’t know. I didn’t know what I was supposed to be ready for. 

“Ready for what?”

He shot me a glance. 

“You know.”

I didn’t. I was screwed; totally clueless. Act sharp, look strong.

“I…yes, totally.”

I could feel the wind on my face. It wasn’t long before the shadows started creeping in. Looked out the window again. That’s where the wind was coming from. There was no stopping us; not as long as Ramone’s foot stayed on the gas pedal. Everything he did had impossible speed. The machine was moving us forward. And as we moved, ghosts followed us down the road. The house was haunted. Wait… no, I wasn’t in the house nor on the porch or anywhere near there. The car was haunted and the road kept moving. I felt like we were standing still but the concrete wouldn’t let us stay put. We were always going forward. It was non-stop. We were moving but the ground wasn’t. It kept switching. Where were we going anyway? Where was he taking us? Was… was the road moving too? I couldn’t take the road anymore. It was making me dizzy. I looked back down at the floor then up at my lap and saw that I still held the gun and the car had stopped

“We’re here.”

*** 

We parked in a dark, beaten-down dirt parking lot in the middle of nowhere. Twenty feet away was a dilapidated house that looked like it was about to cave in on itself. Parts of the roof were hanging off the side like loose teeth. I knew where we were. This was Jimmy’s house and… Ramone and I were going to sell him something; or was it the other way around? Ramone turned off the car and left the keys in the ignition. He popped the trunk. 

“Alright Mike, you take the gun and I’ll get the bag.”

I could feel my hands begin to tremble. I stared at the 9mm. 

“I’m not taking this fucking gun.”

“Why not?” He shot me a look of disbelief. “That’s your fucking gun, isn’t it?”

I stared at it for another second.

“No man. I’m not taking this fucking thing.”

I don’t know why but I reached past the empty scotch tumbler that was still sitting in the cup holder between the seats and handed him the piece. 

“I don’t want it.”

I could hear the locomotives again in the distance. The sound of Ramone’s annoyance. I also heard the rats; the rats were still there making my skin crawl. A second later, he stuffed it in the front of his pants and muttered something about, “Sumbitch won’t even carry his own gun.” 

He opened the door. 

“Let’s go.” 

In the trunk was a black gym bag and a fucking machete. Ramone picked up the blade and handed it to me. 

“Thought I’d bring this. Here, you can hold it.” 

I held the machete and looked over the broad, thirty-inch blade. 

“What the fuck were you planning on doing with this?”

Ramone chuckled. The fangs were back.

“You know, scare the fucker a little. So that he doesn’t try anything funny.”   

I looked at the black gym bag. It looked floppy. 

“And what’s in there?”

Ramone scooped it up. 

“Nothing yet.”

“My god…” 

There I was, standing in the yard and staring at the grenade in my hand, feeling my palms sweat… It was only a matter of time before my grip became so slippery that I would drop the damn thing on the floor. And then what? Just a big boom I suppose. Maybe some sort of blinding flash before the blast sends what’s left of my face through a fist sized exit wound in the back of my skull. 

I remember thinking, “Maybe I shouldn’t hold this thing so close to my face.” Like that would make any difference. Still, a second later I was holding it at arm’s length as far away from myself as possible. Of course, I couldn’t really let myself drop the thing; that would be the end of it… and me. I was certain of that. My arm felt too rubbery to pull off a good swing and toss it away. Hell, I’d probably miss my shot and watch it hit the roof of the porch and come bouncing back to me and then I’d be in the same fix as I was before, except now it would be worse because I’d be out of time. 

Another second passed and I scanned the porch. Maybe if I could find the pin then I could plug it back in and then make a run for it. I needed to escape this place. Why did I even come here? I couldn’t remember. Everything, everything was a blank. I kept sweating and the more I sweat the more I worried about dropping it and then…  definitely boom, toast, good-bye, fuck off. 

All this sweating was making me thirsty. I wondered where I’d put my drink. I knew that Ramone had brought it out. That fucking degenerate, he always needed a drink, even more than me. But don’t get me wrong. It’s not the drinking that made him a scumbag. It’s the fact that he always drank my booze. And now that I come to think of it, where was my drink? 

There it was, right in front of me. Somebody placed a small coffee table outside on the porch too. It looked exactly like mine. I recognized the water stains and the cracked brown paint job. And how did it get here? Wait… Is this my house? Fuck. 

Nothing else to do, I reached over with my free hand, picked up a tumbler mixed full of Cutty Sark and ice chips, and took a long pull on the plastic straw that stood anchored in the drink. After clearing a third of the glass my head began to level out. I could finally concentrate on the task at hand, which was, what the hell was I going to do about this goddamn, fucking live grenade that I was still squeezing between my fingers. Okay, maybe I was wrong earlier. Maybe if I chuck it just right, I might clear the deck and then pull off a two-second dash for the inside of the house. With any luck, it might only blow down the front door and then… and then I’ll be safe. 

I took another sip of the drink and heard the ice clink. I’d taken too much and now my head was swimming. From the smell of my own breath, I could tell that Ramone and I had been polishing off a bottle. Have you ever emerged from a blackout while in mid conversation? That’s kind of how I felt. 

