The Winner: Part Twenty-nine

The cell phone Burke gave to me has been ringing for some time, but I’ve just been staring at it in a half-asleep, half-awake daze. I set the ringer to the Beethoven’s Ninth ringtone. I must have been in an ironic mood when I set my harbinger of doom to the “Ode to Joy”.

Anyway, the electronic classical abruptly ends. A few seconds later it announces NEW VOICEMAIL, and 3 MISSED CALLS. Then it stays silent for maybe thirty seconds before another incoming call starts the music again. This time, I drowsily pick it up and press the SEND button. “I’m sleeping.”

“It’s nine-thirty,” Burke says. “You can’t afford to be asleep or to dodge any more of my calls. All I have to do is press send on a text message I’ve already got punched in and you, the stripper, her children, and your mother will all die.”

“You’ve told me that a million times already,” I cough. My mouth feels dry, like it’s glued shut with saliva. “Just let me sleep another fifteen minutes.”

“Seeing as this is the day you’re going to die, I figured you’d want to savor every last breath. I figured you’d at least like to see one last sunrise.”

“What’s there to savor about life?” I grunt, sitting up in my pile of blankets I have laid out across the floor. “As far as I’ve seen, life is a great big steaming pile of shit.”

Burke chuckles. “Haven’t you ever heard the old maxim that the world is what you make of it?”

Har-de-har-har. “Well, it’s too late for me to do anything about that now, isn’t there?”

“Yes, I suppose it is,” Burke says. “Listen, I’d love to talk with you, the condemned, about life the universe and everything, but it’s the big day and we’re on a tight schedule. I’ve sent some men to pick up the stripper at your apartment. They will be at your door in twenty minutes to escort her to an undisclosed location where her children will be released to her.

“Five minutes after the men have left, go downstairs from your apartment. The limousine the Secret Service has sent to pick you up will be there to drive you to the country club. Please take a quick shower and shave and dress presentably. You will be provided with casual wear at the club to wear on the course.”

“Don’t worry. I shaved and showered the other night and I’m gonna wear the suit you assholes left for me at the Brown Palace,” I say. I don’t tell him that the pants of that suit have a huge cumstain next to the crotch. However, you can’t really see it when I button up the jacket, so I didn’t waste money getting it dry cleaned. “So I guess I’ll be downstairs in twenty-five minutes, dressed and with my golf clubs, ready to go. Oh wait…I don’t own any golf clubs. It looks like your plan is fucked.”

Burke laughs. “Oh my god! Six months of meticulous planning and I forgot one little detail that will bring everything to a crashing halt! What am I gonna do, massa? Slap my ‘fro!”

That sonofabitch is mocking me. Well, we’ll see who has the last laugh today.

“Just do as your told, cracker boy. Be ready. It’s game time.”

And the phone goes dead. It’s game time…what a fucking homo, but I’m still too sleeper to properly sneer at his idiotic phrase.

As I climb out of my nest of blankets, I go into the bedroom where Apple is sleeping. Or at least is supposed to be asleep. She’s sitting in the chair, staring out at the window at the midmorning sun. I hadn’t bothered tying her to the bed last night. I was betting that her desire to get her children back would keep her from running off and telling the police. Guess it paid off. I pick up the last dose of methadone from where I hid it in the corner, as well as the bottle of asthma medication.

“Apple…”

Her head snaps in my direction, like I’ve startled her. “What? What’s going on?”

“It’s time. The men who are going to take you to get your children are going to be here real soon.” I pop open the childproof cap on the bottle and shake out five pills. She needs to be awake, but not jittery. “Here. Take your medication.”

She pops all of the pills right away, then washes it down with the thimble of methadone. “Do you have a shot?” she asks after swallowing the pills. “I could really use one right now? I’m so scared.”

I shake my head. “No. I’m all out. Besides, you need to have your head clear to get through today. Now, you remember everything you have to do, right?”

“I get my kids. I take a cab to the bus station. I call you by two-thirty from the payphone in the corner. If anyone is following me or forcing me to do something, I say ‘I’ll see you on Friday’ into the phone. Then, I get on the bus to Oklahoma and call you again when I get there so you can send me some money. Is that everything?”

“Yes. Very good,” I say as I pet the back of her head (although the part about me even being able to send her money when this is all over is pretty much a no-go at this point). “Here, get dressed. Those people are going to be here real soon.”

I start getting up when Apple suddenly snatches my hand. “You promise this is really gonna all be over after today?”

“Yes,” I say reflexively, although that’s more of a hope than a promise at this point. All the pieces are in place. There’s nothing more that can be done except to see this through and hope that everything happens as I planned it. I will either be dead or spending the rest of my days in a cell in Guantanamo Bay. And while that hardly sounds like an ideal outcome to most people, at this point, it sounds almost relaxing. I’ll have no worries except my day-to-day existence. No future to worry about, no past to worry about catching up to me since it will have already caught up. At least on this trip to prison, I won’t have to deal with being butt raped since the terrorists locked up in there don’t seem to hyped on the man on man thing.

Apple still hasn’t let go of my hand while I let my mind wander through my future of open-air cells in sunny Cuba. “Poopy, I have to tell you something.”

“Well, hurry and tell me because they’re gonna be here soon.”

She takes a deep breath. “I hate you…”

“Thanks, is that it?”

“No, let me finish. I hate you, but it’s more than that. Since you came into my life, everything seems to be going bad. I lost my job as a stripper, my boyfriend went missing, my children were kidnapped. I can barely even remember the last few weeks. Just a few days ago, I wanted to do nothing more than die. But I had a thought last night. It was one of those big thoughts, you know, an important thought…”

“An epiphany?” I say. I want get this maudlin shit over with so I can get ready.

“Yeah, what you said: an epiphany. I realized that my life was shit long before you ever came into my life and the more I thought about it, it’s been shit for as long as I remember. And when you came into my life, it was like you broke the dam of shit that has been building up in my life…”

“Okay,” I say, not knowing where this is going. “And?”

“Poopy, you made me realize that I’m shit. I’m a shitty woman. I’m a shitty mother. I lead a shitty life. I’m less than garbage. And while part of me hates you for showing me that, another part of me wants to thank you for showing me what I really am. I just don’t know what to feel any more.”

She starts crying. Fuck. I gotta say something so she can pull it together. Those guys are gonna be here soon.

“Apple, you’re not shit. You just got stuck in a shitty situation. I feel bad about what’s happened, even though most of it isn’t my fault, but I want to help you…you know…climb out of the shit and continue on as you did before. Maybe you can redeem yourself and maybe stop being such a shitty person. Which is not to say that I think you’re nearly as shitty as you keep saying you are but…aw fuck…I’m just talking in circles here. Listen, just get through today and everything else afterwards should be peachy keen, okay?”

“You…you promise?”

“Yes. For the second time, I promise you everything will be fine. Now will you please get up and get dressed? You’re gonna have to go soon.”

Apple keeps on crying, but at least she does get up and starts to put on the clothes I have laid out for her. I throw on the suit. Since it’s the last decent thing I have to wear any more, I left it folded neatly so I wouldn’t have to pay to get it pressed. Besides the cum stain on the front, I think it should look acceptable enough to not throw up any red flags. I still feel sluggish and barely awake after I put it on. Unfortunately, I don’t have enough time to dash out to Starbucks and waste the last five dollars I have to my name on some burnt, overpriced coffee, so I take four tablets of the asthma medication I’ve been feeding Apple to get her conscious and dry swallow them. It feels like they only get half way down my esophagus before getting stuck, so I start swallowing my spit trying to force them the rest of the way down into my stomach.

