Blue Meat Blues Page 2

  Jesus.

  I hadn’t needed the work.

  I wasn’t starving. I wasn’t thirsty.

  I was only barely bored.

  But…

  We've got to assert our position in the food chain.

  Somehow… that false superiority was enough.

  Somehow I could sleep deep knowing that…

  I was the one in the dark with the knife.

  The figurative knife.

  I wish I had a knife.

  I organized the blues into a line across the table.

  Six blues, ten ounces of shine.

  One ounce of rough. I don’t know why I’d taken it. I hadn’t eaten in months.

  It was a slippery slope. If I let it get to me today it would be:

  "Just a snack. Like old times. Just to feel something in my stomach."

  And then tomorrow it would be:

  "Oh I felt so good yesterday, maybe I'll just have a little... a little each day. To take the edge off"

  And before you know it you're demanding your three square meals and your entire life starts to revolve around converting non-renewable proteins into waste.

  And you'd be no better than the ferals down by the river.

  …desperately attempting to resurrect the old world.

  I jammed the wad of rough down against the table and watched the dark red liquid splay out and then retreat into the shredded paper.

  I took a blue - wedged it behind my bottom lip and took a sip of shine.

  I would leave it there until it dissolved. Alternating sides. Already wearing massive ulcers in the cheeks. It hurt to talk.

  I thought it might be a metaphor.

  But I didn’t know who was making it.

  And here I am.

  Maybe thirty years old. Maybe forty. The tyre iron. All the amphetamines and shine I could possibly process.

  My right arm ached. A constant… delayed onset muscle soreness.

  Filling the meat-bin maybe once or twice a week.

  The enabler.

  The Lord gives…

  And I was the Lord…

  And the Lord taketh away…

  Again, I was the Lord.

  The metaphor didn’t sit comfortably with me.

  But it was better than empty violence.

  A narrative frame.

  I could sleep easily at night with a narrative frame.

  The bar was dark.

  Not a stylistic choice.

  The lamps let out a constant stream of smoke. The roof was heavy - bowing under the weight of solidified tar.

  Every month or so he would have me up there - digging away at it with the tyre iron. I’d toss the sheets of tar outside in great jagged chunks and it would bubble and hiss and evaporate into black vapor.

  I loved him, I guess. In my way. I called him Dad and he called me Son and we both knew it was slightly unnatural but that was the world in which we found ourselves.

  He stood behind the bar. Every thirty seconds he would run his hands through his wiry hair - erratic, falling down to his shoulders in stiff coils.

  His eyes were deep-set, his skin was thick and oily - standing broad and short with a wide chest and a stomach that curved down to thick legs.

  His fists were wide and swept by dark hair.

  Thick, short fingers with wide nails - he would fix that dark gaze on you - so deep you couldn’t see the whites of his eyes - and you just hoped… you would never have to feel those fingers on your neck.

  But he wasn’t like that.

  He wasn’t like that at all.

  He just polished that bar, cleaned the jars - tweaked the still and pushed a jar of shine across the bar.

  He was patient to the point of being ineffectual. He would nod with a gravity of understanding to whatever he heard - no matter how how toxic, how twisted-up with black-meat the statement.

  And I loved him for it.

  I loved him and scoffed.

  And those rare moments where he fixed those watery eyes on me and smiled…

  Well… aside from the shine and the rough and the lung-fuls of tobacco…

  Well that was enough.

  But I was his other half.

  I was the limits of his tolerance.

  When he had heard enough - when the demands become too dire - or when the situation started to become too real…

  He would throw his rag on the counter and walk away. Back amongst the stills and maybe up to the roof - through the black tobacco weeds and just look at the sky and shrug.

  And I would slip out from the booth… and make the problem go away.

  And there we were.

  Again.

  Dad was at the bar, grinding idle circles into the wood with a black scrap of material.

  I arranged the blues in front of me. Five. I centered them to the jar of shine.

