Episodes of Violence Page 3

  When Daemon returned home, he found that his mother’s all-was-right-with-the-world attitude was bullshit. Yeah, she had stopped hooking, but kept doing drugs. And to top it all off, Eugene had moved back in. He’d been living there for a few months. Apparently, the moron had pled down to a lesser charge after making a deal with the feds and informed on his supplier, a bigger fish. He even got to serve his short sentence at a minimum security prison.

  Eugene wasn’t the same Eugene Daemon had known. The man had cleaned himself up. He also found out he was HIV positive, Daemon’s mother too. He helped her kick the habit for the hardcore stuff. The two only smoked lots of pot.

  Daemon didn’t know what to make of the situation. He was grateful the man had changed and got his mother straight, but at the same time hoped the guy dropped dead. As far as he was concerned, once an asshole always an asshole. It was only a matter of time. How they kicked the harder drugs and alcohol, but were still able to smoke pot and not have it lead them back to the harder shit he had no idea. But it was working.

  On multiple occasions he thought about killing the man, but ultimately decided to let the HIV lovebirds enjoy their pathetic life together.

  He moved out of his room and into the basement, wanting to get as far away from them as possible. It helped a little.

  Chapter Three

  Bobby went back into the trunk and grabbed another bat. The trio always made sure to have more than one bat when going out for a night of mailbox baseball. It had been during their second night of playing when their bat broke, ending the game early. A valuable lesson had been learned and they made sure to keep multiple baseball-hitting instruments in the trunk. The idea to use aluminum bats had been shot down by Bobby. Aluminum wouldn’t break, and if something was hit hard enough, the shock would travel into the person, possibly resulting in serious injury. The wooden bats would break instead of the bones in a person’s body.

  Daemon sped up when they hit the playing field, the length of the street where they planned on playing. Bobby donned the helmet and climbed his lanky, six-foot-two frame halfway out the rear window, taking the bat with him. His long, brown hair whipped about wildly. A grin formed across his rat-like face, a combination of delinquent fun and getting to break things. There was a sense of freedom when they played, as if the rules of society didn't apply for the time being, and it felt wonderful. Plus, there was simply something about smashing other people's property that felt good to him. Even when he was younger and stomped on his toys or broke a window by accident or pulled apart his mother's dolls, the resulting emotion was one of satisfaction—his frustrations about whatever was bothering him gone.

  The first mailbox was coming up. He wedged his left foot under Sage's seat, then kneeled on his own with his right knee and rested his abdomen against the locked door's windowsill. The position allowed for his lower half to be grounded, so he wouldn't fall out while, also permitting him to swing with maximum effort.

  Bobby howled as his turn in the batter's box was about to begin. He swung hard and fast, leaving his grip loose until point of impact. The hard plastic material of the black mailbox shattered into numerous shards, the sound musical. The red metal flag that had been attached twanged against the Camry’s door and then into the weeds that ran along the road.

  Looking back, he saw that a small portion of mailbox remained. “Fuck!”

  Sage poked her head out her window, her purple hair covering her face and said, “That’s a seven, loser.”

  Before he could tell her to go fuck herself, she was back in the vehicle, so he gave her the finger knowing she’d see it in the side mirror.

  His frustration at not obliterating the mailbox vanished when he realized the next mailbox on the route was Mr. Brewmeyer’s, the most hated teacher at Spencer High.

  Howard T. Brewmeyer had given Bobby and his friends a very difficult time at school. Hell, the man was an asshole to most students, but seemed to focus on the trio in particular. He handed out detention like candy on Halloween. He constantly degraded students, especially the troublemakers and outcasts. It didn’t matter how a person behaved in class. He treated people according to reputation alone, not only how they behaved in school, but how they were perceived around town. The man had often attempted to embarrass Bobby and his friends during class by asking difficult questions—questions not in any textbook but acting as if the knowledge was common. Of course, Bobby was bright and knew most of the answers because he read a lot. So Brewmeyer would often turn to Daemon and Sage, the two lovebirds knowing little to nothing about any subject matter due to their lack of studying. And because Bobby found the material easy, he'd take naps in class, partly to annoy the teacher but also because he could afford to. The downside was getting woken up by the man when he screamed in his ear or knocked his chair out from under him so that he crashed to the floor. The students would laugh, but Bobby was always okay with it, his main goal accomplished. The man couldn't fail him so he'd found other ways to screw with Bobby.

