The Subtle Art of Brutality

“Whoooooooo...are you? Great song.” A cough, a hesitation. “Let me ask you this

: how can you put a man in charge whose family sold bullets to the Germans in World War II?”

“The fuck are you talking about?” the man asked. From his knees, he backed away, tried to stand. “You’re crazy.”

The gun smashed hard against his skull. “How ’bout I crazy your brains all over the fucking wall?”

Now his hands came out. The full Southern Baptist picture.

“No, no.” Voice high and scared like a school girl’s. “Ain’t what I meant. What I mean was...that yeah, you’re right. He can’t be in charge. World War I or II, or III or what the fuck ever.”

The gun sagged. “Dude, agreeing with me ain’t gonna help. I mean, nice try, grabbing whatever you can, but you don’t understand me. You don’t have the intellect.” Tap-tap-tap of the gun against skull. “So stop embarrassing yourself and tell me where the Judge is.”

“What judge?”

“Bean. With two y’s.”

The gun caressed his ear, barrel along his lobe, then dragging a line along his throat, as though through the ease of touch the information would come pouring from this rat of a man. There had been rats up and down the hot part of America, the brown part of America with all those Mexicans, and the touch had worked with most of them.

Yeah, those people were all dead now, ’s why the magazine was running short, but the touch had mostly worked. Never totally, no one gave up the Judge’s precise location, which they all obviously knew, how could they not, but the circle was drawing tighter, wasn’t it?

When it was tight enough, a noose so elegant even a hangin’ judge would love it, the air would be bathed in the nasty stench gunpowder and blood, of piss and the man’s shit.

“I want the Judge.”

A giggle leaked from the man’s thin lips, just like the piss had from his dick. “We all do, gangsta.”

“Maybe, but I’m gonna get him. Where is he?”

“Swear to God, I don’t know. I haven’t seen him in months.”

“Goddamnit, are you people all so fucking stupid? All of you know where he is. Why is everyone screwing with me? I am not to be screwed with. I am dangerous. I’m a killer.”

His hands came out again. “Easy, gangsta. I’m on your side. I’m saying, the Judge screwed lots’a people. Jesus Christ, I think any of us would dig getting a hand on him.”

“Careful, gangsta, blasphemers don’t do well with me.”

“I get’cha. No problem.” Slowly, the man stood. “I’ll help you find him. Let me get a few bucks outta him, and I’ll hand you more bullets...long as you put one in his brain.”

“When was the last time you saw him?”

The man shrugged. “Five, maybe six, months.”

“Who saw him after you?”

“How the crap would I know that? But I heard he was in Barefield.”

A laugh floated out from behind the gun. A scratchy, sloppy sound. “I sent a package there, asshole. He hasn’t worked in Barefield since Joseph P. bought the White House from the mob in Chicago.”

The man’s eyes flashed. “Not working, at least not wearing the robes. Way I heard it, just a couple days old, Bean was hot and bothered about a poker game. Thought maybe he’d finally find whatever the fuck it is he’s been pissing about for four years.”

Smiled. “Well, we all make sacrifices in one way or another. But not Moses and his ageless wives. It was all of a piece, wasn’t it?

“Uh...sure.” The man nodded. “Listen, word was, a few days back, at some other game in Victoria, he was getting all worked up about some chick. Kept saying just wanted to be done, wanted to get back to her. Freaked the guys at the game out.”

“Her...who?”

The man shrugged. “I guess his dead wife. I hear he talks to her all the time. Guy is completely buzzfucked.” He raised his hands conspiratorially. “Find a guy called Echo. A smoke hound, runs stolen shit outta his garage. West side somewhere. The Judge grew him up, kept him straight and narrow when Echo’s mama was dead or dying or some shit.”