Where’s the cheapest place in town to get dry ice? Poole stared at him over the top of his book, That spot over off 56th; what in the world do you need with dry ice? Hatchet looked straight into his eyes. I might wanna make a bomb, a non-lethal bomb like the ones we used to throw in dumpsters in high school. Poole sighed and went back to his reading. What are you gonna do without me, Poole? You going somewhere? Well, I’m not staying here. Uh-huh, what the fuck are you talking about? You know what I’m talking about. I guess I do and I’ll miss you when you’re gone. But you won’t talk about me when I’m gone though, will you? What is that supposed to mean? Hatchet tilted his head at him. Fuck off, Hatchet.
Hatchet dreamt he was dressed in a dark suit, sitting in the rear of a blacked out Suburban with another man, another Guardian, with a heavy padlocked deposit bag in the space between them. His companion’s eyes were just deep shadowy sockets in his chiseled face. The eyeless man was complaining about the cost of supporting a family, mortgages and car payments, arguments with his father-in-law. He wished there was more time for fishing trips and more money for a Harley. Then he drew a pistol from his jacket and squeezed the trigger three times and three holes opened in Hatchet’s chest that immediately vanished as time rewound then played forward again, the Guardian with his gun drawn and pointed again. Naw, he said and returned the weapon to his jacket, I wouldn’t do that to you, pal, some of us concede our fates to higher powers, ya know? Hatchet surprised himself with his following bravado, Some of us aren’t playing by those rules, asshole.
Never were.
An average phone call with the Texas Employment Commission, Hatchet’s only source of income for months now, could take up to forty-five minutes depending on which number he pressed in correspondence with the issue he might need resolved. When finally a voice connected to the flesh and blood of a real live human mouth would moo into his ear, Hatchet would be sitting decimated by his time under the hold music. He felt sure the piece written for the phone.
A vaguely female voice asked how It could be of service to him. With as much kindness as he could muster, he explained how his benefits had stopped which wouldn’t be a big deal really but these installments fulfilled his child support. It seemed lacking in confidence as It explained to him that It needed to take a moment to review his account and could he please hold for a second?
Hatchet’s eyes waxed dim in the bathroom mirror, damned once again to the choking gloom of hold music.
It returned to inform him his eligibility for benefits had run out. How can that be? It explained that according to the notes and records in the data base, his original weekly benefit amount had been calculated incorrectly which in turn meant that the amount of time he would receive benefits was cut short since the total amount of benefits he was allowed to receive had already been reached. Your records are incorrect. You can reapply for benefits in February of next year. Your records are wrong. It could put a supervisor on the line if he’d like. I know how that works; supervisors don’t talk to people like me; you’re just gonna transfer me to the next cubicle and they’ll tell me the same thing. It can’t do anything more than explain why your benefits have run out or place you in contact with a supervisor, sir. You could dig a little deeper, work a little harder, double check the amounts or something. Sir, you should have all this in the form of documents the TWC has mailed to you. Mailed to me? this is the year 3000; who mails anything or keeps anything that’s been mailed to them?
The loop of the doorknocker felt too heavy for its size as he worked it against itself. He could hear the clamor of Allison’s mother’s three dogs fenced in a hallway somewhere deep within the house. Through the half moon window at the top of the door, Allison’s father could be seen lumbering toward him like some sickly yeti through the cluttered interior with some tool in his hand, a hammer or a saw. This man has never had a free moment in his life, thought Hatchet. I bet he can’t remember a single detail about the world in which he lived before he got married and had two children. The man came close enough to the door to recognize Hatchet and he immediately turned and began backtracking as he called out to one of the women. Hatchet imagined swirling ribbons of snow wrapping around the ol’ boy as he disappeared again into cold recesses of the structure.
Allison soon came striding the same path through the same clutter and the same braided whips of arctic wind until he realized the shape of her standing in the ingress. She was the picture of shock painted hatred as she reached for the deadbolts and twisted them open with a sound not unlike a pump action shotgun. This better be good news, Marcus. Where’s Olivia? She’s upstairs on her computer; why has my child support stopped? Can I see her? Hell no and fuck no. She’s my daughter, Allison. Not until I see some child support she’s not. They’ve cut me off, Allison. Then I guess you had better put on your Sunday best and hit the bricks, boy, find yourself some employment, remember employment, Marcus? Allison, I’m not gonna beg you. Well, that just ruins my day, Marcus.
He could feel the cold aura of the place wafting past her into the air between them. It smelled like some wartime morgue built into an arctic cave high in some mystified range of jagged peaks. He gauged her sagging face, hoping for signs of life. I’ll figure it out, he told her and left her with her face jutting through a thin gap between the door and the enclosure. She doesn’t want to see you, Marcus, she’s afraid of you. If he had been listening to her he might have heard her before he left the yard, slamming the white picket gate closed behind him. But he wasn’t listening.