  And yeah, he’d shot spitballs at the Smart Board, made fart noises when the teacher bent over, and had glued various items—animal bones, bugs, coins, and even a pair of his mom's underwear to Brewmeyer's desk and Smart Board. He'd also gone as far as smearing dog shit across the screen. That had been a bit over the line when it came to fucking with the man, but Bobby had only done it after Brewmeyer fired the first shot by saying he was a spoiled rich kid whose mommy and daddy didn't give a shit about him and never would. Brewmeyer usually fired the first shots when dealing with students, but especially with Bobby, Daemon and Sage. The asshole was simply miserable and thought he was better than everyone. So all in all, the man deserved all the trouble he received and whatever trouble he was going to get.

  Brewmeyer had called Bobby’s parents numerous times, hoping to get him in trouble, but they could not have cared less. They never got upset and simply asked him to explain his side of things. Bobby would say that Brewmeyer was jealous because Bobby came from money or he'd tell them that the man had been in a bad mood that day. His parents nodded and said things like, “That’s life among the middle class” or “figures, the man is just jealous, I guess.” Bobby was all but invisible in his house and it took Brewmeyer until the parent-teacher conference to understand this, telling Bobby his parents were scumbags like he and his friends were, only wealthy. Bobby had spit on him and gotten suspended for two weeks. His parents hadn’t even noticed he wasn’t in school during that time. If it wasn’t for his exorbitant allowance, basically a limitless bank account, he’d hate his parents even more than he already did.

  Bobby couldn’t believe the anger he still felt toward Brewmeyer. A few years removed from high school and his hatred for the man remained as it always had.

  Sage popped her head out the window and yelled, “C’mon, rich boy. Let that fat fuck have it.”

  “I will if you get out of my way.”

  Sage stuck her tongue out and wrinkled her nose at him before disappearing back into the car.

  The Camry's engine whined harder and the wind blowing over Bobby picked up. He cocked back his arms holding the bat. Brewmeyer’s had been the first mailbox they’d hit, long before they started playing mailbox baseball. They always tossed eggs, rocks or whatever at it as they passed by the man’s house, and if curses were harmful, the place would’ve fallen down years ago.

  Bobby adjusted his grip on the handle. His eyes narrowed as his lower row of teeth met his upper. The last two times they had been down this street playing mailbox baseball it had been Sage’s and then Daemon’s turn at bat. Waiting for his turn had sucked. Maybe next time they would stop and all take turns beating the crap out of the thing. But for now, the glory was all his.

  The mailbox was large, rectangular and bright orange. Plain in design. Ugly. This was strange. Brewmeyer had always had beautiful mailboxes, from replicas of battleships to Mississippi riverboats to classic cars. Bobby couldn’t blame the man for changing to something ordinary though, for who
would want to keep spending a lot of money on something only to see it destroyed. The asshole had wizened up. Bought an inexpensive one.

  Shit, Bobby felt a bit let down. A bit of disappointment. Now he was more pissed at the guy for robbing him of his pleasure. Muscles tensed, bat gripped tightly, he swung the wood as hard as he could. Even though it was cheap, he was still going to get satisfaction out of destroying the man’s property.

  The bat collided with the side of the bright orange box only to come to a sudden stop. A reverberating shock traveled into Bobby’s hands and up his arms and into his head. He cried out in pain as the bat shattered. A large, jagged chunk shot back into his face, whacking the hockey mask with hammer-like force. Splinters of wood filled the air, a few toothpick-sized slivers making it through the hockey mask’s holes and into his skin.

  He fell forward and nearly out of the window, but was able to grab onto the top of the door and hold on. Arm and back muscles straining, he pulled himself back into the car.

