Steven Hunley
10-01-2010, 01:07 PM
The Score
by
Steven Hunley
Eventually the day changed to afternoon. Dude went back to the hotel and took a nap to escape the heat. When night suddenly fell as it does in the tropics the forest came alive with the sound of a million tree frogs advertising for mates. He woke up and grabbed a cab back to the plaza then got out and headed to the slim room down from the church on the corner. It was nearly ten o’clock and he had an appointment to keep.
Hugo was already there waiting. Dude handed him the money.
“I’ll be back,” he said as if he meant business, and walked out the door.
The only things in the room now was the bare bulb, the two mattresses, the cricket and Dude. He would have watched television but there was no television. He could have listened to the radio but there was no radio. Maybe he should have read the newspaper, but he couldn’t do that either. You know why.
An hour went by. Time was as still and slow as the hot tropical air.
“I’m sitting in an empty room in a foreign country and a stranger has all of my money.” More time passed.
He stepped over the cricket and gently picked him up. The cricket didn’t resist or try to escape even when he opened his hand. He stared at the fragile insect in his palm.
“A stranger is holding my cash, and I’m holding a cricket. What kind of an *sshole am I anyway?”
He said the last bit aloud.
“Perhaps a very rich *sshole mon,” said a voice from the door. Hugo had returned.
“Here,” he said, and handed him the most enormous bag of coke he’d ever seen. He could smell the ether a mile away, well maybe a half a mile but you know what I mean. Dude realized quickly he had underestimated its size. He had nowhere to put it. So where does a man place large valuable things? He stuffed it in his pants.
Hugo smiled. “Come back tomorrow and we’ll talk. I’m sure you have somewhere to go right now.”
“All right, OK, I’ll see you."
Was he nervous? Hell yeah!
With the bag in his pants looking like some sort of giant erection Dude stepped into the street. The bulge was unsightly and conspicuous. This made him paranoid. It would make you paranoid too. Never before in his life did he want a cab so badly.
Fortunately for Dude that’s exactly what showed up, a cab. Beginner’s luck. When he went back to his room and opened the door, a gigantic green tree frog stuck on the wall near the doorknob ignored him. He ignored it too and slipped inside quickly and locked the door. When he pulled the bag out he realized he’d never done a thank-you line with Hugo.
“But that’s OK,” he figured, “I’ll do one with myself instead.”
He took a crisp peso Boliviano and rolled it up and secured it using the fold, then fingered a razor blade out of his wallet and the picture of Lake Titicaca off the wall. He scooped a small pile out of the bag, then made a line the size of a match-head on the glass. Underneath was a photo of the lake and altiplano. The line was so small you could barely see it. He went to the wall and turned on some canned music that piped through a speaker in the wall.
They were playing California Girls by the Beach Boys. It was surf music. Surf music!
“I’m in a land-locked country, not a beach in sight, listening to surf music!
As the substance numbed his nose he thought,
“It’s all so perfectly normal, maybe Jan and Dean will be next."
It woke him up a bit and changed his mood. It was just what he needed. Although it was more than late, he had work to do. And now, with the substance numbing his nose, he took a different attitude. He felt now as if it was early, and that whatever work he had to do should be done immediately. He would do a good job. He had to do a good job. His freedom depended upon it being…a good job… and nothing less.
Frankenstein Prepares the Monster's Mix
The first thing he did was spoon the powder from the large bag to many smaller seal-top bags and place them in the blocks. Then he’d prepare the resin filler.
This required concentration. Mixing the chemicals would be a one-time shot. If he made a mistake nothing could be redone or replaced. If the resin didn’t get hard enough, it couldn’t be remixed. If it got too hard it would heat up too much and melt the bags, ruining the product.
He laid everything out on the dresser. The cups, resin, catalyst, color, lead, aluminum flakes and popsicle sticks for mixing. When everything was there and in order he started to mix the mix. It was the moment of truth, the one-time shot. The air grew thick with tension until you could cut it with a knife.
