AN: This is a one-shot. I have not decided as to whether it stands separate from my other stories or is incorporated in them. I have to warn that this story is disturbing. This takes place prior to Rock's and Revy's confrontation at the China Bowl restaurant.
I am scared.
A grey sedan blows smoke out of its rear, a street light glowing red above it. I make out a 7 and a 2 on the dirty, illegible license plate. Headlights in the Plymouth shine on the sedan. I peek at the radio, it says it is 7:07 P.M. My back fights with the vinyl seating, while my dress shoes plant themselves firmly on a brake that is being slightly difficult with me. Dutch's Plymouth Road Runner is like its owner, full of tiny scars and takes getting used to, but reliable when familiar. I hear the sound of a lighter striking a flame. Cigarette smoke follows, a harsh odor filling my nose. Doesn't smell like the usual Natural Spirit.
"Fucking Chinese trash, tastes like shit," my psychotic partner swears, her tone not the usual snarling annoyance. She sounds colder, contemplative. I watch her toss a pack of Hongtashans at the windshield. Two cigarettes spill out.
I want to turn on the radio, anything better than this. Every inch of movement, I think out the various ways she might take it as an excuse to scrape my brains off the dashboard. It's been less than a month and she has shot aimlessly at me, beaten me, broken one of my fingers in a drunken rage at the Yellow Flag, treated me as dirt as low as the dirt my ex bosses saw me as, and then graduated to promising to killing me as soon as she thinks I judged her as trash. It's the last one that stays in the forefront of my head. Supported by the fact that the past few days since the Aryan Socialist Union raid, she has spent her waking moments as if she truly wants to kill me.
I summon the courage to speak. I feel regret as soon as I open my mouth, but too late to stop.
"Where are we going?" I ask, hitting the gas. She won't kill me while the car is moving. I think.
I glance a look at her. I feel confused and unsettled. She is not wearing her usual tank top and jean-like shorts, her combat boots and her apparently trademark gun holsters. I don't see her pistols on her. Instead, she is wearing a dark grey hoodie with deep front pockets, almost like hand warmers. I spot a slight square-ish bulge in one of the pockets, must be where she is hiding her pistols. A half torn tag hangs out of her dark blue jeans, the barcode hastily torn off.
She just bought these clothes. Why?
I feel startled, my eyes on the road, as I hear her say "Outside the city. Turn right, cross the bridge, than turn left. First house after the gas station." She speaks as if she is in the tail end of what Dutch seems to call 'Whitman Fever'. I thought she had her fill on the boat with the Neo-Nazis. Benny told me that Dutch had to calm Revy down at one point, nothing more specific. Her tone has a slight coldness to it, like she despises being in a five-meter radius with me.
I see a sign pointing to the local highway that would take us in the direction to Trat town. I take a right and approach the edge of Roanapur, the city of thieves and the den of vice. It's my first time out of the city by car.
Finishing a quick conversation with Revy without being hurt made me feel a bit bolder. I try my luck. "Why are we going there?"
I think Revy twitched a bit, could be my imagination. She answers my question, her tone getting less cold but still threatening. "We are…I read in the newspaper some time ago, about some rural fuckhead winning a nice little jackpot, around eight grand from a scratch off."
My stomach churns. I ask "Why are we visiting them?" I glance right. Revy turns to face me, cigarette in her mouth. I freeze for a second, almost tapping on the brakes out of instinct. Her voice gets softer, as she smiles menacingly and says "Cause, we are going to rob them."
Revy has a talent of being scarier the softer and lower her voice and the blanker the look on her face. I noticed this three days ago, since the Aryan Socialist Union was left a floating pile of corpses. For her to smile while still having that cold, soft voice, I don't know what to expect. And that makes me scared.
"Why are we robbing them?" I ask, feeling bold enough to extend the conversation. I pass over the bridge that separates Roanapur and the rest of Thailand. To my right, in the far distance, I see a dark cathedral with a similarly dark abbey. As she speaks, I turn right and start to tap on the brakes. "We are robbing them…because I lost all those war trinkets at the sub. And as such, I lost a shit load of money. So I want to be made whole." She speaks more cleanly, more concisely, and on the surface, calmly. It is very unnerving. I still do not see how I figure into this.
