Episodes of Violence Read online

  The young woman glanced down the hall, then lifted her shirt and flashed him a perfect set of perky, B-sized puppies with a silver hoop through the left nipple. Howard’s groin tingled, his penis actually stirring—and without him having taken Viagra. The sight of those young-looking tits reminded him of Kendra Souter’s. He wasn’t going to need to keep that image of the girl after all, because he’d be getting the real thing.

  “Hot damn, girl,” he said. “Sold.”

  As they made their way to his car, a 2012 Cadillac Touring Sedan, Crystal told him that he was her last customer, and if he wanted her for the rest of the night, that he could have her for that length of time and it would only cost him an extra hundred on top of the hundred she'd want for fucking him. Out of curiosity, he asked how much a blowjob would've been back at the bar and she said, “Fifty, and I'd swallow.”

  “And if I wanted to fuck you out back, behind the bar?”

  “Hundred. No anal.”

  “Or a whole night for two-hundred?”

  “Yup, and I'll do anal. But I also want a ride to the bus stop in the morning.”

  “Deal,” he said, thinking: Damn, this night keeps getting better and better.

  A boner-inducing idea came to mind. With his female spy-cam locker room gig over, he needed something else. It was the perfect night to start something new, like record his prostitute sessions on his handheld camera. He would tell her to wait while he cleaned up his bedroom, and then position the camera so that it was hidden, but able to record their time together.

  “Since I'm paying all night for you, I think we'll skip the hotel and stay at my place. Got all the food and drink we would want.”

  “Sounds good to me.”

  Ten minutes after leaving the bar—Crystal playing with the radio the whole time and driving him mad—he turned into his driveway and felt a giddiness befall him he hadn’t felt since he’d gotten a clear shot of Missy Daisy’s cleanly-shaved snatch. He was going to fuck this hooker in so many ways, and planned on paying her an extra hundred if she'd let him in her backdoor where he'd unload himself.

  Ready to giggle with glee, his elation fizzled out when he saw a book resting on the driveway surrounded by what looked like broken glass. Crystal was all but forgotten as he squinted to try and make out what he was seeing, but his mind was unable to figure it out. He stopped the car just short of the debris.

  “Be right back,” he said and exited the Cadillac.

  Up close, he saw that the book was his. It was a first edition of The Old Man and the Sea. He’d paid $950.00 for it. The cover was ripped and scuffed, the spine bent. Looking up, he noticed how incredibly clean the window to his den appeared and how his vehicle’s headlights did not reflect off it. All the other windows on the house appeared normal. He tried seeing into the room from where he stood, but the second-floor landing was too high.

  Someone was in his house.

  Howard’s breath hitched in his chest. Anger flared throughout his body, his flesh heated. Fingers balled into fists. Not only had someone broken into his home, but the scumbag had ruined his stuff. Who knew what else was going on? What other damage had been caused, or was still being caused?

  He needed to fix this. Take care of the asshole in his house, if the person was still there, so he could get to his night with Crystal. For a few moments, he’d forgotten about her, the prostitute’s presence coming and going. Screw that. He wasn’t going to let some candy-ass, piece of trash ruin his night. No way.

  Taking a few deep breaths, he returned to the car, smiling.

  “Is everything all right?” Crystal asked when he opened the Cadillac’s door.

  “Yuppers,” he said and pulled the lever to pop the trunk open. “I think my nephew was here earlier and left a mess. You know how kids can be. Call me old fashioned, but I want to make sure the place looks good. Wait right here. I’ll be back lickety split.”

  “You don’t have to do that. Unless there’s a dead body in there, I’m a sure thing, hun.”

  Howard chuckled. “Still, I’d like to straighten up a little. It’ll only take a sec.”

  After gently closing the door, he headed to the trunk, grabbed his Smith and Wesson .45 and tucked it into the front of his pants. After making sure it was covered by his shirt, he closed the trunk and headed toward the house.

  His skin itched with the urge to get inside and see what was going on. Itched to catch the burgling bastard and teach him a serious lesson about breaking into the wrong home.

