Episodes of Violence Read online

  As if Jason wasn’t socially awkward enough, he had skipped two grades, making him even more out of place. Other students either made fun of him or ignored him. He was never invited to parties for either being too young, too nerdy, too awkward or just plain old not fitting in. Normally, this would lead a kid down the road to a tough life and depression, but Jason dealt with it fine. He found most people boring and simple and didn’t like them much. He cared about learning and building things like his drone.

  Whenever he was feeling down, and even when he wasn't, Amber always reminded him how special he was and that he was going to do great things one day. Amber understood him, unlike most others. The only reason he came up with for this was love. It had to be because she loved him. Love was intangible, highly misunderstood, and the most powerful force on the planet. He came to this conclusion because Amber was as normal as a person could be. She wasn’t stupid. She was smart, but not overly so. Not like him. She was slightly above average smart in the range of most of her friends. She liked fashion, partying, boys and doing well in school. So love had to be the reason she wanted to be around him, as well as understand him. Love was the reason families protected their own no matter what they came up against. It explained why a mother and father believed their child was the best and why, if it came down to it, their child should live over another. Why a parent would choose to save their single son or daughter rather than an entire city. When he thought about that, he didn’t quite get it. It seemed the logical thing to do would be to save the entire city over a single person. But love wasn’t logical. And though he didn’t understand love or how it existed or formed, unless it was some kind of chemical mixture made up in the body, he was glad for love.

  Part III

  Dominos

  Chapter Sixteen

  Killing had sparked something in Daemon. In all of them. The group’s dark side had emerged and it felt good. Whether it happened because he was hanging out in the wrong place at the wrong time, drunk driving, using drugs or in a straight up bar fight, Daemon had always known he’d be responsible for ending someone’s life. Some people knew they were destined for greatness, he knew he was destined to be bad, maybe even evil. The prevailing sense had scared him, but at the same time excited him.

  Sage had been on the same course since the age of twelve when she pocketed lipstick from Walmart. When the guard confronted her, she kicked him in the balls and tried to run, but was nabbed regardless. She was like Daemon, only crazier. A hot-headed firecracker with no sense of loyalty for anyone but Daemon. He was her only connection to love. She understood it was because of him and would never let him go. After finding such a treasure, such a drug, she knew she could never do without him. Life wouldn’t be worth much, if anything. It made her weak and she hated herself for it, but the emotion was too strong to kill, so she accepted it, also accepting that they were one. If Daemon died, she would too.

  They were born free and, unlike most people, were able to detach themselves from society’s norms. The rules had never applied to them, and when they killed those men in the SUV, Brewmeyer and the hooker, Daemon knew Sage had felt what he felt. It wasn’t simply the act of causing those men’s deaths, but the fact that they could strike fear into the people of the town, and that brought a feeling of god-like power that was unattainable elsewhere.

  Bobby had been Daemon’s best friend since they met. The two had been through thick and thin, but Daemon hadn’t known if the man was capable of outright killing. Ready to move to the next level. It was why he let the hooker go. He was testing Bobby and wanted to see what the kid would do. Bobby was a bad dude and enjoyed breaking the law, but murder was something else. For the few moments that night as the girl walked toward the den’s exit, Daemon was nervous. If Bobby hadn’t killed her, Daemon would have had to. Then he would've had to kill Bobby and leave his corpse in the house for the cops to find. It wouldn’t have been identifiable but through dental records due to the charred state. Sure, it had been Bobby’s idea to burn down the house, but Daemon was sure he or Sage would have eventually come up with the notion. Bobby would’ve then been blamed for killing the prostitute and Brewmeyer. Daemon was glad it hadn’t gone that way. Because from that point onward whoever wasn’t with Daemon was against him.

  But all that nonsense was behind him. Bobby was one of them and he was grateful to have his friend alongside him and Sage.

  Killing had been fun. Burning down Brewmeyer’s house was the cherry on top. Subsequently, time seemed to crawl. The hard part after such fun was the laying low and waiting. Getting a taste of taking a life and then having to stop was difficult. It amazed Daemon how a simple, juvenile game of mailbox baseball could turn into something far more thrilling and satisfying.

  The trio of killers were eager to begin another round, but understood patience was going to be necessary. The cops were on the lookout and spending all their time investigating the murders. Local and national news had come to town the day after the murderous attacks. The grisly crime scene was a complete shock to the town. It was awesome. The cops were clueless.

  Speculation ran rampant. Brewmeyer’s reputation as a straight shooter and pillar of the community was ruined after the prostitute’s remains were identified and her profession revealed. The cops changed their focus to Binghamton where the woman was from, thinking a pimp, jealous client or drug dealer had killed her and Brewmeyer. The teacher had simply been in the wrong place at the wrong time with the wrong person.

  The trio paid attention to the news, listened to the police scanner and got wasted. Daemon’s Toyota was stripped of the Plasti Dip despite there being no report of his car being spotted near the scene. Daemon was the only one with a job and kept going to work despite not needing to. Bobby had enough money for them all, but he didn’t want to rely on anyone but himself, and it was best to maintain their usual routines. Give the police no reason to suspect a thing in the event they somehow came around.

