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A lot of thoughts are racing through my skull at this very moment. I have to come to terms with a lot of traumatic events, that have come to pass. I have been dragged off by Gary Holmes’ goons. I have been thrown into the back of a van and I have even met a fellow debtor inside said van. We, my new friend and Holmes’ goons went for a little ride. My new friend and I got dragged out and were told to get down on our knees. Standard stuff for the goons perhaps, foreplay to a beating I would have guessed, but I still struggle with the whole concept of my kidnapping and ending up in a van. I owe Holmes twenty large ones, I have for some time. The situation isn’t exactly ideal, I thought, when goon number three kicked me in the shins and forced me into a kneeling position. What followed wasn’t a beating, I am sad to say. Negotiations between my new friend, the follow debtor, and the leader of the goons did not start out pretty. I didn’t actually know the goon, but I had heard about him. Holmes employed this morally challenged guy everybody called “The Clubber”. Well, he wasn’t really much of a dancer, I figured, so I can’t say, that I was surprised, when he pulled out a golfclub. My “friend” began to plead with The Clubber. Well, let us be fair here, it perhaps started out as coherent pleading, but soon degenerated into what you might call the crying game. Sobbing, crying, snot and the whole platter of spare me, please, for the sake of my ten kids, and my sick grandmother. The Clubber was not a fan, I caught on to that halfway through the whole scene, but somehow “my friend” didn’t seem to notice it, then again, one could argue, that he was under a certain amount of strain, that had a negative effect on his powers of observation. The first strike hit the poor guy right between the eyes, quite a feat, if I am to be honest. What happened after that is limited to what I heard, since I chose to close my eyes at that very point. My “friend” didn’t really scream out as he was hit with the golfclub, he sort of spluttered and grunted. I doubt that it was a conscious choice, perhaps more a simple physical reaction to the blow. The Clubber apparently hit the poor guy two or three times after the first blow. I am frankly guessing here since, like I mentioned earlier, I closed my eyes. “Now.” The Clubber said, breathing somewhat laboured after the sudden, shall we say, workout. “It’s your turn.” I took a breath through the nose and opened my eyes. The Clubber was sweating profusely. I had, what I like to call a sudden mental fart, a nonsensical mental picture, a playback of a sports commercial; a guy sweating like The Clubber standing here before me, and then, the cut to a slogan; Just do it!. I guess, that is what you call an occupational hazard. You see, I am a marketing guy, or I used to be a marketing guy. I worked in a small marketing firm before the market imploded in the recent economic climate and the firm went belly up. I got fired, and for some reason I chose to turn to gambling as an economic alternative to standing behind a fastfood counter, or pumping gas for a pittance. It worked out, for three months, that is, then things got messy. Well, long story short, because time is of the essence now, I guess, I ended up out here. Oh, and out here, is a rather loose term, for what I would guess is somewhere near the interstate 80, just outside Reno. Me and my buddy Gunnar, yes that is his name, his family was from Norway or whatever, would sometimes drive out to the middle of nowhere and smoke funny stuff. We would do it all through college, sometimes Timmy Vaughn would join us, but most of the time it was just Gunnar and my humble self somewhere around these parts. It is funny, what you remember, when you have a guy, with a golfclub in his hands, standing over you. “I guess,” the Clubber continued. “I could finish you right here, right now, while I am up and running, but I like to give the people, I kill, an option if they can remain”¦” He took a deep breath, as to demonstrate the concept. “..Calm, and not go totally nuts!” I nodded, since I felt, that a basic demonstration of my mental acuity was expected on some level, although I still had a gag in my mouth. “Good!” he said, and appeared to be honestly pleased. “Now, don’t misunderstand me, I am going to kill you,” he explained. “This is not a negotiation, I have been paid to make a point, and I am going to do, what I was paid to do.” He