now the guy smiled, exposing yellow teeth. Wallace made slurping sounds with his caffeine, said:
‘See what you’re dealing with.’
The guy seemed to be gaining confidence by the minute and rounding on Wallace, said:
‘American… the oppressors of the world. Killed any Muslims today?’
Wallace made a show of looking at his watch, a heavy metal tag, said:
‘Ah, it’s early yet, buddy, but we can get started.’
The guy said:
‘I want a lawyer… now.’
Wallace moved right in close, asked:
‘Where are the explosives, and when is the gig going down?’
The guy spit in his face.
Wallace didn’t flinch, let the spittle run down his cheek, then slowly reached in his jacket, took out the Magnum, said:
‘You have three minutes to tell me what I need to know.’
Porter tried to intervene, said:
‘Maybe we should take this down to the station.’
Nobody answered him, and then Wallace shot the guy’s ear off.
The explosion was deafening in the room, the guy howled in pain, grabbed at his ruined head, blood pouring down his neck, Wallace asked:
‘You hear any better now?’
Porter cried:
‘For the love of God, what are you doing… Jesus… come on?’
The guy managed to raise his head, pain etched in his face, and with a mighty effort he said:
‘Go fuck yourself, you Yankee piece of shit.’
Wallace shot him in the face.
21
WALLACE WAS DRIVING fast and with a fixed determination, Porter was shocked, sitting in the bucket seat, like he’d been hit by a truck… or a Magnum.
Wallace asked:
‘Where do you stand on pity fucks?’
Took Porter a moment to find his voice, then he said:
‘I pity the poor fuck you just murdered?’
Wallace looked at him in amazement, asked:
‘Hey, you’re not gonna wimp out on me, bud, I didn’t have you down for a pussy, is it some kind of gay thing? That what’s going on with you, you on the rag?’
If Porter had been carrying, he was fairly sure he’d have shot him, he said:
‘It’s gay if you count being horrified by cold-blooded execution, how the hell do you expect to get away with it?’
Wallace laughed, said:
‘You don’t get it, do you, you poor sap. It’s Homeland Security. I can do whatever the fuck I like, and what happened there, that was a message.… They want to sip withvirgins, be bathed in milk, or whatever crap they believe, we’re letting them know we’re more than happy to send them on their goddamn way.’
Porter reached for his cigarettes. He’d nearly quit… well, down to five a day… five-ish… Menthol Lights. He fired one up and Wallace snapped:
‘Yo, earth to pillow biter, did I say you could foul up my ride with that poison. It’s like fucking manners to ask, and the answer would have been no.’
Porter took a long deep drag, let out the smoke in Wallace’s direction, said:
‘What you going to do, shoot me?’
They’d got back to the station, and Wallace asked:
‘You gonna be pissed at me for long or you gonna lighten up, fellah?’
Porter tried to keep some trace of civility in his voice. He was British after all. Said:
‘I’m going to be get pissed… not gonna ,… g-o-i-n-g… and then I’ll consider what action to take on your murderous act.’
He was out of the car and Wallace leaned out, near whispered:
‘Well howdy-doody, thanks y’all for the lesson in that there grammar, and I tell you, pilgrim, you drop a dime on me, you is, as us rednecks say,… deep crittered.’
Porter spun back, asked:
‘You threatening me, you.…’
He couldn’t find a Brit-enough adjective to convey his rage and ended with ‘wanker.’
Wallace laughed, burned rubber off the pavement.
Porter resolved he was going to be laid, if he had to buy a frigging rent boy, but as them Yanks said, his ashes hauled , he was gonna get.
That evening, he dressed for sex, tight dark jeans, a pair of boots that cut slightly into his left foot but pain was okay, kept you focused, ask Wallace.
He wore a crisp white
‘See what you’re dealing with.’
The guy seemed to be gaining confidence by the minute and rounding on Wallace, said:
‘American… the oppressors of the world. Killed any Muslims today?’
Wallace made a show of looking at his watch, a heavy metal tag, said:
‘Ah, it’s early yet, buddy, but we can get started.’
The guy said:
‘I want a lawyer… now.’
Wallace moved right in close, asked:
‘Where are the explosives, and when is the gig going down?’
The guy spit in his face.
Wallace didn’t flinch, let the spittle run down his cheek, then slowly reached in his jacket, took out the Magnum, said:
‘You have three minutes to tell me what I need to know.’
Porter tried to intervene, said:
‘Maybe we should take this down to the station.’
Nobody answered him, and then Wallace shot the guy’s ear off.
The explosion was deafening in the room, the guy howled in pain, grabbed at his ruined head, blood pouring down his neck, Wallace asked:
‘You hear any better now?’
Porter cried:
‘For the love of God, what are you doing… Jesus… come on?’
The guy managed to raise his head, pain etched in his face, and with a mighty effort he said:
‘Go fuck yourself, you Yankee piece of shit.’
Wallace shot him in the face.
21
WALLACE WAS DRIVING fast and with a fixed determination, Porter was shocked, sitting in the bucket seat, like he’d been hit by a truck… or a Magnum.
Wallace asked:
‘Where do you stand on pity fucks?’
Took Porter a moment to find his voice, then he said:
‘I pity the poor fuck you just murdered?’
Wallace looked at him in amazement, asked:
‘Hey, you’re not gonna wimp out on me, bud, I didn’t have you down for a pussy, is it some kind of gay thing? That what’s going on with you, you on the rag?’
If Porter had been carrying, he was fairly sure he’d have shot him, he said:
‘It’s gay if you count being horrified by cold-blooded execution, how the hell do you expect to get away with it?’
Wallace laughed, said:
‘You don’t get it, do you, you poor sap. It’s Homeland Security. I can do whatever the fuck I like, and what happened there, that was a message.… They want to sip withvirgins, be bathed in milk, or whatever crap they believe, we’re letting them know we’re more than happy to send them on their goddamn way.’
Porter reached for his cigarettes. He’d nearly quit… well, down to five a day… five-ish… Menthol Lights. He fired one up and Wallace snapped:
‘Yo, earth to pillow biter, did I say you could foul up my ride with that poison. It’s like fucking manners to ask, and the answer would have been no.’
Porter took a long deep drag, let out the smoke in Wallace’s direction, said:
‘What you going to do, shoot me?’
They’d got back to the station, and Wallace asked:
‘You gonna be pissed at me for long or you gonna lighten up, fellah?’
Porter tried to keep some trace of civility in his voice. He was British after all. Said:
‘I’m going to be get pissed… not gonna ,… g-o-i-n-g… and then I’ll consider what action to take on your murderous act.’
He was out of the car and Wallace leaned out, near whispered:
‘Well howdy-doody, thanks y’all for the lesson in that there grammar, and I tell you, pilgrim, you drop a dime on me, you is, as us rednecks say,… deep crittered.’
Porter spun back, asked:
‘You threatening me, you.…’
He couldn’t find a Brit-enough adjective to convey his rage and ended with ‘wanker.’
Wallace laughed, burned rubber off the pavement.
Porter resolved he was going to be laid, if he had to buy a frigging rent boy, but as them Yanks said, his ashes hauled , he was gonna get.
That evening, he dressed for sex, tight dark jeans, a pair of boots that cut slightly into his left foot but pain was okay, kept you focused, ask Wallace.
He wore a crisp white
Similar Books
