Jay Booth moved through the Pacific Ocean carefully as he covertly crept closer to his prey. His bare feet felt the sand as his hands held two knives. He was a tall, lean, muscular man with short black hair and dark inimical eyes set in a cruel face. His gun was in a waterproof bag for back up. His targets were close now. Three long haired surfers were moving in the moonlight. All were well built and heavily tattooed. Days ago, he'd crashed their beach side bonfire. The trio told him to leave. Shoves ensued and they concussed in combat, unleashing exchanges of fists and feet. The pack's jingoistic attacks jarred and harmed him in a blender of blows. He bowled a burly bully over by kicking and sticking his boot in one's snoot. He bobbed back from the other pair of pugnacious pugilists pelting him. He delivered a clout breaking one's snout with an audible grunt and crunch from the punch. Bloody DNA debris spattered from the maimed man's busted nose. The triad tried to snag Booth in holds and bung him with blows. He was flattened on his back from the impact as two tormentors tackled him. Finally fed up from the unfair fight, Booth's knife swiped, stabbing a shoulder and hacking a hand. The mob of manic men scattered from his steel gleaming and streaking at them. He spat out a chip from one back tooth that was split from a hit. The party people called the cops and he had to flee the fray without delay.
Tonight was payback. One of the surfers nearby didn't see him until Booth transfixed his torso to the board with a smooth stab that lacerated his liver. Booth's other blade jabbed through his jugular and that throat stroke pumped blood in great gouts into the ocean. Booth cruised like a shark after his next target paddling on a board. Booth's knife spiked through his target's back, pinning him to the board. Booth's other blade needled the man's neck, cleaving the carotid artery. The dying man made ghastly gurgles while his blood flooded out into the ocean. His third foe detected the threat and madly paddled toward shore. The guy reached shallow water and got off his board, but got hung up on his board line around his ankle. Booth procured his pistol from his pouch and poked it after the man's back. He tapped the trigger twice. One bullet belted the guy's back shoulder and floored him facedown. He rolled over looking up in Booth's barrel.
"I can pay you thousands of dollars and a bunch of dope! Just don't kill me! I'm a dealer and I won't go to the cops!" the surfer pleaded for his life.
"Go on." Booth encouraged him.
"I live less than a mile up the beach and have at least six grand in cash there and a bunch of coke, heroin, and pot. It's all yours if you let me live." he offered urgently.
"How many roommates do you have?"
"One. He's dead out there. You just killed him." The guy looked ready to cry." No one's there now."
"OK. Get up and walk." Booth gestured with his gun.
The guy got up and hobbled ahead. He moved well for a guy with a 22-round drive in his back shoulder. Silently they hiked until he stopped in the sand pointing at his place." There it is."
"Move." Booth ordered." Pull out your keys." Booth frowned at the dark house with all the shades drawn to hide its inside.
The guy unzipped his short's pocket pulling out his keys. Near his backdoor he fished out his house key. Booth smacked the back of his skull, staving him senseless. Booth grabbed the keys. There were only a few to choose from. He softly tried two before the third unlocked the deadbolt and he entered. There was only faint visibility from a bathroom nightlight down the hall. A blur of low movement occurred as a pit bull chomped into his ankle while savagely shaking its huge head. He was yanked down and he shot several times, burying bullets in its blocky body. It yipped and fell over dying. Pounding feet on floorboards flew in as a guy with a gun sprung into the kitchen. Booth's prone position saved him from the shower of blooming buckshot pellets that pulverized plaster and plywood above him. Booth's 22 cracked sharply several times tracing and lacing the gunner's silhouette. One rimfire round found his heart and others lambasted his lungs. He dropped dead.
Limping on his injured ankle, Booth rapidly ransacked the residence. He found the cash and dope. He heard sirens and split the slaughter scene. When he ran back in the sand, he found the fellow he'd drubbed down gone. Booth smiled at the irony. He told the guy that he'd let him live for the money and drugs. He'd told the truth without meaning to.
8 Days Later
In Tijuana, Mexico, Booth's world rained fire.