  Bobby was certain any and all evidence left behind in the house had been destroyed in the fire. He was the brains of the group. He was the cool nerd, always interested in learning. Knowledge was power for some and he was a master at it. There had been plenty of smart killers throughout history and Bobby was going to be another.

  “Taking lives is natural,” he said. “There will always be a variety of people, and all are needed for a society to work, including its killers. They are a part of the DNA of civilization, of human culture. All societies have had, and still have, them. Without good there is no evil. Without crime there would be no police. Whether it is for fear’s sake, a natural order of population control, just in our DNA, from damaged brain cells, or an evil force within our souls, killers are part of the world.”

  Bobby didn’t feel bad or good about killing. He was only doing what was inside him. What felt right. There were too many people on the planet anyway, too many assholes, and he would be glad to be rid of them. But he also knew that a real killer just killed whoever was in front of them when it was time to kill. But how to decide who lives and dies? This was the question Bobby had posed to himself and then the group. The game would decide and it would be fair. As long as people died, he would feel he was doing what he was put on the earth to do. Together, the trio had become what society pushed them to be. Classmates, strangers, teachers and all the rest had been a necessary part of getting the trio to realize who they were. And now that they did, the town was going to know true fear.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Three weeks had passed since the events at Brewmeyer’s and the murderous trio was as confident as ever.

  “I told you we had nothing to worry about,” Bobby said as he lay back on the beach chair beside the pool. “We were careful, and that my friends is the key to getting away with illegal shit.”

  “Careful?” Sage asked, sitting up in her chair. “We fucking torched everything. And we got lucky with the hooker.”

  “We got lucky with her because of my diligence. It was my idea to burn t
he place down, remember? Simple idea—yes. But I came up with it.”

  Sage huffed, blowing a few strands of her purple hair out of her eyes. “You want props for the idea?” She slowly clapped her hands. “Con-fucking-gratulations.”

  Bobby shook his head. “Unappreciative bitch.”

  Sage laughed. “That’s right, asshole, but you know I still love you, Robert.”

  “I want a gun,” Daemon said. He leaned back in his chair, threw his feet on the table and lit a cigarette.

  “What for?” Bobby asked.

  Daemon looked at him and frowned.

  “We’ve got the shotgun.”

  “I want a .45 or .357 Magnum. Something powerful I can carry around. Keep hidden.”

  “That’s the kind of shit that will get you in trouble. Bullets can be traced. Shotgun blasts can’t.”

  “Well, I’ll chance it. We’ll want more than a short-range scattergun if the shit hits the fan, like if we need to escape a situation or to just protect ourselves.”

  “No we don’t. That’s cheating. The game needs to have rules or what’s the point?”

  “Not for the game, dude. For protection and assurance if things go wrong. Don’t you get that?”

  “We’ll get more shotguns. They’ll work better if we use slugs. Fucking things will be more powerful than any handgun you can get your paws on.”

  “I need something I can conceal on my person, man.”

  “I know you’ll do what you want, but this is a joint venture and I say it isn’t a good idea to start carrying around illegally-gotten firearms.”

  “You really are a worry wart,” Sage said, lighting a joint. “I want a gun, too.”

  “I’m going to keep us out of prison, if you'll listen to me.”

  “And what happens if the cops are after us?” Sage asked. “Like if one day during the game things go wrong? If it’s us going to prison or us killing as many cops as we can, those piggies are going down. We’ll need to out-gun those motherfuckers if we want to get away.”

  Silence.

  “What, nothing?” Sage asked.

  “I’m done with this conversation,” Bobby said.

  “Good. We get guns then.”

  Bobby exhaled and ran his fingers through his long hair. “Fine, but we can’t use them or carry them around unless we’re playing the game. And if we do shoot someone, prepare to dig out the bullet and make it impossible for forensics to identify the caliber.”

  “Oooh, dissection,” Sage said, blowing out a plume of smoke. “Might be fun. A shitload more entertaining than those frogs I cut up in biology.”

  “We’ll head over to Dirk’s tomorrow,” Daemon said and took the joint from Sage as his cigarette smoldered in the ashtray.

  “Did you all forget about the laying low part of our plan?” Bobby asked. “We sit quiet for at least a month before the new game begins.”

  Daemon pulled on the joint, the coals burning bright even under the afternoon sun. He handed the joint back to Sage and exhaled a moment later. “Going to Dirk’s has nothing to do with Brewmeyer’s. Two separate issues. Hell, if we don’t go, the cops might think something’s up with us.”

  Sage laughed and stomped her feet. “Yeah, true. You did say we should act normal, Bobby.”

  “You really want to buy a gun from that tweaker?” Bobby asked.

  “Do you know anyone else close by who we can sort of trust?”

  “No, but that asshat will squeal if he’s ever pressed by the cops. He’s cooking meth and selling heroin. That shit’s federal and it’s only a matter of time before he’s busted. He’s fried his mind over the last few years using his own product.”