"So why do you have me driving you?" I ask, hitting the gas, passing the noose that hangs under the awning over the bridge. I hear the faint sound of fire burning rapidly through a cigarette, followed by the sound of exhaling. Scratching an inch that has been bothering my back, I hear Revy say "It was your fucking sentimentality that let the Nazi fucks flood the sub with all my shit inside. So, I blame you."
"Revy, I can pay you back in a couple of jobs," I negotiate at my own risk. Regardless of her reaction, I dread more what she has planned for today. I hear her say "Hmm…no I think not. I think I want to be made whole now." She ends her sentence with a tinge of the coldness that she gave me the night of the Nazi boat raid. I know better than to press on. If I one day will summon the courage to do so, it will not be today.
A red local gas station zooms past the right side of the road, sandwiched between green hills peppered with trees. "I think the trail over there…yeah that one." As she subtly commands, I turn right onto a dirt trail. This is rather specific to know. I ask "How did you know where to go?" A small animal, what looks to be a leopard cat, scurries past the car. "I staked this place out before. I know their routine."
I drive up the dirt path, spotting a two floor house at the top of a hill, the house wooden and painted a grayish green. It looks slightly weathered. To the right, I spot a dark tool shed and garage, I'm guessing a dark red color. I can make out a slightly old Honda Accord inside the garage. The lights are turned on in the first floor.
The lights are on. "Revy, you said you know their routine." I look at her as she says "I did. And I do know their routine. All I want you to do…is stay with me at all times. Okay?" "Uh…okay. Okay." My heart beats faster and faster. Bringing the car to a stop, I close my eyes. I worry if Revy reacts.
Speaking on the megaphone. That was the extent of my job in stealing the St. Joan. Before that, the only thing I ever stolen was paper from a printer in my old college. I don't have a gun, I don't have a scary voice. And even if I did, I couldn't use them to threaten someone if my life dependent on it. This is fucking insanity.
Dutch said we were couriers that skirted by the law to get by. Smugglers. We…well Dutch and Revy…fought pirates, mercenaries, this paramilitary fascist party. We hijacked one ship… one ship, and didn't hurt anything aside from a hull. And speaking on the megaphone was the extent of my job.
"Are you done?" Revy bellows. I slowly open my eyes and turn to her. I feel something stirring in me as I look into her eyes. Anger, contempt. Is this what she felt in the sub? Is this what she wants me to feel? Does it even matter?
"Revy, I can't do this. Home invasion is not something I know how to do. Look, I promise I will pay you. I have not much use for the money anyway." My right leg starts to slightly shake. I want a smoke.
Goddamn I want a smoke.
She doesn't look at me. Her eyes instead glued to whatever it is under her dashboard. Nothing probably. She says with steely words, the fingers on her left hand almost contorting into a claw "I…said that I want you to stay with me at all times. Do not run away like a pussy. Do not yell. And fuck is my witness, do not try to stop me. I will kill you. I promise, I will KILL YOU!"
I flinch as she yells, less out of fear then out of reflex. I get it. I get it now. And I hate it.
The two of us walk up the porch steps, my hands in my dress pant pockets, Revy's hands in her hoodie pockets. We reach the door, a gentle breeze blowing Revy's hair to the side and back. She curls her right hand into a fist and uses the bony end on the joint between her index finger and her hand to push the doorbell. A ring sounds out through the house.
I watch Revy stretch her back and mumble to herself. She puts on an obviously forced smile. The door creaks open, revealing a slightly chubby Chinese man in his mid-40s, wearing a white shirt, dark green sweat pants, sandals with no socks, and sporting buzzcut black hair. He says "Can I help you?" His accent is very thick.
I stare with what I imagine is a blank look on my face, as I hear Revy say "Hello, we are with the-from the Trat Enquirer. We are doing a piece on rural living in Southeast Thailand." "A…piece?" the Chinese man asks, staring at Revy with a look that speaks more of confusion then suspicion.
