Title: Overkill.
Author: Babab
Rating: R
Comments: Please. This is my first fic, so be gentle. No flames please.
Warnings: Slash, language, violence, drug use
Disclaimer: I don't know who owns the team, but it's not me.
Summary: An out-of-control Murdock meets his match.
The smoke spiraled upward to the corrigated tin of the room. The wispy tendrils carried along in the slight breeze fluttering through the windows, causing the smoke to settle into a billowy cloud that filled the hooch. At least the omnipresent rain seemed to be staying outside.
From his position flat on his back, the man in the boxers and khaki t-shirt watched glass-eyed, looking for images in the smoke clouds.
"There's . . . there's a kid on a pogo stick about to get his head blown up by a VC sniper." As the image faded into oblivion, he giggled. "There it goes."
"Shut up, you nutcase," someone - that asshole Captain Wright - yelled across the hooch. "It's bad enough the rain's got us holed up in here with a fucking nutcase but you've got to get stoned to boot."
"Come on, Murdock," Johnson said. Or was it Jackson? Murdock couldn't get it straight. Was it Johnson's bird that had gone down in the Mekong Delta? Or Jackson? Damn. Didn't matter. They were both FNGs, destined to go home in body bags soon enough.
Murdock pulled himself unsteadily to his feet. Looking across the room at Wright, he took another toke, held it and let it out. He watched the smoke rise. "Hey, it's Billy taking a piss." He looked at Johnson - or Jackson - and winked. With his left hand, he picked up a bottle of the swill the locals called whiskey and let fly.
"YOU SON OF A BITCH!" Wright screamed as the bottle shattered against the tin roof and the foul-smelling liquid showered down over him.
Murdock grinned and took another puff from his joint. As Wright leaped off the bed and charged forward, he blew the smoke directly in the other man's face.
"Come join the party, mon," he called out in his best Jamaican accent.
The smoke did nothing to slow Wright down and he slammed into Murdock with full force. They crashed against the bunk and then spun through the door, through the torrrential rain and onto the muddy ground outside. Murdock's joint went flying.
Wright, a good 50 pounds heavier, raised his fist. "That's it, you freak. I'm gonna make you wish you'd never been born."
"Oh, man," Murdock groaned, seemingly oblivious to the fist. "You're ruining my buzz."
"That's not all I'm gonna ruin. I think I'll start with that ugly, crazy face of yours."
He started to bring down his fist, but something wet and heavy struck him in the face. He stopped, staggered by the handful of mud Murdock had slung in his face.
Wright fell back, giving Murdock the room to slide free. "That dope was fucking expensive," he said as he quickly reached his feet. Wright's feet slipped in the mud and he dropped to all fours. He never got up. Though barefoot, Murdock swung his foot and connected with the other captain's midsection. Another kick followed. And another.
"You know Kubrick?" Murdock said with a wild grin. "A Clockwork Orange. I bet you don't. It's got one of my favorite scenes, which I think is just perfect for a night like tonight." He looked up as the water cascaded down like a waterfall from the heavens above. Still grinning as the water poured over him, Murdock broke out into song.
"I'm singing in the rain." He stopped and kicked Wright again.
"Just singing in the rain." He felt one of Wright's ribs give way.
"Stop it, Murdock. You'll kill him." Jackson or Johnson called from the doorway.
Murdock grinned even more broadly and spun in a circle. He jumped once, spraying mud in an arc. Then he laughed and stepped back, surveying the man on the ground. Wright had fallen to his side and raised one arm weakly to ward off another kick. "Yeah, he's had enough. I mean, if I did too much damage, they might ground me." He looked at Jackson or Johnson with a dangerous glint in his eye. "I'm not that crazy."
Wright groaned in the background as Murdock walked away.
He announced, "If the colonel needs me, tell him I needed to restock my stash."
Ignoring the response, Murdock marched across the base. His unit had been flying nine to ten hour long aerial support missions every day for two weeks, and he had two days of no flying. Damned if he was going to let a snot-nose asshole like Wright get in the way of his fun.
"Fly hard. Play hard." That was his motto.
It summed him up to a tee. H.M. Murdock - Howling Mad to his friends, Howling Mad to his enemies - could fly better than any man in Nam. If it had wings, he could take it to the heavens. Everyone knew it. Army. Air Force. Even the CIA, although they seemed to have stopped calling as much as they used to.
Murdock didn't give a shit. He'd taken the CIA off his Christmas card list too.
He reached his destination and, without knocking, pulled open the wooden door. It creaked as it opened. Murdock stomped inside, not caring that his barefoot feet tracked mud into the tent or mindful of the water he splattered all around.
The man inside jerked around in his chair. He swiftly shoved some papers into a pile and stuffed them into a manila folder.
Murdock's eyes narrowed, but before he could say anything, the other man half-shouted.
"Jesus H. Christ, Captain. What the hell are you doing here looking like a half-drowned rat?"
"Nice to see you too, Morrison," Murdock snapped back. "I need some more weed."
Colonel Morrison, who had recovered from his surprise, looked askance. "You just bought an ounce last week. Why would you need more, Captain?" He stepped forward and studied Murdock. "You're not overdoing it, are you?"
Murdock shook his head. "No. I shared the wealth and I'd be fine now, except for a prick with an asshole so tight you could turn a lump of coal into a diamond in a day decided to lecture me on the evils of marijuana."
Morrison smiled. "Now we can't have that, can we?" He stepped away from the desk and walked over to a cabinet. Pulling a key from around his neck, he unlocked it. "The stock's getting low. How much this time?"