I hear a knock at the door to the apartment. Has it really been twenty minutes already? I look over at Apple who is pacing the carpet in front of the window. “They’re here. Are you ready?”

“I think so.”

“Do you remember everything you’re supposed to do?”

“Yes.”

I wave her over to the living room. “Come on then.”

Whoever is at my door keeps pounding incessantly. “I’m here! Fucking quit it!” I yell as I slide off the chain and undo the bolt. The door opens before I can touch the knob and in strolls the goatee guy and his buddy from the car.

“Please, come in,” I say as I close the door behind them.

I look at goatee guy and say, “Long time, no see,” then I stick my hand out to him. He instinctively reaches out to shake it, until at the last moment he pulls away, remembering where that hand was the last time he saw me. I grin at his disgust.

“Is this the woman?” the goatee guy growls.

“What? No ‘Hello’, ‘How have you been?’”

He is not taking kindly to my fucking with him, and he shows it by opening up his jacket and unholstering his Sig Sauer with a silencer screwed into the barrel. His thumb brushes the safety menacingly.

“I’ll ask you again, is that her, Mr. Peanutz?” he says, gesturing towards Apple.

“Who the fuck else would it be?”

Apple speaks up. “Are you gonna take me to my kids?”

Goatee guys says nothing. With his other hand, he pulls a black shroud out of his jacket pocket and tosses it at Apple’s chest. “Put that on and we’ll go.”

I snort. “That’s a bright idea. I’m sure no one will notice you leading a woman with a black hood over her head out of an apartment complex at gunpoint.”

“Let us worry about that, faggot,” he says, then looks over at Apple. “Put that on now or I’m leaving and dumping your kids in the river in a Hefty bag, bitch.”

Apple winces at the thought. She finds the opening to the shroud and starts putting it on her head. Before she pulls it down over her eyes, she looks at me says quietly.

“I love you Poopy Peanutz.”

At this point, I figure I should say something like, “I love you too” but I’m too speechless. Of all the things I expected her to say to me at this moment, this was the one I never expected her to say. She pulls the shroud over the rest of her face and Goatee guy sticks his pistol back in his holster and marches over to her. He grabs her by the elbow and starts leading her through the door. I think she’s about to lose her balance, but after stumbling a few steps, she’s walking just fine and goes up and out the door. I listen to their footsteps as they walk down the hall and the ring of the elevator as they call it to our floor.

I feel something swelling in my chest, realizing that this will be the last time I will ever see Apple. I’m so absorbed in this thought that I don’t realize that the driver is still in the room with me.

“Remember to be downstairs in five minutes, Peanutz,” he says. He walks to the door, then reaches down to the side and lifts a large bag and places it in the room. “When you go, take these with you.”

It’s a bag of golf clubs. Go figure.

The driver leaves, graciously closing the door behind him. I look at the LCD clock on the microwave just as the minute changes. I’ve got four minutes now. What do I do with these four minutes? Well, I really have to take a piss, so I go walk back through the path of trash in my apartment to the bedroom, unzip and let it loose. I don’t even bother to lift up the seat since I’m never coming back to this place again. I only bought this place a few months ago and I already miss it.

I finish up and shake the last few droplets of urine off my schlong (they inevitably miss the toilet bowl and end up as tiny dark wet spots on my trousers). Looking at the toilet, my guts start growling and I realize I could really take a dump right now as well, even though I can’t. In fact, if I even hope to survive today, I’ve got to hold off on that part, at least for the time being.

I hoped that taking a piss would eat up more time, but when I walk back in to the living room, the clock says it only took me one minute. Even though when I leave here, it inevitably either means my death or permanent imprisonment, I still feel anxious to leave. I stand there and the clock ticks off another minute. I pick up the golf clubs and step out the door. It will take me at least a minute to take the elevator downstairs.

I take it down to the first floor, then walk out of the lobby and onto the street. It’s nice and sunny and warm out here; a terrific spring day. It’s almost as if nature is mocking me. Or maybe I was just me hoping somewhere deep in my soul that it would snow today so they’d have to call off this fucking game. No such luck, and in fact, just as I step outside, the towncar that’s supposed to drive me to the golf course pulls up. Such perfect timing.

The trunk pops open and I walk over and throw my clubs inside recklessly. It lands on top of another golf bag and probably nicks the wood on the clubs, but fuck it and fuck them. I pull down the trunk and I think I have it close but the latch doesn’t take and it pops up again. I grab it and shut it again, this time with all the pent up aggressiveness I can muster. I shut it so hard that the rear shocks of the towncar groan a little bit.

“Please sir,” I hear a familiar voice in front of me. The driver of the car has gotten out to help me, “You don’t need to slam it.”

I’m about to yell fuck off, until I realize it’s Burke. Burke? What the fuck is he doing here? He opens the passenger door of the towncar and gestures for me to get inside.

“Please sir, we are on a tight schedule today.”

I look at him incredulously. “What are you doing here? What’s going on Burke?”

He smiles, showing off the contrast of his gleaming white teeth to his dark skin. “Please Mr. Peanutz, I need you to get inside,” he says. “And today, please call me Agent Burke…”

The Winner: Part Twenty-Eight

“Why are we here?” Apple moans as I walk her through the doors of the Greyhound Station. I have one hand planted under her armpit to keep her from falling over or stumbling away from me. I really could have used another day or two to get Apple into a condition where she can be out in public. However, since my big day is tomorrow, I’ve got to jump the gun on rehabilitating poor Apple.

“We’re just gonna be here for a few minutes,” I say, and she doesn’t protest. She probably can barely process what’s going on. In order to get her on her feet, I’ve had to feed her about half a bottle of asthma medication loaded with pseudo-ephedrine. That got her conscious, but made her jittery and nervous and worst of all, unpredictable, so I feed her a couple Xanax that I’d stolen from my mother’s bag of medicine. I stuck her under the shower to hose off a couple weeks worth of grime off her body, then dressed her in a sweat shirt and jeans I picked up at Goodwill. I thought the garments I picked would roughly fit her body type, but she’d lost so much weight since I’ve had her bound and drugged at my apartment that even these size four clothes were hanging off her like sails. A cheap pair of gas station sunglasses covers the dark raccoon pits of her eyes. I figured if any authorities stopped me and questioned me about her, I’d just say she’s drunk and that I’m trying to get her into a program…blah…blah, and hope that Apple has enough sense to keep her mouth while I do the talking.

However, any fear I have of looking suspicious dragging around a half-conscious woman with me immediately goes away when we step into the bus terminal. I know that somewhere deep in my childhood I’d taken a bus cross-country with my mother to meet some obscure relative in some state I don’t remember (in fact, the only thing I vaguely remember about the trip was this obscure relative kicking us out of their house after just two days for reasons I was too young to understand). There is some disconnect between the bus station of my youth, which was fairly impressionless, versus the pit witness when I step inside. The first thing we’re greeted by is the sight of a homeless stewbum laying across a row of six plastic chairs. There is drool leaking out of his mouth, and on closer inspection, his mottled purple dick is hanging out of the fly of his stained and soiled pants. A tiny but insistent stream of urine dribbles out of it, soaking the front of his clothes and making a puddle on the finished concrete floor. You would think that there would be some sort of security here to toss the alcoholics out of the place before they made a disgusting mess like this, and there is. There are two young black guys wearing Wackenhut Security khakis standing off in the corner. Unfortunately, they were too busy playing the Area 51 and cursing at each other in ebonics to be bothered to move this drunken piss fountain somewhere where I don’t have to see or smell him.

