Don't Make Me Haunt You
The blackness faded and filled with an entirely new scene.
It was just like being swept into Morgan's crystal ball and witnessing Merle's arrival at The Crossroads.
Except, it wasn't.
Beth couldn't move, couldn't speak, couldn't blink or breathe. All she could do was watch, standing by helplessly as the scene played out before her. At first, she had no idea what had happened or where she was. She was completely disoriented and filled with fear.
In the next second, a thousand different memories shuffled through her mind like a deck of cards.
And then it was different: she remembered what had happened, she knew exactly why she was here and what she was seeing. She was in control of her thoughts, able to comprehend what was playing out before her eyes.
She recognized the bedroom of the cabin.
It wasn't dark and cloudy like The Crossroads. It wasn't the same as seeing a vision of the past from another plane of existence. It was a vision of the recent past—on the mortal plane.
She could feel Merle even before she spotted him. He was alive.
She didn't breathe. She stood back, listening closely.
And she watched.
Merle's bedroom was a disaster area. The floor was littered with empty beer cans and liquor bottles, crushed cigarette packs, paper plates, and other assorted trash—as was every other surface within the small room. There were clothes tossed about everywhere, mostly draped over the dresser drawers, which were all either hanging out of their slots or sitting on the floor. The closet seemed to be the only space that wasn't cluttered or trashed. Inside hung an assortment of various rifles and handguns amidst stacks of boxes labelled Ammo. A large crossbow was mounted on the inside of the open door.
Late evening sun leaked in through the curtains. In the bed, beneath a few pairs of paint-stained jeans and a tattered old comforter, Merle lay sleeping. His scar-riddled back was turned to the door and he was snoring loudly, the sound echoing through the entire cabin. He was alone.
Then a man appeared in the doorway. His footsteps had been silent. He was tall, fair-skinned with a head full of thick, graying brown hair that had been slicked back with greasy gel. He watched Merle's sleeping form for a long moment. A mischievous smirk formed on his thin lips. His beady blue-green eyes darted around the room, then they narrowed.
Without making a sound, the man strode forward into the room, straight to the bed. His pace was slow and cautious but there was a slight limp in his left leg. Nonetheless, he moved around completely undetected.
First, he grabbed the Desert Eagle that was openly sitting out on Merle's bedside table. He shoved it into his waistband. Then he silently opened the drawer of that same table and pulled out two more handguns. Merle kept snoring away, completely undisturbed. The brown-haired man stepped back and shoved the other two guns under the bed, beneath a pile of wadded-up old shirts.
After that, he took another glance around the room, seemingly satisfied. Though as his eyes skimmed over Merle, he paused and frowned. Then he hesitantly reached out and slipped the tips of his fingers beneath the pillow that currently cushioned Merle's unconscious head. He pulled out another handgun—like he'd been expecting to find it there—and silently shoved it under the bed with the others. All without disturbing Merle.
Finally, he took a step back, gave one last disgusted look around the room, and opened his mouth.
"HEY!"
Merle didn't budge. He snored louder.
The man rolled his eyes and sighed. Then he leaned down and yelled, "WAKE UP, ASSHOLE!"
This time, Merle jolted awake. The man took a few more steps back and watched Merle turn over and instantly reach for his bedside table. He blinked, disoriented, when he couldn't find the weapon he was grasping for. Then he quickly reached under his pillow, only to come up empty-handed there as well. He shot up to a sitting position and noticed the man.
"The fuck—"
"Lookin' for this?" The man drawled in a light Southern accent, revealing the Desert Eagle tucked into his waistband.
"Gimme my fuckin' gun, asshole!" Merle cried, still blinking the sleep from his eyes. "Who the fuck're you?!"
The brown-haired man chuckled and shook his head, pulling out the gun and holding it loosely at his side. "I'm an old friend of your daddy's."
Merle scoffed. "Dixon's ain't got no friends—get outta my goddamn house!"
The man smirked and glanced down at the trash lying around his feet. He kicked a can out of the way and said, "Oh, you're your father's son, alright. White trash at its finest."
"'F you want my Pa, best go dig 'im up," Merle snapped. "I ain't got nothin' for ya. Now get the fuck out 'fore I take that gun an' shove it up yer ass."
"You won't be the one shovin' anything anywhere today, Merle," the man said calmly. His smirk widened into a smile. "I know your daddy's dead. That's why I'm here. He owes me—which means you owe me."
Merle rolled his eyes, obviously disinterested. "Yeah, yeah, yeah. You ain't the first fuckin' loan shark that's come knockin' since that ol' prick bit the dust. But I ain't got nothin' for ya, so best you jus' hightail it on outta here 'fore that pretty li'l mouth a yers goes writin' a check yer ass can't cash."
The man's smile didn't falter. His blue-green eyes narrowed, flashing bright with malevolence. He chuckled. "That's not how this is gonna end. Someone might've found Will an' killed him before I could, but I know they weren't looking for what he was really hiding."
Merle rubbed his eyes and gave an exaggerated yawn. "Uh-huh, sure. I heard it all before, bub. Ain't nothin' ta be found. My pa was a dumb piece a shit an' everything he ever had that was worth a fuckin' thing—well, here it is. Yer standin' in it."