  “Don’t worry about that,” Daemon said, crushing out his cigarette butt. “If you don’t want to come, then stay here.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous. If you guys are going, I’m going. We’re in this together, and I don’t trust that meth-head.”

  “That’s what I want to hear. Because we’re a fucking team and teams stick together.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  They drove over to Dirk’s place the next day. The meth-head lived in a dilapidated house that looked ready to crumble at any moment. It had missing sections of siding, appeared to be slightly slanted as if the foundation or ground were giving way, and multiple antennas on the roof, most of which were bent at odd angles. Where there were sections of siding, the at-one-time white color, was now sun-faded and gray with grime.

  The abode was concealed from the road by thick forest. Daemon drove his Camry along the quarter mile dirt road and took his time, the numerous ruts and potholes causing the vehicle to bottom out on occasion. When the house came into view, he parked a good hundred yards away.

  Dirk owned over two hundred acres of land, mostly wooded, but the house rested on a three-acre section of clearing where only grass grew. A dented and sun-faded Subaru Forester was parked in front of the house. Sitting in the car port alongside the dwelling was a rusted brown pickup truck with its hood raised.

  Dirk inherited the property from his grandmother—who had raised him—after she had passed away five years prior. He’d gotten offers to sell and offers to rent from Fracking companies, but had refused them all. Instead, he used the two-hundred acres to hide his methamphetamine-producing lab.

  After parking the car, Daemon killed the engine but left the keys in the ignition. As he and Sage got out, Bobby climbed into the driver’s seat. Dirk had been known to be jumpy upon receiving uninvited guests, especially if the man was high. If need be, they’d be ready to roll out quickly.

  As Daemon and Sage approached the porch, the front door flew open. Dirk leaped out, shotgun in hand. His eyes were wide and cracked with red. Daemon saw the barrel point at him and stopped. Dirk’s long brown hair looked like it hadn’t seen a shower in weeks, the stringy mop like oiled strings of yarn. He’d gotten skinnier since the last time Daemon had seen him. He wore a multi-stained wife beater and blue jeans with more holes than a spaghetti strainer. Both articles of clothing appeared too large for the normally muscled man.

  “Is that how you greet an old friend?” Daemon asked holding his hands partially up.

  Dirk jerked the shotgun and fired a round into the air before setting its sights back on Daemon. “Now I see you, Daemon Winters. Hot damn. And your pretty lady, dressed to impress. Nipples hard, too. Guess my big old gun here isn’t that scary, huh little lady?”

  “I love guns, little man,” Sage said, arms lowering.

  “I didn’t tell you to put your hands down,” Dirk said.

  “You never told us to put them up either.”

  Dirk laughed. “You’s a funny little cunt, ain’t you?”

  “Dirk, can we talk business now?” Daemon asked.

  “Shit, so this ain’t no social call?”

  “We can make it both if you’d like. So, how you doing?”

  “I’m doing good. Real good. Dirky boy’s always doing good.”

  “Glad to hear it, man.”

  Dirk pursed his lips and appeared to be thinking, but the shotgun remained pointed at Daemon. “Hmmm. Haven’t seen you since…”

  Tired of waiting, Daemon said, “Since we ran into each other at the Big M.”

  “Nope,” Dirk said, shaking his head, still appearing deep in thought.

  Daemon sighed and wondered what bullshit scenario the man was going to come up with. The last time he’d seen Dirk really had been at the Big M supermarket. It was an easy time to remember because the meth-head’s penis had been hanging free through the unzippered pair of jeans he was wearing.

  It had been right before closing and the store was practically empty of customers. Dirk had gone to embrace him in a brotherly hug when Daemon noticed the man’s penis flopping about as he approached. Daemon held out a stiff-arm and kept him away, saying he was coming down with a cold and didn’t want to infect anyone. Two barely dressed skanks had been with Dirk, one flanked on each side of him. Both females—one bleached blonde, th
e other scarlet red—were clearly cranked out of their minds, smiling like idiots and giggling. The blonde’s right breast was hanging out of her black halter top, but she didn’t seem to care. She grabbed Dirk’s penis and led him away, saying how she hadn’t gotten a chance to finish him off yet. The other woman, Marcy Redber, was someone Daemon had banged a few times in the past. She asked him if he’d like to party, and when he declined, she snorted like a pig, squeezed her tits, turned around, farted and caught up with her friends. Daemon couldn’t believe how low the bitch had sunk.

  “No, you’re right,” Dirk finally said. “It was at the Big M and I was really fucked up.”

  “I hardly noticed,” Daemon said. “I was pretty shit-faced myself.”

  Dirk lowered the shotgun so that it hung at his side. “So, what brings you by?”

  “Looking to buy a few guns.”

  “Something for a cunt too,” Sage said and winked.

  Dirk guffawed as he rubbed his chin. “Why don’t you two come on in and we’ll chat some.” The man turned around and headed back inside, letting the screen door slam shut behind him.