Revy is not good at pretending to be civilized.
I hear her continue "I meant a newspaper article. I'm a journalist. I just need a few minutes." I can hear the cracks in her charade. The Chinese man doesn't seem to notice, saying "Oh, what is the article about?" I half expect Revy to shoot the man on the spot for making her repeat herself. She reaches into her left hoodie pocket.
Here it comes.
To my surprise, she pulls out a notepad and a brown pen. She then says "About…life far away from the city. Everyday life in rural Southeast Thailand. Readers want to know." I picked up subtle hints of throbbing rage as she spoke. I struggle to mask my fast beating heart. I pretend to yawn as I wipe sweat off the back of my neck.
"Oh, okay. Sure. Come on in. We are having dinner now," the Chinese man blurts out. Idiot. Idiot.
I shudder to think of what will happen.
He turns to face what I later see is a well lit dining hall, with a glass table in the middle flanked by four chairs on every side. The hallway from the door extends to the back, with a large gap of space on the right dominated by the glass table. What looks from my limited perspective to be a kitchen occupies the gap on the left. Behind the glass table, I vaguely spot a book shelf with a grandfather clock in the middle, the shelf holding what looks to be assorted glassware.
An elderly Chinese woman appears from the kitchen, dressed in a beige smock with a yellow and orange shirt and what I believe are beige pants. I think she has her hair, black hair, in a bun. She is wearing oven mittens and is holding a black, assumed to be cast iron, pot in her hands.
As the man walks away, his back to us, the two of us enter the house. I turn to look at Revy, and immediately see her left hand back in her left hoodie pocket. I look back up and notice her lips curl into a sadistic smile. The stickup is about to start.
I really need a smoke.
I hear a click coming from inside her hoodie pocket and swarm my mind for things to say to the family. 'You have insurance.' That won't work. What if they…
Two shots ring out, almost making me deaf in my right ear, striking the Chinese man in the back. Blood sprays out, I feel a few drops hit my dress shoes. He crumbles and begins his descent to the laminated wooden floor. The elderly woman drops the iron pot, probably out of reflex if anything. Noodles fly out, almost in suspended motion. Two more shots fuck with my eardrums. A red mist appears as the old lady tumbles backwards, and as the pot crashes against a cheap carpet. She falls back first through the glass dining table, the table falling apart like a Jenga tower.
I feel numb. I can't move. Only my eyes budge, as I blink.
The Chinese man crawls on his stomach aiming toward the other end of the hallway, like a wounded tortoise. He lifts his head and upper body up with his hands. I can hear him mumbling incoherently, probably in shock. Revy walks up next to him, extends her silvery glinted pistol to the back of his head, and guns him down. No more mumbling.
Revy turns to the elderly woman, walks up to her, and shoots once. I don't know if she was dead already.
She turns to me. And smiles. "Hey Rocky?! The fucking door you dipshit!" She yells, looking slightly annoyed, as if I spoiled her moment. Regardless, I shut the door behind me. I'm in this now. No going back. Thailand would give me the firing squad for carrying a pound of weed. I doubt they would neither be any gentler for this, nor caring as far as how much of this is my responsibility.
I feel sick. Revy starts to hum. Her hums turn to words. I recognize it, 'Do it Again' by Steely Dan.
"In the mornin' you go gunnin', for the man who stole ya water." She skips over broken glass. "And you fire 'till he be done in, but they catch ya at the border."
She turns to me, her gaze piercing through me like a bullet shot from her pistol. "Rock, what did I say? Stay on me, dipshit, alright?" I oblige her, too numb to protest. She approaches a door on the left of the hallway. Her left hand stretches out and waves me to her. I think she is enjoying my reaction to all of this. "The hangman's hangin' baby! You're going to be in three separate dumpsters!"
She kicks the door open, the hinges coming undone. Wood splinters fly onto a blue porcelain floor. A bathroom. I hear a woman's shriek.
Revy waddles inside like she just won a prize. I follow suit, my ears ringing with the whimpering of a middle aged naked Chinese woman lying in the white bathtub, water up to her neck. Her knees poke out like pebbles as she huddles in a fetal position.