The man shook his head. "No, there was somethin' else. And I have a feeling that you know exactly what I'm talkin' about, Merle Dixon. You just don't wanna pay up."
"Pay up fer what?!" Merle asked, his patience beginning to run thin. "Ain't no fuckin' money, dumbass! Ain't no drugs that I didn't already sell! Yer barkin' up the wrong tree!"
"We had a deal, goddammit," the man said, his voice growing angrier and his smirk fading into a frown. "Your daddy never paid his debt—now that debt is yours! Where's the fucking money, Merle? Tell me now and I might not kill you."
At that, Merle laughed. Loudly. He was still grinning when he asked, "Oh, y'think you get ta be the one that kills me?" He cackled and shook his head. "Nah, fuckhead, I ain't got no money for ya. Hidden or otherwise."
The man hesitated, his voice firm and edged with impatience. "So who killed him?" He asked as his hand tightened around the Desert Eagle.
Merle cackled. "I did. What's it to ya?"
Fury flashed across the tall man's face and he let out a growl, leaping forward and shoving the barrel of the gun against the underside of Merle's jaw. Merle barely flinched, staring up at the stranger with narrowed eyes and a defiant scowl. This was nowhere near the first time he'd had a weapon shoved in his face.
"Then yer gonna tell me where your piece of shit pa's fucking money is hidden," the man demanded, his voice low and threatening. "Or I'll blow your fucking brains out right here."
Without a word, Merle leapt forward and out of bed, standing to his feet and letting the comforter fall away. The brown-haired man stumbled back in surprise. When he realized Merle was completely naked, he took another step back, sneering in disgust with the gun still pointed towards Merle's face.
"You gonna shoot a guy with his dick out?!" Merle cried.
The man finally looked away in disgust. "Put some goddamn pants on, redneck."
Merle cackled but did as he was told, bending down and purposely turning his ass towards the tall man while he rifled around on the floor for a pair of boxers. He quickly slipped them on and stood up straight, snapping the elastic waist loudly and chuckling with amusement.
"So yer gonna kill me jus' 'cause my dad owed you a couple bucks?" He taunted.
"More than just a couple," the man clarified through a tensed jaw, Desert Eagle still grasped in his hand and aimed at Merle.
"Now that jus' don't seem right at all."
"You know what's really not right? How he went back on our deal. How he completely fucked me after I stuck my goddamn neck out for his sorry, cowardly ass!"
Merle chuckled, hands on his bare hips as he stood in front of the bed casually. "So yer a scorned lover? I knew that sick fuck had a taste fer cock—"
"No, you moron!" The other man interrupted with a scowl of repulsion. "He fucked me over! We made a deal an' as soon as it came time to pay up, he tucked tail and ran off into hiding." He waved the gun around to gesture to the cabin around him. "To this little shithole, I guess. Off the grid. Livin' in squalor, wallowing in his own filth day after day—like father, like son. There's no goddamn way you can convince me he spent all that money. I saw the little 'shine operation out back—I know what kinda entrepreneur your daddy was."
Merle's smile faded and he shrugged. "You'd be surprised just how retarded Will could be. I seen him spend ten grand an' come out with nothin' ta show for it." He glanced towards the Desert Eagle warily. "But I ain't never heard 'im mention nobody he ever fucked over—an' he loved braggin' about that shit. Didn't even throw me a hint when I was openin' his throat up."
He laughed coldly but the other man didn't seem amused.
Merle frowned and demanded, "So who the fuck are ya?"
The brown-haired man's back straightened and he tipped his chin up proudly, glaring down his nose at Merle. "They call me The Governor."
Merle clicked his tongue. "Who?"
"The Governor."
"No, who?"
"What?"
"Who calls ya that?"
The Governor paused, blinking. Then he quickly responded, "People who cross me."
Merle laughed. "Oh. Okay. Well that ain't a name—sure as shit never heard Pa mention no Governor."
"I'm sure you didn't," The Governor scowled. "And why would he mention me? He probably wanted you dead, too. And broke. If you killed him, I'm sure he'll be more than happy to welcome you to Hell after I kill you."
Merle smirked smugly and cackled. "Yeah, alrigh'—so you really a governor? Or ya jus' wish you was?"
The Governor sighed and rolled his eyes. "Christ, get off it already. I have a gun pointed at your face, maybe you should take this a little more seriously."
"Oh, I'm takin' it plenty serious," Merle quipped. "Jus' can't figure out why you'd choose The Governor an' not—I'ono, The President or somethin'. 'The Governor'," he chuckled. "What are ya, some kinda half-assed comic book villain? Seems ta me like there's a lotta positions that're higher up—Senator, Congressman an' what-have-ya. Might come off a lot more menacing if—"
"The money, asshole!" The Governor cut in, his face bright red with anger and his grasp tightening around the gun. He cocked it and growled, "Last chance. I've been awful nice so far. But if you keep running that ignorant mouth and not tellin' me what I wanna know, I'll put a bullet through your teeth."
Merle laughed, crossing his arms over his chest. "Go on an' shoot. Ain't no rounds in there."
The Governor's face fell but he didn't lower the weapon. "Bullshit."