A rocket jetted and detonated, trashing a drug filled truck in an inferno. Shrapnel slashed past Booth to rip open another man. Another rocket sailed on a fiery tail to tank another truck in a conflagration cloud that clubbed more men and made one madly thrash as he danced dying on fire. AK-47s chattered and bullets battered bodies, lashed limbs, and hewed heads. Deep in a ditch, Booth aimed through his scope. His crosshairs covered culprits as he repeatedly squeezed short sprays from his rattling rifle. He picked and pinned people and kept lowering the rifle after its rise from recoil. His salvoes were superb three round spurts. Bullets tore turf as they carved too close to him from one shooter. Booth rolled over and scanned the slope through his scope. Dust stirred as Booth shredded the shooter's skull in an extended outflow of ammo. A RPG plunged on plumes and found ground behind him to hurl high two of his teammates torn asunder. Booth spotted the RPG user on the forest hill behind a tree tracking and trouncing targets. Booth's scope reticle touched the target's tree and he broadcasted a buzzsaw of bullets tearing through the tree to tag and body bag the guy behind it. That seemed to turn the tide of battle. The enemy was running behind the ridge back into the denser forest foliage. Booth waited awhile before he joined the others milling about. He approached Danny.
Danny was a good looking Latino that used to visit. Chicago to see his mom from the time he was a kid until she died. Booth and he had remained buddies since childhood.
"I knew you'd earn your money." Danny praised him.
"So that's the rival cartels soldiers trying to take over your uncle's territory?" Booth asked.
"Yep." Danny agreed." Someone on our side is tipping them off because not many knew about this big shipment. You'll be we'll rewarded my friend. I saw your shooting."
"They weren't so tough." Booth scoffed. Danny was a buddy that he'd called out of desperation. Danny offered him a job as a bodyguard working for his cartel boss uncle's drug trafficking operation near Tijuana, Mexico.
Danny laughed. "We're gonna party tonight. Hookers and drinks are on me."
"I'm there." Booth agreed.
***
My buddy Jack hit it rich at the casino. He wanted to go to Tijuana, Mexico because a bunch of college girls were gathering there for spring break. Jack was a short and slim, decent looking white guy. He was nervous about going alone. I was a big muscular buddy of his that had protected him often since childhood, so he invited me for both company and protection. He offered to fund our fun and it was an offer I couldn't refuse. I found a dog sitter for Bo and went to Mexico. It was actually a blast. Jack and I hit all the parties we could manage. We even scored with some very fine, frisky females.
It was my first night in that Tijuana club when Booth crossed my path. It was like karma brought us together. At close range we recognized each other instantly. We were both briefly startled. Then he smiled maliciously and pulled a pistol from the small of his back. I skipped in and smashed my glass pitcher in his face. Diamond-like fragments flew everywhere. Jagged shards shaved his face into a red ruin. I grabbed his gun before it leveled on me. I used the glass handle still in my hand, glittering with edges, to flay his forearm open. Blood and the gun fell on the floor as his fingers lost feeling from severed nerves and tendons. He was bloody blind when my fist jumped in his jaw, followed by a foot I stuck in his stomach. He landed on his ass, looking confused as he tried mopping blood from his eyes.
Two armed bouncers bulled into our bout with guns out. I put my hands up. Booth tried to rise and dive at one for his gun. The other bouncer's gun banged a batch of GSR out as the shot clocked Booth's shoulder, spilling him over. My buddy Jack rushed in and used his smooth Spanish to tell the bouncers who and what Booth was. Jack insisted I was innocent and legit, but they weren't buying it. They called for cops and an ambulance. I sat down to wait it out because the armed bouncers weren't letting Booth or me go. Booth made two more attempts to jump up and was whacked back down both times from gun butts conking his head horribly hard. He was bleeding like a scarlet sieve from scalp to chin from the glass gashes I gave him.