  Most people in his situation would be on the phone with the police, he imagined. They’d be afraid to enter, or nervous about having a hooker with them. Not him, though. He wasn’t deciding against calling the cops because of her. No sir-ee. It wasn’t like they’d know she was a hooker or that she’d offer up her occupation. The real reason for his course of action was because he wanted the criminals all to himself. His full-carry permit wasn’t for nothing. The gun was only kept in the trunk of his car when he went drinking or to school, otherwise it was on him. Always concealed.

  He picked up his pace as he went around the side of the house and to the backyard. Whoever was in his house—if they were still there—had most likely seen his vehicle’s headlights or heard the engine and were working toward leaving. He couldn’t let that happen. And the most logical place the criminals would depart from was through the back door or a rear window.

  Once around the corner, he pulled out his gun and let his eyes adjust to the darker area while at the same time listening for sounds. The moon was almost full, bright, and the sky cloudless, allowing him a clear view of the broken window.

  Inching up to the back door, he found that it was locked. Taking out his keys, he unlocked the door, opening it slowly. The hinges didn’t make a sound. The door was old, but Howard was a maintainer. He wanted his things to last. He worked hard for them. Keeping up the house included taking care of the little things, like oiling the hinges, as well the bigger items such as the roof which he repaired every fifteen years or so. His house was paid off, and with each passing year, its value slowly rose.

  With a heart that pounded against his breastbone, he stepped over the threshold and into the house. Passing the washer and dryer, he made his way to the hall that led left and right. The darkness was wall-like, impenetrable. Most likely the intruders had left or knew he was here. Light would be his ally.

  Lifting his arm, he flicked the light switch to the on position. An explosion of illumination followed, flooding the hallway with intense brightness. The chalk-white walls were on fire.

  Wincing, his eyes adjusted quickly and he felt more at ease when he could see better. Now the game was definitely on. Whoever was in the house knew for certain he was home. He’d continue to turn on lights as he went. Sure, he was more of a target now, but he wanted to be able to properly aim. Once all the lights were on, if one went off, he’d know where to head.

  As he made his way along the hallway, his eyes settled on the holes in the walls and the debris at his feet. Broken picture frames and chunks of sheetrock. His breathing grew more rapid, nostrils flaring. It was difficult not to sprint ahead. The people who’d trashed his house were going to pay.

  When he finally reached the living room, the place partially cast in light from the hallway, his heart sank. His television was destroyed, the thing a pile of rubble. He thought about alerting whoever might be in the room, calling out that he had a gun, but decided he would rather surprise the son of a bitch with a bullet.

  Standing just outside the room, he reached in and felt along the wall for the light switch. Fingers brushing against it, he flicked it up.

  Light bloomed and he nearly cried out at the sight. The place was not just trashed, but obliterated. Drawing breath was difficult, as if some invisible hand were squeezing his lungs. A soft whimper escaped his lips as he grabbed onto the doorframe, the room seeming to tilt.

  He was losing it. He hadn’t expected such a disaster. It was as if a tornado had come through.


  Fuck.

  Not knowing what else to do, he bit his lip, the action an old trick. The sharp pain and the taste of his blood focused him. Pain had always been a grounder for him. Got him through tough situations.

  He squeezed the gun’s handle and swore under his breath. The anger he’d had came roaring back. Good. He needed it more than ever. Whoever had done this to his home was as good as dead. There’d only be police when there were bodies to report. And if no one was in his home, he’d hunt them down, kidnap them, and then blow them away inside his house.

  Self fucking defense.

  Tears streaked his face. He couldn’t believe how upset he had become and quickly wiped the salty liquid away with his shaky hand.

  He needed to explode, and for a moment feared his heart would give out because his anger was so great. But he couldn’t allow that to happen. Couldn’t allow himself to tense up. To react instead of act. He couldn’t let the intruders know they’d gotten to him.

  Taking a few deep breaths, he turned around and headed back down the hall. He was seeing red despite his efforts to calm down.