"See fer yerself, retard," Merle taunted.
The Governor didn't oblige. Instead, he shoved the Desert Eagle back into the front of his waistband—much to Merle's disappointment. Then he pulled out a shiny black Colt .45 from behind his back. Merle's smile immediately disappeared.
The Governor resumed his stance, aiming at Merle's face with a gritty expression of determination. "I know you fucking have it. I know how you inbred, backwoods rednecks operate. I know you have that goddamn money, Merle. Stop playin' these stupid games and give it up… before I pull this trigger an' spray your brains all over this sad little cabin."
Merle narrowed his eyes and gave a cocky, tight-lipped smile. "You keep makin' threats an' I keep tellin' ya the same thing: Ain't got no money, dickweed. Only one playin' games is you. So fire away."
There was a beat; a moment of tense silence.
Then Merle added, "If you got the balls, Guv'na."
The sound of metal on metal echoed through the room as The Governor cocked the Colt .45. Merle's face fell and he stared down the barrel that was aimed at him from less than three feet away. The Governor's arm stiffened and he smirked.
"I've got more than enough balls for the both of us, Merle Dixon," he said.
"That's kinda ga—"
There was a deafening bang.
Merle winced and instinctively threw his arms up to guard his face. At the same time, he barked out, "Ha! Missed me, assh—"
But he was cut off by a sharp crack across his temple. It wasn't a bullet, but it was hard. And painful. It rang through his skull and sent him crumbling to his knees.
"You shut the hell up now."
A second later, Merle was lying unconscious at The Governor's feet.
The Governor gazed up at the small hole his discharged round had made in the wall right next to the curtained window. But it didn't look any different than the dozens of other bullet holes that marred the cabin walls. At least not to him.
While Merle was unconscious, The Governor retreated to the living room and returned with a duffel bag—he'd come prepared. He pulled out a zip-tie, and once Merle's hands and feet were adequately restrained, he got to work utilizing the rope he'd brought. The bag was heavy, full of various other objects that never emerged. The Governor worked quietly, methodically, scoping out the bedroom and plotting his scene just right.
Merle still hadn't regained consciousness by the time The Governor was done. So the brown-haired man went about rummaging through the bedroom, as well as the rest of the cabin. He rifled through every drawer and every pile of clothing and trash and clutter. He yanked out all the dresser drawers to no avail, growing more frustrated with every minute. Near the end, he seemed to be searching for no more than a clue at best. He even went as far as opening every Ammo box inside the closet, as though there might be some kind of hidden note or cryptic sign waiting for him.
When the entire cabin refused to reveal what he was so desperately searching for, he became furious. He paced back and forth across the hardwood floor, limping stiffly, stroking his Colt .45, huffing and puffing and glaring. He grumbled under his breath, cursing Merle and Will and every Dixon who'd ever lived or ever thought of living.
No-good fucking inbred hillbillies, two-faced goddamn traitors, selfish pieces of shit. What the hell had he been thinking, making a deal with a man who'd never held a steady job in his godforsaken fucking life? And now he was stuck with the spawn of Satan himself, Merle fucking Dixon, who would undoubtedly never tell him shit about the money—even if he did actually know where it was. What a clusterfuck of absolute nonsense. How had he ever let himself get so low as to scrape the bottom of the barrel like this? But the money… Christ, the money. It was all he had left. It was his only chance at a life worth living anymore. And it was out there somewhere. He wouldn't let nearly three decades of searching go to waste.
Even Will Dixon wouldn't have been able to spend that much fucking money. Not when he knew The Governor would inevitably be arriving any day to collect his debt. With interest.
The sun was sinking behind the horizon by the time Merle finally came to, leaving slivers of orange beams slipping in through the curtains. The Governor turned on the bedroom light, letting the dim bulb illuminate his setting. Merle sat leaned against the wall and he grumbled unhappily as his head bobbed and slowly raised. The Governor stood over him, Colt .45 tucked into the back of his pants. He'd already returned the Desert Eagle to its usual spot on the bedside table.
Merle blinked and looked around in confusion for a moment, disoriented. He registered the zip-ties around his wrists and ankles, giving a half-hearted yank against both restraints to no avail. He grunted angrily. Then he scowled and glared up at The Governor with icy blue eyes.
"I'ono who taught you how ta negotiate," he muttered. "But ya skipped a helluva lotta steps."
The Governor smiled down at him menacingly. "Negotiate? Oh, we're well past that, Will Junior."
Merle growled and spat on The Governor's shiny black boots. "Fuck you. You don't fuckin' know me, asshole."
The Governor took a small step back, unfazed.
"'M startin' ta think you didn't know my shithead pa neither," Merle went on. "You think he didn't spend every fuckin' dime he had 'fore he even had it? You stupid fuck."
"That's enough," The Governor said simply.
He took a meaningful step to the side and glared down at Merle, watching as the Dixon slowly looked up and noticed the noose hanging from the ceiling. Merle's anger disappeared and his face fell. Icy blue eyes flicked over to meet an emotionless green gaze. The Governor smiled.
"Yer gonna fuckin' hang me?" Merle croaked out, growing paler by the second as he registered the calculated maleficence in the taller man's expression. "Jesus Christ, what is this—the Wild fuckin' West? Just shoot me an' get it over with."
