Evil men spoke sweet words.
A huge man in a patched suit sat in quiet wonder, thinking about the dark hunter's statements. There was something frightening to the powerful actor. Perhaps, the audience member could see where he would fall victim to such kind words. "It is only the bold and the daring that achieve happiness." Yes, words for a fighter. For a warrior.
For a champion that the huge man had sealed within his massive husk.
The big man shifted in his seat. The opera house's seating was a touch too small for a man like him. Still, he tolerated their pain. He had spent the better part of a year scrimping and saving to be able to sit in this uncomfortable chair. He knew that he was intelligent, that he had learned many languages, words, and their gentle meanings. With no certificate or diploma to prove himself, and with his English rough and limited, he could only rely on his body for work. His spine still ached from countless hours of supporting steel beams and laying concrete.
Between the cost of the tickets, his pre-owned suit, and the alterations he had performed, he was about drained of cash. He would have to work harder once he left this place. It would be another long week of labor ahead of him, eating from cheap hotdog stands and sleeping with no air conditioning running. But, this was worth it. It reminded him of something he'd forgotten.
He was a Russian who could understand German.
Someone nudged him in his side. The large man turned his head. There was a noisy, chatty grandmother seated to his right. It must have been the fifth time she had interrupted his thoughts, and it was only the first act of the opera. Still, she was one of few people who had treated him less like a human forklift and more like a person this past year. He enjoyed her company, to an extent.
"Am I in the way?" the big man murmured.
The little old lady shook her head. "No. Do you like that bass singer?"
The huge man nodded. "Good voice."
"The devil always sings well," the lady smiled. "You should have heard him last time, in Der Wildschütz. Such a strong lead. It's a shame he's the villain this time."
"Der Wildschütz? Der Freischütz?" the large man chuckled. "Germans made many operas about shooting. Very funny to me."
"I suppose you like ballet more?" the nosy old lady asked.
The big man paused on the question. He honestly couldn't remember the last time he'd seen a ballet performance. For the cultured Russian, he found this surprising. "Each has good parts. But, I do like singing."
The old woman was satisfied with his answer. She sat back, letting him focus on the show again. In a way, the massive Russian was disappointed with the show. The actors were all fine, but the lead character was so weak. A crybaby. Certainly, losing a contest was never a pleasant feeling. Still, there was an endearing quality to a graceful loser. The actor's attempts at pouting hardly won the big man over.
Currently, the main hero—who could barely be called that—and the charismatic villain were drinking and discussing the hero's misfortune. In the villain's hand was an antiquated rifle with a wide muzzle. Hardly the weapon for a modern fighter. The dark hunter passed it to the loser and was urging him to shoot offstage at an unseen bird. A hawk? Perhaps an eagle. It seemed pathetic to the large man to shoot birds, even one as grand as a raptor.
The weak hero lifted the dark hunter's gun and aimed for the target. He pulled the trigger on the prop gun. There was an impressive white blast of smoke. A lumpy prop was thrown from off screen. It fell from a great height, trailing feathers as it dropped. It landed lifelessly at the simpering hero's feet. A weight just as great dropped in the large man's stomach.
It was supposed to be a hawk. Something great and mighty. Where other members of the audience saw brown and black, the massive man saw white. He watched the charismatic scoundrel approach the dead avian. He plucked a feather from it and placed it in the lame hero's hat. The big man's eyes stayed fixed on the prop bird.
Where others saw a dead raptor, he saw a dead dove.
He was happy.
For once in his life, no one was curious about the man. No one speculated where he had come from, what he looked like, or what his true gender was. He was simply allowed to be. People were glad to see him, smiling and waving. He had friends. He had a wonderful job. He even had a name—G.J. Gas Jockey. Nothing true or formal, but just as warm and affectionate.
He was so glad to have woken up here so long ago. Perhaps others would have looked for greater meaning in their existence, but he was just happy to serve a purpose. Every morning, the elderly would come to the gas station and stay to chat. Officers would stop by and purchase little sweet treats. Visitors would come and go so quickly through the station, but he was happy to send them on their way.