“Nigga, I says you gots to lemme get da auto shotgun diz time!” One of the security guys yells at his partner holding the other gun. “I always get died by that alien motherfucka behind dat crate witout da auto shotgun.”

“Dat’s cuz you cain’t aim, cuz,” his slightly slower game buddy says. “Yo hole family cain’t aim. Dat’s why dey either in wheelchairs, in Heaven, or on da fuckin’ cellblock D!”

“Fuck you nigga!” the smaller, wiry one says, then tries to pistolwhip his shit talking partner with the plastic light gun. He dings him pretty good on the forehead, but rubber cord connecting it to the machine prevents him from doing much follow through and doesn’t do much more than piss his buddy off, who after the initial shock of the blow grabs the guy by his ears and drives his whole forehead into his face, splattering his nose flat and dropping him to the floor like a sack. Of course, the guy’s friends take that opportunity to swarm him and start kicking the shit out of him while he’s unconscious and on the ground.

Well, if that’s how the security here acts, I guess I won’t look too out of place here with Apple. I scoot her carefully towards the line at the ticket window, nearly tripping over some three year olds running around on the floor, screaming at each other in Spanish while their mother changes a baby diaper. Once we get in line, some impossibly thin teenager with a Mohawk comes up and tugs on my sleeve.

In a voice that comes somewhere between a cry and a whine, he begs, “Please sir, can you spare me a couple bucks? I’m not from this city and I haven’t eaten in three days. Please, sir, please…”

The kid is shaking, and from observing Apple for the last few weeks, I can easily conclude that the kid is dope sick and not starving or lost from home. I’m about to tell him to fuck off, when suddenly, an idea occurs to me.

I pull a five out of my pocket and say to him, “I’ll give you this if you go over to that bank of payphones over there and write down the number on the one closest to the Pepsi machine and bring it back here to me.”

Sounds pretty easy to me, but the kid whines, “But I don’t have a pen. Why can’t you just give me the money?”

Lazy fuck. I pull a pen and Burger King receipt out of my coat pocket and slap it down in his palm. “If you want this money, go and write down that phone number and bring it back to me. If the number you give me rings that phone on the end, I’ll give you this. Otherwise, try your luck scrounging up pennies from the other winners in this place.”

The junkie talks the pen and paper and grunts like he’s the one doing me a favor. I try to watch him out of the corner of my eye and he indeed goes to the phone I told him to. I turn Apple around and whisper in her ear. “See that junkie who just talked to us…”

Apple perked up. “You think he’s got some?”

“No,” I say dismissively. “Just watch which phone he goes to. This is important.”

The junkie seems to have to concentrate quite hard just to copy down a fucking phone number. Finally, he finishes up and heads back to me in the line. “Here’s your stupid phone number, yuppie. Now give me my five bucks.”

No wonder this shithead is out on the street. I snatch the phone number from his hand, then toss the five dollar bill on the floor. “Fascist fuck…” the junkie screeches as he snatches the money off the floor. I was worried this asshole might try and punch me, but he scurried towards the exit doors real quick, probably to get some more drugs.

I guess I could have gone over to the phone myself and copied the phone number. I could have saved myself the harassment (as well as five bucks). However, I pretty sure I’m still being followed. Their surveillance has become much more discreet. They probably swapped out Goatee guy and his driver once it became too obvious that I made them. Hell, they probably don’t even need to follow me any more. I’ve become so paranoid that I see them everywhere. Then again, with their plans so close to fruition, wouldn’t it make sense to keep an eye on me?

I figure it’s best to play it safe. They’re watching, but they can’t be watching too closely and stay anonymous.

Anyway, it’s our turn at the ticket window. There is a fairly clean-cut man behind the counter, maybe a few years older than me, with the smile of the thirty-something customer service representative that has lost all hope of ever getting out from behind the counter. “Hello, sir. How may I be of assistance.”

“I need a bus ticket for tomorrow,” I say.

“Okay, what’s your destination?”

“Well, here’s the thing. I need your help with that,” I say, leaning in closer. “I need a ticket on the first bus you’ve got leaving for the state line around two pm tomorrow. It can be going anywhere, I just need for her to leave exactly at three.”

The customer service guy types something into his computer and scrutinizes it for a moment. “We’ve got a bus leaving for Oklahoma City leaving at two-thirty and one leaving for Lincoln at three fifteen.”

I look over at Apple. “Which one do you prefer?”

“I don’t want to go to either place,” she whines.

“Well, if you had to choose, which one sounds better?”

“Oklahoma City I guess. My father lived there the last time I heard from him.”

I look at the ticket guy and tell him, “I’ll take that ticket to Oklahoma City.”

He types some more. “How many tickets you need?”

“Just one. For her. Or wait, how much extra is it for children.”

“Twelve and under is thirty-five dollars. Under two is free.”

“She’s got two kids under two. Is that still free?”

“Yes,” he goes back to his computer. “The total will come out to seventy-five dollars. Do you want to pay cash or charge?”

I’m about to dig out my credit card when I realize that it’ll just come back declined. The cashiers at McDonald’s won’t even take it as payment any more. I don’t know why I even carry the fucking thing with me. I start picking through the dwindling cash in my wallet. The ticket costs seventy-five dollars and I have exactly one-hundred in there. Paying that fucking drug addict five bucks to write down a phone number and curse at me now feels insanely extravagant. I pick out four twenties and hand them under the cashier’s glass. He takes it, types something else in his computer, then prints out the ticket and pushes by change back out the slot.

“Have a nice day sir,” he says. I take the ticket and start leading Apple away from the line and look for a nice quiet corner where I can talk to her unobserved. I luckily, after only having to shuffle around the station about three times, I found an area between a generic soda machine and some white trash guy sitting drunkenly on the floor with his backpack in one hand and a fifth of Black Velvet in the other (I figure he’s too loaded to overhear us, and I’m seriously doubting he’s one of Burke’s hatchetmen. I turn us so just our backs are facing out, just in case.

“Okay, Apple. Let’s go through the plan again…”

“What…plan?”

Goddammit. I’ve been repeating the whole thing to her for hours now. I’ve told her in detail what she has to do so many times some idiot with severe Down’s Syndrome could probably repeat it. “Come on, Apple. What were we talking about in the van over here?”

I’m shitting my pants that a whole lot of my plan hinges on her being able to follow my instructions. Luckily, with just a little prodding, her face lights up with recognition. “Oh yeah. That stuff about tomorrow. I have to come here tomorrow.”

“After you do what?”

She thinks about it for a moment. “I have to come here after I get my children back from the kidnappers.”

“Correct,” I say, since it’s almost just as simple as that. “You don’t need to give the kidnappers anything. I’ve already paid their ransom. What they will do is give you the kids, then have you make a call to me telling me you have them. After that, you get to this bus station as fast as you can,” I tell her, handing her the bus ticket, as well as a twenty dollar bill I had put away for just this. “Use this money to take a cab down here as fast as you can. Remember, this bus leaves at two-thirty in the afternoon sharp.”

“But Poopy, I don’t want to leave this city,” she whines. “I have nothing. Nowhere to go, no one to go to. I can’t leave my trailer. That and my kids is all I got anymore.”

I shake my head. “I know. But listen, the men who have your kids…well, I don’t think they’ll stop just because you’ve gotten them back. Some serious shit is going to go down tomorrow…”

“What kinda shit?”