"Why would I do that?" The Governor asked, still smiling as he folded his hands behind his back very leisurely. "When I can make it look like a suicide and avoid all the complications?"
Merle narrowed his eyes and gave a hearty yank against the zip-tie around his wrists. It didn't budge. He scowled and said, "You think anybody's gonna believe I killed myself? All the cops 'round here know me."
"Oh, do they? I certainly don't doubt that," The Governor taunted. He chuckled coldly and went on, "And what d'they know about you, exactly? That you're a drunken piece of shit with a drug addiction? That you're a racist, misogynistic womanizer with an endless criminal record? That you're alone —completely and utterly alone—with a sad little life, no job to speak of, and nothing to your name but a shitty run-down cabin riddled with trash and bullet holes?"
Merle was sneering up at him but The Governor smiled back wider.
He raised his eyebrows. "You've lived all these years and you have absolutely nothing to show for it, Merle Dixon. I've never met you before, yet I already know you… Because you're just like your father. Just as violent, just as addicted, just as hateful and ignorant—and just as fucking worthless."
"Yer an awfully presumptuous asshole, ain'tcha?" Merle growled. "Talkin' outta yer ass like a fuckin' know-it-all. Guess that stupid name suits ya after all, doesn't it."
The Governor laughed coldly and shook his head. "No. I just know a Dixon when I see one. No one will question it when they find you hangin' by your neck. Hell, you'll be lucky if anybody even comes out here before your disgusting body has rotted off the rope. And they won't give it a second thought—the sad, lonely, old drunkard who smoked a little too much meth an' decided to end his own life. Another one for the books, another toe tag, another unclaimed corpse in the city morgue… You're nothing but a waste of space."
Merle was grinding his teeth, glaring up at The Governor with an icy death stare.
The Governor's smile widened in satisfaction. "No one will care that you died, Merle Dixon. In fact, I'd bet that there are at least a dozen people who would be better off if you were dead… Just like dear old daddy."
"Go to hell," Merle growled.
The Governor threw his head back and laughed. Then he said, "No. You."
Merle straightened his back and squared his shoulders, refusing to break his intense eye contact with the other man. "I'ono how ya think yer gonna find that money if you kill me. Dead men don't talk—didn't anybody ever tell ya that?"
"They did," The Governor grinned. "And they also told me that only dying men tell the truth."
Merle opened his mouth to sling out a retort but before he could, The Governor was reaching down and grabbing him by the underarms, forcefully hoisting him up to his feet. Merle fought back for a moment, struggling and resisting, but his zip-tied wrists and ankles made it nearly impossible. He became winded and agitated, cursing the taller man and grunting with every shove and pull.
A few minutes later, he was standing on the only dining chair he owned with the noose around his neck. His wrists were still bound behind him, his ankles tightly restrained together. His face was bright red and he was practically frothing at the mouth with anger.
But he stood completely still, unwilling to risk wobbling the old chair beneath him. The fibers of the rope were digging into his skin, itchy and irritating. He breathed heavily through his nostrils, jaw clenched and spine stiff as a board.
The Governor stood before him, gazing up at him thoughtfully with his hands folded behind his back once more. There was a smug satisfaction on his face, though his eyes glinted with hunger. He looked frighteningly determined.
"You know how I met your daddy, right?" He drawled, as though he were starting a casual conversation.
Merle scoffed, glaring down at The Governor with pure detest. "The fuck if I know. I'm guessin' he came beggin' you fer a loan an' skipped out 'fore you could come collectin'. Musta been a lotta fuckin' money if yer goin' ta this much trouble."
The Governor's smile faded. "I'm not some loan shark, moron." He raised his eyebrows. "Your father and I made a deal—years ago. While you were overseas."
Merle blinked and scrunched up his nose, realization slowly crossing his face. "The fuck… what kinda deal?"
The Governor quirked a brow. "I'm glad you asked—although I'm disappointed that you really don't know. You're tellin' me Will Dixon didn't confess his crimes even with that blade against his throat?"
Merle's frown deepened. "Wasn't nothin' to confess. I already knew 'bout everythin' he did. That's why I let 'im bleed out."
"So you knew that your own mother's life paid for this shitty little cabin you're livin' in?" The Governor asked flatly.
Merle blinked. "Didn't need him ta tell me. Ain't as dumb as I look."
"So, what—you thought he bought some kind of extravagant insurance plan with his own money? With his own businessskills?" The Governor barked out a humorless laugh. "As if that trailer and her life were actually worth more than twenty or thirty grand combined?"
Merle didn't respond. He clenched his jaw, the muscles of his neck tensing against the rope. His face was bright red.
"Even your baby brother's life wouldn't have gotten much reimbursement," The Governor went on. "And he survived, despite our extensive planning. That knocked out a chunk of the reward, but there's still a hefty amount to be had for me—for my part. I made an investment. And your deadbeat daddy ran off with it."
"You were in on that whole fuckin' thing?" Merle growled, his teeth clenched so tightly that they looked about to break. "Burnin' that trailer, killin' my mama, tryin' ta kill Daryl?"
