Just then, Hatchet heard something in the dead grass behind him. He placed his hand on the shotgun lying next to him in the bushes and stretched to look. A huge truck had parked on the bridge with its flashers pulsing yellow through the guardrail and Hatchet could make out Clancey striding down the slope, alone, his hair cut into a black Mohawk glued straight into the air. Clancey reached level ground and stomped past Hatchet within ten feet of his concealment. What in the hell? thought Hatchet and he turned back to the truck in search of Teague or any other Dog Boys but he couldn't make anyone through the tinted windows and the darkness. Quill, Hatchet said, tracking Clancey with the camera, Clancey's coming up behind you across the field; looks like he's alone; don't freak out; stay calm.
Quill startled Brody Lassiter by stepping to Lassiter's left and searching the distance obscured by the headlights coming at them. A rear door on the Suburban opened and a Guardian put one foot on the cement. Check the Suburban, Quill, Hatchet told him, make that guy close the door. Quill pointed, Back in the truck! Lassiter immediately barked the same order and the door closed again.
Clancey made a ghostly figure as he entered the orange light of the tall highway lamps that appeared as hovering saucers, each projecting a single fading tractor beam into the dense night below them. His steps slowed in his surprise at finding Quill standing next to Brody Lassiter. What is your dumbass doing here? he said. Ask him where Teague is, Hatchet ordered. Where's Tim? Quill said. I asked you a fuckin question, Quill. Lassiter's voice gained a new level of aggravation, Why am I standing on the side of the freeway with a couple gangbangers? where the hell is your boss, you little punk? Don't you talk to me like that; I will fuck you up, asshole! Where's Tim, Clancey? Quill repeated. A gradual epiphany bloomed in Clancey's expression. So Hatchet got to you, he said through his black teeth, how did he ever find you, Quill? he's supposed to be dead; and why would he ever trust your retarded ass into this? 'course Hatchet was never that good a judge of character; look where it got him with me. Don't get sucked into that shit, Hatchet instructed the fuming Quill, ask him about Teague again. Where's Tim, Clancey? Where's Hatchet, Quill? Clancey beamed at him. Who's Hatchet? Lassiter's voice cracking in frustration. Shut up, old man, Clancey pointed a finger in his face. Why isn't Tim here? Quill continued, he's supposed to be here. I'm here, fucko, that's all that matters; now where is that goddamned egg? This is ridiculous! Lassiter screamed and threw his hands in the air as if tossing confetti, I want out of this goddamned fiasco! where is the Russian egg and who is this Hatchet person? this is beginning to sound like I've been swindled! We can't do this without Teague, Hatchet told him. Where's Tim, Clancey? we don't do this without him. Clancey stomped, You deal with me, Quill; end of story. No, Tim has to be here. That's no shit, Lassiter said, where is he? where in the samhell is that pompous bastard? he's left me out to dry; left me to take all the heat on this deal; you get him on the phone and get his ass down here! Not gonna happen. Listen, you little faggot, I have a car load of serious fucking weaponry and the jarheads who know how to use them; if you don't get Tim Teague down here in exactly ten minutes, I'm gonna blast my way into that stupid castle and drag his ass down here myself! You don't have the balls, old man! Clancey’s body began to shake either from the chill in the wind or the feverish anger percolating within him, I've got you by the short and curlies, preacher! Then he focused on Quill, Where is the fucking egg, Quill? Nothing happens without—. Goddammit, Quill! it aint gonna happen! Ask him why, Hatchet told him. Why aint Tim gonna be here, Clancey? Fuck you! Ask him again. Why aint Tim coming, Clancey? Shut up, you sunuvabitch! Ask him again. Why aint Tim coming, Clancey?
Because he's fucking dead, you stupid fuckin mongoloid!
Within milliseconds, the same jagged bolt of white shock that sent Brody Lassiter retreating a few steps and dropped Quill's jaw froze Hatchet colder than any blast of north wind ripping through his roost in the field. What did you say? Lassiter asked. Dead? Quill said, Tim is dead? You're damn right he is and guess what; so are you and so am I, you idiot! What do you mean, Clancey, Quill asked him, what do you mean, I'm dead? I mean he killed us, Quill; he had AIDS! that old faggot fucked anything that moved, man; you get diseases from that shit! he had AIDS and he fucked all of us!