He sat on the edge of his truck and removed his shoes. He placed his toes in the fine silt at the perimeter of the road and squeezed the powdery soil between his digits. He pumped his bent knees to his chest a few times and then set to running in his flawed but disciplined form, gaining speed until he found an effective pace and length of stride. Voluminous chunks of oxygen ignited the furnace of his brain, his deep ravenous breaths billowing and pumping as the charged endorphins raced the length of his systems, all of them artisans in the construction of the plan to rob Calvary Fellowship Church of over a half a million dollars. The oppressive unstoppable bolt of time itself had finally broken him and cornered him into decisive action.
Hatchet dreamt he was dressed in a dark suit, sitting in the rear of a blacked out Suburban with another man, another Guardian, with a heavy padlocked deposit bag in the space between them. His companion’s eyes were just deep shadowy sockets in his chiseled face. The eyeless man was complaining about the cost of supporting a family, mortgages and car payments, arguments with his father-in-law. He wished there was more time for fishing trips and more money for a Harley. Then he drew a pistol from his jacket and squeezed the trigger three times and three holes opened in Hatchet’s chest that immediately vanished as time rewound then played forward again, the Guardian with his gun drawn and pointed again. Naw, he said and returned the weapon to his jacket, I wouldn’t do that to you, pal, some of us concede our fates to higher powers, ya know? Hatchet surprised himself with his following bravado, Some of us aren’t playing by those rules, asshole.
Never were.
An average phone call with the Texas Employment Commission, Hatchet’s only source of income for months now, could take up to forty-five minutes depending on which number he pressed in correspondence with the issue he might need resolved. When finally a voice connected to the flesh and blood of a real live human mouth would moo into his ear, Hatchet would be sitting decimated by his time under the hold music. He felt sure the piece written for the phone.
A vaguely female voice asked how It could be of service to him. With as much kindness as he could muster, he explained how his benefits had stopped which wouldn’t be a big deal really but these installments fulfilled his child support. It seemed lacking in confidence as It explained to him that It needed to take a moment to review his account and could he please hold for a second?
Hatchet’s eyes waxed dim in the bathroom mirror, damned once again to the choking gloom of hold music.
It returned to inform him his eligibility for benefits had run out. How can that be? It explained that according to the notes and records in the data base, his original weekly benefit amount had been calculated incorrectly which in turn meant that the amount of time he would receive benefits was cut short since the total amount of benefits he was allowed to receive had already been reached. Your records are incorrect. You can reapply for benefits in February of next year. Your records are wrong. It could put a supervisor on the line if he’d like. I know how that works; supervisors don’t talk to people like me; you’re just gonna transfer me to the next cubicle and they’ll tell me the same thing. It can’t do anything more than explain why your benefits have run out or place you in contact with a supervisor, sir. You could dig a little deeper, work a little harder, double check the amounts or something. Sir, you should have all this in the form of documents the TWC has mailed to you. Mailed to me? this is the year 3000; who mails anything or keeps anything that’s been mailed to them?
The loop of the doorknocker felt too heavy for its size as he worked it against itself. He could hear the clamor of Allison’s mother’s three dogs fenced in a hallway somewhere deep within the house. Through the half moon window at the top of the door, Allison’s father could be seen lumbering toward him like some sickly yeti through the cluttered interior with some tool in his hand, a hammer or a saw. This man has never had a free moment in his life, thought Hatchet. I bet he can’t remember a single detail about the world in which he lived before he got married and had two children. The man came close enough to the door to recognize Hatchet and he immediately turned and began backtracking as he called out to one of the women. Hatchet imagined swirling ribbons of snow wrapping around the ol’ boy as he disappeared again into cold recesses of the structure.
Allison soon came striding the same path through the same clutter and the same braided whips of arctic wind until he realized the shape of her standing in the ingress. She was the picture of shock painted hatred as she reached for the deadbolts and twisted them open with a sound not unlike a pump action shotgun. This better be good news, Marcus. Where’s Olivia? She’s upstairs on her computer; why has my child support stopped? Can I see her? Hell no and fuck no. She’s my daughter, Allison. Not until I see some child support she’s not. They’ve cut me off, Allison. Then I guess you had better put on your Sunday best and hit the bricks, boy, find yourself some employment, remember employment, Marcus? Allison, I’m not gonna beg you. Well, that just ruins my day, Marcus.
He could feel the cold aura of the place wafting past her into the air between them. It smelled like some wartime morgue built into an arctic cave high in some mystified range of jagged peaks. He gauged her sagging face, hoping for signs of life. I’ll figure it out, he told her and left her with her face jutting through a thin gap between the door and the enclosure. She doesn’t want to see you, Marcus, she’s afraid of you. If he had been listening to her he might have heard her before he left the yard, slamming the white picket gate closed behind him. But he wasn’t listening.
He sat on the edge of his truck and removed his shoes. He placed his toes in the fine silt at the perimeter of the road and squeezed the powdery soil between his digits. He pumped his bent knees to his chest a few times and then set to running in his flawed but disciplined form, gaining speed until he found an effective pace and length of stride. Voluminous chunks of oxygen ignited the furnace of his brain, his deep ravenous breaths billowing and pumping as the charged endorphins raced the length of his systems, all of them artisans in the construction of the plan to rob Calvary Fellowship Church of over a half a million dollars. The oppressive unstoppable bolt of time itself had finally broken him and cornered him into decisive action.
Edit 11.10.2018