The Governor smiled proudly and nodded. "Of course I was. Your pa was nowhere near smart enough to pull it off on his own. Shit—he wouldn't have even thought of it if it weren't for me, for my suggestion, for my expertise."
Merle glared down at The Governor with nothing less than murderous contempt. His adam's apple bobbed as he swallowed hard, his lips pursed into a thin line.
"That's right," The Governor continued, beaming like he was proud of himself. He shifted his weight from one foot to the other and explained, "Back in the day, ol' Will an' I used to frequent the same shithole bar outside of town. Selling insurance in Senoia isn't a lucrative business—hell, it barely paid the bills. I never would've associated with scum like him if it weren't for being stuck in the same shitty position, in the same shitty little town. We got to talkin'—about life, about jobs, about money. About… ideas. Lemme tell you, he was one unhappy man. He hated everything about his situation: the crumbling trailer he had to sleep in every night, the old truck he had to fix every two days, the nagging wife who couldn't learn to keep her mouth shut, the whiny little brat at home that wanted to eat fifteen times a day… and the disappointment of a son who'd up an' joined the military at the last minute, just to flee overseas and shoot at towelheads for thirty grand a year. He had a million and one reasons to sit in that bar night after night, gettin' so blind drunk that he could barely drive home. And there I was… listening. Until one night—"
Merle groaned loudly, rolling his eyes. "For fuck's sake, you really gotta give a villain monologue? That's played out, man."
The Governor frowned, but went on anyway, "Until one night, I proposed a plan. I offered to make an investment that would earn us both a well-deserved payday. And my oh my, was he eager to jump on board."
Merle huffed out an agitated breath, sneering down at the other man. But he remained silent.
The Governor continued, "It was simple enough: take out the largest property and life plans that were available, insure the trailer and Leanne and little Daryl for the worst possible outcome. It took a few hefty payments, but we managed it—thanks to my savings and all of Will's income from those drugs he was sellin'. The profit margin was more than worth it though, so I happily contributed. We worked out every last detail until it was foolproof—which it had to be, since he was such a hopeless idiot… Your mama loved her smokes, especially around bedtime. That gave us a solid foundation. No one would think twice about some white trash housewife catching her own house on fire with a forgotten cigarette. The kid was the real challenge—we had to do a bit of brainstorming for that part. But we figured it out. If his bedroom was locked and the fire started right next door in the dead of night, he would never wake up in time. We reckoned he'd die of smoke inhalation before he could even make it into the hallway. Just to be safe, Will gave him a dose of Benadryl in his TV dinner that night."
He paused and frowned, reminiscing unhappily. "Lord only knows how that little bastard managed to wake up. Will should've thought to lock the window, too. Stupid prick. I told him to take absolutely every precaution… but he never was any good at followin' directions." He sneered, glancing away as he thought about the deceased Will Dixon.
Merle's face had gone red with repressed fury and he was very clearly biting his tongue. Yet somehow, he kept his mouth shut and listened, watching every evil word dribble from The Governor's pale lips.
"Regardless, those plans on the trailer and his wife left a generous payout," The Governor said. "Nearly a quarter-million, to be exact. More than enough for the both of us. Christ, the American Red Cross even gave that scumbag temporary shelter and helped him pay the deductible." He chuckled as though he were recalling a funny memory. Then he went on, "As soon as the investigation was closed and the insurance check was sent out, I went to meet him. We were supposed to split the money and go our separate ways without a word of our little deal. But when I went knockin' at his motel room… he was gone. Without a goddamn trace. And he took every last fucking dime with him. I looked high an' low, scoured every disgusting inch of this shithole town, talked to every hillbilly and illiterate redneck I could find—and nothing. That backstabbing piece of shit eluded me. I had no choice but to move on, seein' as I'd spent everything I had left on a payout that I was never gonna see… Years without a hint of where he could've run off to with my money."
Merle barked out a crude laugh. "An' the whole time, he was livin' out here in the holler—jus' like every other bootleg 'shiner that ever fuckin' existed. Ya dumbfuck."
The Governor's eyes flashed emerald with rage and his jaw stiffened. "I'm not the dumb fuck who moved into my daddy's stolen cabin—paid for with blood money. I found it eventually, didn't I? Despite almost thirty years of hiccups. And all thanks to you killing him. His obituary popped up and from there… well, here I am. Better late than never—isn't that what they say?"
"Yeah, they also say too little, too late," Merle snapped. "Whatever money there was's long gone by now. Dumbass didn't have a goddamned thing to his name 'sides this cabin an' the still out back."
The Governor smirked. "You're a terrible liar, Merle."
Merle rolled his eyes with exasperation. "Wish I was lyin'. You think if I had that kinda money, I'da stayed here? Fuck that. I'd be in Miami by now, hittin' up every strip club they got an' gettin' day drunk on the beach."
"I don't doubt that," The Governor said. "But you would never leave your precious brother behind high-an'-dry."
Merle immediately argued, "Daryl's dead."
The Governor laughed like he'd told a joke. "Bullshit."
"Nah, he is," Merle insisted. "Pa killed 'im a few years ago. Finished that sloppy job he started with the trailer fire."