I sigh, “Just trust me. By tomorrow night, you’ll know everything. It’ll be the only subject on every news channel in the country, I guarantee it. And then you’ll understand why you have to fly under the radar from now on if you want to live. Change your name, change your life, do whatever you can to stay out of the public eye. These men…let’s just say that they don’t like loose ends.”

“But how?” Apple protests. “I don’t have any money. You’re rich. Can’t you give me some money at least so I can move to a different town with my kids? I could do it if I had money. But this…” she holds up the twenty I just gave her. “This won’t get me very far.”

“I know,” I say sympathetically, though I don’t know how I can break it to her that there is no money left. That twenty she has in her hands makes up the bulk of my money in this world. Still, I have to tell her something. “Listen, once you get to Oklahoma City, give me a call and I’ll wire ten-thousand dollars to you. You can probably get set up somewhere pretty well with that.”

“Why can’t you give it to me now?” she says, her voice rising. I shush her with my finger.

“People are watching me. Just like the people were at the police station. I can’t withdraw much of my money now, but I will be able to after tomorrow, after this is all over. Please, you just have to trust me. The less you know, the less likely these people will need to come after you.”

“Okay,” Apple nods in resignation. “I’ll call you as soon as I get off the bus. I’ll need money right away or I won’t have any place to sleep.”

“I will, Apple. I promise.”

She smiles. She must believe me, that everything will turn out okay, and that just makes me feel worse for lying to her. Even if my plan goes off perfectly, Apple and her children will still be penniless, hungry, homeless, and hunted. At least they will be alive, which is probably the only thing I can ensure now.

I snap out of my daydream of my thoughts. “Apple, do you remember which telephone that junkie went to five minutes ago?”

“Um, he went to that one down at the end there,” she says, raising her hand to point at it. I pull it back down.

“Good,” I say. “Now, this is important. Once you’ve gotten your kids back and have gotten here to the bus station, you need to call my cell phone from that same payphone. Do you understand? That exact same pay phone. I’m gonna have the number programmed into my phone, so I’ll know it’s you.”

“Why does it gotta be that phone?”

“So I know you have gotten to the bus station safe,” I say. “Now, this is the most important part. If everything is fine, call me and tell me whatever. I don’t care. However, if you think you’ve been followed or you’re telling me everything is fine under duress…”

“What’s that?”

I sigh. “If someone is forcing you to say something, like if the kidnappers don’t give you your kids back or are still holding you, then I need you to say ‘I’ll see you on Friday.’ Can you remember that?”

“I think so,” Apple says. She stumbles into me while were standing there, and that doesn’t fill my heart with optimism.

“Seriously. If you feel there is anything wrong or you’re in danger, say the phrase ‘I’ll see you on Friday’ so I know what’s going on and I can do something to help you.”

“’I’ll see you on Friday’”, she repeats. “I got it. Can we go home now?”

“We can’t go home yet. I’ve got to see my mother first.”

Apple starts to whine as I lead her out of the bus station. The wino sleeping by the front is still pissing all over himself and the floor. How much urine can one human being hold? Even the diesel fumes of the buses smell sweet compared to inside of the bus station.

The minivan is parked around the corner in a no parking zone. Even though we’ve only been away for maybe fifteen minutes, there is already a ticket stuck under the wiper blade. I pluck it off my windshield and toss it into the gutter. If there is any privilege to it being the (possibly) day before the last day of your life, it’s that stuff like parking tickets don’t matter in the least. Besides, this car is a rental.

After getting Apple into the van (which is more difficult than it sounds, since I guess taking lots of Xanax fucks up you motor coordination), I drive down to the Lucky U Motel, carefully. Though I can I deal with parking tickets, I’d rather not have to deal with getting pulled over and having Apple blurt out something stupid. I watch all the cars in my rearview mirror, trying to see if any were familiar. I’m convinced there’s a white Ford Focus following me, but at a signal it turns into the drive-thru lane at Arby’s. I’m sure they are following me somehow. Maybe they have a GPS device on the van or something. Anyway, it doesn’t matter at this point. I have to keep plowing on.

I approach the Lucky U cautiously. I don’t want to run into Sergei and waste time stalling him. I don’t see his rickety, tricked out Civic anywhere, so I figure the coast is clear. I pull into the lot and park in a space close to my mother’s room.

“Wait here in the car,” I tell Apple. “I won’t be long.” She says nothing. She’s obviously pissed at me. She’s gonna be even more pissed when I tell her we’re gonna have to walk back to the apartment from here. I pop the rear hatch and pull out a brown paper grocery bag filled with some clothes and food I bought earlier today.

I walk up to the door and give the secret knock so she knows it’s me. We figured it out the last time we met. Since she’s not too bright, I made it just a simple “Shave and a haircut” with the “bits” left off at the end. My mother has done like I asked her and left the blinds drawn so no one can look inside. After a second, I hear the door unlatch. I quickly open the door as little as I can and get inside, latching it behind me.

“Hi mom,” I say. “How are you doing?”

“Okay, I guess,” she shrugs.

Actually, from where I’m standing, she looks more than okay. Most of her scars and sutures seem to have healed and her skin seems to fit her now. I was kinda pissed when I first brought her home from the airport. For all the money I spent on her surgery, I thought she came out looking like a space alien. Now with some time to recuperate, she looks good. In fact, for a forty-seven year old lady, she looks damn good. Then I stop myself and realize this is my mother I’m talking about and immediately I feel a little sick.

“Did you bring me any food?”

“Yep,” I say, reaching into the bag. I pull out a Styrofoam clamshell and some pita bread wrapped up in wax paper. “I got you some hummus.”

“Hummus? What’s that?”

“You’ve never had hummus before?”

“I don’t know what hummus is so I don’t know if I’ve ever had it before. What is it?”

Her logic perplexes me, so I simply tell her: “It’s kinda like bean dip for sand niggers. It’s pretty low in fat, so I figured you could eat it.”

“I don’t know,” she says. “Couldn’t you have gotten me some more of that sesame seitan salad?”

“No mom,” I say. “I didn’t have time to swing by that hippie restaurant you always make me go to.”

“But their food is so goood,” she whines. “And it’s so low in calories.”

“Look, I’m not coming back here, so eat it or starve,” I grunt. “Don’t worry, it tastes good. Besides, eating some middle eastern cuisine might get you into character.”

I pull out the other contents of the bag…a big black cha’dor I bought at the Arab store I go to from time to time when I crave a gyro sandwich. The owner is a big, hairy, Lebanese dude who takes his sweet time making my order and always forgets to leave off the onions, but his sandwiches are pretty fucking stellar, so I put up with it. Thankfully, they also sell some traditional Muslim clothing at the store, since I don’t think there’s enough of a sand nigger community in this city to justify a Burqas R’Us.

My mother eyes the cha’dor nervously. “Poopy, I don’t know how much in character I want to be. I mean, I’ll do this if it’s gonna save your life, but I don’t want my soul damned to Hell for doing this.”

I roll my eyes. “Mom, you’re not actually going to be a Muslim. You’re just acting like one. You know, like how people act like different people on TV?”

“Poopy, I’m not retarded.”

I nearly say, that she sure could fool me on that most of the time, but I bite my lip. “Look, you need to wear this for my plan to work. You’ll should also say ‘allahu ackbar’ a couple times just so you come off even more convincing.”

“’Allahu ackbar’,” my mother says a couple times, trying to get her mouth around the syllables. “What does it mean?”