  The blue against my cheek chewed at my tongue.

  I took a sip of shine and held it in my mouth.

  In the back corner of the bar were three men.

  I knew the men.

  I didn’t like the men.

  Muscles was propped in the corner of a booth. He had three pounds of rough in front of him… maybe more - three pounds of rough and a few slices of red meat, jamming them rhythmically into his mouth.

  He chewed with purpose. His muscles seemed to catch every sliver of light from the lamp, his skin was frictionless and wet.

  He was a foot taller than me. Maybe a foot-and-a-half. His blonde hair pulled back into a pony tail. His face suspiciously bald.

  The vein in his forehead beat at a steady pace.

  I didn’t trust that pace.

  What was he so relaxed about?

  The Kid pressed up beside him. He was slim and tall - I’d never heard him speak, but he had a wispy beard and wide brown eyes and I found it difficult to hate him.

  Still; I managed.

  He ran his finger along Muscles’ quadriceps and they were both clearly in love. I couldn’t imagine bringing the tyre iron down across his head.

  And then Junior. Ah, Junior.

  I tried to rationalize my feelings. Something big was happening. Something I couldn’t quite process.

  They were just men, after all. But they weren’t black-meat ferals. They weren’t just mercenaries looking for rough or shine or a slab of blue meat.

  I had seen them before.

  I had… ignored them before.

  But thinking back to that disturbing figure etched into the billboard; its old world messaging:

  “Be Human”

  …And looking across the bar at Junior with his well-combed hair and his clothes so suspiciously free of tar…

  His thin neck and thin fingers and somehow his jaw clenched with confidence… like he was holding onto something amazing that I just couldn’t grasp…

  I had a gnawing feeling that I had missed something critical…

  But here we were.

  And I lay the tyre iron across the table - tyre iron, blues and shine - perfectly aligned -

  And I tried to muster up some reason to walk over there and brain each and every one of them…

  But I couldn’t…

  Breathe.

  I looked across at Dad, absent-mindedly polishing the bar…

  But he offered no rationale.

  And for a moment, I felt impotent…

  And like some borderline gift from the new world - the door opened, and the tar-stained face of a black-meat feral glowed in the lamplight.

  He walked up to the bar - Dad still tracing obsessive circles on the wood - and I tongued the blue between my teeth.

  I looked at Junior, at Muscles, took another sip of shine and re-aligned the jar.

  I tried to find my heartbeat.

  Steady. Fast; But steady.

  The feral over the bar. He wore a heavy coat - patched and re-patched. The edges were stained red-brown.

  His boots were caked with tar. I couldn’t see his hands.

  He spoke in a lo
w voice that rolled over the bar like gravel. I couldn’t pick up what he was saying. His tone never wavered. A steady, grinding vibration.

  Dad stopped cleaning the bar and turned, stooping carefully behind the counter.

  The feral turned very slightly. A five degree adjustment. His right hand emerged from behind his body. His wrist was tense and low. The tendons shuddered beneath his skin.

  Dad stood; put a tray of shine down on the bar and adjusted it, loudly.

  Once.

  The artificial clarity of glass against glass.

  He adjusted it again.

  Twice.

  I slipped off my shoes, kicked them under the table and picked up the tyre iron.

  I eased myself from the booth and crouched low - rising up onto my toes. Blood surged from my stomach to my thighs, to my calves, to the balls of my feet.

  Junior, Muscles and the Kid were lost in some sort of incestuous and circular conversation. I couldn’t hear them, but I could see their faces stretch and relax.

  I took a few steps to the right and evaluated the feral. He rested a shanghai on the edge of the bar and had the rubber stretched across his body - holding the leather pouch low - against his hip.

  He was so close to Dad that he couldn’t possibly miss. Whatever was in that pouch - a hunk of metal, a handful of gravel, a rock, a ball bearing… Whatever it was would hurt, and hurt bad.