I felt hot but my body was cold, only my hands and the air felt like they were boiling… I needed to keep breathing and gather my strength but the more I breathed the stronger I felt and soon I was squishing the grenade between my fingers until it looked more like a lemon being pressed in a vice. Or close enough. I was scared I was going to drop it and then… the inevitable boom and, and I’d be fucked, really fucked. And where was Ramone? I could use another drink, something to cool my blood. I was boiling up again. It felt as if it had been a full ten minutes since I’d last seen him. 

My head went through another moment of silence. I didn’t know how long it lasted. I didn’t own a watch. I’d lost my phone. I didn’t remember anything actually. Nothing about what happened. About how I’d gotten here. Or where here even was. Why did I think this was my backyard? Panic suddenly gripped me. I muttered something that sounded like, “I’ve been fucking kidnapped. Oh fuck, fuck, fuck…” 

“Mike.”

Out of nowhere, there was a voice. But whose voice it was, I could not tell. It wasn’t mine. But of course it wouldn’t be mine, idiot. But then who? Who the hell was talking? For a second I dared to look away from the bomb in my hand. I scanned the porch quickly but saw nothing. I was alone. I knew then that I had lost my goddam mind. This was the end. This was it. As if matters couldn’t get any worse, I heard what I thought was a scratching noise underneath the floorboards of the porch. The thought of rats crossed my mind and made my skin crawl. Ever since I was a kid, I’d been scared of them and now they were crawling around under my feet. I wanted to run but I didn’t dare to move. I figured that any sudden twitch might set off an explosion. As the scratching continued, the hair on my arms stood on end.

“Mike.”

I remember thinking, “It’s happening again. Just ignore it and, and it’ll go away.” Stare straight ahead. Don’t look at anything, do nothing, don’t breathe, close your eyes, I can’t stop sweating, don’t breathe. No! Wait… breathe, breathe. I took a breath and then another. And I don’t know why but I looked up again and slowly, ever so slowly, I peered along the porch in a creeping 1-80 and there he was, back from who knows where. I dared not think of what he had been doing. 

“Mike. Hey, man!”

My mouth was working again. I could talk. 

“What! What is it? What on god’s green fucking earth do you want from me, you fiend!”

I watched Ramone lift his own tumbler full of ice and Cutty and take a sip. I saw that it was one of my glasses. How the hell did one of my glasses get here? Why is all my shit on this porch? Where the fuck am I? 

“Stop squeezing the ball.”

For a second, I didn’t know what he was talking about. Ramone was clearly off his meds. The man was deranged. As I looked at him, I could see his eyes glowing with the shine of two demonic orbs that burned through his irises. 

“Stop squeezing that tennis ball like that. You’re making me nervous.” 

He pointed in the direction of my hand. I looked at it and saw that I was no longer gripping the live grenade in my sweaty palms and was instead crushing a piece of sporting equipment between my mits. Just a plain old yellow tennis ball. I remembered that I’d picked up a tennis ball not too long ago outside of a convenience store; it was lying abandoned in the parking lot. I had a tendency to spot things and take them with me; kind of like mementoes or what have you. I guess I just liked collecting shit. I looked at it for a second and tossed it away. It bounced lazily down the couple of steps until it stopped on the grass. For an instant, I wondered where the explosive had gone and then the thought left me. Fuck, Ramone’s eyes were glowing like fire. I felt as if within a second or two he was going to leap out of his chair and gouge out my eyes or something. 

“What do you want?”

He looked at me, not knowing what I was thinking. Suddenly I felt like a criminal. As if I’d been bracing myself to do something terrible. To fight him to the death maybe if he came at me with those demon eyes. 

“Nothing man. What’s your problem?”

I stopped for a moment to think. “What was my problem?” I didn’t know. I didn’t know anything. I didn’t know where I was. 

“Nothing… nothing’s wrong. I… my glass is empty.”

I stared down into the melting ice chips and the golden residue of diluted scotch. 

“It hit you hard didn’t it?”

“What?”

“The shrooms man. Ed said they were heavy as fuck. We should have never eaten that much.”

“I, I don’t know what you’re talking about.”  

“The shrooms man. Fuck, Ed said they were mixed with something else but I never expected it to fuck us up so bad.”

I had no memory of this. “Right.” I pretended to know what he was talking about and as I faked it, pictures started coming back to me until somehow, I knew that we’d bought drugs. 

“Right, I remember. We bought shrooms. How much did I eat?”

Ramone looked at me again. His face was melting and his eyes were burning. As he spoke, I could see that he had these long wolfish teeth. His mouth was moving but no words were coming out. 

“So, what do you think? You ready?”

I was sweating profusely again.

“Think about what?”

The fangs that crowded his mouth kept smiling at me. 

“You better not have taken too much man, honestly.” 

“Too much?” 

It sounded like a question almost. Did I ask the question? Those fangs were shimmering but nothing was coming out. All I got was this insistent ringing in my ears.

“Too much.” 

A minute or two seemed to pass by and Ramone stood up awkwardly. The man moved like soft linguini. 

“Okay, fine, let’s go do what we promised.”

“Do what?”

I could hear a huffing noise like a locomotive in the distance. It was a sound of exasperation. And the rats were still there. I felt sick.  

“Stop joking around Mike. Let’s go.”

A couple minutes later, we were on the road, driving out of town. Ramone was behind the wheel. The windows were down and he had the stereo on. We were listening to Santana’s Soul Sacrifice. It must have been an oldies station. As we continued to eat up the road, I looked down and saw that I was holding a black 9mm in my hands.

What the fuck did I agree to do?