“I think it means, ‘God is great’ in Muslim.”

My mother claps her hands over her mouth like she just told a priest to go fuck a refugee child. “Oh my God, Poopy. I can’t say that. I’ll go to Hell.”

“No you won’t. You still love Jesus. You’re just acting like a Muslim. You’re not really gonna be one.”

“You know Mohammed was a child molester,” she says indignantly. “Did you know he married a nine year old? That’s so sickening.”

“Mom, back in Koran times people only lived until they were in their mid twenties anyway. Girls were old hags by the time they hit nine years old. It doesn’t matter anyway. You’re just playing a Muslim, you’re not going to be one. You have to do this or else I’m gonna die. Do you understand that?”

My mother sighs. “Don’t worry, I’m gonna do it. But instead of that ‘allahu ackbar’ thing you want me to say, can’t I say something like ‘all to the snackbar’? You know, so I won’t have so much to atone for to my Lord.”

I am constantly amazed by the depths of retardation people who believe in religion are capable of. “Fine, just say it quick so no one can tell the difference.”

I pull out my car keys and a slip of paper with directions from the Lucky U to the country club I will be going to tomorrow. I put them on the bed next to the cha’dor. “Now, are we clear on the plan? You know what time to be there and exactly what you’re going to say and do?”

“I do Poopy. I’ve been going over it in all my spare time here. Do you think I’m gonna get in trouble for this?”

“No, mom. You’re doing something good. Not only are you gonna save your son, you’re gonna save the President too. Why would you get in trouble for that?”

Of course, I don’t mention to her that the odds are pretty damn high that she might get killed in the process of saving my life and the President’s. But she probably wouldn’t help me if she knew how dangerous what I need her to do is.

My mother picks up the van keys off the bed. “This van is an automatic right? I don’t know how to drive anything with a shifter.”

“Don’t worry, it’s an automatic. It’s only got a quarter tank of gas too, so don’t drive it around too long before going to the country club.”

“What should I do with the car when I’m done with it? Should I return it to the rental place?”

“I don’t care,” I say. “Return it, keep it, or just dump it on a street somewhere and forget about it. In twenty-four hours, people are gonna have bigger things on their mind than a rental minivan…”

The Winner: Part Twenty-Seven

“Apple, wake up,” I say. The only time she’s been conscious all day is when I shot her with heroin this morning. Pretty much the only thing that even lets me know she’s even alive is watching how her nostrils flare whenever she tries to breathe. I jar her some more. “Wake up, you have to wake up.”

She finally starts to come conscious. When she draws a full breath, it almost sounds like a death rattle. “Wha…wha’s goin’ on?”

“Apple, wake up. It’s Poopy. I need you to wake up.”

She slightly lifts up her head. “Wha…da…fuck…do you want? Do you have another shot?”

“Apple, I need you to listen closely to me. The people who have your children have contacted me again…”

“I don’t care. I don’t care about anything any more.”

I was afraid this would happen. I grab a small cup filled with some clear fluid from the nightstand. “Drink this, it will make you feel better.”

I put the cup to her chapped lips and pour it in, being careful that all the methadone went in her mouth. I had to spend all morning huddling with a line of junkies outside the methadone clinic on Baker St. just to get this stuff. Of course, they would only give me a single dose, but I was able to trade the rest of the heroin I had for a couple of the other junkie’s methadone doses, so I have enough now to keep Apple from going crazy from withdrawal.

Of course, it would be easier to just keep shooting her up with the heroin I already had, but for the next few days, I need to keep her lucid if my plan is going to work.

After she’s had the entire cup, I wait for a second. “Do you feel any better?”

“No. I still feel like shit. I want my shot.”

“Just wait for a little bit,” I say, caressing her scabbed up arm. “Apple, I have some good news. The people who have your kids contacted me again. They said they’re going to give them back to us in a few days.”

“I don’t care any more. They’re probably dead.”

“No,” I say. “They’re probably alive…”

“Probably?”

Dammit. “They’re going to send us a video proving that they’re still alive. Then, I’m going to pay them the ransom they want and they’re going to return them to us. Isn’t that some good news?”

“I told you. I don’t care any more. I don’t care about anything. I just want to die.”

She lays her head back down on the pillow like she’s going back to sleep. Those words she just said send put me onto instant boil. I fucking slap the side of her junkie face.

“How dare you? Do you know how much shit I’ve had to go through just to keep your fucking kids alive? Do you know how much easier these last few weeks would have been if I just was like, ‘fuck your kids’ also? I’ve been through a living hell and back trying to get them back! I had to stick my arm up some dude’s…well, you don’t want to hear about that. But I’ve been through a whole lot and spent my entire fortune trying to get them back.”

Of course, my whining about how bad my life has been probably doesn’t register with Apple since she just lays her head back down and mumbles. “I don’t care any more. Kill me.”

I get off the bed to keep myself from beating her senseless. I walk out of the bedroom and try to figure things out and realize that her attitude isn’t that big of a problem. I’ll just let the methadone work on her for a second and calm her nerves. Besides, I bet if she sees her children alive, she will come around.

So I wait. I wait about twenty minutes until I don’t hear Apple bleating in the bedroom for me to give her more heroin. Once I’m pretty sure the methadone is doing its job, I get the cellphone, cycle through to the last received call and press SEND.

I let it ring three times then end the call. Almost immediately it starts vibrating, the call coming in from a different number with an area code I can’t identify. Burke is on the other end of course.

“Hello Mr. Peanutz, are you ready for the uplink you requested of us the other day? We have a webcam set up on the stripper’s children.”

“Yes, I’m ready,” I say. “I’m going to need you to do something when you have the video stream going.”

“What do you want now?”

“I want you to throw up the west-side hand sign in the middle of the video.”

“West-side?”

“Yeah, you know. It’s that gang sign that you, um, African-Americans like to throw up. You know, to your brothers. To show that you’re down.”

“I wouldn’t know, since contrary to your bigoted worldview, I didn’t grow up in a ghetto,” Burke says. “And why would you ask me to do this, besides just to piss me off?”

“For a really good reason actually,” I say. “Mainly so I know that the video is live and not something you taped weeks ago in case I asked for a proof of life. You don’t have to be on the camera, just your hand.”

I hear Burke chuckle. “Looks like you’re getting smarter Peanutz. I just hope you don’t think you’re too smart for us because you’re not.”

I roll my eyes, but of course, he can’t see it. “So are you going to do it or not?”

“Sure. I’ll do it. I’m sending the stream to you now. Your phone should get a connection bar on it. Just press accept when you’re ready for the stripper to view the video.”

The phone goes dead again before it starts buzzing again. This time, the screen says “IN COMING VIDEO UPLINK…DO YOU WISH TO CONNECT?” I accept, just like Burke said. The phone’s small screen goes black, then the camera pans in a jagged, lagged motion to show what are presumably Apple’s two kids in the frame. The older one is in footie pajamas with his hands zip tied in front of him and a gag. For being bound and gagged, the kid looks remarkably calm. I bet after weeks of this treatment though, his mind is just dead. The other kid, the baby, is wrapped up in a blanket like a newborn, probably to keep his mom from finding out he is now deformed. The baby looks asleep. I’m thinking he might be dead, but the people behind the camera probably know I’m thinking this since one of them comes up and kicks the baby lightly with the toe of his wingtip loafer. He must have hit the raw stump since the baby starts to scream in pain.

