The Devil You Know
11:58am: We find our protagonist at the stroke of midday. He looks beaten already, hunched over a seedy bar with a head full of cheap thoughts and a belly full of cheaper whisky. His overcoat and hat look lived-in. For most people the metaphorical line would have been crossed some time ago. But not for this pillar of the underside community. It’s a matter of precedent.
His mind is consumed with the present dilemma, just another line on the page of his existence. He can’t remember the last time he didn’t have something to deal with. Happiness is a washed out memory of girls and friends long dead or moved on.
His attention is wholly set upon the index finger of his right hand. Pressing his fingertip to the bar and slowly pulling it off, watching as the skin pulls as it is held by whatever horrible concoction of liquids has long accumulated there. Layer after layer of alcohol leaving a permanent sticky residue on his soul.
He sets down his whiskey and scans the bar. Nobody arousing suspicion, just your typical burnt-out geriatric drunks. Eventually he knows he will have to face the sun, but right now he is content to let the worry-pot simmer in his belly. Plenty of time left in the day to suffer.
Enveloped in the comforting smells of cigarette ghosts and stale beer he contemplates his next move. It’s time to visit the Devil. He knows by this point he should have probably walked away already, but he liked the girl and somewhere in his dried-apple of a heart some blood still flows.
5:15pm: He stumbles through the door to his office and slumps heavily into the chair. What a mess. He can still feel the cold pressure of the barrel on his temple. Nothing sharpens you up like being seconds away from death. The Devil, better known as Gary, is as unforgiving as ever.
He reaches into the bottom drawer and retrieves his medicine. The finest amber liquid no money can buy. He has developed a taste for the cheap stuff, his first ever drink had been pilfered from his father’s liquor cabinet and that man didn’t waste time on the finer things. His hand is still shaking and he pauses to admire the way the surface of the whisky bounces and moves. Bad vibrations. Better take a double dose.
He stares at the bottle and can just vaguely see his reflection staring back at him with hard judgemental eyes. Enemies and friends come and go he thinks, but the drink is always there for him. What do they always say? Better the devil you know. Well anything is better than that warped fucking sociopath.
Gary, what a strange, terrifying creature. At first it was funny, a weedy little antisocial guy trying to be tough. Things quickly lose their humour when people find out what game he is really playing. When it came to unnerving a person, Gary had every angle covered.
He was running out of options, though, had to make the sacrifice. Time was a factor here. The Devil knows where everyone is, AT ALL TIMES. Like a fucked-up Santa Claus. And now at least he has a solid lead. He won’t soon forget that nightmarish place though. He takes a long pull from the bottle.
10:45pm: He wakes with a foggy head full of pain and confusion. It takes him a moment to realign his brain. There is a persistent sound, what the hell is it? Something is trying to pound the door in. Reality kicks in and suddenly everything is a lot louder and he is a great deal more sober.
The lights are off and it wouldn’t be that much of a lie to suggest he isn’t in, his brain feels like its glued to the inside of his skull. It’s the kind of knocking that suggests impatience. He slowly reaches into the top drawer of his desk and puts a hand on the hilt of his Excalibur. A worn-out service revolver that may or may not actually fire in the heat of the moment. A fitting weapon for such a warrior. He runs a thumb along the grip, along the familiar lines, his thinking gun. Not that it makes him feel safer, just more dangerous. The weight of the thing always surprises him.
The pounding stops and he holds his breath. Silence but for the clock ticking menacingly. He is sure he can see an eye trying to peer through the keyhole, but it’s likely just the awful machinations of his imagination.
11:13pm: He is exactly where we left him, still too afraid to move from his chair in case of a trap. He still risks the movement of hand to mouth, bottle to lips. He is the only piece of furniture in the office willingly soaking itself in alcohol; the rest generally has no choice. The clock keeps reminding him that he has wasted too much time already, he tries to shut off his imagination as it flicks through scene after terrible scene of what is likely happening to that poor girl while he works his way along the breadcrumb trail. Time to get to work. Somewhere in the middle of his manic, nonsensical monologue, Gary had let slip that a certain little rat might know where the girl was. He was proud of himself for picking this up; it’s hard to focus when your conversation partner is making repeated references to disembowelling people and laughing hysterically.
11:32pm: The street is empty. He feels every shadow leering at him; the darkness drags its cold fingers up his spine. He’s no coward, just a realist, and this city is no place for the unwary. He checks the address scrawled on the scrap of paper in his pocket.
