Fear and Self Loathing
A Tag to Fear and Loathing with Russell Buckins
By AJ Wesley
The dimly lit hallway of the converted warehouse was definitely a security risk. Light filtered down from the hall lamps -- those that worked -- and created a patchwork effect on the hardwood floor.
Tom Hanson stopped before apartment number two and leaned his head on the wall beside the metal door. It was all crashing down on him now. He was exhausted -- mentally, physically, emotionally. He ran a hand over his face and glanced at his watch. It was just after two in the morning.
The scenic route had added hours to his journey home, but he'd needed the time to think, to sort things out. The more he thought, the more nauseous he became. How could he have been so stupid?
A sudden pain in his right palm alerted him that his fist was clenched so tight his nails had pierced his skin. Flexing his fingers, he stared at the three small red slits as they allowed the tiniest amount of blood to escape.
Escape.
Was that what he'd been trying to do? He had spent his entire life trying to be a man his father would be proud of, and in the space of two days he'd sent it all spiraling to hell. There was a good chance his career was over. He wasn't sure he cared. The thought of losing his job gave him the same sick feeling as keeping it did. Yeah, he'd made some wrong choices, but maybe the first wrong choice was becoming a cop in the first place.
Damn. How did you go about apologizing for something you weren't sorry you did?
Another stab of anxiety twisted his gut. There was one thing he was sorry for.
Fuller's warning, which he had pushed to the depths of his mind, surfaced with a vengeance. 'Your actions could cost him his job! Think about that.'
He had thought about it, and then blatantly ignored it, choosing to take off with Bucky for parts unknown. He had royally screwed his partner, his best friend. How the hell did you make up for something like that? His clenched fist beat a soft rhythm on the door. He knew where Doug kept his spare key, but at the moment, he didn't feel he had the right to use it. Not now. Maybe not ever again.
He knocked again, louder this time then suddenly realized he had no idea what to say. Maybe this wasn't such a good idea. He used his left hand to push off the wall just as the door swung open with such force that the intake of air tugged at his disheveled hair. Framed by the doorway was Doug Penhall, one hand on the inside knob, the other gripping the edge of the double door. He was dressed in a t-shirt and boxers, his hair tousled, a murderous gleam in his bloodshot eyes.
Tom tried to smile, but it felt more like a grimace. "Doug-"
"Don't talk to me." Doug's voice held the gravelly edge of someone who had just woken up -- or someone who had just eaten a large box of Burger King fries.
Tom expected the door to be slammed in his face. Instead, Penhall stood there, motionless, glaring. Swallowing around the lump that had formed in his throat, he averted his gaze, suddenly finding the welcome mat was in need of replacing. "Did I wake you up?" As soon as the words left his mouth he cringed. Keeping his head bowed, he chanced a glance at his partner.
Penhall's brows drew together as his expression changed from anger to bewilderment. Tom wasn't sure if it was because of what he had said, or simply that he had said it.
The silence dragged on for an eternity. Tom shifted his weight from foot to foot, feeling strangely uncomfortable in this place that had been like a second home. His eyes glazed over with unshed tears, and he fought them back.
Penhall pushed himself upright and lowered his arms. "Don't talk to me," he repeated, then turned and shuffled into the living area. He didn't close the door.
Tom blew out a breath and gave a silent thank you Heavenward. Wetting his lips, he stepped over the threshold and closed the door behind him. Ahead of him, Doug shuffled up to the couch and fell face first into its cushions. A muffled groan followed.
An eerie flickering glow bounced off the walls of the room from the television. Programming had long since ended on whatever station Doug had been watching. A snowy pattern and its accompanying hiss were all that was left. A throw lay crumpled at the foot of the couch.
Tom settled into the chair across from Doug and clasped his hands between his knees. Where to begin . . .?
Penhall said something, but the phrase, spoken into the cushions, was completely incoherent. How the heck could he breathe?
"What?" Tom asked.
Lifting his head, Doug repeated, "You left me alone to suffer at the hands of Sergeant Shields."
"Sergeant Shields . . . Tom repeated with a shudder. "I forgot about him."
Doug's head turned toward him. "How could you possibly forget about him?!" He slipped his arms underneath his chest and pushed up on his elbows. "Oops, sorry, I forgot. You were a do-gooder. He probably liked you."