That’s when a hand, a black hand, Burke’s hand, rises up into the foreground with its middle and ringfinger crossed, west-side style. The hand waves mockingly in front of the camera for a few seconds before he uncrosses his fingers, leaving only the middle one up, flipping me off. “You motherfucker,” I sneer, gripping the phone even tighter. When this is all over (provided my plan works of course, which is a big provided) I’m gonna make that nigger do his Tupac impression again, only at gunpoint, and afterwards I’m gonna shoot him in the balls, just like Tupac, then I’ll let him writhe on the floor for a couple minutes before I put another one in his…

…But I can’t get too ahead of myself. They aren’t gonna keep this video uplink going forever, so I rush into the bedroom and put the phone in front of Apple so she can see the screen.

“Tell me, are these your kids? Look closely.”

Apple rolls her head listlessly to the side, ignoring me. Fuck. I grab her by the hair and lift her head up so she has to watch.

“Look dammit! Are these your children?”

At first, it looks like I might as well be showing her the business pages of the newspaper for all she reacts. Then, suddenly, I feel her head shaking. She’s not so much crying as convulsing.

“Kev-in. Bubba. They’re alive. They’re still ALIVE! OH MY GOD! WHERE ARE THEY? POOPY! TELL ME WHERE THEY ARE? PLEASE! I NEED THEM BACK SO BAD!”

I let go of her head, and although I haven’t been all that rough with her, a disturbing amount of hair comes off on my hand when I let go. It must be from the malnourishment these past weeks. Apple keeps yelling hysterically at the sight of her children. She starts to hyperventilate.

I can’t hear anything except for her in this room so I go back outside and dial Burke’s number again. No one answers, so I let it ring and finally hang up after letting it go for about a minute. No response. I dial the number again and let it ring. After I hang up again, wondering if he’s ever gonna answer, the phone buzzes again with an incoming call. It’s Burke.

“What do you want now, Peanutz? Are you satisfied that the stripper’s children are still alive now?”

“Yes,” I say. “She confirmed it. By the way, kicking a baby is kinda fucked up.”

“You’re one to talk,” Burke says. “You know what else is fucked up? Cutting off a baby’s arm. Haven’t we convinced you yet that there is no length we won’t go to to ensure your cooperation?”

“If you’re so hardcore, why don’t you go saw off his other arm?” I say reflexively. I hear Burke draw in his breath over the phone, and he is correct so I quickly add, “Just kidding. You don’t have to do that.”

“Very well. Then is there anything else?”

“Yes,” I say. “Now we’ve got to work out how you plan on returning them to their mother.”

“We will return the stripper’s children after you’ve killed the president, just as I’ve promised.”

“Well, if this all goes off like you planned it, how will I know you won’t just kill them?”

“I assure you Mr. Peanutz, it would be pointless to hold the children after you’ve completed your task, since that’s our primary leverage against you.”

“No. It would be pointless for you to give them back alive if I’m already dead. After all, I’m sure that Apple won’t be happy with you returning one of her children minus one arm. She’ll probably get the authorities to come chasing after you guys afterwards.”

Burke chuckles. “I can also assure you that she will have even less luck trying to alert the authorities than you did.”

I grit my teeth since of course he’s right. “Listen, I’m not getting anywhere near the president until you’ve given Apple back her kids. You have to give them back before I do anything.”

“Well then instead of just killing her children, we’ll kill her and your mother as well, as well as yourself. You understand we cannot return the children before, since you would then have no incentive to actually go through with it.”

“And you understand that you have no incentive to risk exposing yourselves after I’ve killed the president, so I might as well just go back in the bedroom and shoot Apple in the head before killing myself because, if I’m gonna die anyway, I much prefer doing it in such a way that it totally fucks up your careful planning.”

A pause, and then Burke says, “I need to speak with my associates. Hold on for a moment.”

“Don’t cut off any more baby arms,” I sneer, but Burke must have already muted the phone. I keep the phone glued to my ear and pace around the room anxiously. I stub my already sore toe on piece of wood that used to be the base of my calfskin recliner. I trip and fall to the floor, banging my back against the remains of my IKEA coffee table. The splintered wood tears a hole in the back of my shirt and I’m pretty sure it tore through a nice little patch of skin as well. Here I go threatening to kill myself and then I nearly impale myself. If Burke still has cameras in here, I’m sure he’ll get the point.

After a few minutes of keeping me on hold, Burke finally comes back on the line…

“Mr. Peanutz, we’ve decided that we will do as you request and return the children before you complete your task. However, we will only do it once our man on the inside has attached the explosive device to your body. Will that satisfy you?”

Well, I was hoping they would be stupid and do it even sooner. That would have made my job easier, however my plan doesn’t depend on it. “Here’s my stipulation, I will only put on the bomb if I get a call from Apple afterwards telling me she has them and they are all safe. I will only go through with it after they’ve been released. Then I suppose I might as well go through with it. I mean, it’s not like I like George Bush or anything.”

“Very well, Mr. Peanutz. Tell the stripper that we will have people come over and pick her up shortly before you go to the country club. They will take her to the place where her children are once you are at the site and our mole is ready to prep you for the assassination. So you might want to untie her from that bed sometime in the next day or so. Oh, and don’t plan on telling her to stall since if you do we will just kill her and her kids right there.”

“Fine. You have a deal.”

The phone goes dead without Burke even issuing me a polite “goodbye”. Oh well, fuck him. Everything is starting to click into place now. If my plan goes as I have arranged it, then by this time next week, that nigger and his massa Van Hertzwelder will be spending most of their time in stress positions in one of the deepest, darkest dungeons of Guantanamo Bay. I picture in my head them screaming as some intelligence spook waterboards the fuck out of them, and the thought makes me giggle…

And if the plan goes wrong?

Well, my remains and my reputation will be fused together with one of the most controversial men of the twenty-first century and I will live forever in infamy.

At least Apple will get her kids back…

The Winner: Part Twenty-Six

Two hours later, I’ve gone from the five-star luxury of the Brown Palace to the five crack pipe squalor of the Lazy-U. I see Sergei on the sidewalk just outside the front office, talking to some guys with buzz-cuts and track suits that just scream Russian mob underling a mile away. I don’t think he notices me as I pull into the lot in the minivan. I don’t wave to him or say hi as I open the door to get out, but he has crept up on me.

“Mr. Poopy!” he says. “So glad to see you! Why you come visit us today?” He’s his usual stupid, jovial self, but I can tell he has something else on his mind other than how I’m doing today.

“I’m just here to see my mother,” I say. “Gotta help her change her bandages and stuff.”

“Definitely. I understand. One must take care of the woman from whose loins they’ve emerged.” Sergei looks down and shuffles his feet. “Mr. Poopy, I have something I need to ask you. It concerns your mother.”

I look at him in a state of panic. “She hasn’t been out of her room, has she? Tell me she hasn’t left the room!” I’m worried because my plan to get out of this mess partially depends on that.

“No, no. The maid doesn’t even go to clean her room. She just leaves fresh linens outside her door. I haven’t so much as seen her go to the soda machine.”

“She wouldn’t go to the soda machine,” I say. “She’s on a diet.”

“No. The problem is…well, you know how I run this place for my uncle Igor?”

I nod.

“Well, the credit card you gave me to hold your mother’s room has declined every time we’ve run it these past two weeks.”

“Don’t worry, Serg,” I say, trying to think of something I can string him along with. “I’ve been having some problems with my card lately. I had my identity stolen by some asshole who opened up, like, ten cards in my name and maxed them out in a couple of days. I had the bank cancel all my accounts until I get it cleared up. Apparently this is done by guys who specifically target lottery winners.”