And dogs. There were so many happy, playful dogs in town.
Today was different, though. Honeymooners and vacationers were leaving the town en masse, ready to go back to work and face their jobs. Most of them were too busy or concerned to talk with G.J. But, that was okay. He wasn't one to hold people up. Besides, the skies over the nearby lake looked dark and foreboding. A storm was coming in. It was just as well that everyone got on their way and out of the rain and fog.
It was after tending to one of his regulars that G.J. encountered an unusual woman. He couldn't rightly tell if she was sick or not, but there was something off about her. She was a pale young woman. The only bit of color on her was her dark, almost black-brown hair. She walked with an uneven gait, pacing in front of the soda cooler. Her skin was clammy, eyes wide. Her lips were trembling.
"Ma'am? Can I help you?" G.J. asked.
She turned to look at the gas station attendant. He wasn't quite sure if the woman understood him. She walked towards the counter, staring at G.J. with confused, glassy eyes. The woman wasn't frightened of him, but she wasn't pleased to see him, either. G.J. tried not to take it personally. He wasn't conventionally attractive, and his appearance usually threw people off.
"Can I get you anything?" G.J. repeated.
"Gasoline," the woman finally said.
G.J. nodded. "Alright. Which pump did you use?"
The woman looked out the window. She worked her jaw but didn't say much. G.J. was equally confused. There were no cars at the pumps. He turned back to her, then tipped his head. "Did you fill containers?"
She didn't understand him. "What? No. I need gasoline. Matches."
G.J. shook his head. "Ma'am, are you okay?"
"I need a knife," the woman said.
G.J. disagreed. "You look a little hot. Why don't you sit down?"
"Why aren't you burning up?!" the woman screamed at him.
Her sudden outburst shook G.J. He stepped back from the counter. She had to have been sick. Maybe on hallucinogens. It wasn't out of the ordinary to come across stoners and hopheads. G.J. didn't want to take any chances. This was why he had a security button installed in his shop, anyway. He slipped his finger under the service desk, then tapped on the emergency alert. With any luck, officers would be here shortly.
"You look thirsty. Can I get you a drink?" G.J. offered the strange woman.
"No," she replied. "No, no, no, no, no. Not cough syrup. It makes me drowsy."
G.J. sighed. What could be done about this woman? She was completely out of her mind. "Just sit down. Let me get you some water."
The woman shot him a dirty glare. "You called my mama, didn't you? You told her I was here! How dare you! She'll tell Daddy!"
"I didn't call anyone," G.J. fibbed. "Come on. I'm trying to help you."
She turned on him again. "Liar! You men are all liars! Cheats and thieves and murderers and perverts!" She reached across the counter, then grabbed G.J. by his suspenders. She threw him back into a glass counter full of cigarettes. "Get away from me, you monster!"
There was a jingle at the door. The woman stopped cold, gasping in shock. G.J. smiled. One of his regular customers had shown up. The man was a tall, strong figure in a crisp, white uniform. He had a rust-colored helmet attached to his head, always placed at just the right angle. He smiled from beneath, laid back and cheerful.
The officer greeted the gas station attendant. "Good morning, G.J."
"Good morning, Officer Delta," G.J. responded. He nodded his head towards the dark, sick woman. "Can you help her? I think she is feeling ill."
The disturbed young woman was frozen in terror. Any criminal would have feared the officer. For a woman as ill and misandrist as her, she was downright sickened by him. She screamed. The sound was harsh and hoarse. Both the officer and the gas jockey flinched. She tore out of the gas station, shoving the officer aside as she ran crying through darkening streets.
The officer seemed less angry and more saddened. "Poor girl."
"Are you going to go after her?" G.J. questioned.
"I think I'll have to call for back-up." Officer Delta put a hand on his helmet. "Did she hurt you?"
G.J. shook his head. "No. Not really. I'm more worried about her."
Officer Delta nodded in agreement. "The weather's getting worse outside. When that fog rolls in, we will have a harder time locating her. I'd hate to think how worse off she will be if she gets caught in the storm."