The Governor's smile didn't waiver. "You're even worse at lying than the worthless dickhead that spewed your existence into a woman's cunt. You think I didn't do my research? I know little Daryl reached adulthood, despite our better efforts. I know you still associate with him… I also know that if you don't tell me where the money is, the weakest Dixon most definitely will. Why, I'd bet a hundred grand that it wouldn't take so much as a noose around his neck to get him to spill his guts."
Merle smirked and huffed out a breathy laugh. "Alright—ya caught me. He ain't dead… But good luck gettin' anything useful outta his sorry mouth. You know as well as I do that he wasn't Pa's favorite. Wasn't even mine—I jus' took pity on 'im. He got sick a my shit a couple years back. Hauled ass outta Senoia an' Georgia altogether. Last I heard, he was livin' in Chicago… or maybe it was Detroit. One a them cities full a coons. I'on't fuckin' remember. Ain't talked to 'im in I'ono how long."
"That's a little more feasible," The Governor drawled. "But I still don't believe it. You are not a persuasive storyteller, Merle Dixon."
"An' yer not a good deal maker," Merle spat. "Guess we both got our faults."
The Governor's smirk disappeared and he glared at Merle with contempt, clearly growing impatient. "Where's the money, Merle?"
Merle shrugged, pushing his wrists out hard against the zip-ties to no avail. "Ain't no money, Governor. How many times I gotta tell you that?"
The Governor sneered. "Yes, there is. And your cesspool-inhabiting father hoarded it somewhere. And you know where. So you might as well just tell me before I kill you and move on to your brother."
Merle quirked his mouth into a crooked half-smirk. "'F I don't know where it is, the fuck makes ya think Daryl does? Even if ya could find him—which I couldn't, so good fuckin' luck—he ain't gonna have no clue what yer talkin' 'bout. He don't even know that he was s'posed ta die in that fire. You'd be the firs' one ta tell him our pa planned the whole thing."
The Governor hmphed and muttered, "Bullshit. All you spout is bullshit, Merle."
"Maybe so," Merle quipped. "But not this time. I'm yer last fuckin' chance at findin' this money—how the hell you gonna track it down otherwise? Will was a weird bastard. Wasn't no rhyme or reason ta his li'l games. God only knows where that fuckin' money might be stashed. If it ain't already spent."
"Stop lying to me," The Governor growled through clenched teeth, eyes narrowed and set on Merle with a deadly determination. "I am not the gullible idiot your father thought I was. If you don't tell me where the money is, you'll hang… You'll die in this sad, lonely, disgusting cabin with nothing to show for it—and no one will bat a fucking eye."
"Huh," Merle grunted, sucking on his teeth. "Funny thing is, I ain't scared a you. Go on an' kill me. I don't give a fuck. Even if I did know where the money was… well, shit. I'd rather die knowin' it was buried somewhere nobody'd ever find it than know that you got yer slimy hands on it. Ya greasy-haired fuck."
Suddenly, The Governor leapt forward and reached out a large hand. He wrapped it around Merle's throat, right below the noose, and tightened his grip until Merle was choking out a gasp. His eyes were wild and filled with rage, flashing from emerald to azure, his face inches away from Merle's. He squeezed and Merle gasped for breath, then he reached the other hand up and grasped the rope, tugging on the noose to intensify the pressure on Merle's throat.
"You stupid fucking redneck," The Governor hissed, his breath hot on Merle's face. "You'd rather die than bargain for your pathetic life?"
Despite his lack of air, Merle managed to choke out spitefully, "Y'don't know me as well as you think, asshole. I'd die just ta piss you off."
The Governor sneered and tightened his grip, fingernails cutting into the skin of Merle's upper shoulder. "So your daddy was right after all, huh? When he told me that you'd sell your own soul for no more than a lapdance an' a pack of smokes."
Merle inhaled sharply through his nose, but The Governor purposely gave his throat a squeeze and cut it short. Merle repressed a cough and wheezed out, "Depends on who's givin' the lapdance."
The Governor's eyes flashed angrily and he appeared displeased by that response. He squeezed Merle's throat a little tighter, his fingernails cutting a little deeper into Merle's skin, and tugged on the rope threateningly. "I am going to kill you, Merle Dixon. This is the part where you tell me what you know and beg for your life."
Merle grunted and tried to breathe through the constriction on his windpipe, determined not to show any weakness. He smirked. His voice was no louder than a whisper, breathless and choked, as he responded, "I ain't beggin' you. 'F you kill me, swear ta God I'll haunt the ever-livin' shit outta you."
Just like that, The Governor released his grip on both the rope and Merle's neck. He stepped back, then he laughed and folded his hands behind his back once more, eying Merle up and down with renewed intrigue. He smirked.
"You think there's somethin' after this, Merle?" He asked all too casually. "You think you'll have any kinda power left once I extinguish the last weak flame of your existence? Because I think—if there's anything waiting for us after death—that you'll shoot straight down to the lowest pits of Hell. And, God willing, you'll be forced to suffer through your father's company for the rest of eternity… If the afterlife offers any sort of actual justice, that is."