  The Camry skidded to a stop.

  “What the hell happened?” Sage asked.

  “I have no idea,” Bobby said. “The mailbox was like a solid block of steel.” He pulled off the mask and sat back, breathing heavy. He stretched his arms and made fists, his fingers stiff. “The bat exploded. My arms are killing me. If I didn't have the mask on, I'd be out cold on the side of the road.”

  Sage turned on the dome light. “Dude, you’re white as a ghost.”

  Daemon turned around and looked at Bobby. He reached back and grabbed the hockey mask, seeing a scuff mark where the chunk of wood had connected.

  “Thing saved my life, man,” Bobby said.

  ●●●

  Daemon put the car in reverse and backed it up to where the mailbox still stood. “That ain’t no mailbox,” he said. “And look at the pole; it’s got to be at least six inches thick. What mailbox needs that?” He looked past the orange box at the house. There were no lights on. Something odd was definitely going on.

  Daemon opened the driver side door and stepped out.

  “Where are you going?” Sage asked.

  Not answering her, he walked around the vehicle to the mailbox. There wasn’t a mark on it. He wrapped his knuckles on the door and felt its sturdiness, the thing solid steel. Bending low, he felt that the pole the box rested on was steel too, the two items welded together.

  Standing, he heard the slightest hint of laughter. The sound was coming from the house. Then: “Gotcha, you little piss-ants.”

  The voice was low, but Daemon recognized it. Not that anyone else lived in Brewmeyer’s place. The asshole had set them up. He was a Waiter, but not a Chaser.

  “That’s the last mailbox of mine you’ll destroy,” the voice said, coming somewhere from the darkened house.

  Daemon peered into the blackness, the moonlight making its way through the trees in the yard. He saw no one. The man didn’t have the stones to come outside. He was in the house, watching through one of the windows. Why would he taunt his attackers? Had he called the police and was stalling, hoping Daemon would stick around for a confrontation that would never happen?

  Shit—what if the guy was recording him? Had recorded the whole event? It wouldn’t matter if Daemon took off before the cops arrived. Then again, there was no property damage. If anything, Bobby might be able to sue the asshole for bodily injury. Of course, he’d have to get the attention of his parents. Yeah, right.

  A searing heat filled Daemon’s gut. He was pissed, a furnace ready to blow. Brewmeyer’s laughing continued, fueling Daemon’s anger. He wanted to threaten the man, tell him his house was next to be continuously hit. But he held his tongue, turned around and got back in the car, then drove away.

  Chapter Four

  After dropping off Bobby—his arms still aching—Daemon drove to Sage’s house where they fucked like angry rabbits. The sex was fierce, the kind without foreplay. Daemon yanked down Sage's jean shorts and underwear in one motion before taking her from behind. He rammed into her, thrusting while pulling her to him in rhythmic fashion. Sage was still wet from the night’s events. Violence always got her hot. She loved it when he pulled her hair, so he did. When she begged for him to smack her ass, he obliged and when it wasn't hard enough, he increased the force of his blows. Banging and pulling and smacking, all the actions making Sage scream with pleasure. Her cheeks were still a bit sore from two nights ago when she had Daemon bite them while they sucked each other off. He'd broken skin at one point and Sage came hard, causing him to explode. Her screams of pleasure became gurgles of ecstasy as he filled her mouth.

  When they were finished screwing, his seed filling her where she couldn’t get pregnant, they flopped to the bed, slick with sweat. Lying there, they shared a joint. It was something they usually did after an intense session to further relax. But neither the sex nor the pot did much to calm down Daemon.

  Unable to let go, he sat up quickly. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t stop thinking of Brewmeyer and how the man had won. It was only a battle, but it was high school all over again. The man trying to up himself against his students. Prove he was better and make them feel like shit.

  Sage hugged Daemon from behind, laying her head against his back. She rubbed his right pectoral muscle. “You’re so tense, babe.” She nibbled his ear, but he shrugged her off. “Hey,” she yelled and swatted him.