"Can I get you anything before you go?" G.J. asked. "Whatever you'd like. It's on the house, today."
That earned the gas station attendant a warm smile. "It's my duty to protect citizens like you. You don't have to reward me."
G.J. laughed. "Then, let me get it for you. As a friend."
Officer Delta sighed. G.J. was a hard man to argue with. He smiled again, then shook the attendant's hand. "Oh, if you insist. I could take a coffee for the road. Just promise me one thing."
"You've got it, Officer Delta. I'll call you right away if she shows up again," G.J. said.
The officer chuckled. "If we're friends, we should be on a first-name basis. From now on, please call me Adam."
G.J. beamed. "Alright. One cup of coffee coming up for my buddy Adam!"
Despite the oncoming rain and the crazy woman's attack, it was otherwise a perfect day. Still, the gas station attendant spent it deep in thought. What had that woman meant? What was she seeing? He stared long and hard at the cigarette cabinet, wondering if she saw something here. The red and gold labels shimmered in lightning and sunshine but were dulled by the fog.
He leaned onto his elbows as something small and forgotten burned in the center of his mind.
A tall man wiped blood from his long face. Mud stuck to his body, squelching as he tried to sit up. His taupe uniform was stained with numerous fluids, too dark and wet to identify. There was laughter from nearby, the stench of smoke. Dead animals hung above his head, deer gutted, mink and foxes skinned. The park ranger's stomach sank. Poachers. That was whom he had been tracking. Dirty, rotten poachers.
They'd got him good. Hit him right across the face with the butt of a shotgun. He was lucky, all things considered. His lungs could have been punctured with punji sticks, or his ankle snapped clean off by bear traps. He propped himself onto his elbows. Mud plopped in thick droplets as he moved. He froze, hoping his captors hadn't heard the sound.
He was unlucky again.
"I think Ranger Rick woke up," one voice grunted.
Another laughed. "I thought we were calling him Ranger Smith."
That brought a massive roar from the first. The ranger's stomach sank as heavy boots stomped over to greet him. "Hey, there, Boo Boo! Look who's woken up! I don't think we quite finished him off!"
The ranger wasn't in any position to fight back. His nose was swollen, and his head was throbbing. That didn't stop him from retaliating. He pulled his knees up, then pushed himself upright against a tree. "Listen, lads. Think ya'd best be gettin' out of here before ya get into more trouble."
Thick digits pushed themselves into the ranger's abdomen. "Or else what? Gonna fight me?" The first poacher twisted his head, spittle landing in his beard and on the hapless ranger's face. "Ain't much to you, nature boy. I've seen hippies with more meat on them."
"Oh, don't antagonize him!" the second simpered in a sneering, wavering voice. "Look at that big scar on his face. He's a troublemaker, that one!"
The first poacher wasn't frightened. He pulled his left fist back, then rammed it into the torso of the ranger. The trapped man gasped. He couldn't get air back into his body. His attacker grabbed him by the neck, then pushed him upwards. Even with his long legs beneath him, the ranger could barely manage to keep standing. He fought against the strong hand around his neck, growling and gritting his teeth.
His stomach dropped again when the first poacher grumbled, "Get my knife."
If the ranger hadn't had good enough reason to fight before, he did now. His pulse raced as he saw the second poacher reach for the weapon. It wasn't something small or quick, like a table knife. Its blade was as long as a machete. The top edge of it was serrated. The whole of it was stained with animal viscera, from deer cut open and splayed around the forest, sacrifices for a hungry god. The second poacher brought it to the smoking campfire. Ash and flame rolled across. The ranger thrashed and kicked, fingers fighting to break the grip around his throat, but he was too weak.
The second poacher brought the hot knife to his partner. The first sneered, then drew the blade. "Who made this, hmm? Was he a big, bad, tough man? Did you stop him?" He licked his lips, saliva running down his tongue and teeth. "Did he do it like this?"
Slowly, accurately, the poacher dragged the heated blade across the ranger's old scar. It sliced the tip of the man's nose, his left cheek, his ear. The ranger couldn't so much as tremble. Bright, searing pain burned through his head. The rest of his body felt cold and pale in comparison. His jaw dropped, slack with shock. Water beaded on the edge of his eyes. He could smell his own flesh cooking as the knife pulled away from his face.