  Before entering the kitchen, he smelled a mixture of food—onions, tomato sauce and pepper. Turning on the light, he tried to ready himself for what he’d see, but the sight was far worse than he could’ve imagined. Broken dinnerware and food were everywhere, splattered across the floor and walls as if a bomb had gone off.

  No, not a bomb. It looked like an episode of Extreme Food Fight, if there was such a show.

  As he stood there, mouth hanging open, a chunk of lasagna fell from where it had been stuck to the ceiling and plopped onto the floor. Closing his maw, he returned his focus to finding the intruder. Or maybe he had multiple intruders. He’d have to be more careful. Gun pointed, he scanned the area, his finger ready to pull the trigger.

  Brewmeyer’s thoughts returned to the hooker. She couldn’t see his place like this. In a small way he hoped the vandals had left so he could take her to a hotel and screw her brains out. But he doubted that was going to happen. He was too pissed off.

  His night was ruined.

  No, fuck that. He was going to pound that bitch. Viagra would get him hard and he’d make her work to get him off no matter how he felt. He was going to need the release, especially if he couldn’t kill the bastard or bastards who destroyed his home. But if his house was vacant, he’d leave, take care of his business with her, and then deal with his mess of a house tomorrow.

  But that was getting ahead of himself. There were still rooms to check.

  He moved through the kitchen, almost slipping on one of the many beverages that had been splashed about. Then there was the lasagna, the baked dish sprinkled over everything and causing havoc on his balance. It was only when he heard the crunching of ceramic and glassware that he felt like he had a grip on the floor.

  Getting to the adjoining hallway that led to the rest of the house was a relief. He flipped on the light switch there. The carpet was dirtied with food from the intruder’s footprints. Despite that, he wiped his shoes off on the carpet and continued forward.

  When he reached the stairs leading to the second floor, he peeked into the waiting darkness and listened for sounds, then moved onward toward the den where the food-steps led.

  With his back pressed against the wall, he reached around and flipped on the den’s light.

  Ready to blast whoever was there, Howard leapt into the den’s archway.

  There was no one there.

  The room was intact save for one missing window. There was plenty to ruin, like the beautiful polished cherry-wood desk with the Mac laptop resting on it. Or the collection of antique model cars that were in his glass display case. Or the shelves of rare and signed books—one book missing from its usual place, the gap glaring like the missing tooth on a smiling dentist. Then there were the paintings hanging on the walls, each one at least five-hundred dollars or more. All this meant one of two things: Either he’d interrupted the intruders as they were about to trash his den, forcing them to leave, or they were still here, hiding behind his desk.

  Studying the beige carpeting, he saw a muddle of footprints and noticed how a pair led around to the front of the desk. There was no return trail. His eyes focused on the leather chair. It wasn’t pushed in all the way, the way he always kept it.

  Conclusion: Someone was hiding under the desk or had simply moved it.

  Howard felt his gun hand slick with sweat, switched the weapon to his left hand and wiped his palm on his shirt before switching back. His pulse was quick and he itched to send a few bullets through the desk and hopefully hit the scumbag behind it. But he held off, not wanting to ruin the piece of beautiful furniture, and because he wanted the intruder to know the fear of death, not just die.

  He stepped up to the desk, ready to tell the idiot to come out or he’d start shooting, when the floor creaked behind him. Eyes widening, he spun around and saw a grotesque figure holding a knife. Some kind of hideous, faceless mutation. His finger pressed against the trigger. He was ready to kill whatever it was, and then his brain clicked into the proper gear and he saw that there was no grotesquerie. It was a person wearing a stocking over their face, like the psycho cult leader had worn in Stallone’s Cobra, one of his favorite 80s movies.

