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- Story Listed as: Fiction For Adults
- Theme: Horror Stories / Scary Stories
- Subject: Crime story
- Published: 01/21/2019
CurmudgeonBorn 1977, M, from Wareham, Ma., United States
His face twisted into a sour-puss sneer. As usual, Jerry did not agree, big surprise.
"My way or the highway, youngin'"
Brian, the young lad of 16 years, looked up at him with pure disgust.
"Every time that I come up with a new idea, you crush it, like a goddam bug."
Jerry's sneer, somehow, became even more sour suddenly.
"You don't know anything, you little piss ant. I have forgotten more than you will ever know. Now, do it the way I told you, by hand, none of those fancy power tools you have there."
Brian just glared.
"You forgot because your brain is going to mush, have another beer, maybe that will help you remember. You alcoholic, useless old insect."
Jerry picked up his half full can of beer, and threw it at the kid. The can sailed through the air, and met it's mark, directly in the center of Brian's forehead. He dropped the wrench that he was holding, and clutched his forehead with both hands.
He removed his hands after a few seconds, tears welled in his eyes. A small amount of blood trickled down his forehead and onto the bridge of his nose.
Jerry's face contorted, almost seemed as if it had a hint of regret for a split second, but quickly turned to a sneer again.
"Suck it up you little wimp, and get your job done."
With that, Jerry rose from his seat, and strolled slowly, limping to the door. He turned back at the door and gave Brian a short stare, and then exited the garage. The door closed behind him. He stopped just before he got to his car, and felt a stab of guilt, a pinprick of sadness. He shook it off, got in his car, and drove out of the lot to head home.
Back in the garage Brian sat on the grease and oil stained floor, his knees pulled up to his chest, and his face buried between them, sobbing. He was growing tired of the endless abuse his grandfather constantly put him through. What could he do? Jerry was the only family that he had, his only means of survival and shelter. Soon though, soon he would be old enough to go out on his own, get a job elsewhere, get his own place, and leave that old coot behind.
As much as Brian hated the man, he loved him equally, doesn't mean he liked him, but loved him deeply.
Six years ago, on Brian's tenth birthday, his parents and little sister were headed to watch his baseball game. Brian was already there, as the team had held practice before the game.
They were driving down route 43, only two miles from the field, when Brian's father caught a quick glimpse of a car which was heavily speeding around the corner just ahead of them. It was too late, he could not react in time, the man swerved into their lane, and caused the nasty head on collision.
Witnesses later recounted seeing the car swerve into the oncoming lane, heard very brief tire squealing, and in a shower of dust, glass, and exploding auto parts, as the cars crashed together. They had hit so hard, the impact so fierce, that the rear end of both cars simultaneously lifted off of the road surface. Once settled back on the road after colliding, the impact was so great, that the cars appeared as if they were welded together, in a pile of twisted metal.
The official police report described a horrific scene. The steering column had actually impaled Brian's father. His mother had gone through the windshield, as she did not have her seatbelt on, and head first into the other cars wreckage. Her head was crushed, along with the majority of her torso. His sister, in the back seat, had been decapitated by debris, and her body sat still belted in, and her head was laying on the opposite side floor. The driver of the other vehicle was cut in half at the stomach, his torso separated from his crushed legs and lower pelvic area.
Many emergency responders had needed therapy after witnessing the scene that day. To this day, there had never been an accident scene that gruesome in the area.
Since that horrific day, Brian had never been the same. He had been through countless therapists and state appointed child case handlers. He had lived with his grandfather since, which, in his mind, was similar to a stint in Russian prison.
Still sitting on the shop floor, his mind flashed images of his family. Oh, how he wished that accident had never occurred.
After a while, he regained enough composure to get himself up, and continue with his project. Waning from his grandfather's ridiculous ways, he attacked the project with a ferocity that could not be tamed. He would show that old prick what he was made of.
Three hours elapsed, and Brian finally stood back and appreciated his job well done. He was quite proud of himself, good thing, because he knew his grandfather wouldn't be.