The woman's long black hair floats on the water surface. She yells "Oh God please don't kill me! Please don't kill me! Please! Please!" I watch as Revy slowly walks up to her, as if savoring the moment. "This little piggy went to the market." She coldly says, indulging in her Whitman Fever. "Please don't, please, please," the woman cries. Revy extends her pistol and points at the left side of the woman's head. The Chinese woman switches to what I think is Mandarin. It sounds like she is praying. Her mutterings almost overshadow Revy whisper "Oink, oink, oink."
I don't even bother to cover my ears.
Her head whiplashes towards the bathroom wall, and then curls back down, pouring blood onto the once slightly murky water. A hole appeared in the wall, coated in blood, some grayish meat, and what looks like fragments of bone, almost like a parting gift from her skull. I can vaguely see the glint of the spent bullet that ended this woman's life.
Revy holsters her pistol. I run to the toilet and heave. My throat fills with a nasty, hot, sour taste as I vomit mostly beer and stomach acid. My hands press against the cool porcelain as another cup of sour fluid parts my mouth and finds the inside of the toilet bowl.
Through my pained eardrums I hear Revy's laughter. I then feel a shoe pressing into my ass as I almost dip my head into my own vomit. I heave once more, vomiting almost nothing but swallowed saliva. I need water. Badly.
I flush the toilet before Revy could get any other bright ideas. Maneuvering around her to the sink, I turn the faucet on and greedily drink. I hear her speak once again. "Don't got the stomach for this thing, ey?" She speaks normally, her Whitman Fever gone. She had her fill.
I had enough.
"Fuck you," I mumble as I drink. A tight, painful grip around my neck renders me unable to move. "What…did you say?" Revy coldly asks. My fear gets the better of me. "Nothing…nothing Revy." I feel disgusted with myself, with my weakness. I feel the grip released, followed a hand that shoves my head forward, and then Revy saying "Good."
"What now?" I ask, wanting this nightmare to end. "Now? We collect our fucking prize, c'mon," she answers, sounding a little chipper even. I want a smoke. I want to be back in the Lagoon. I want to be anywhere, anywhere, but here.
I like Benny. He is an easy person to relate to. Easygoing, serious when he has to be, great sense of humor. I'm fine with my boss, Dutch, as well. He is a walking enigma, but he has shown more respect to me and to his other employees in the month I worked for him then my former bosses did in years. I have no trouble working with them, drinking with them.
They don't care.
They are apathetic. A bomb could drop on Roanapur and they wouldn't bat an eye as long as their stuff wasn't so much as scratched. As long as they are kept whole, they won't move. As long as Revy's bloodlust doesn't fuck with their goals, they stay silent.
No one in Roanapur cares. No one would move a finger.
Why must I be the only one that cares?
"ROCK! GET OVER HERE!"
I sigh and walk out the bathroom, the stench of blood getting to me. I walk into the kitchen to see Revy ransacking drawers. "Make yourself useful and find something. There's eight American gees worth of Thai bhat in here somewhere. That's like 200 grand. All I found was five thousand Thai bhat. Five grand by 25 gives us two Benjamins."
"This is sick, Revy." I blurt out. I don't care what happens to me. I am done fearing her.
"Say that again?" Revy says in a threatening tone. That won't work for me anymore.
"Nothing, I'll check the bedrooms," I reply out of desire of ending this now more so then fearing her. I understand it very well now.
I turn my back to her and walk toward the hallway. I see a door on the right. I turn the knob, the door feels slightly heavier for a second, and then swings open.
A Chinese boy with a bowl haircut barely in his teens, dressed in blue sailboat pajama pants and a black t-shirt that has a white image of a man in tights and sunglasses with the words 'Bret 'Hitman' Hart' in pink spelled right above the image, bolts out, crying what I imagine is Mandarin for either mom or dad.
Oh fuck.
Within seconds Revy is on the child's back, dragging him to the floor. Her legs cross over the boy's legs as she holds his head with her left hand and grips onto his neck with her right. My body betrays me. I can't move.