In that moment, there was a hot ball burning in the back of his throat. He thought it was vomit. As he coughed and heaved, the first poacher dropped him. He wretched. His bile was watery, weak. In its contents were the remnants of a small metal ball. The ranger stared at it, mortified and aching.
"The hell is that?" the first poacher asked. "Did you eat a bullet?"
"Maybe he wants another," the second laughed.
The ranger's shaking stopped. In the puddle of bile and metal, he saw his reflection. He raised his head, then saw it again in the hunter's knife. He saw a face he couldn't bear to see. One of weakness, shame, submission. A coward. He saw the mark of his failures past and present, and his body grew heavy. The sneers of ghosts. The old, stern gaze of his father. The scared faces of eight men he'd long forgotten.
"I think he's in shock," the second poacher grumbled.
The first smirked again. "They probably never taught him how to handle this in the Boy Scouts."
His friend sighed, now more irritated than amused. "Well, you know what my daddy always said. Don't let an injured animal suffer."
"Right," the first agreed, then drew the knife erect. "No suffering."
The poacher slammed the ranger against a nearby oak. He sneered, watching the ranger's bleeding face twist in anger. His expression dropped when he saw his mistake. At the last moment, the ranger had caught his fist and drew the knife to his right side. The heated blade sank into the oak's bark instead of his soft flesh. It steamed as the blade touched wet wood. The poacher looked like he was about to boil over.
The ranger's eyes had gone ice cold. "Standards."
"What?" the first hissed.
Pinned against that tree, beaten and humiliated, the ranger's brain began to mend. Mantras ran through the desperate man's head. Be polite. Of course. Be efficient. No problem. Have a plan. He was lacking that, but it was coming together swiftly. The knife that had skimmed his ribs was good enough. The poacher glaring at him was ferocious, but nervous. He had every right to be. He was fat, thick, and easily outclassed.
The man knocked his head against the first poacher's skull. There was a sharp crack. The poacher backed off, dazed by the blow. His confusion gave the trim man enough time to pull the knife from the tree. Like a wild savage, bloodlust boiling in his veins, the man leapt forward. Neither fat nor bone protected the poacher from his burning knife piercing his soft, weak heart.
"You—son of a—goddamned—" the second poacher swore without logic. The fierce, reawakened man turned to face the second, eyes penetrating and freezing as he tore the knife loose from the dead poacher. The poacher reached for his gun. His fingers fumbled on his weapon, a mighty shotgun now nothing more than clattering metal.
The tormented man glared through the remaining poacher's skull. He could see every individual part of the man's brain, as if he'd memorized the contents of his antagonist's head. Cerebellum sitting high. Pituitary in the middle. An apricot beneath. Juicy. Ripe. Pulpy. As the attacker cocked his shotgun, the enraged man threw the knife. The blade struck true. Terrible smells surrounded the last man—smoke, fire, bile, dead animals, dead humans. Hitting the target brought the scent of tart fruit, his own brain misfiring as he remembered training given to him so long ago.
A cold, emotionless man. That is who he thought he was. Now, alone in a forest, surrounded by dead meat and men, the Sniper reawakened to the truth of his esteemed, ruthless title and to the horror of what had happened to him. Now, more than ever, he was aware of the painful lie of his nature. A cold, lone killer? No. A confused, weak, team-less man in a labyrinthine forest, hot and stuffed painfully full with nauseating emotions.
He threw up again.
Author's Note
Yeah, you can probably guess where I heard of the aforementioned opera. And, if your gut feels like you know what's going on in the second chunk, you're probably right about that. I could be coyer, I suppose, but it's fun to tease ideas.
Incidentally, if you do want to watch Der Freischütz, there is a full version of it on YouTube. Just make sure to grab yourself a German translation so you can fully enjoy an opera about magic, satanic bullets. Because if you have to watch an opera, you might as well watch a crazy-ass one.
It's good to get a little culture, every once in a while.