took a breather, and studied me. “Do you understand?” I nodded again. “Good, I will now remove your gag.” He did so. “Normally I give my victims the choice between the club or the gun.” I didn’t say anything, but I couldn't help myself, and glanced to the side at my former fellow debtor. The Clubber saw that glance and sighed. “Yeah, well nobody is perfect, I can only say that the heat these last couple of days has been bugging me.” He twirled the golfclub absently in his hand, while he said this, and I must admit, that I felt uneasy and perhaps tried to inch away a bit. He didn’t seem to notice that, he just continued in a conversational tone. “Then when he started to whine like a dog, I guess I lost it.” He looked down at me again and I nodded. “I would say that you would prefer to go out the easy way, with a gun to your head, am I right?” He said it like we were having a normal civilized conversation between two adults. “Yes,” I managed to push out between my lips. He nodded, with a matter of fact expression on his face, self satisfied, a salesman arguing the pros and cons of a given product, and in the end able to get the customer around to his point of view. “Very good!” He dropped the club on the ground and in a fluid motion grabbed behind his back and pulled out a 38’ revolver. Time seemed to slow down to a crawl as I saw the gun in his hand. My brain went into overdrive, not panic as such but something like it. A hiccup perhaps, followed by a sudden shot of adrenaline, as my own mortality morphed from a purely academic brainteaser into a more acute proposition. I had a sudden flashback from when Rudy Ginsmoore told me to, and I quote: “Eat shit and die,” in second grade. She got a reprimand from the teacher for that remark, I think, but I cannot remember why she said it. “Any last words?” The Clubber asked. I mulled that over for a second or two while trying to get rid of the picture of Rudy Ginsmoore with pigtails and a frown in my minds eye. I think she moved to California and became a lawyer. “I can’t seem to think of anything,” I muttered. “Is that common?” I asked, while the world around me became smaller and smaller. My vision seemingly adjusting its focus to the tool of my untimely demise, that black 38’ revolver in The Clubbers hand. “Well,” he began, but I cut him short. “They should rather call you The Golfer,” I said with a hoarse voice. “The Clubber sounds so”¦” “So what?” he asked, his head tilting slightly to the side, a motion the gun in his hand imitated. “So MTV, so Jersey Shore, you know?” The Clubber blinked at me and then seemingly tried to familiarize himself with my line of thinking. “Hmm, you might have a point there,” he muttered. He raised the gun. “So, is that it, mister? Your last words?” I shrugged my shoulders as well as I could. What could I say, to him or anybody here, for that matter? He cocked the hammer back and I looked into the barrel. You might laugh, but do you know what my last thought was? “Say cheese.” I might even have been trying to smile, as the thought passed through my mind, then again, I could be mistaken. | ||||||||||||||
 | Fessor Frederik | 2015-02-11 13:51:13 |
Thanks, I am not really sure what the correction of "became" should be but I will keep my finger on it. The piece is by no means perfect, but then again it isn't really meant to be, I see it as an exercise of sorts. a days work to keep my english in shape. I also wonder what might go through someones mind in situations like that, when you are confronted with your own mortality, be it a shooting, an accident or something different. Do you panic? go blank? or does your brain throw random bits at you in an effort to do one last sprint before the lights go out? Especially in this modern age where death in largely remains hidden, how does one deal with the concept when suddenly confronted with it on such a personal level?
Sorry, I am blabbering;)
oh and i seem to have deleted your comment by accident Haleløs - sorry!
Sorry, I am blabbering;)
oh and i seem to have deleted your comment by accident Haleløs - sorry!
| haleløs | 2015-02-11 14:04:06 |
that's okay! And yes - interesting questions! (became = shrunk / faded / turned into ... ) ;)
| Fessor Frederik | 2015-02-11 14:09:09 |
Glad to hear that. Faded - doesn't work for me - implies that he looses focus, shrunk might work, since that connects to tunnelvision and ties into the barrel of the gun...I'll chew on that:)
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