Outside a tropical storm crept nearer, and lightning and thunder filled the sky. He mixed the chemicals, measured the amounts with precision and stuffed the coke into the blocks.
He needed somewhere to put the blocks, somewhere that was flat. The dresser was taken up. So he placed his American Tourister on the bed since it was almost flat. He poured the resin in, and waited for the results. Now came the waiting. It is the waiting that kills. Would it get hot, just hot enough? Or would it get too hot? He stepped away and tried to wait but anxiety was no friend to Dude. He was no good at waiting.
Out the sliding glass door to the balcony inky thunderclouds were crowding the sky. Then came streaks of forked lighting followed so closely by thunder it sounded like canon fire. The glass of the windows began to shake violently with their report. And it was hot, steamin hot. He wiped his brow of sweat. When he saw the sweat on his fingers it hit him. That’s what he hadn’t figured on!
The ambient temperature in the room might throw the whole thing off! It was hotter here than in San Diego. He had to find out. He approached the bed with reverence, the suitcase stacked on top like an alter designed by American Tourister. He reached for the block to check its temperature. Lightning flashed through the window flooding the room with white light just as his fingertips touched the block. It was more than just warmth he felt. It was the spark of creation.
“It’s alive,” he whimpered, drawing back his fingers.
He turned away, and his breathing became irregular. He spoke the words once again,
“It’s alive!”
Then his hands became nervous shaking hands, and he didn’t know what to do with them or with himself for that matter. The smell of ether and cooking resin permeated the room like a laboratory. He choked from breathing toxic vapors. Grabbing the handle to the sliding glass door and the storm without, he threw it open.
Serious thunder boomed like a howitzer, forked lightning slashed and tore at the clouds rending them asunder. Savage rivulets of rain ran in torrents down his face and crept down his body like slithering serpents. He faced the seething sky and announced to the heavens with his fists just as the lightning struck,
“It’s alive!” he petitioned the Gods of Thunder, “Alive!”
He liked being a dramatic fool at times, Dude did.
Then he said, “Frankenstein’s got nothing on me,” and calmly walked back inside.
He fell to the floor laughing, and rolled over on his back and tilted his head until he could see out the window. Clouds rushed past. The lightning appeared smaller and more distant. The interval between the thunder and lightning grew longer indicating the storm was heading away. The worst was over. The evil deed had been done and the powdered demon was locked between the layers of resin in the blocks, controlled for now. What would happen when it was released state-side could only be imagined or dreamt. Dude would be the last to know because right now he was asleep on the floor and wasn’t dreaming at all. The sh*t hadn’t lasted that long. The effects disappeared after forty-five minutes and he was exhausted from lack of sleep from the night before. While Frankenstein Dude slept soundly the storm headed north. The storm imprisoned in the resin would soon be heading north too. Either way, the northland was due for some changes, and Dude was to be at their epicenter.
A monster imprisoned by an idiot. What a story. You can only imagine. Would it slip it’s chain? Hell yes, and let loose the Dogs of War.
by
Steven Hunley
Eventually the day changed to afternoon. Dude went back to the hotel and took a nap to escape the heat. When night suddenly fell as it does in the tropics the forest came alive with the sound of a million tree frogs advertising for mates. He woke up and grabbed a cab back to the plaza then got out and headed to the slim room down from the church on the corner. It was nearly ten o’clock and he had an appointment to keep.
Hugo was already there waiting. Dude handed him the money.
“I’ll be back,” he said as if he meant business, and walked out the door.
The only things in the room now was the bare bulb, the two mattresses, the cricket and Dude. He would have watched television but there was no television. He could have listened to the radio but there was no radio. Maybe he should have read the newspaper, but he couldn’t do that either. You know why.
An hour went by. Time was as still and slow as the hot tropical air.
“I’m sitting in an empty room in a foreign country and a stranger has all of my money.” More time passed.
He stepped over the cricket and gently picked him up. The cricket didn’t resist or try to escape even when he opened his hand. He stared at the fragile insect in his palm.
“A stranger is holding my cash, and I’m holding a cricket. What kind of an *sshole am I anyway?”