The air flushed from Hatchet's lungs as he made the connection on the timeline. Timothy Allen Teague had contracted the disease and dropped out of public life, keeping his illness a secret from everyone he knew and then died, leaving Clancey to rule his kingdom in camera. When Hatchet recruited Clancey to participate in the robbery, Teague had already been dead a month, giving Clancey the opportunity to cut Brody Lassiter out of Timothy Allen Teage's greatest find. Clancey knew enough about Teague's business dealings to operate the empire for years without anyone discovering the truth. Absurd, thought Hatchet.
Remember that? Clancey hissed at Quill, remember him sticking his tiny little pecker in ya? that mutherfucker killed us, Quill. No way.
Rich men don’t die of AIDS, Hatchet told him, tell him that. Rich dudes don’t die from AIDS, Clancey. The old idiot never went to a doctor, never; you ever remember him going to a doctor? No. He killed you; he killed me and all the others. This cain't be true, Clancey. Oh, it's so fuckin true; remember Skinny Robbie? remember Skinny Robbie moved off to LA and died like three months later? remember how we all freaked out when we found out what he died of? Oh shit. Now, it's sinking in; remember how Tim gave us all those tests? Those weren't real AIDS tests, man. He killed us, Quill! Tim knew he was sick and he knew he was gonna die but he kept on boinkin us; he wanted all of us to die! he killed us all, Quill.
Brody Lassiter stood catatonic in the waves of white light washing through the carrot colored air as his breathing increased and his eyes lasered the bleak distance beyond the island. How could this happen, he whispered so low that neither of the Dog Boys heard him. His mind struggled to calculate the ramifications but the math perplexed the machinery in his head and the levers slipped and the wheels spun unabated and the belts smoked and failed, the pulleys and springs snapping out of place, throwing more debris into the works. The moaning crashing sound of it all poured through his ears and he feared he might faint and fall into the speeding traffic. Through the din, amidst the smoke and the blaze, a voice began to speak to him in a hush, a voice he had heard many times before, a voice he had always interpreted as the voice of his god, the young Anglo man lashed to a cross two thousand years ago. As the voice shed the whisper and began rising in volume, he recognized it as his own and knew then that it had always been his voice.
You have failed me, Brody; you are an abomination.
And he broke. He dropped to his knees and began to wail, shedding his coat and scarf. Every door on the Suburban blasted open and Brody Lassiter's soldiers rushed forth like crude oil from bursting pipes, guns drawn, pistols, shotguns, sub-machine guns. Quill! Hatchet yelled through his phone, you've gotta get outta there! run! Cars on the freeway swerved at the sight, two of them smashing the concrete middle barrier. The comet's tail warped with the sound of sliding rubber then multiple crashes dominoed backward through the three southbound lanes and the sound of falling glass and bending metal travelled across the field, mingling with the wind and the rumble of the upper levels of the highway.
Both the Dog Boys flinched at the coming platoon and Clancey shot from Quill's side and began running toward Hatchet's position, intent on reaching the truck parked on the shoulder up the sloping embankment. Quill gave chase. Hatchet could hear him sobbing though the phone as their constellation of shadows broke down. I've got him, Quill, Hatchet said as he lifted the shotgun to his lap and racked a shell into the chamber. No! he's mine! I'm gonna kill you, Clancey! Just before Hatchet could leap from the knoll, he caught the oscillations of a new group of lights behind him. He squinted up through the bushes at Clancey's truck to see a police cruiser parked behind it, red and blue torching the now falling snow. Hatchet cursed silently, trying to locate the officer through the thick wind wrestled branches of his hideout.
Clancey cut to his left at the sight of the emergency lights and Quill kept on him and gained ground on his prey's arching trail through the field as he began to sprint again back toward the ramp but setting his trajectory off target from the milling chaos surrounding Brody Lassiter. Hatchet feared the Guardians might open fire and waste both of them but they appeared too consumed with dragging their principle back the Suburban to take much notice. Clancey had the gift of speed but Quill's long stride and anger began filling the gap and as Clancey neared the barrier, he had to brake to make the jump onto the edge of it and this slight degradation made the difference as Quill lunged at him and pushed him in the back, sending him into the traffic curling the ramp. Following a glancing impact, Clancey skirted one-legged across the lane then slammed into the opposite barrier where the ramp emptied into the merge. Stunned, he wandered back into the flow and a full size Chevy truck flattened him, causing another series of rear-ending impacts along the entire stretch of the ramp. Quill rested against the barrier where he had hit his face against the concrete wall in his effort to shove Clancey, the dark blood from his forehead seeping into his eyes.
