Deleted Scene
"Am I supposed to drive down to your house in Riverdale, New York and ask your wife Amy for it?" Shooter smiled grotesquely. "I read it on your book jacket."
-
He was in the car, driving to his house–
Ex-house, he reminded himself.
–Yes, ex-house. Why? For that damned magazine. The backwoods pig-fucker was getting his way. The psychotic redneck bastard that killed his dog was getting his goddamned way. He was driving to Riverdale to get the magazine with his story in it so he would be free. He had a key. He would just let himself in. It was the middle of the day. He wouldn't even have to face her. He'd just get the magazine and leave. That's all. End of story. That's all she wrote.
The drive was mind numbing, but he knew it well. Every summer since God knew when, they had come, even before he and Amy had been married. He spaced out many times, but he was doing all right considering. He was exhausted, but he wouldn't let himself crap out this time.
He had to bring an end to this.
-
He stood outside the house. He fondled the key nervously in his hand. He would just go in and grab it. No harm in that. What was his was his.
So, why couldn't he shake the feeling that he shouldn't be here?
"Well, I'm here," he said, suddenly confrontational. "Whatcha gonna do?" He stepped purposefully up to the door and let himself in. Once inside, a wave of nostalgia he hadn't anticipated swept over him, almost staggering him. His beautiful ex-house. It was almost too much.
He shook it off. "In and out. That is all." He shut out the longing and headed upstairs to his study.
He surveyed the room, and sighed. It was a hopeless mess. "See, this is why I wanted a housekeeper." After another moment of wallowing in self-pity, he gave in and started sorting through his files.
He hadn't been sifting long when he heard a sound that made him jump, banging his head on an open file drawer.
"Shit," he hissed, as the pain radiated through his head like lighting, triggering further obscenities to come to mind. He stood up, rubbing his head and started looking for the source of the sound.
She couldn't be home already. Surely, Teddy-boy is still at work.
It sounded like a soft thumping at first, then grew to a banging. He heard screaming. It was Amy!
He hurried down the hall. The sounds were coming from the master bedroom at the end of the hall. "Amy! Amy, I'm coming!"
He burst into the room and saw Amy, totally nude, bent over the end of their big oak bed, and John Shooter, naked from the waist up save his Amish hat, trousers unzipped, taking her forcefully from behind.
His eyes snapped to meet Mort's and he smiled that trademark John Shooter smile, his eyes alight. "She likes it when I wear the hat, Mr. Rainey," he said in his infuriatingly deliberate southern drawl. He never broke his rhythm and his eyes remained fixed on Mort's. "She begs me to wear the hat for her when I fuck her."
Mort stood in the doorway, paralyzed in shock, rage, the familiar sense of betrayal washing over him in waves. He wanted to kill them both. In an insane instance of clarity, he realized they'd been in it together. Amy had been behind it all along.
Amy killed Chico.
Christ, Chico. He heard her voice over the phone, asking how her favorite puppy was. Had his cataracts been taken care of yet? How could he have been so stupid? She didn't give a rat's ass about his goddamned cataracts.
The scarlet fucking bitch killed your dog.
He had a gun.
Like that night…
He felt it's weight in his pocket, then inn his hand. He raised it, aimed at his wife's head, her never-ending cries of ecstasy ringing in his ears.
"No!"
He froze.
"No," Shooter shouted again. He had ceased his incessant thrusting for the time being and his frustrated lover writhed against him, small impatient whimpers escaping her throat. He ignored her. His attention was fixed solely on Mort.
"Not this way! Not this way!" he shrieked hysterically. Mort saw the panic in his eyes.
He sat up in bed, soon realizing that the frantic screams he heard were his own. His own, not Shooter's. It had all been a dream. Emotions swirled and bubbled beneath the surface.
But- but-"It was a dream. It wasn't real."
You were going to kill them.
"It wasn't real."
You would have been a murderer.
"God damn it, I was dreaming!" he shouted to no one. He looked around the room and shook his head. "I gotta get out of here." He swung his legs over the edge of the bed and grabbed his glasses. He had a foul taste in his mouth. He stood and headed toward the bathroom, stopped, decided that Doritos would take the taste out of his mouth just as easily, and headed downstairs.
He would call Amy today. He promised himself he would do it today. At the foot of the stairs, he eyed the couch.
Doritos.
"Right. Doritos. No couch. Doritos, then phone."
It was a hell of a breakfast, but it was good enough for him. Doritos were good. Mountain Dew was good. Breakfast of champions. He'd need it to get through this day…