212 Benton St, home of the rat, called so because he bears such a startling resemblance to one in both aesthetics and nature. Things were about to get ugly.
He steps into the streetlight outside the door and places a hand on the knocker, braces himself for the breach and knocks sharply in three quick successions. Already from here he can smell a faint chemical odour. He can hear scurrying. Obviously these people don’t like interruptions. A voice politely enquires as to who the fuck is knocking. He steps back from the door and answers – your mother. At this, half of a less than friendly face appears. One squinting eye darts about trying to judge every angle of danger. Our man doesn’t waste the opportunity. For an average-sized guy with an obvious penchant for inebriation, he can move like a snake when the need arises. He slams his shoulder into the door and a squealing rodent is pinned between it and the wall.
The rat is spitting and hissing right up until he gets the gun barrel jammed right up one of his nostrils. His eyes tell a tale about what is happening to his underwear. Our hero is all menace and authority and stale whisky breath, causing fear and nostalgia for long dead step-fathers. The rat seems to visibly shrink; he thinks that one of his many debts has finally caught up with him.
It’s at this point that another little vermin appears on the scene, obviously being the more street smart of the two she has gone straight for a weapon. She bares her teeth. This one has been backed into a corner many more times than her nest-mate and has endured much, much worse. He can see it in her whole body. She will burn the whole place down around them rather than be trapped by anyone again.
He relaxes his stance and makes a great show of putting away his gun. Darting eyes evaluate his every move. Traps everywhere.
Tell me where they have taken the girl and I’ll walk away, you will never see me again. He hears confidence and power in the tone of his own voice; at least he is maintaining the façade because the little voice in his head is shitting itself. She advances toward him warily, weapon at the ready. Trembling with hatred and fear. Her eyes flick toward her partner, trying to divine some information about what the hell this strange threat was talking about. The rat drags his pointed tongue along cracked and crusted lips. He knows something she does not.
In a show of nonchalance our man lights a cigarette, moving carefully, animals can be prone to nervous reactions. He know that he has a potential ally in this feral little rat girl. Enemy of my enemy and all that. Things have gone better than he expected, for instance, he isn’t dead yet. She turns hard eyes upon her partner. What girl.
1:00am: He takes a deep breath as he steps out into the street. He doesn’t feel bad about the rat’s current condition. After all it was mostly the other little rat doing all the damage. He’d actually had to intervene at one point. That’s definitely got to be the strangest play of good-cop bad-cop in history.
He got what he came for and now he can feel the last few days rising up to meet him. Time is ticking away but he has to sleep sometime. His feet start home; the tension and adrenaline drain away and with it his resolve. If he gives up now though, what then?
He pats his pockets in vain, hoping to find a forgotten flask or bottle but comes up empty. Cigarettes it is. He can feel sobriety looming and it frightens him a great deal more than his impending task.
He hails a cab and his thoughts turn to the girl. When she came looking for help he had assumed she was just another stray in a city full of such vulnerable creatures. He remembers the look of gratitude on her face when he said he’d put her in contact with some people, probably the first time in a long time that anyone had offered her an olive branch. He feels sick, she thought he was helping her but really he was just giving her an elaborate brush-off. Too many of his own problems to deal with and now his fucking conscience is giving him a bad time. She reminded him of a girl he once knew, sweet and somehow free of the jaded cynicism that pervades this fine city. Hell, he probably threw her to the sharks as well.
1:30am: He is more tired than he can remember and his mind’s eye is fixed only on the unopened scotch he has sitting on the kitchen sink. He fumbles with his keys, dropping them at the door. Fuck. It takes him all of his remaining strength to bend down and he is sure this is where he will fall.
A great lurching and summoning of long-lost willpower drives him into the apartment. He lumbers into the kitchen and grabs the bottle with both hands. Tearing off the top he upends it into his mouth. He is running out of oxygen but he keeps drinking with the bottle poised above his head. Maybe this will do it, finally finish him off.
No, not yet.
He can see little stars floating in his vision. Half the bottle is burning its way to his stomach. Tomorrow isn’t going to be a good day.
He drops into his chair and stares at the blank television screen. Not even enough energy to take off his jacket and shoes. He takes another swig from the bottle. The darkness closes in.