The overweight cop had begun loping across the field toward the scene, already past Hatchet's knoll, yelling into the handset clipped to his uniform. Hatchet called to Quill, Hey, can you hear me? He placed his eye back to the camera and found Quill in the process of putting the earphone back in place. Can you hear me, Quill? Yeah, man. You look really hurt, Quill. I cain't see nothin; did I get em? What? Did I get that fuckin piece of shit? Yeah, you got him. He's dead? He can't have lived through what I just saw but listen there's a cop running across to you from my direction. Hatchet watched the Suburban peel across the island and smash through the wrecks to find open road and disappear over the next bridge. I cain't see him, Quill said. Just crawl over the wall; all the traffic is stopped. Naw. What? Naw; I cain't see nothin! Quill, you have to get out of there! I won't rat on you, Hatchet. Quill... Quill, coughed into the speaker, I won't rat you out, Hatchet; I promise you, dude. Listen, Quill, I’m trusting you. I know. Now, listen; this is important, the most important thing you can remember from here on out, you listening? you hear me? Yeah, Hatchet. No matter what the cops say to you, you tell them, lawyer; you just say that word, nothing else. I hear ya. What are you gonna say? Lawyer. When are you gonna say it? When the cops get here. That’s right and not just the cops, Quill, anybody; anybody who wants to talk to you about me or any of this, all you say is, lawyer. But I don’t have a lawyer. I’ll take care of it; you say that word, got it?
I got it, Hatchet; I won’t rat you out, Hatchet; I promise.
I know you won’t, Quill; I know you won’t because I trust you.
Now toss the phone, Hatchet told him in a sigh. Huh? Stand up and throw the phone behind you as hard as you can. Okay, Hatchet. Quill stood and launched the phone over the cars stuck on the ramp and through the bridge above him and the darkness swallowed it somewhere in the residential alleys scattered on the other side of the dimly lit access road. Hatchet gathered the camera and the gun and slipped from the bushes and sprinted the short distance through the nearest bridge, not giving the stranded drivers any looks, vaulting a barrier that separated the freeway from the access road and ran full speed to his waiting truck parked in a vacant lot near a Salvation Army post.
Quill startled Brody Lassiter by stepping to Lassiter's left and searching the distance obscured by the headlights coming at them. A rear door on the Suburban opened and a Guardian put one foot on the cement. Check the Suburban, Quill, Hatchet told him, make that guy close the door. Quill pointed, Back in the truck! Lassiter immediately barked the same order and the door closed again.
Clancey made a ghostly figure as he entered the orange light of the tall highway lamps that appeared as hovering saucers, each projecting a single fading tractor beam into the dense night below them. His steps slowed in his surprise at finding Quill standing next to Brody Lassiter. What is your dumbass doing here? he said. Ask him where Teague is, Hatchet ordered. Where's Tim? Quill said. I asked you a fuckin question, Quill. Lassiter's voice gained a new level of aggravation, Why am I standing on the side of the freeway with a couple gangbangers? where the hell is your boss, you little punk? Don't you talk to me like that; I will fuck you up, asshole! Where's Tim, Clancey? Quill repeated. A gradual epiphany bloomed in Clancey's expression. So Hatchet got to you, he said through his black teeth, how did he ever find you, Quill? he's supposed to be dead; and why would he ever trust your retarded ass into this? 'course Hatchet was never that good a judge of character; look where it got him with me. Don't get sucked into that shit, Hatchet instructed the fuming Quill, ask him about Teague again. Where's Tim, Clancey? Where's Hatchet, Quill? Clancey beamed at him. Who's Hatchet? Lassiter's voice cracking in frustration. Shut up, old man, Clancey pointed a finger in his face. Why isn't Tim here? Quill continued, he's supposed to be here. I'm here, fucko, that's all that matters; now where is that goddamned egg? This is ridiculous! Lassiter screamed and threw his hands in the air as if tossing confetti, I want out of this goddamned fiasco! where is the Russian egg and who is this Hatchet person? this is beginning to sound like I've been swindled! We can't do this without Teague, Hatchet told him. Where's Tim, Clancey? we don't do this without him. Clancey stomped, You deal with me, Quill; end of story. No, Tim has to be here. That's no shit, Lassiter said, where is he? where in the samhell is that pompous bastard? he's left me out to dry; left me to take all the heat on this deal; you get him on the phone and get his ass down here! Not gonna happen. Listen, you little faggot, I have a car load of serious fucking weaponry and the jarheads who know how to use them; if you don't get Tim Teague down here in exactly ten minutes, I'm gonna blast my way into that stupid castle and drag his ass down here myself! You don't have the balls, old man! Clancey’s body began to shake either from the chill in the wind or the feverish anger percolating within him, I've got you by the short and curlies, preacher! Then he focused on Quill, Where is the fucking egg, Quill? Nothing happens without—. Goddammit, Quill! it aint gonna happen! Ask him why, Hatchet told him. Why aint Tim gonna be here, Clancey? Fuck you! Ask him again. Why aint Tim coming, Clancey? Shut up, you sunuvabitch! Ask him again. Why aint Tim coming, Clancey?