"Doug, listen-"
"No, you listen!" Penhall sat up, swinging his legs off the couch and stabbing a finger at Tom. "I covered for you. We all did. Ioki, Hoffs, even Fuller."
A tear slipped from the corner of Tom's right eye despite his best efforts to contain it. He casually lifted an index finger to scratch the corner of his eye while his other fingers took care of the errant wetness.
Penhall glared a moment, then his expression changed. When he spoke again, the anger was gone from his voice. "Now me, of all people, can understand your need to take a walk on the wild side. But-at the expense of your friends?"
His right leg bouncing uncontrollably, Tom nodded, once again unable to look his best friend in the eyes. "I know. I'm sorry. I mean-" He bent forward, resting his elbows on his knees and running both hands through his hair. Finally, he raised his head and looked at Doug. "I'm not sorry for what I did. But I am sorry that I hurt you."
Penhall was silent for what seemed like a long time. "You didn't hurt me," he said with a shrug. "You scared the bejesus out of me, but you didn't hurt me." He looked away, staring into the flickering light of the television. "Maybe I was a little bit jealous, you know? You and Russell, off having fun-"
"It really wasn't that much fun . . ."
"-I don't think I would have had the guts to do what you did."
Tom shook his head. "Guts had nothing to do with it, believe me. It was just . . . I don't know. You were right. I never did any of that stuff when I was a kid, and you got me thinking-"
"Oh, my God," Penhall gasped.
Tom looked up sharply. In the light of the TV, Doug looked deathly pale. "What? What is it?"
Doug's gaze turned inward as if he were remembering something. "Oh, no, no, no, no, no." He dropped his head into his hands.
"What?!" Tom leaned forward in the chair wondering what he had said wrong this time.
Penhall's hands slid down his face, tugging at his dark-circled eyes. "This was all my fault."
Now he was really confused. "Doug, what are you talking about?"
Penhall poked a finger into the air, his mind still somewhere in the past. "You told him no. In your apartment. You told Russell no. It wasn't until after I opened my big mouth that you changed your mind." He shook his head. "Aw, Tommy . . ."
"No, Doug!" Tom wanted to punch something. His hands moved with restless energy until he had to propel himself from the chair and stalk about the room. He'd come here to apologize, not transfer guilt or blame. "No one is to blame but me! And no matter what you said, or what Russell said, in the end it was my decision. Mine. I screwed this up, now I have to figure out a way to fix it."
"Hey, it's cool. Apology accepted. Now, you want a beer?"
"No, Doug, you don't understand-"
"No, you don't understand." Doug stood and grabbed Tom by the shoulders, halting his pacing. "This isn't about me. It's about you. And in the end, the only person who's going to hold this against you is you. And if I were you, I'd cut you some slack."
Tom opened his mouth, then closed it again. It was way too early for his partner to be talking this way and expect him to understand. Although, in Doug's strange, twisted way, it made sense. He nodded.
Doug smiled and gave Tom's arms a playful swat.
"Ow." Tom winced and grit his teeth.
"What? What'd I do?"
Drawing away, Tom rubbed at his still-tender right arm. "I. . . got a tattoo."
"You? A tattoo?!" Penhall dabbed at his eyes, feigning tears. "I'm so proud of you." He dropped the façade for an eager look. "Can I see it?"
Tom took a step back. The last thing he needed was his over- enthusiastic friend poking at it. "Uh, later, okay? It's starting to swell."
Penhall shrugged a 'No problem', then headed into the kitchen area to the refrigerator.
Tom sighed, feeling a great weight lifted. There was still a lot that had to be done. But this was a start; a very good start. "Doug?"
"Yeah?" Penhall didn't bother to pull his head out of the fridge to answer.
"Thanks." He turned and headed for the door. His hand had barely touched the knob when Doug's voice stopped him.
"Hey, where you goin'?"
He turned to see his partner standing in front of the open fridge, a bottle of beer in each hand. He smiled. "No thanks, I'm driving."
"Oh, you picked a great time to be responsible," his friend teased.
Tom chuckled, and it felt good.
"Why don't you stay?" Penhall suggested. "At this point there's no sense in sleeping anyway."
"Thanks, but I have to get home, shower and change. I have a date in a couple of hours."
"Huh?"
"With Sergeant Shields."