4:37am: He wonders whether he is dreaming. He can hear something smashing against wood. But it seems to be coming from a long way away. There is a door crashing open, shrouded figures move toward him in slow motion. His breathing sounds loud and heavy in his ears. Here comes a sense of rushing, of colour and sound. Like ice water down the back of his shirt he is suddenly, intensely aware that he is under attack.
A bat made of dark wood swings at his head with deadly force. He doesn’t get quite out of the way and it clips him over the ear.
Pain engulfs his world, his ears are ringing.
He is on the floor desperately trying to make his legs work. A boot connects with his ribs and his mind loses all bearing.
He rolls onto his back and stares numbly as the bat comes crashing down.
7:04am: darkness.
Spots of colour start forming in the ether. What does this mean? Where am I?
He can see something, his vision swims and it takes him a minute to recognise his own blood-stained trousers. He feels strangely detached; like that time he tried mushrooms as a kid, the same unfocused sense of foreboding lurking in the corners of his brain.
Cold water is thrust into his face and with it pain comes rushing into his world. He tries to shout but all that comes out is a gurgled grunt.
Awake then are you, Mr Sticky-Beak.
He recognises the voice and the fear really begins to set in. The Devil is the father of lies.
How are we feeling then, a little under the weather eh? I’ve warned you before about keeping your nose out of other people’s business, you fucking parasite.
The last is said without any particular emphasis, just with the particularly developed menace of a man who knows no limits and fears no consequences.
Nothing to say? What am I to do with you? I really feel that this time I’m going to have to kill you and hang your corpse from a lamppost somewhere; you’d look pretty trussed up like a flag. I can just see you now, that disgusting fucking coat of yours flapping in the breeze.
While the smug bastard has been running his mouth, our hero has been frantically tugging at the ties on his wrists. The ropes are tight and he can feel them cutting into his skin, but the fear of the man in front of him supersedes everything else. He manages to find a sharpish edge on the metal edge of the chair and gets to work.
Why didn’t you just kill me before Gary, why all this fucking around.
Well we are badly mannered today aren’t we? Where’s the fun in just telling you I had the girl, this way we can play a bit before I chop you up into little pieces and feed you to my dogs.
What have you done with her?
Oh don’t you worry your little head about her, she’s been well looked after, I found lots of uses for that little piece of work. My friends here had some fun with her too. He gestures to his little gang of freaks, sitting around, all fingering some sort of dangerous implement and smiling without mercy.
Our heroes stomach drops out, he looks across the room at a door to another room. The Devil follows his gaze.
Oh yes my little pet, you will get to see her soon enough.
He tries to suppress the sound in his throat as he feels the ropes give under the metal. If anything he is more afraid now that his hands are free. Gary is saying something nasty about skinning him with the little flick knife that has appeared in his hands but his attention is centred on his revolver lodged in the waistband of Gary’s grimy trackpants.
The Devil moves in, obviously feeling up for a little dark humour before he starts cutting. His breath wafts hot and evil smelling over our heroes face. The speed at which the gun appears under the psycho bastard’s chin surprises everybody in the room. Fuck you Gary.
Our man is inches away from his enemy’s face as he pulls the trigger and the top of his head explodes like a high school science experiment.
He will never forget the look on the bastard’s face as he falls away, still grinning like a carved pumpkin.
Before he knows what he is doing he is on his feet, firing wildly at the other people occupying the room. It’s all smoke, shouting and wild movements. He realises that he is still pulling the trigger but all that results is a series of resounding clicks. Lucky for our man he has managed to put down all of the freaks. In a detached way he looks down at his arm which is gushing blood in merry little rivulets from two decisive holes.
Various parts of his mind are screaming at him to move. He moves raggedly toward a door and becomes aware of an overwhelming smell of death. This is all he can take and he steadies himself against a wall and vomits heartily on the floor. He could really use a drink.
There will surely be more coming. He pushes the door into the next room and the smell nearly knocks him to the floor. There is an old dirty mattress on the floor, on top of the mattress, tied by all of her limbs is the girl. Naked, carved, bruised and obviously starting to putrefy. He scrambles backwards through the door, hauls his body in the opposite direction, desperate for an exit.
7:24am: cool air hits his face and the shift sends his stomach reeling again. It turns itself inside-out in the alleyway. He is utterly spent.
Some survival instinct fires and he begins to move as fast as he can, a limping, dragging gait.
There is only one thing on his mind now.
9:45am: he has finally fallen in the alley behind the bar. He drags himself to a wall and begins counting the seconds. Not long now till opening time.
No More Words 