Sergei smiles. “I know your good for the money. It’s just my uncle, he goes over the books and sees I’m letting a room go without payment for a couple of weeks. I try to explain him, ‘this room is for Mr. Poopy’s mother and Mr. Poopy is rich’. But he say, ‘if Mr. Poopy is so rich, then how come he don’t pay for the room?’”

I shrug. “I don’t know Sergei. You know I’ve got the money to cover it, my bank is just dragging their feet. In fact, I’m going right over there after I’m done here to scream at them until they get this shit taken care of.”

Sergei lights up. “So you think you could have some money for me today?”

Fuck, that’s not what I meant, but I try to go along with it. “Yeah. I’m gonna tell them I either want my accounts re-opened or I want someone’s job. I’m not taking shit from these people any more. However, on the off-chance they don’t budge and I have to call my lawyer…”

“You mean Hirsch?” Sergei says, excited. “You talk with him then?”

I gotta stop digging myself into a hole. “Yeah, Hirsch. I finally got a hold of him. You want to know what that prick is doing? He’s overseas, blowing all of the retainer I gave him in Thai whorehouses. After giving him all that money, he actually had the balls to leave me a voicemail telling me not to bother him until he’s back in the states on the twenty-fifth. That guy’s a piece of work. I’d hire someone else if I had enough money for another retainer.”

“Really,” Sergei says. “He’s always been reliable for us. A bit too much of a workaholic actually. We’ve always said the guy needs to take a break sometime.”

Shit. “Well, he’s taking one now. Anyway, if the bank people don’t budge, you think you can hold your uncle off for another week.”

“My uncle can always send some of my little cousins to the bank,” Sergei says. “My cousins might be even a bit more convincing than a lawyer.”

I shake my head. “You can’t be sending thugs to the bank for me. I’ve got a reputation to uphold.”

“Yes, but they are preventing you from paying us, so it is our problem as much as it is yours.”

“Come on, Sergei,” I say. “My bill can’t be much more than a grand. Your sneaker collection probably costs more.”

“You cannot put a price on honor,” he says.

“Seriously, Sergei. If they don’t budge, I’ll call you. Otherwise, just let me handle it my way. Now I really have to tend to my mother. She gets a rash if I don’t get fresh bandages on her daily.”

“Very well, Mr. Poopy. You will keep me informed,” Sergei says. I’m a bit distressed that his usual genial suck-up ness has eroded somewhat during the course of the conversation. Still, I’m not too worried. It’s not many people who are in such deep shit that they can say that the Russian mob is the least of their worries.

Once Sergei has turned away and is heading back to his buddies by the office, I reach back into the car and pull out a large suitcase. I purchased it at the mall before I came over to the Lazy U. It’s not fancy, but is very well made and sturdy (and cost me about three hundred dollars which was the lions share of the remainder of my money, so I’ll have to live on ramen and mac and cheese for the next few days). I set it on the ground and lock the minivan, then take it up to my mother’s door and rap on it with my knuckles until I hear the deadbolt slide back.

“Poopy,” my mom says. “I was wondering where…”

I plow through the door, pushing her back into the room and I slam the door behind me. She starts to protest, but I put up my finger to shush her. Then I go to the TV, turn it on and crank the volume up uncomfortably loud.

“Mom, I have to ask you something. Have you left this room for any reason in the last week?”

“No, Poopy,” she says. “You know I’m in no condition to go anywhere.”

“Are you sure? Nobody knows what you look like now? You haven’t talked to anyone?”

“No. But my skin is feeling better now, see…” She peels off the bandages on her face and it’s true. The swelling and inflammation have gone away. The sutures where they cut and tucked away her skin are fading into mere creases that you almost have to squint to see. Whatever those Body Eternal people were up to, their plastic surgery seems to be top notch.

“I saw this thing on the TV about a Christian singles gathering next week, and I was thinking that if I keep making progress, I might go to it. Maybe get you a new daddy. I think the source of a lot of your problems is that you never had a good father figure in your life.”

I could scream at her for an hour about that subject, but I’m too busy searching the room for bugs or hidden cameras to even listen to her. I’ll have to believe her that she hasn’t left the room, and that would make it very hard for anyone to wire up the room. I see a takeout bag with some plastic containers of sprout and kale salad and the idea that someone might have bugged the takeout bag goes through my mind, so I pick it up stick the bag in the shower and turn it on. Hopefully, if the bag was bugged, the water shorted it out.

“Poopy! What on Earth are you doing?”

I take a second to breathe. Okay, this is paranoia. I try to remind myself that Burke has more control over me by giving me the impression that he can be everywhere and anywhere. Unfortunately, much of that paranoia seems to be justified, but I’ll just have to take my chance if I’m gonna get out of this.

“Mom, sit down. I need to talk with you. I need your help. I’m in big trouble.”

“Of course. But you should turn down the TV first, I can barely hear you.”

“No,” I say, sitting on the bed next to her. “I have to take precautions. You’ll know why when I explain this all to you.”

“Poopy…you’re not going to have to go away to jail again, are you?”

“No. It’s much worse than that. I might get killed.”

My mom gasps and looks like she’s about to scream, but I quickly put a hand over her mouth. “Now, when I tell you everything that’s happening, it’s going to sound insane. Don’t say anything until I’m finished. You’ll just have to believe that it’s the truth and if I’m going to get out of it, I’m going to need you to help me and trust me and not make a sound. Do you understand?”

My mom nods, but I can see the terror in her eyes. I slowly take my hand off her mouth, and while her lips are quivering, it looks like she’ll be able to hold in her scream.

I put my hands in my lap and rub my palms together and begin. I run down the basics of my dilemma: that I’m being blackmailed by a conspiracy that wants me to use my newfound wealth to get access to the president so that I can kill him. I tell her Apple (although in the version I tell her, she’s just my girlfriend: I leave out the part about hiring Sergei to kill her boyfriend of course) and I tell her about how they kidnapped her babies and said they would kill them if I didn’t do what I say. I don’t mention to my mother that they plan on killing her too, since that would just freak her out and make her useless. I tell her that things are already set in motion and that I’ll be going to see the President in just a few days and that if I’m gonna get out of this, it’s gotta be now.

All in all, I think my mother took it okay. She gasps from time to time when I go through my horrific story, but she doesn’t go completely apeshit and break down like I thought she would. “Poopy…” she says like she’s gonna hyperventilate. “Why don’t you just go to the police?”

“I tried to tell the FBI. They cut off one of the babies arms and sent it to me in a box for even trying,” I tell her, exasperated. “These people have moles in every agency of the government. Going to the police is not an option, mother!”

“But how are you going to get out of having to kill that wonderful man George Bush?” my mom sobs.

“I told you mom, I have a plan and I need you to help me.”

“But your plan won’t work, Poopy. I know it.” Now she starts crying for real.

“You haven’t even heard it yet, how do you know?”

“Because you’re not smart, Poopy. You’re going to faaaaaiil!”

I jump off the bed and start screaming. “Dammit, mother! Why do you have to do this shit? You don’t know, maybe I’ll pull it off. I know I’ll fail if I don’t do anything! You’ve never had any faith in me!”

“No, Poopy,” she says. “I don’t have any faith in your schemes. I have faith in the good things, you and my lord Jesus Christ.”

“Oh, you have faith in Jesus. Nice…” I say, rolling my eyes. “Well then, oh wise one, what would Jesus do if he was put in this situation? Walk on some fucking water? Burn a fucking bush? You think that will convince these people?”