"SO ROCK! TELL ME! IS YOUR GOD OR WHATEVER THE FUCK YOU BELIEVE IN GOING TO STRIKE ME DEAD?!" Revy yells as she tightens her grip, choking the boy.
"STOP THIS!" I yell. I gain the strength to do something. I care. Benny, Dutch, Roanapur, they may be quiet. I won't. I move in toward the two.
I watch Revy ease her hold, the boy hungrily gasping for air. She immediately yells "MOVE ONE INCH AND I'LL PUT TWO SHOTS IN YOUR STOMACH AND WATCH YOU FUCKING BLEED!"
I back away. Nothing I could do. Either the boy dies or both he and I die.
"ARE THE BODIES FRESH ENOUGH FOR YOU?! WARM ENOUGH FOR ME TO STEAL FROM?! TELL ME WHAT IS RIGHT OR WRONG, TREAT ME LIKE SOME GUTTER HOOKER AGAIN, I'LL FUCKING EVISCERATE YOU!"
Her grip tightens again, the boy scared out of his mind from the looks of it. I look away. I can't watch this shit.
"Look at me! Look away and I will choke him slow! I will know if you didn't watch!" Revy yells out. I force myself to look, she would follow through. Of course she will. She is sick enough to.
The boy's eyes turn bloodshot as his face goes red. "This is what happens when you judge me, white collar!" I stand numb, angry. The boy's face turns a dark, unsettling red. To my relief, he slips into unconsciousness.
"He's dead, you made your point," I lie, hoping to fool her. Revy's smile means she immediately called my bullshit.
"Come Rock, listen. Closely. You'll know it when you'll hear it," Revy says. She starts humming to the song she was humming earlier. Her right arm slides to the boy's chin. She starts twisting.
She is fucking going to break his neck.
I hear a terrible crunch sound, like knuckles cracking. Another crunch sound. I feel sick once again. Then a louder crack, and I know the deed is done.
Revy pushes the corpse off herself, letting the body slide off. She climbs up to her feet, stares me in the eyes, and says "You come here from Japan and tell me what is proper and what is not when I vouched you in with open fucking arms and WHAT THE FUCK IS WITH YOU ROCK! WHY AREN'T YOU SCARED OF ME! WHY THE FUCK, ARE YOU NOT SCARED OF ME!"
I was right. I called it, I fucking called it.
"Is there even a jackpot to find here?" I ask, daring to add a tinge of anger in my question. Revy laughs slightly and says "Of fucking course Rock! What do you think I am? A psycho serial killer?"
"I'll check the bedroom," I coldly say. I want out of here. If I can speed that up, all the better.
Stepping back into the Plymouth, I close the driver side door and turn on the engine. I keep the radio silent, I prefer it that way. I hear Revy enter, and then hear a car door slam shut. I turn to her as she says "I got enough." "Enough," I say, blankly, hoping she catches the traces of contempt I have for her.
I thought she was liberation walking on earth when I first drank with her at the Yellow Flag, and all I can see now is a money-hungry scavenger and a sick bully with a fragile ego that squirms when someone that comes from where I came from can survive more than two days around her and still remain normal.
"Yeah enough," she answers, blankly, maybe a little pleased with herself. "All of the jackpot, plus the old hag's social security cash and some jewelry. Enough to keep Benny online, the police on golf courses, Dutch's replacement sunglasses fund going, here I almost forgot." She reaches into her pockets and pulls out a stack of Thai bhat. She turns the interior light on, separates bhat from the stack, my cut for this bullshit apparently, and tosses the stack on my lap. "20,000 bhat, ten percent," Revy blankly says. I glance at the money, pause for no reason, and then grab it and stuff it inside my dress pant right pocket.
"You wiped prints, bleached DNA right?" Revy asks, yawning. "Yes," I coldly say. I want silence. I want to get out of here. I want a smoke.
I need a smoke.
AN: This one-shot is partially inspired by the Belgian film 'C'est Arrivé Près de Chez Vous', also known as Man Bites Dog.