"A half," Murdock said.
The Colonel studied him for a minute. "I assume you're carrying payment with you."
Realizing for the first time since he left his hooch that he was wearing only his boxers and a t-shirt, Murdock rolled his eyes. "I'll pay you tomorrow. I've got money in the hooch."
"I don't run on credit," Morrison said. "You know that, Captain. We've been doing business for far too long."
He sounded sad, but Murdock knew better.
"What do you want, Morrison?"
Morrison grinned. "You always cut to the chase, don't you?" As Murdock watched, the Colonel pulled out a small bag of weed. He started to turn, then stopped, reached back into the cabinet and pulled out a joint. Holding both, he held them out.
Murdock stepped forward and reached for the bag.
Morrison pulled it back. "Not so fast. You can have this." He held out the joint.
Taking it, Murdock looked for a match. Morrison pulled a lighter from his pocket and flicked the switch. The flame popped up and danced in the light breeze. Murdock hardly noticed. He quickly leaned over, stepping so close to Morrison that he could smell sweat and cheap cologne, and lit the joint.
As the smoke filled his lungs, Murdock closed his eyes feeling the calm of the drug wash over him.
"That's right, Captain," Morrison said soothingly. He leaned forward and ran a rough hand along Murdock's cheek.
Murdock wanted to flinch, but remained still. Morrison's hands slid lower, down his side and began to lift the t-shirt. The colonel pressed close behind Murdock and whispered, "How much do you want that bag, Captain?"
As an answer, Murdock turned quickly. He grabbed the colonel's waist and pulled him tight, their groins pressing hard against one another. Harshly, he breathed, "That enough of an answer?"
Morrison laughed in response and pressed Murdock down against the desk. "Glad you know the score, Captain. You're always good for a little fun."
Thirty minutes later, well-baked and well-fucked, Murdock left Morrison's command tent. The rain had stopped and he held the half-ounce of pot tightly in hand. He still wore only his boxers and t-shirt, but he barely noticed as he crossed the grounds back to his hooch. The buzz from the joint made him blissfully unaware of anything around him.
"Well look what we got here?" The voice interrupted Murdock's thoughts of pink elephants and nirvana. He also heard the sound of boots splashing in the muck around him.
Murdock slowly looked around and spotted several shadows darting between the hooches. Turning in a circle, he realized he was surrounded.
"You're going to pay, you nutcase." At that, a man stepped forward and a match flickered. Murdock found himself staring into the angry eyes of Captain Wright. "You messed with me, and now, me and my friends are gonna mess with you."
Before he could move, strong arms grabbed him and forced him down to the ground. Murdock's face pressed down into the mud. He couldn't breath and it was a fight just to turn his head so his nose and mouth were free of the mud. He struggled, vainly, as fists and boots slammed into his exposed ribs and chest.
Over and over, they struck until Murdock could no longer struggle. Then, the arms pulled him off the ground.
"Look at me, you fucking freak!" Wright yelled.
Barely conscious, Murdock looked weakly into the other captain's furious expression. He saw the man's arm swing back and waited for the impact.
It never came.
A flash of movement. Something dark crossed his field of vision. Dazed, he wasn't sure what was going on. The arms that held him let go and he fell bonelessly to the ground.
From the ground, he heard voices.
"What do we do with him?" one said.
"Gotta get 'im outta the mud 'n' back ta the hooch," said the other. Even semi-conscious, Murdock could tell he was black - and big. "Ain't no good savin' him if they come back later."
Murdock felt two pairs of hands lift him and haul him forward.
"What ya doin' out here in yore skivvies, ya crazy fool?" the black man said.
Still stoned and half-dazed, Murdock giggled at that. "That's me. Crazy fool."
"Oh, shit, BA," the first voice said. "He's stoned."
"Don' matter, Ray. We gotta get him back ta the hooch. Faceman'll clean him up."
The names barely registered. Ray. BA. Faceman. What kind of name was that? Didn't matter. It didn't sound like they planned on beating on him. Murdock didn't struggle. He let them pull him forward.
In a few minutes, he heard the creaking of a door. His feet struck dry sand and, the next thing he knew, he was dropped onto a bunk.
"What the hell?" That voice came from somewhere inside. It sounded different than the two voices from outside. Younger, too.
"Got ya a clean up job, Faceman." Murdock recognized that voice as BA's.
"Yeah, a Grade-A pile of drugged-out fly-boy that's covered with half-the mud in Vietnam," Ray added.
"Oh come on," the younger voice whined. "I have paperwork to fill out. Hannibal wants those guns and the new radio and a new box of cigars by 9 a.m. I can't take on a stray right now."
"Hey," BA snarled. "We took out the trash. You clean up."
Murdock could tell the argument was over. Confirming that, the younger voice snapped, "Fine, but if Hannibal complains that he didn't get his cigars, I'm telling him why." The voice came closer and Murdock could tell the other man was studying him. "Took out the trash, BA? Looks like you brought it in."
Murdock's head lolled back and he mumbled. "Not trash . . . I'm . . . not trash . . ."
He heard only silence for a few minutes. Then he heard something splash in some water. He felt a wet cloth slide across his forehead.
"Man, someone really worked you over, didn't they?" said the young voice. It's sweet dulcet tones sounded like honey.
Something inside him stirred and Murdock forced his eyes open. Looking back were the most crystal-blue eyes he had ever seen. Eyes that were set in the most innocent-looking face he had ever seen.
Faceman. He understood now.
As Murdock looked into that young face, he knew his life would never
be the same.
TBC?