Bill Piccolo

Rust

           Jim-Jim was laughing. 

           Stupid bitch and her stupid little yappy dog.

          "Goddamnit, JJ, oh my lord, oh my god, you've broken my little Pumpkins leg....," his sister was cursing, he knew she was upset when she started cursing, "Momma, momma can you take the baby, I'm gonna have to call the emergency vet. Oh my god, poor thing..." J.J. had to fake some tears now to avoid an ass whipping. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry," crocodile tears falling from his little eyes, "I didn't mean it." My sister, my mother, that little bug-eyed piece of shit dog - I hate 'em all, I'm glad the scrawny mutt's legs are broken, he thought.

            His sister had just gotten a new puppy, a chiwawa, named Pumpkin. Lacking attention, little Jimmy had been running through his sister's apartment dashing the frail little dog onto the hardwood floor until, well, until he broke little Pumpkin's front legs. 

            "James Jimson, I want you outside - NOW !" screamed his mother. Her and Jimmy had been visiting his sister and her new baby. Stupid cunt, thought J.J., why'd she have to name me 'James'. Didn't she know the way everyone at school teased him, 'Jimmy Jism, Jimmy Jism'. My mother, my step-father, my sister, my whole family - all assholes, he thought to himself. Inside, he was laughing, I'm glad I hurt the puppy. His mother shooed him out the front door into the parking lot of his sister's apartment complex. Two young girls watched with expressionless faces as he began to throw rocks at his sister's car. Inside the apartment he could hear little Pumpkin yelping and screaming in pain. Jim-Jim was laughing.   
 

            Many years later Jimmy lay in the backseat of a car, his feet bound with tape, his face against the floorboard, the barrel of a stolen police issue 9mm pressed against his head, the safety off, "You think you can just walk off with six thousand bucks of our money, asshole," the voice familiar, one of his captors, all the voices had begun to sound the same over the last forty-eight hours, "You think we're fuckin' playin', shithead, I'm gonna blow your teeth outta your head." He could hear the tires roll off of smooth pavement and onto a graveled road.  

            For two days he'd been bound and beaten, wondering not if, but when death would come. A dope deal gone bad to the tune of six grand, his junkie buddy probably nodding to a spoon of dark brown Mexican heroin now, thought Jimmy. He had been the stupid one, he had stayed behind and waited, caught like a turd in a toilet between the buyer and the supplier while his buddy had walked with the cash. Now two days since his last shot, he could hear waterfalls of rusted steel and glass falling through his mind which had become damp and dark like moss on the bank of a swamp hidden deep in the woods.

            "We're almost there asshole...you're time's almost up...," he imagined them to be in a wooded area somewhere off the beltway. He wondered how far off and how long it would take the authorities to find his body. 

            "Here man, do it here," he heard a voice say. Suddenly, with the car still moving, he heard the door opening. Images of his sister's little puppy, Pumpkin, quivering in pain, bandages wrapped around the animal's thin fragile legs, flashed through his mind. His body rolled out of the moving car and onto the gravel - he was still alive as far as he could tell. 

            Jimmy could hear them laughing as the car sped away.

 

                                    (2000)

 

All rights belong to its author. It was published on e-Stories.org by demand of Bill Piccolo.
Published on e-Stories.org on 15.10.2006.

 

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