The End
A Tag to Fear and Loathing with Russell Buckins
By AJ Wesley
The dimly lit hallway of the converted warehouse was definitely a security risk. Light filtered down from the hall lamps -- those that worked -- and created a patchwork effect on the hardwood floor.
Tom Hanson stopped before apartment number two and leaned his head on the wall beside the metal door. It was all crashing down on him now. He was exhausted -- mentally, physically, emotionally. He ran a hand over his face and glanced at his watch. It was just after two in the morning.
The scenic route had added hours to his journey home, but he'd needed the time to think, to sort things out. The more he thought, the more nauseous he became. How could he have been so stupid?
A sudden pain in his right palm alerted him that his fist was clenched so tight his nails had pierced his skin. Flexing his fingers, he stared at the three small red slits as they allowed the tiniest amount of blood to escape.
Escape.
Was that what he'd been trying to do? He had spent his entire life trying to be a man his father would be proud of, and in the space of two days he'd sent it all spiraling to hell. There was a good chance his career was over. He wasn't sure he cared. The thought of losing his job gave him the same sick feeling as keeping it did. Yeah, he'd made some wrong choices, but maybe the first wrong choice was becoming a cop in the first place.
Damn. How did you go about apologizing for something you weren't sorry you did?
Another stab of anxiety twisted his gut. There was one thing he was sorry for.
Fuller's warning, which he had pushed to the depths of his mind, surfaced with a vengeance. 'Your actions could cost him his job! Think about that.'
He had thought about it, and then blatantly ignored it, choosing to take off with Bucky for parts unknown. He had royally screwed his partner, his best friend. How the hell did you make up for something like that? His clenched fist beat a soft rhythm on the door. He knew where Doug kept his spare key, but at the moment, he didn't feel he had the right to use it. Not now. Maybe not ever again.
He knocked again, louder this time then suddenly realized he had no idea what to say. Maybe this wasn't such a good idea. He used his left hand to push off the wall just as the door swung open with such force that the intake of air tugged at his disheveled hair. Framed by the doorway was Doug Penhall, one hand on the inside knob, the other gripping the edge of the double door. He was dressed in a t-shirt and boxers, his hair tousled, a murderous gleam in his bloodshot eyes.
Tom tried to smile, but it felt more like a grimace. "Doug-"
"Don't talk to me." Doug's voice held the gravelly edge of someone who had just woken up -- or someone who had just eaten a large box of Burger King fries.
Tom expected the door to be slammed in his face. Instead, Penhall stood there, motionless, glaring. Swallowing around the lump that had formed in his throat, he averted his gaze, suddenly finding the welcome mat was in need of replacing. "Did I wake you up?" As soon as the words left his mouth he cringed. Keeping his head bowed, he chanced a glance at his partner.
Penhall's brows drew together as his expression changed from anger to bewilderment. Tom wasn't sure if it was because of what he had said, or simply that he had said it.
The silence dragged on for an eternity. Tom shifted his weight from foot to foot, feeling strangely uncomfortable in this place that had been like a second home. His eyes glazed over with unshed tears, and he fought them back.
Penhall pushed himself upright and lowered his arms. "Don't talk to me," he repeated, then turned and shuffled into the living area. He didn't close the door.
Tom blew out a breath and gave a silent thank you Heavenward. Wetting his lips, he stepped over the threshold and closed the door behind him. Ahead of him, Doug shuffled up to the couch and fell face first into its cushions. A muffled groan followed.
An eerie flickering glow bounced off the walls of the room from the television. Programming had long since ended on whatever station Doug had been watching. A snowy pattern and its accompanying hiss were all that was left. A throw lay crumpled at the foot of the couch.
Tom settled into the chair across from Doug and clasped his hands between his knees. Where to begin . . .?
Penhall said something, but the phrase, spoken into the cushions, was completely incoherent. How the heck could he breathe?
"What?" Tom asked.
Lifting his head, Doug repeated, "You left me alone to suffer at the hands of Sergeant Shields."
"Sergeant Shields . . . Tom repeated with a shudder. "I forgot about him."
Doug's head turned toward him. "How could you possibly forget about him?!" He slipped his arms underneath his chest and pushed up on his elbows. "Oops, sorry, I forgot. You were a do-gooder. He probably liked you."