Cops and medics arrived timely to everyone's surprise. The cops took our word about Booth being wanted for many murders in America. They cuffed him up and put him in the squad car. They did record runs on Booth, Jack and me. Jack and I were fine. But they found a grainy photo of Booth with prints and DNA in the international computer system believed to be his from multiple murder scenes in Illinois, Wisconsin and Michigan. Booth had gotten around even more than I knew. The cops insisted we accompany them for a full check and to give them reports. We couldn't argue about our American legal rights in Mexico.
At the station they took our prints and did DNA swabs. After about three hours the cops released us. Booth was kept cuffed with multiple cops watching him as he went from surgery to a recovery room and eventually to jail. I had trouble enjoying the rest of my vacation. I was deeply impressed at the way fate had flung me into Booth's path in another country. He was returned to Illinois to face his slew of homicides and rapes charges;
He made an odd request through his lawyer. He was willing to plead out to most of the charges if I would speak with him. The DA's office approached me through my last lawyer. I really didn't want to do it. I hated the freak for murdering Paulie. Idalia, and others I’d known. Not to mention shooting my dog Bo and trying to kill me. My lawyer convinced me to do it by pointing out that someone like me could benefit by being in the good graces of the DA's office and that I could use it to write a book about the whole experience. I agreed and went to see him. We visited through a Plexiglas over a phone. The wounds on his face from my glass slash looked horrendous.
"You look scarier." I blurted.
"Thanks to you." he grumbled.
"Why'd you want to see me?" I asked simply
"How’d you find me in Mexico?" he wanted to know
"Bad luck. I went there for spring break with my buddy to pick up chicks. What the hell were you doing there?" I frowned.
"I took a job as a bodyguard for my buddy Danny there. His uncle is a cartel boss. We came to party with the drunk college girls. So you and I both met up while we were partying and after pussy?" he seemed in disbelief.
"Yep. Small world. "I mused.
"That night that you threw a block through my car window, how'd you know I was in that vehicle?"
"You were taking hits of crack while waiting. Your lighter flashes revealed you." I explained.
"Damn." he ruefully cursed.
"Why'd you kill Paulie?" I wondered.
"I was trying to kill you. He stepped in the way."
"Why'd you kill Idalia?"
"Bitch ripped me off and you weren't home. She was a consultation prize."
"Why'd you want to kill me so much?"
"Hate. You hurt and humiliated me. I wanted revenge. But you kept getting lucky. Like with your dog catching me coming in your window. Did the dog die?"
"Nope. He's doing fine." I smiled.
Booth cursed.
"Why'd you do all this killing?" I had to ask.
"I have a growing malignant tumor in my brain. I’ll likely be dead before the year is over. Before that I'll likely go nuts and not even know who I am anymore. I was planning on being shot dead by cops or someone else."
"Why all the freaky rape/torture stuff?"
"That's what turns me on. I'm dying so I had nothing left to lose." he shrugged.
"Aren't you afraid of going to hell?"
He laughed." There's no heaven or hell. There isn’t any God or devil. No angels or demons. No afterlife. We don't have souls. We live and die and that's it."
"What if you're wrong?"
"I'm not." He seemed certain.
We talked a little more. Our conversation took on a civil, but surreal tone. After I left, he obeyed his agreement pleading to many of the charges. But within 4 months he'd gone nuts and was murdered. The tumor robbed him of his identity and memories. Another inmate shanked him sixteen times, executing him. I hope he ended up in hell.
Bio:
Tom Kropp’s work has appeared in Chiron Review, Short-Story Me, Churches, Children and Daddies, Down in the Dirt, The Horror Zine, Flash Phantoms, Blood Moon Rising, Freedom Fiction Journal, Phantomania, Dark Harbor, Lowlife Lit, The Listening Eye, J Journal, Evening Street Review, Conceit, Freedom Fiction, Spotlight on Recovery, Muscle and Fitness, Outdoor Life and many other magazines. His play Jailhouse Confessions was performed at the Kennedy center in Washington, DC in 2019. You can find more of his writings at tomkropp.wordpress.com. He has many novels available free in audiobooks and eBooks at Google Play Books..