Merle shifted uncomfortably in place, the rope itching against his tender neck while the chair wobbled unsteadily beneath his feet. He took several deep breaths, trying to compensate for the oxygen he'd lost while The Governor's hand was wrapped around his throat.
"Guess we'll jus' have ta find out, won't we?" He rasped defiantly.
The Governor chuckled and paced in place with his hands folded behind his back, shaking his head. "You are a tough nut to crack, I'll give ya that. But everyone has their breaking point…"
His gaze flicked up and settled on Merle's, his mouth set in a cocky tilt. Merle scowled back.
"Tell me where the money is, Merle. Or else you'll be at the top of a long list of people you care about that I have to kill. And I really don't wanna kill all those innocent folks." He quirked an eyebrow. "Especially that brother of yours—the only one left to carry on the Dixon bloodline… D'you really wanna be the reason for your family's name dying out?"
Merle grunted, his expression remaining stoic. "Nice try. Like I give a flyin' fuck about our family name. Couldn't name a single goddamn person I care about. Do whatever ya want. Ain't gonna make ya no richer."
The Governor appeared disheartened for the briefest second and he quickly turned away, stepping over to the bed. He tossed aside the comforter and moved around the pillows until he found what he was looking for.
As he stepped back over to stand before Merle, he unlocked the touchscreen phone with one thumb and began searching through it. Merle's wrists were pressing against the zip-ties again, fingers wiggling and stretching and straining to release himself. But it was pointless.
"Dunno whatcha think you'll find on there," he said, warily watching The Governor scroll through his phone. "I'on't save numbers. That's jus' a burner phone."
"Oh yeah?" The Governor remarked with disinterest, eyes glued to the small screen in his hand. "These nude photos are dated from over a year ago. You can't afford to be usin' burner phones." Then his mouth curled into a mischievous smile and his gaze flicked up to meet Merle's. "Here we go—only two contacts saved. Daryl an' your dealer. How convenient."
Merle frowned. "Wha' makes ya think it's my dealer?"
"Because it says 'Jesse: Meth And Weed.'"
"Oh," Merle grunted. "Well he ain't nothin' but a dealer, you leave him be. Boy don't even know my last name. He's good people."
The Governor rolled his eyes. "Don't worry, I have no interest in your little junkie buddy. Daryl, on the other hand—"
"That's an old number," Merle said. "Never deleted it. He los' that phone 'fore he even left Georgia."
The Governor paused for no more than a second before tapping the screen and putting the phone up to his ear. "We'll see about that."
"He ain't gonna—"
"It's ringing," The Governor snapped, holding the phone tighter against his ear. Merle shut his mouth and waited, his hands clenching into fists behind his back.
A few seconds later, The Governor pulled the phone away from his ear and tapped the screen to end the call. He was smirking with satisfaction. "It went to voicemail, but it's certainly not disconnected. Maybe he'll call back."
"Don't hold yer breath," Merle quipped. "Actually—yeah, go on an' hold yer breath. Do us all a favor."
The Governor paid him no mind, though. He simply retrieved his own phone from the pocket of his pants and copied the numbers from Merle's phone into his contacts. Then he tossed the old touchscreen device back onto the bed, making sure to leave the ringer on at a loud volume. Just in case Daryl happened to return his missed call.
"You realize it's prob'ly somebody else's number now, right?" Merle said. "I might be full'a shit, but I ain't the type ta lie 'bout keepin' in touch with my dumbass li'l brother. All he ever did was slow me down, I got sick of—"
"No matter how much bullshit icing you try to slather onto your bullshit cake, I'm still not gonna eat it, Merle," The Governor cut him off sharply. He laughed coldly, shaking his head. "You can weave all the lies you want, but that's not gonna stop me from killing you and your brother. The Dixon's are a plague, an infestation. Y'all need to be exterminated."
"I've lied about a lotta shit in my life," Merle argued. "But jus' trust me on this one—you'd be wastin' yer time. This ain't it, Governor. Me an' my pa mighta been nothin' more'an a couple oxygen thieves, but Daryl ain't none the wiser. He's too fuckin' stupid fer his own good. He's barely even a Dixon—that's what Pa always said."
The Governor shrugged, clearly unconvinced. "Who better to trust with the family's newfound fortune than the one asshole that wouldn't know what to do with it? Maybe I am wasting my time… on you. Maybe I should've started with Daryl."
Merle clucked his tongue. "Woulda took ya longer ta get here. I'm tellin' ya, yer never gonna be able ta find his sorry ass."
"I won't have to," The Governor quirked his brow. "If you stop pussyfooting around and just tell me where the goddamn money is."
The last of Merle's humorous demeanor faded. Despite his dry, raspy throat and the rope digging into his neck, he spat on the floor in front of The Governor's feet. He glared daggers down at the other man and growled, "There. Is. No. Money. Asshole."
It was obvious that The Governor was particularly perturbed by disrespect such as this, but he retained his composure all the same. Though his eyes were flashing murderously and his cheeks were flaring red and pink. His jaw clenched and he looked Merle up and down, scrutinizingly slow. His hands were behind his back as he took a leisurely step forward and paused. Then he took another. Until he was inches away from Merle, gazing up at him almost thoughtfully.
Merle tensed but didn't react. His fingers were still straining to reach the ends of the zip-tie around his wrists.