"Doug, listen-"
"No, you listen!" Penhall sat up, swinging his legs off the couch and stabbing a finger at Tom. "I covered for you. We all did. Ioki, Hoffs, even Fuller."
A tear slipped from the corner of Tom's right eye despite his best efforts to contain it. He casually lifted an index finger to scratch the corner of his eye while his other fingers took care of the errant wetness.
Penhall glared a moment, then his expression changed. When he spoke again, the anger was gone from his voice. "Now me, of all people, can understand your need to take a walk on the wild side. But-at the expense of your friends?"
His right leg bouncing uncontrollably, Tom nodded, once again unable to look his best friend in the eyes. "I know. I'm sorry. I mean-" He bent forward, resting his elbows on his knees and running both hands through his hair. Finally, he raised his head and looked at Doug. "I'm not sorry for what I did. But I am sorry that I hurt you."
Penhall was silent for what seemed like a long time. "You didn't hurt me," he said with a shrug. "You scared the bejesus out of me, but you didn't hurt me." He looked away, staring into the flickering light of the television. "Maybe I was a little bit jealous, you know? You and Russell, off having fun-"
"It really wasn't that much fun . . ."
"-I don't think I would have had the guts to do what you did."
Tom shook his head. "Guts had nothing to do with it, believe me. It was just . . . I don't know. You were right. I never did any of that stuff when I was a kid, and you got me thinking-"
"Oh, my God," Penhall gasped.
Tom looked up sharply. In the light of the TV, Doug looked deathly pale. "What? What is it?"
Doug's gaze turned inward as if he were remembering something. "Oh, no, no, no, no, no." He dropped his head into his hands.
"What?!" Tom leaned forward in the chair wondering what he had said wrong this time.
Penhall's hands slid down his face, tugging at his dark-circled eyes. "This was all my fault."
Now he was really confused. "Doug, what are you talking about?"
Penhall poked a finger into the air, his mind still somewhere in the past. "You told him no. In your apartment. You told Russell no. It wasn't until after I opened my big mouth that you changed your mind." He shook his head. "Aw, Tommy . . ."
"No, Doug!" Tom wanted to punch something. His hands moved with restless energy until he had to propel himself from the chair and stalk about the room. He'd come here to apologize, not transfer guilt or blame. "No one is to blame but me! And no matter what you said, or what Russell said, in the end it was my decision. Mine. I screwed this up, now I have to figure out a way to fix it."
"Hey, it's cool. Apology accepted. Now, you want a beer?"
"No, Doug, you don't understand-"
"No, you don't understand." Doug stood and grabbed Tom by the shoulders, halting his pacing. "This isn't about me. It's about you. And in the end, the only person who's going to hold this against you is you. And if I were you, I'd cut you some slack."
Tom opened his mouth, then closed it again. It was way too early for his partner to be talking this way and expect him to understand. Although, in Doug's strange, twisted way, it made sense. He nodded.
Doug smiled and gave Tom's arms a playful swat.
"Ow." Tom winced and grit his teeth.
"What? What'd I do?"
Drawing away, Tom rubbed at his still-tender right arm. "I. . . got a tattoo."
"You? A tattoo?!" Penhall dabbed at his eyes, feigning tears. "I'm so proud of you." He dropped the façade for an eager look. "Can I see it?"
Tom took a step back. The last thing he needed was his over- enthusiastic friend poking at it. "Uh, later, okay? It's starting to swell."
Penhall shrugged a 'No problem', then headed into the kitchen area to the refrigerator.
Tom sighed, feeling a great weight lifted. There was still a lot that had to be done. But this was a start; a very good start. "Doug?"
"Yeah?" Penhall didn't bother to pull his head out of the fridge to answer.
"Thanks." He turned and headed for the door. His hand had barely touched the knob when Doug's voice stopped him.
"Hey, where you goin'?"
He turned to see his partner standing in front of the open fridge, a bottle of beer in each hand. He smiled. "No thanks, I'm driving."
"Oh, you picked a great time to be responsible," his friend teased.
Tom chuckled, and it felt good.
"Why don't you stay?" Penhall suggested. "At this point there's no sense in sleeping anyway."
"Thanks, but I have to get home, shower and change. I have a date in a couple of hours."
"Huh?"
"With Sergeant Shields."
The End