  My heartbeat picked up. I was invested.

  I pictured Dad’s brain slowly leaking over the counter as I held his head and struggled to find the right words to say.

  …or sprawled across the floor - the ball bearing cleanly through his eye and somewhere in his skull, drowning in air like a fish, and I knew I had to hold him but he was so alien and horrific and grey that I stood and watched with impotent panic.

  Dad; who seemed like he could never kill a man. Unless by proxy. Where I was that proxy.

  I shuffled toward the feral - low and quiet. I had a perfect line of sight to Dad. My face split into broad smile and he ducked behind the bar.

  I could feel a hot joy welling up in my chest and my stomach convulsed.

  The feral strained forward - trying to get an angle over the bar, and I dived at his knees, grabbing his ankle in my left hand and pulling his legs out from under him.

  He pitched forward - the shanghai flung out a chunk of metal that punched a ragged hole through the wall. His head crashed into the bar. A damp and hollow echo of bone to skin to wood.

  Before he had a chance to catch himself I flipped him over, grabbing his throat in my left hand.

  I flung a thigh across his torso and sat on his chest; knees pinning his shoulders to the floor.

  He bucked wildly. His forehead had split where he had come down on the bar. The deep gash wept brown.

  He clawed at my face - but I was slick with sweat and his nails didn’t catch my skin.

  Goodnight.

  His eyes opened wide. The capillaries writhed. I saw a thin line of saliva between his top and bottom teeth.

  He was screaming. A dry, mechanical scream. Constant and grinding.

  He strained and arched his back. I rode the momentum forward and brought the tyre iron down across his face.

  A fine plume of saliva burst into the air. The stench of meat and bile stuck to my face. I spat and lifted the tyre iron again.

  And all I could see were his wide dark eyes - his teeth, the mutual gashes from the bar and the tyre iron, blood pooling in his eye sockets.

  And I was cold and angry and my heart was beating so hard I thought the veins in my neck would explode.

  I raised the tyre iron. I felt deflated. There was no climax. No dramatic explosion. We slowly fade into brown liquid on the floor of some dive bar.

  And the floor dropped away. The light cut out.

  And the last thing I heard was the air rushing from my chest and the distant tinkling of broken glass against wood.

  The parking lot crawled frantic with black silhouettes. The air was thick with paint fumes. Car engines struggled to turn over, coughing up wet clumps of tar. The lucky few tail lights cast red streaks across the asphalt.

  The tar boiled in the light.

  I needed a ride.

  I couldn't recognize faces; features smothered by heavy chemical masks.

  Maybe the inherent goodness of humanity would shine through. Philanthropy and goodwill toward men.

  A paint-stripped sedan groaned to life. The pock-marked hood was eaten by tar, coughing black steam through open pores. The engine shuddered. Metal grinding against metal.

  I couldn't see the driver. Black smoke churned behind tar-slick windows.

  Some mad flesh-toned fish stirred pale fingers through the clouds.

  I stepped in front of the car and slapped the hood with my palm. The metal buckled, soft like paper.

  “Help me! Please!”

  I couldn't think of the words to say. I wasn't prepared for this.

  I couldn't remember feeling desperation before this. At least… I couldn't remember asking for help in desperation.

  The car lurched forward and scooped my legs below it. I fell hard on my back. The gravel bit into my spine. Warm tar embraced my skin.

  I dragged myself out from under the car and rolled to the side, trying to decide how to feel.

  The door opened, the driver folded out onto the asphalt, choking - coughing up bile. The splatters seemed luminous against the tar. Smoke poured out behind him. His face was stained purple.

  I pulled myself upright and watched him, doubled up, head sinking into his knees.

  “I need to borrow your car”

  The engine idled, groaning at intervals, shuddering violently.