"You know what I think?" The Governor asked, his voice so low that he was practically whispering.
Merle cocked his mouth to the side in a crooked scowl. "No. But I bet yer gonna tell me anyway."
"I think," The Governor continued unfazed. "That your pa kept our little deal a secret from you for a very long time. I think you found out… And I think it was the last straw—a lifetime spent under the heel of an abusive father, the only family you've ever had to rely on, the only person you ever looked up to even though he beat the crap outta you on a regular basis, the only human you ever trusted. Hell, learning that he was the reason for your beloved mama's early demise would send any red-blooded man over the edge." He smirked smugly, searching Merle's expression for the reaction he was so eagerly anticipating. "Yeah… I think you lost your temper with all that cursed knowledge in your head. I don't think that blade openin' up your daddy's throat was some premeditated calculation; I think you acted outta rage—like your kind is so prone to do. I think you put two-an'-two together… finally. And then? Well, I think you asked him the same thing I'm askin' you today: where's the fucking money?"
Merle's breathing was shallow, his eyes glazed over and set on The Governor, his face hard and blank.
The Governor raised his eyebrows and his smirk grew into a smile. "The money that your mother paid for with her life. The money that nearly took your only brother from you. The money that you were rightfully owed—just for being Will's son. The inheritance you deserved after suffering through his wretched existence for your. entire. life."
Merle's nostrils flared. His hands went completely still behind his back.
"And he told you exactly where you could find it," The Governor drawled. "Didn't he, Merle?"
Merle lifted his chin and narrowed his eyes, unblinking. There was a beat. Then he growled, "Yeah. He told me where it is."
The Governor perked up.
Merle smirked and let the moment draw out. He blinked long and slow.
Finally, he said, "Up yer ass an' around the corner."
He laughed loudly as The Governor's face turned dark red with fury.
Merle's guffaws were abruptly interrupted by The Governor's hand giving the noose a hard upwards yank. Merle coughed and gasped for air but The Governor didn't appear amused in the slightest.
"Last chance," The Governor barked out, releasing his grip on the rope.
Merle coughed and sputtered, but as soon as he was able to speak again, he mouthed off, "Yer the worst fuckin' interrogator I ever met. I already know yer gonna kill me whether I tell ya or not, so why the fuck would I say shit?"
"Because I'll hunt your brother down and watch him bleed out at my feet," The Governor said coldly. "Just like you an' your pa."
Merle tensed. The chair wobbled unsteadily beneath him.
"You know where it is," The Governor added, smirking like he'd just been told a secret. "And that leads me to believe Daryl does, too. So why should I waste any more time listening to your loud, putrid mouth when I have another option?"
Merle swallowed hard and his neck flexed against the rope. The feigned confidence in his voice was all but transparent as he said, "Don't doubt you could get away with killin' me, but killin' sweet li'l Daryl? Never. You'd get locked up. Can't spend all that money on Top Ramen an' hair gel—be a damn waste anyhow."
The Governor flinched like Merle's statement had physically jolted him. But he quickly regained his composure and stared at Merle with deadly intent. His hand slowly tightened around the rope once more. He gave it a light tug and Merle choked out a half-grunt.
"If you give two shits about your only brother's life, you'll tell me where the money is right now," The Governor said.
Merle froze. But he still didn't say anything.
The Governor released his grasp on the rope and took a step back, eyes still set firmly on Merle.
"You're going to die today, Merle Dixon."
"I'd rather die than give in ta some beady-eyed, greasy-haired cripple like you."
The Governor huffed out a breath of amusement. "I hope it's worth it—everyone that's gonna die because you're so goddamn hard-headed."
"Killin' Merle Dixon'll be the biggest fuckin' mistake you ever made, asshole. Mark my words."
The Governor laughed. "Is that so?"
"In more ways'an one." Merle jerked his chin upwards, half a threat and half an invitation. "Don't make me haunt you."
The Governor let out a hearty laugh. He shook his head and put his hands on his hips, standing before Merle and giving him one last contemplative look. His smile faded momentarily before it flickered into a malicious upwards tilt of the mouth.
"I'll see you in Hell."
And with that, he kicked out hard at the chair with his right leg. It went tumbling backward, skidding across the wood floor and toppling over to land on its back several feet away.
Merle didn't get the chance to respond with something smart-assed like "not if I see you first" or "I'll save you a seat." Which he undoubtedly wanted to.
His entire body tensed up and his feet dropped out beneath him. The noose eagerly embraced his neck.
There was a loud, sickening 'crack!' that echoed through the bedroom. It was immediately followed by Merle's choking gasps and the squeaks of the ceiling beam as he thrashed and writhed at the end of the rope.
The Governor stepped back and watched, the same cold and calculated smirk plastered to his face. His eyes seemed to light up at the sight, flashing from emerald to azure to jade.
Moments later, Merle Dixon took his final rasping breath. His body went still. His empty, lifeless blue eyes gazed upward blankly. The rope swayed slowly from side to side, bare toes dangling no more than a foot above the hardwood floor.
The Governor grinned.
"Say hi to your daddy for me. I'll send Daryl down real soon."
to be continued...