“I think Jesus would have you try and reason with those men,” she says, quietly. “You said this man, Von Hortzmeister hates you…”

“Hertzwelder, mom. Van Hertzwelder.”

“Did you ever think that maybe all he really wants is an apology?”

I start to laugh in her face. “An apology? Yeah. I just go up to him and say, ‘hey, sorry I killed your son. My bad. Think you can let me off the hook?’ That will work.”

“You didn’t really kill his son…did you?”

“No! Of course not. How can you even ask me that? I guarantee you can look at the death certificate on him and it will say ‘by self inflicted wounds’. I had nothing to do with killing him because he wasn’t killed. He committed suicide.”

“Then that’s perfect,” she says. “Just get the death certificate and show it to him and then he’ll know you didn’t do it and maybe he’ll be more reasonable.”

I shake my head. “No. He knows his son died because of suicide. He thinks he committed suicide because of me. He thinks I raped him while we were cellmates.”

“You didn’t rape him, did you?”

“Well, I wouldn’t exactly call it rape. He got something out of it too.”

My mother doesn’t respond. I look over at her and see her jaw has dropped. “What?” I sneer.

“P-poopy…you mean you’re a…homo-faggot?”

Why the fuck did I even decide to open my big mouth today? “No. I’m not gay mom. You know that.”

“But you just said ‘he got something out of it too.’ Did you have homo-sex with that boy?”

How the fuck am I gonna explain this one? I sit down next to my mother. “Look, mom. You don’t know what it’s like on the inside. I didn’t see a woman for months. You don’t know what it’s like when you can’t even jerk off in private. I had to do what I had to do while I was in there. It doesn’t make me gay. I assure you, I was on the giving end of that stuff.” I won’t make explaining this harder by telling her about how I was on the receiving end of a lot of it with my next cellmate.

“But if you have sex with a man, that makes you a faggot. That’s what James Dobson says…”

I groan. “That guy is a moron and he’s never been in prison either. When you’re locked up, you have to do what you have to do and the only people you have to do it with are other dudes, so that’s what you do.”

My mother buries her face in her hands and begins sobbing hysterically. It’s different than the crying she did earlier. These are hopeless tears that make me want to die a little inside. I let her do it for awhile before I put my hand on her shoulder. She flinches away from me.

“Come on, mom. Talk to me.”

“My…my son is a diseased homosexual and he’s going to Hell…”

“I told you mom. I’m not gay. It’s not like I have sex with dudes when there’s women available.”

“It doesn’t matter…” my mom protests. “You’re gay and you’re going to Hell. Oh Lord! What did I do wrong?”

I’ve been trying to keep my composure, but I finally just go nuts. “What did you do wrong? What the fuck did you do wrong? You really need god to tell you what you did wrong with me?”

She doesn’t respond. She just keeps crying and I keep ranting.

“Well, I’ll tell you then. Let’s start with how for most of your life you couldn’t be bothered to put down a whiskey bottle long enough to hold down a job. No, wait. You did have a job some of the time. You were able to make some decent money fucking guys for money while I played in the other room. You didn’t try very hard to hide that from me. Hell…you used to make me FUCKING WATCH YOU!”

Through her tears, she struggles to let out an “I’m sorry…” But I ignore it and go on.

“Eventually you had to stop even doing that because you got so fat that guys wouldn’t even pay you half a pack of cigarettes for sex, so you just sat around collecting welfare and drinking even more. Remember when I had an accident in my pants when I was five? Remember how you shoved a broom handle up my ass and made me sit with it there for an entire day because you thought it would keep me plugged up so I wouldn’t do it again? Remember that, because I sure do. In fact, I HAVEN’T BEEN ABLE TO SHIT STRAIGHT AGAIN BECAUSE OF THAT. I’M TWENTY-SIX AND I’M FUCKING INCONTINENT!”

“BUT POOPY!” she says. “I WASN’T SAVED BY THE BLOOD OF CHRIST THEN!”

I start to laugh cruelly at her. “Oh, yeah. Getting ‘saved by the Lord’ fixes fucking everything. All giving you’re life to god ever did for you is get you to watch the 700 Club instead of Ricki Lake while you got drunk and sat on the couch all day. That and give you some misplaced moral righteousness towards everyone around you.”

“STOP IT POOPY! PLEASE STOP IT! I’M SO SORRY!”

But I don’t stop. I couldn’t stop it even if I tried. The stress of everything that’s happening to me, as well as over twenty-years of pent up anger is flowing out of me like a flood.

“Do you think, ‘I’m sorry’ will cut it? Do you think that people should just let shit go just because you tell them you’re sorry? You know, maybe you are right. Maybe that’s the solution to all my problems! Let’s give it a shot…”

I drop to my knees on the brown shag motel carpet, clasp my hands together and squeeze my eyes shut.

“Oh Father who art in Heaven! Please forgive me for all my sins! I am but a lowly sinner and I beg you to let me be born again, just as your Son who died for my sins. I accept Jesus into my heart oh heavenly Father! Take my life and make it yours oh Lord!” I fling my arms up into the air dramatically and wait for the spirit to take me, not that it does. Not that I was expecting it to. I look over at my mother. “Oh. Nothing’s changed. I’m still neck deep in shit with no hope of getting out of it. So I guess your idea for making everything better is completely fucked, mom. Just like you. JUST LIKE YOU.”

Perhaps watching me lose control has helped my mom regain it somewhat. Her tears seem to have dried up into just sniffles. “Poopy,” she says earnestly. “That’s not how it works…”

“How’s it supposed to work then, mom? How is anything in this fucked up world supposed to work? And don’t you dare try and give me an answer since you’re the cause of so much of the fucked-upness of this world. You and ignorant, gluttonous, hate breeding scum just like you!”

My mom doesn’t flinch away from my tirade. Instead, she puts her hand over my head, running her fingers calmly behind my ear. The effect, strangely enough, seems to blunt some of the rage I feel.

“Poopy. I know I haven’t done right by you,” she says. “I know you’re not hearing it, but I really am sorry. I’m sorry about all the things I did to you growing up. I know I wasn’t a perfect mother…”

“No, you were light-years away from being a perfect mother…” I start, but she keeps touching my head and I don’t continue on with my rant.

“You’re right. I was a horrible mother. I’m surprised that you even speak to me, and I thank the Lord that He has blessed me to keep you in my life, no matter how angry you are at me.”

“There’s nobody keeping you in my life,” I growl. “Mom, no God or bullshit in the sky is keeping me around you, and personally, I think I should have my head examined by still talking to you.”

“It doesn’t matter Poopy,” my mom says, soothingly. “However He has put the universe in order, God has played a hand in keeping you with me, and I’m grateful because it gives me a chance for redemption.” She pats the bed next to her. “Sit up here with me.”

I’m still pissed at her, but I get off my knees and sit up on the bed next to her anyway. She puts her arms around me and hugs me tight against her. Despite how disgusting I find her bandages, I don’t back away. In fact I hug her tight too. Goddammit, I’m even starting to cry.

She whispers. “I love you Poopy. Even if you are a faggot.”

I’d protest, but I feel too weak to. Eventually, she lets go of me.

“Now, what do you need me to do to help you get out of the mess you’ve made?”

I breathe for a second. I’d almost forgotten about all of that. I look over to the empty suitcase sitting on the bed and pull it over to me.

“Okay, mom. I know my idea isn’t perfect, but this is what I need you to do…”