  I climbed over his heaving shoulders and pushed myself into the driver’s seat. The interior light was on. The tar on my skin hissed. A burning, twisting pain sucked at my face, my forearms. The smell of burning hair choked my nostrils. Thick tendrils of smoke coiled from each pool of tar.

  I couldn't see. But the animal in me told me to run.

  I killed the light and the tar settled; skin still humming raw.

  The driver blindly grabbed at my leg. I tried to close the door but his wet torso was wedged behind it.

  I teased the accelerator and pushed him away with my foot. Grasping fingers locked onto the door handle.

  “Let go, goddamnit”

  The words spat from between my teeth, easily lost in the harsh groan of the engine.

  A heavy wave of tar fell and set the suspension rocking.

  Pale fingers dragged him up to his knees, wide animal face pushing two white eyes through tar. His mouth opened and closed, his pink tongue was obscene.

  Time to go home.

  I put my foot against his cheek and kicked, hitting the accelerator. The car leapt forward, his fingers slipped from the door handle, and a sick thud twisted my stomach as his body slid under the wheels.

  I couldn't see anything in the rear mirror. His body merged into the asphalt. Another wave in the rolling black.

  I shuddered and pulled the door closed. The brittle window fractured and pocks of glass fell onto my sleeve.

  I hit the indicator and pulled out onto the empty road.

  Creature of habit.

  His face was disturbingly close. I blinked and tried to focus.

  His breath was sweet. A smell I couldn’t place. Not sugar or honey. Something cloying.

  Muscles.

  His fists were balled around the collar of my jacket.

  Heavy thighs straddled my chest.

  I could feel the warm of his skin through my jacket.

  I was on the floor. I could feel a dull ache in my side.

  Something wet.

  I tried to orient myself.

  My eyes rolled.

  Focus.

  Muscles - inches from my face.

  The Kid and Dad tucked away behind the bar - was that mock concern or real concern?

  And Junior; holding the feral in a headlock. Bl
ood ran down the feral’s face and over Junior’s forearm.

  He didn’t look concerned.

  Vague recollections of Hepatitis.

  My hands were empty. I tried to reach out but there was a knee on each wrist.

  “Settle down”

  Muscles. That sweet breath.

  “Go fuck yourself”

  My words were hollow and my voice cracked.

  An automated response.

  I cleared my throat.

  “Go fuck yourself”

  Slightly better.

  He looked back at Junior. Junior looked at me. I could only vaguely see his face. I didn’t like what I saw. All overfed confidence and youth.

  “Up, Up… Get him up”

  He gestured with his free hand.

  Muscles stood and jerked me to my feet. I staggered backward but even gravity couldn’t shake his grip.

  Blinking; I tried to clear my head. My eyes were dry. The blue had long dissolved and I felt empty and frustrated.

  Muscles and Junior bisected my field of view.

  “You”

  Me?

  Junior thrust a tar-stained finger at my face. Fingernails disturbingly neat. Brown; but neat.

  “This”

  He gestured with one hand to the feral. Blood still ran over his forearm.

  He pulled a brown wad of paper from his pocket and spread it in the palm of his hand. It was thin; semi-transparent in the light. He held it to his face and squinted.

  “We are arresting this man. And…”

  His mouth worked over the words. He rubbed his eyes and shifted the paper.

  I looked from Muscles to Junior.

  The feral stared at nothing; dead milky eyes.

  I cleared my throat and tried to stand up; quietly thankful for the immovable fists at my chest.

  “And what?”

  “We are the law, now. We are… bringing law… now.”

  My eyebrows leapt automatically. The corners of my lips twitched.

  ”No more murder, no more violence…”

  He paused and waited for some kind of feedback. I said nothing. My chest was growing hot.

  ”Justice. Peace. Humanity.”

  He dumped the words on the bar and they sounded archaic and childish. His face was soft and his eyes were wet.

  And the feral looked up at Junior with thankful eyes.

  Nausea.

  I tried to laugh but my chest was too tight - my lungs were trying to smother my heart.