Because he's fucking dead, you stupid fuckin mongoloid!
Within milliseconds, the same jagged bolt of white shock that sent Brody Lassiter retreating a few steps and dropped Quill's jaw froze Hatchet colder than any blast of north wind ripping through his roost in the field. What did you say? Lassiter asked. Dead? Quill said, Tim is dead? You're damn right he is and guess what; so are you and so am I, you idiot! What do you mean, Clancey, Quill asked him, what do you mean, I'm dead? I mean he killed us, Quill; he had AIDS! that old faggot fucked anything that moved, man; you get diseases from that shit! he had AIDS and he fucked all of us!
The air flushed from Hatchet's lungs as he made the connection on the timeline. Timothy Allen Teague had contracted the disease and dropped out of public life, keeping his illness a secret from everyone he knew and then died, leaving Clancey to rule his kingdom in camera. When Hatchet recruited Clancey to participate in the robbery, Teague had already been dead a month, giving Clancey the opportunity to cut Brody Lassiter out of Timothy Allen Teage's greatest find. Clancey knew enough about Teague's business dealings to operate the empire for years without anyone discovering the truth. Absurd, thought Hatchet.
Remember that? Clancey hissed at Quill, remember him sticking his tiny little pecker in ya? that mutherfucker killed us, Quill. No way.
Rich men don’t die of AIDS, Hatchet told him, tell him that. Rich dudes don’t die from AIDS, Clancey. The old idiot never went to a doctor, never; you ever remember him going to a doctor? No. He killed you; he killed me and all the others. This cain't be true, Clancey. Oh, it's so fuckin true; remember Skinny Robbie? remember Skinny Robbie moved off to LA and died like three months later? remember how we all freaked out when we found out what he died of? Oh shit. Now, it's sinking in; remember how Tim gave us all those tests? Those weren't real AIDS tests, man. He killed us, Quill! Tim knew he was sick and he knew he was gonna die but he kept on boinkin us; he wanted all of us to die! he killed us all, Quill.
Brody Lassiter stood catatonic in the waves of white light washing through the carrot colored air as his breathing increased and his eyes lasered the bleak distance beyond the island. How could this happen, he whispered so low that neither of the Dog Boys heard him. His mind struggled to calculate the ramifications but the math perplexed the machinery in his head and the levers slipped and the wheels spun unabated and the belts smoked and failed, the pulleys and springs snapping out of place, throwing more debris into the works. The moaning crashing sound of it all poured through his ears and he feared he might faint and fall into the speeding traffic. Through the din, amidst the smoke and the blaze, a voice began to speak to him in a hush, a voice he had heard many times before, a voice he had always interpreted as the voice of his god, the young Anglo man lashed to a cross two thousand years ago. As the voice shed the whisper and began rising in volume, he recognized it as his own and knew then that it had always been his voice.
You have failed me, Brody; you are an abomination.