The sound of car tires on gravel, and the swaying beams of headlights illuminating the walls, told him that his grandfather was back to check up on him. Or, so he thought.
. . . . .
Sam stared at the shop windows as he chewed on his half smoked, gnarled up cigar. He looked over at Bill.
"Why the hell are there lights on, Bill? You told me there would be no one here this late."
Bill squinted at the illuminated windows.
"Well, heck, Sam, aint nobody never here at night. Maybe they left the lights on by meestake."
"Maybe someone left the lights off in your brain, Bill."
Bill suddenly looked extremely confused.
"Whatcha y'all talkin' bout, Sam? Aint nothing going on in my brain."
Sam just stared at him.
Both men stepped out of the rusty old Chevy pick-up, turned into a flatbed tow truck. Sam strode cautiously to the shop door. Bill lumbered, quite ungracefully, behind him. Sam stepped to the side of the end window and slowly brought his head to the window, just enough to peek inside. He saw a teenage boy walking to the window.
He snapped back out of sight, and gave Bill a gesture, finger to lips, to be quiet. This was quite unexpected, to say the least. Anger began to bubble up inside Sam. He was furious with himself for the fact that he had listened, and trusted, his dim witted, redneck companion.
Thoughts began to mill around possible scenarios in which to handle this surprise snafu. Suddenly, the side door opened, and his decision was made on a whim.
. . . . .
Jerry keyed the lock to his side door, and stepped into his kitchen. He went to the refrigerator, grabbed a beer, and sat at the kitchen table. He thought about how he had acted, and had a twinge of regret. A twinge that was slowly growing in to more.
The kid was just trying to fix a problem. Jerry respected that. Maybe he should have been a bit more lenient, maybe he should have put aside his stubbornness and just let the boy try. A whole lot of maybes swam around freely in Jerry's brain. He took a long pull off of his beer and began to contemplate going back to the shop, and make things right. After all, the boy was his only surviving family, and how much time did he really have left?
Jerry had raised the boy since the accident, and he had raised him alone for the past four years, since he lost his wife. He has been so goddamn bitter for these years. Had he taken it out on Brian? Oh, Christ, had he? No, it couldn't be, he was just being stern with the boy, borderline militant, but he wasn't going to let this kid turn out to be a damn hoodlum. No, sir, not on his watch.
The question kept repeating in his mind though. Did his tough love ways have the opposite effect on the boy? Shit. His face turned to a saddened look. He had never actually contemplated this. For the first time in years, Jerry's eyes welled a bit, and one single tear trickled down his left cheek.
He took another long pull, draining the can, and slammed it onto the table. That's it, he was going to do the deposit, and head back to the shop, time for him and the boy to have a long talk.
He went to his bedroom, and grabbed the .38 caliber revolver, which he always carried when he made deposits, and headed back out to the car.
. . . . .
Brian heard a car door shut. There was no way that he was going to let Jerry talk down to him again, no friggin' way. A second bang of a car door. That's odd, he thought, Jerry wouldn't have anyone with him. He set down the tools that he had in his hand, grabbed a rag to wipe the grease from his hands, and started walking over to the door to look out at who it was.
Brian got almost to the door when, he could have sworn he saw a quick glimpse of someone's face. He looked out the window and saw an old pick up outside, but no one was in it. He watched for a few moments, but still no movement. He went to the door, exited outside, and felt something smash into his head. He began to stumble, time began to fade in and out, black washing over his vision. Another blunt force to his temple, and all went black.
Brian could hear muffled speaking, it appeared to be distant. A blurry sliver of light appeared in his right eye, as it slowly began to open. Another sliver of light appeared in his left eye. His eyes both began to open, almost involuntary, slowly, like a rusty old door that had been sealed shut for years. His head was throbbing. The voices started to become more apparent.
His eyes began to focus, he saw two men. His heart began beating rapidly. He tried to rub his eyes, but could not move his hands, he was bound.