  “Don’t move, dirtbag,” he said, having always wanted to say such a thing. He couldn’t believe it—he’d caught the scumbag. How would he have been able to do it if he didn’t have a gun? Screw all those whiny liberal assholes and their anti-gun bullshit. He had a right to bear arms and bear arms he did. A law-abiding, trained gun owner was a good thing. A necessary thing. If more law-abiding citizens carried guns, there would be a lot less crime. People would think twice before robbing a store if half the store’s customers had guns. Think twice before breaking into a home. Think twice before shooting up a campus or movie theater—because instead of ducking and hiding and running people could shoot back. Guns made the weak as strong as the strong. Guns made people of all sizes equal.

  Howard was amped up and ready to shout out to the world. When the news vans showed up and cameras were shoved into his face, he’d tell the world how it was, and how a gun had saved his life.

  “Drop the knife,” he said.

  The intruder didn’t move.

  “You’ve got two choices, dirtbag. Either drop the weapon or I drop you.” After he said it, he wished he’d come up with something better, like: Drop the knife or eat lead. Yeah, that sounded cooler. He’d use that line for the cameras.

  The knife fell from the intruder’s grasp and thudded to the carpet.

  “Whatcha gonna do now, partner?” Stocking Head asked.

  Howard smiled and felt a gleam in his eyes. “Kill the scumbag.”

  Chapter Nine

  Bobby looked at his phone. He couldn’t believe Daemon and Sage were going to remain in the house. What exactly did that mean? Were they planning on jumping Brewmeyer in his own home? That had to be the case. But with their masks on? They wanted an upfront reaction, to see the man’s terror or anger, and then to beat the teacher down. Simple burglary and vandalism was going to turn into home invasion and assault. Serious crimes, and those two weren’t the brightest when it came to being forensically careful. Besides all that, Bobby wanted a piece of the action, especially if his ass was on the line too. He’d be implicated and have charges against him as well. If he was going to be grouped in with them, then he was going to have his share of the good time and make sure they didn’t get caught.

  He wondered if he should remain outside. Daemon hadn’t said not to come in. Hadn’t told him to wait where he was. Then again, why should he listen to Daemon when he himself was the smartest of them?

  While deciding his best plan of action, he noticed that Brewmeyer exited his car and left it running with the lights on. Then as the school teacher went around to the back of his house, Bobby saw the metallic glint of steel appear in the man’s hands.

  Shit, Brewmeyer has a gun.
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br />   He quickly called Daemon again.

  “What?”

  “Dude, Brewmeyer’s got a gun. Get out of there.”

  “Nah, I think we’ll stay. I could use a new weapon.”

  “We can come back more prepared,” Bobby said.

  No reply.

  “Daemon?” He looked at his phone and saw that the call had ended.

  Damn it. He couldn’t just stay where he was and hope for the best, but he also didn’t want to get his ass blown away because his friends were morons. Unless Daemon had found a gun in the house… If that was the case, maybe Daemon thought he could get a jump on the guy.

  The whole point of them coming to Brewmeyer’s was to piss the guy off by fucking up the man’s car. Now they had an opportunity to not only piss him off, but beat him up. He was good with that. Brewmeyer had it coming. It hadn’t been planned out, but he could make it work. Guns easily led to killing. Something like that should be planned. Strictly planned. Murder involved forensics. It was taken way more seriously than breaking and entering and assault.

  A light came on in Brewmeyer’s Cadillac as the door opened. A young woman stepped out and shut the door behind her. A lighter sparked to life, briefly revealing the female’s pretty face before the glow of a cigarette cast her face in an eerie orange firelight.

  Bobby knocked the surgical cap off his head as he ran his fingers through his long hair. Picking it up and putting it back on, he knew things were spiraling out of control. Another person entering the picture just made things more complicated. A gunshot or scream would cause the woman to call the cops.

  With no more time to contemplate what to do, he made sure the surgical mask was covering the lower part of his face and headed toward the woman.

  “Miss,” he said as he approached her.

  The young woman put a hand to her chest. “You almost scared the pee out of me, coming out of the dark like that.”

  Up close, the woman appeared even younger than he originally thought. A date for Brewmeyer she was not. He didn’t recognize her. She could be the man’s niece or a family friend. A student looking to better her grades. Either way, she was hot.