And he broke. He dropped to his knees and began to wail, shedding his coat and scarf. Every door on the Suburban blasted open and Brody Lassiter's soldiers rushed forth like crude oil from bursting pipes, guns drawn, pistols, shotguns, sub-machine guns. Quill! Hatchet yelled through his phone, you've gotta get outta there! run! Cars on the freeway swerved at the sight, two of them smashing the concrete middle barrier. The comet's tail warped with the sound of sliding rubber then multiple crashes dominoed backward through the three southbound lanes and the sound of falling glass and bending metal travelled across the field, mingling with the wind and the rumble of the upper levels of the highway.
Both the Dog Boys flinched at the coming platoon and Clancey shot from Quill's side and began running toward Hatchet's position, intent on reaching the truck parked on the shoulder up the sloping embankment. Quill gave chase. Hatchet could hear him sobbing though the phone as their constellation of shadows broke down. I've got him, Quill, Hatchet said as he lifted the shotgun to his lap and racked a shell into the chamber. No! he's mine! I'm gonna kill you, Clancey! Just before Hatchet could leap from the knoll, he caught the oscillations of a new group of lights behind him. He squinted up through the bushes at Clancey's truck to see a police cruiser parked behind it, red and blue torching the now falling snow. Hatchet cursed silently, trying to locate the officer through the thick wind wrestled branches of his hideout.
Clancey cut to his left at the sight of the emergency lights and Quill kept on him and gained ground on his prey's arching trail through the field as he began to sprint again back toward the ramp but setting his trajectory off target from the milling chaos surrounding Brody Lassiter. Hatchet feared the Guardians might open fire and waste both of them but they appeared too consumed with dragging their principle back the Suburban to take much notice. Clancey had the gift of speed but Quill's long stride and anger began filling the gap and as Clancey neared the barrier, he had to brake to make the jump onto the edge of it and this slight degradation made the difference as Quill lunged at him and pushed him in the back, sending him into the traffic curling the ramp. Following a glancing impact, Clancey skirted one-legged across the lane then slammed into the opposite barrier where the ramp emptied into the merge. Stunned, he wandered back into the flow and a full size Chevy truck flattened him, causing another series of rear-ending impacts along the entire stretch of the ramp. Quill rested against the barrier where he had hit his face against the concrete wall in his effort to shove Clancey, the dark blood from his forehead seeping into his eyes.
The overweight cop had begun loping across the field toward the scene, already past Hatchet's knoll, yelling into the handset clipped to his uniform. Hatchet called to Quill, Hey, can you hear me? He placed his eye back to the camera and found Quill in the process of putting the earphone back in place. Can you hear me, Quill? Yeah, man. You look really hurt, Quill. I cain't see nothin; did I get em? What? Did I get that fuckin piece of shit? Yeah, you got him. He's dead? He can't have lived through what I just saw but listen there's a cop running across to you from my direction. Hatchet watched the Suburban peel across the island and smash through the wrecks to find open road and disappear over the next bridge. I cain't see him, Quill said. Just crawl over the wall; all the traffic is stopped. Naw. What? Naw; I cain't see nothin! Quill, you have to get out of there! I won't rat on you, Hatchet. Quill... Quill, coughed into the speaker, I won't rat you out, Hatchet; I promise you, dude. Listen, Quill, I’m trusting you. I know. Now, listen; this is important, the most important thing you can remember from here on out, you listening? you hear me? Yeah, Hatchet. No matter what the cops say to you, you tell them, lawyer; you just say that word, nothing else. I hear ya. What are you gonna say? Lawyer. When are you gonna say it? When the cops get here. That’s right and not just the cops, Quill, anybody; anybody who wants to talk to you about me or any of this, all you say is, lawyer. But I don’t have a lawyer. I’ll take care of it; you say that word, got it?
I got it, Hatchet; I won’t rat you out, Hatchet; I promise.
I know you won’t, Quill; I know you won’t because I trust you.
Now toss the phone, Hatchet told him in a sigh. Huh? Stand up and throw the phone behind you as hard as you can. Okay, Hatchet. Quill stood and launched the phone over the cars stuck on the ramp and through the bridge above him and the darkness swallowed it somewhere in the residential alleys scattered on the other side of the dimly lit access road. Hatchet gathered the camera and the gun and slipped from the bushes and sprinted the short distance through the nearest bridge, not giving the stranded drivers any looks, vaulting a barrier that separated the freeway from the access road and ran full speed to his waiting truck parked in a vacant lot near a Salvation Army post.
Edit 1.4.2019