They saw he was beginning to come out of it. Sam spread the sheet back over his prize, the whole reason that he was here. When Brian saw that, he knew exactly what was going on here. He knew that he was screwed. There were many that would kill for what was under that sheet, and he could feel that was his destiny.
Damn. How could he have been so stupid as to open that door. His grandfather had gotten him so worked up up, so incessantly furious, that normal rational thought was impossible at the time.
The men began to walk over to him. The man in the lead was tall, probably six foot three, well built, and his salt and pepper hair was slicked back, and clearly had time spent on it. He was dressed very neatly with blue jeans, a red button down shirt which was tucked in and showed off the expensive leather belt. He had a perfectly groomed beard, which mirrored his hair in color. His counterpart, on the other hand, looked like a carney.
The man loped behind him, with a strange and awkward gate. He had teeth, but not many. His brow was enlarged, similar to a Neanderthal, and his balding head was messy with intermittent wisps and sprouts of filthy hair. He was dressed in grease and oil stained blue jean overalls, which he did not bother to wear any undershirt with. He lagged behind, like a normal lackey would, and sported a dumb crap eating grin. Brian could hear the man breathe, must smoke like a chimney.
The lead man stood about a foot from Brian when he stopped. The heavy and pungent odor of old spice washed his nostrils.
"I had no intentions of hurting you, kid. I just simply want my prize, and I was going to make haste with my exit. Of course, there is the problem of you getting a good look at us. I am trying to figure out, just how I can be assured that you will not describe us. I am having trouble with an answer, as you might imagine that anyone in a similar situation would. Which brings forth my dilemma. Do I trust the boy? Or do I make sure that he can never speak again? It's not an easy decision, kid."
Brian glared at the man. He spoke in a tone that reeked of toughness and badassery, but inside, he was scared witless. He knew damn well that he could not show any weakness, it was his only hope.
"Not a friggin’ thing that I can do about it. You are going to do whatever you need to do. I could sit here and grovel and whine, but, screw that. Doesn’t matter what I say, we both know what's going to go down."
Sam stared at him for a few moments before he smirked, and let out a quick laugh.
"Well then, I guess it's a lost cause trying to scare such a badass as yourself."
Brian replied, "The only thing that scares me is your pet retard over there."
Sam fought his damndest not to break out laughing. He may be starting to like this kid, too bad he had to silence him.
"What's he sayin' bout retards, Sam?"
Sam shot a look back at him.
"You just proved his point you imbecile. Good damn thing I didn't give you my real name."
Sam turned back to Brian. He reached behind his back and unsheathed the knife which he had on his belt. He stared at Brian and twirled the knife in his hand.
"Now, kid, none of this is personal, you weren't supposed to be here. I just wanted to claim my prize, and live happily ever after."
Brian did his best to keep his air of toughness, but inside, he was horrified.
Sam gripped the knife in a manner which was obvious that he was about to slash something. With a lightning fast move, he pulled a complete 180 degree turn, and with a violent motion slashed the knife blade across Bill's throat.
. . . . .
Jerry left the ATM machine and headed back to his car. He couldn't stop thinking about Brian. He really hoped that he could fix this, hoped that he didn't damage their relationship beyond repair. It was a short five minute ride to the shop, he would get right on fixing this, he had to.
Jerry started the car and pulled out towards the shop. When he got to within sight of the lot, he saw a tow truck with out of state plates parked near the door. What the hell is this? He thought.
He pulled up and parked next to the truck.
. . . . .
Bill saw Sam clutch his knife in a slash style position. He tensed waiting for the blade to slice the kid. Bill had a split second to see Sam turn 180 degrees and arc the knife toward him. Before he could even react, he felt the razor sharp blade effortlessly slice through his neck. He instantly grabbed his neck with both hands and tried to stop the flow of blood.
Blood squirted in fountains of crimson spray. He squeezed and squeezed, but it only seemed to make the blood spray harder. His face was frozen in a wide eyed surprised look. His eyes began to slowly close as the blood stream began to slow. A gurgling sound came from his mouth, and then he slumped to floor, and ceased all movements.