  “Fuck off.”

  “What the hell is the matter with you?”

  “Brewmeyer. I haven’t been able to calm down since the incident. Can’t get that fuckhead out of my mind. I mean, he thinks he’s so smart. That he won.”

  “Fuck him,” Sage said. “He’s a loser. Lives alone. We’ll get him again. Fuck up his car or something.”

  Daemon wanted nothing more than to get dressed, head over to Brewmeyer’s place and… What? What would he do? Smash the guy’s car? Break windows? Break in and destroy the inside? None of those things would be wise. At least not now.

  One of the reasons they hadn’t gotten caught for the mailboxes was because they had been smart regarding how they went about it. They stuck to Bobby’s plan about not returning to the same street for at least a month, though for certain ones they usually only waited three weeks.

  Another problem could arise if Brewmeyer had recorded them. Even if there was no property damage, the cops still might come after them—if only to harass them. Even charge them with the other smashed mailboxes. But if the asshole had been able to make Daemon out when he got out of his car, or had indeed recorded them, the cops would’ve been at their door already. Brewmeyer wouldn’t wait. Daemon had been careless getting out of the car and couldn’t do such things in the future, not without a mask on.

  He shot to his feet as Sage's arm began to slink around his neck and paced the room.

  “C’mon, babe,” Sage said, shaking her tits. “Come back to bed. You just need to come again. I’ll do all the work, blow you and swallow. I know how much you like that.”

  He stopped pacing and faced her, cheek muscles bulging. “Don’t you get it? No amount of sex is going to help me. I need to hurt that fat fuck.”

  Nipples erect, Sage climbed off the bed and walked over to him. Laying a hand on his chest, she said, “We will get him. Don’t you think I want that too? After what he did to us, to Bobby? There’s nothing we can do about it now. So let me take care of you.”

  She leaned in and kissed him on his lips.

  He offered nothing in return, but remained where he was.

  Grinning, her dark brown eyes sparkling wickedly, she planted a kiss on his chin, then his throat before she made her way down his defined abs and finally to his semi-hard penis with her scent still on it. Using her tongue, she flicked the tip and tasted herself. An electric-like spark of excitement exploded through her, causing her pussy to moisten and nipples to further harden.

  When she continued to tease him, he grabbed her by her hair and shoved her face into his crotch. She gulped down his cock and worked
it with his help. She loved the rough treatment, the feeling of being forced to blow him even though she wanted to. Using her fingers, she played with herself. Before long, she felt his soft flesh swell and knew he was about to explode, and when he did, her mouth filled with his salty fluids as she came too.

  Swallowing, she wiped the dribble from her bottom lip, and stood. He kissed her hard, their tongues mingling. He tasted himself and then they separated.

  “Feel a little better?” she asked.

  “Yeah, a little.”

  “C’mon,” she said, took him by the hand and guided him to the bed. There, they lay and shared a cigarette.

  “Did I ever tell you that you’re the best?” Daemon asked.

  Sage finished tugging on her smoke and said, “Yeah, after every fucking blow job.”

  He laughed. “Well, it’s true.” She passed the cigarette to him. He accepted it and took a drag before snuffing it out in the small, glass ashtray on the nightstand. Sage moved, resting her head on his chest and was asleep in minutes. Daemon lay there, trying not to think about Brewmeyer. He reached over, shut off the light, and concentrated on Sage’s gentle snoring, hoping it would set his mind enough at ease so he could fall asleep. Just as he was about to reach la-la land, his cell phone rang. He’d forgotten to shut off the ringer.

  Without lifting her head up, Sage said, “Whoever that is dies.”

  Daemon was pissed Sage had been woken. He reached over to see who was calling, ready to tell whoever it was to fuck off and die when he saw it was Bobby.

  Putting the phone to his ear, he said,” Sage’s going to kill you, man. This better be good.”

  “They’re dead, man,” Bobby said.

  “Who’s dead?”

  “The dudes driving the SUV that chased us.”

  “Who’s dead?” Sage asked, not moving.