Sam turned to look at Brian, blood spatter covered the left side of his face, hair, and beard. His eyes possessed a crazed stare, which scared the absolute crap out of Brian, but he stood his ground with his mask of badassery.
He began to speak to Brian, when suddenly he stopped, interrupted by the glow of headlight beams shining through the windows. He rushed to the door to see who had just pulled in.
Brian had a spark of hope, but also a new spark of fear as well. He knew damn well that it was Jerry who had just pulled in. The spark of hope that Jerry's arrival provided was quickly washed by the fear of him being hurt, or killed by this lunatic.
Brian decided to plea with the man.
"I know that is my grandfather. If you do not hurt him, and you let him go, I will, in no way, stop you from taking your "prize," and I will not tell a soul of what transpired here. We can clean this up, and I will even help you load."
Sam laughed, not taking his eyes from the window.
"Kid, although I like you for some reason, I am clearly in this up to my ass. You will die tonight, and so will your grandfather. I will promise you a quick death though. Your grandfather will do nicely to set up the scene. This dumb redneck busted in here to rob the place, he shot you and your grandfather. You were able to slice his throat, just before you died. Get it?"
Jerry's key slid into the deadbolt lock. With a turn, the lock clicked, and the door popped open.
"Who's here boy?"
"Jerry, run! Get the hell out of here!"
Just as Jerry opened his mouth, Sam side swiped him, and knocked the old man hard to the floor. The hit was worthy of an NFL linebacker. Jerry crashed to the floor. Sam stood over him, sporting a similar look to when he sliced the idiot's throat.
Brian writhed and pulled against his restraints, with all his might. Unfortunately, to no avail.
Sam began to laugh, a disturbed, psychotic laugh. It reminded Brian of a slasher movie villain. He knelt down beside Jerry, and spoke in a maniacal tone.
"Listen, old man, I am going to let you lay here and watch me cut up this kid. I am going to cut really slowly, methodically, but above all, very painfully. I am going to allow you to watch him die, before you join him."
Sam stood and walked towards Brian, knife in hand, crazed look with half of his face covered in blood. He began to laugh again. Just as he got to within a foot of Brian, he slashed with brute force. A six inch wound opened deep in Brian's arm. He screamed from both surprise, and pain.
Sam's laughing began to rage, he was beginning to sound like a hyena. With a quick poke, he stabbed Brian in his left shoulder, and pulled the blade out very slowly. Pain and all out rage rushed through Brian's body at break neck speed. Sam slashed again, this time severing the hamstring behind his knee. Sam began to laugh even more uncontrollably now, as Brian screamed so unhumanly that Jerry began to fight to move.
Jerry fought with all his will to turn, he struggled, but got over just enough to allow his right hand access to his hip pocket. He fumbled with shaking hands, until he felt the knurled grip of the .38. Another scream came from Brian, as Sam sliced him again, this time across the abdomen. Blood cascaded from Brian's body, and his screams began to soften.
Unknown to Sam, behind him Jerry took aim. He reached back to make another torturous cut, and just then, Jerry squeezed the trigger. The bullet entered Sam's skull, passed through his brain, and exited his forehead. He crumpled to the ground, almost immediately. The unfortunate part was that the bullet continued on it's path, only slightly diverted, and found a new entrance. That entrance was Brian's left eyeball. His eyeball exploded like a smashed watermelon, and the bullet finally came to rest three quarters of the way into Brian's brain.
Jerry just stared. He was in shock. He could not believe what had happened. Grief overtook him, and he began to sob, uncontrollably. After a few minutes, he gathered his composure, and focused on getting himself up. He barely managed to, but he did get up. He limped over to Brian, kissed him on the head and apologized.
He walked over to the other side of the shop. He lifted the old, tattered blue sheet, and took one last look.
Jerry squeezed the trigger on the old revolver one last time.