He said the last bit aloud.
“Perhaps a very rich *sshole mon,” said a voice from the door. Hugo had returned.
“Here,” he said, and handed him the most enormous bag of coke he’d ever seen. He could smell the ether a mile away, well maybe a half a mile but you know what I mean. Dude realized quickly he had underestimated its size. He had nowhere to put it. So where does a man place large valuable things? He stuffed it in his pants.
Hugo smiled. “Come back tomorrow and we’ll talk. I’m sure you have somewhere to go right now.”
“All right, OK, I’ll see you."
Was he nervous? Hell yeah!
With the bag in his pants looking like some sort of giant erection Dude stepped into the street. The bulge was unsightly and conspicuous. This made him paranoid. It would make you paranoid too. Never before in his life did he want a cab so badly.
Fortunately for Dude that’s exactly what showed up, a cab. Beginner’s luck. When he went back to his room and opened the door, a gigantic green tree frog stuck on the wall near the doorknob ignored him. He ignored it too and slipped inside quickly and locked the door. When he pulled the bag out he realized he’d never done a thank-you line with Hugo.
“But that’s OK,” he figured, “I’ll do one with myself instead.”
He took a crisp peso Boliviano and rolled it up and secured it using the fold, then fingered a razor blade out of his wallet and the picture of Lake Titicaca off the wall. He scooped a small pile out of the bag, then made a line the size of a match-head on the glass. Underneath was a photo of the lake and altiplano. The line was so small you could barely see it. He went to the wall and turned on some canned music that piped through a speaker in the wall.
They were playing California Girls by the Beach Boys. It was surf music. Surf music!
“I’m in a land-locked country, not a beach in sight, listening to surf music!
As the substance numbed his nose he thought,
“It’s all so perfectly normal, maybe Jan and Dean will be next."
It woke him up a bit and changed his mood. It was just what he needed. Although it was more than late, he had work to do. And now, with the substance numbing his nose, he took a different attitude. He felt now as if it was early, and that whatever work he had to do should be done immediately. He would do a good job. He had to do a good job. His freedom depended upon it being…a good job… and nothing less.
Frankenstein Prepares the Monster's Mix
The first thing he did was spoon the powder from the large bag to many smaller seal-top bags and place them in the blocks. Then he’d prepare the resin filler.
This required concentration. Mixing the chemicals would be a one-time shot. If he made a mistake nothing could be redone or replaced. If the resin didn’t get hard enough, it couldn’t be remixed. If it got too hard it would heat up too much and melt the bags, ruining the product.
He laid everything out on the dresser. The cups, resin, catalyst, color, lead, aluminum flakes and popsicle sticks for mixing. When everything was there and in order he started to mix the mix. It was the moment of truth, the one-time shot. The air grew thick with tension until you could cut it with a knife.
Outside a tropical storm crept nearer, and lightning and thunder filled the sky. He mixed the chemicals, measured the amounts with precision and stuffed the coke into the blocks.
He needed somewhere to put the blocks, somewhere that was flat. The dresser was taken up. So he placed his American Tourister on the bed since it was almost flat. He poured the resin in, and waited for the results. Now came the waiting. It is the waiting that kills. Would it get hot, just hot enough? Or would it get too hot? He stepped away and tried to wait but anxiety was no friend to Dude. He was no good at waiting.
Out the sliding glass door to the balcony inky thunderclouds were crowding the sky. Then came streaks of forked lighting followed so closely by thunder it sounded like canon fire. The glass of the windows began to shake violently with their report. And it was hot, steamin hot. He wiped his brow of sweat. When he saw the sweat on his fingers it hit him. That’s what he hadn’t figured on!
The ambient temperature in the room might throw the whole thing off! It was hotter here than in San Diego. He had to find out. He approached the bed with reverence, the suitcase stacked on top like an alter designed by American Tourister. He reached for the block to check its temperature. Lightning flashed through the window flooding the room with white light just as his fingertips touched the block. It was more than just warmth he felt. It was the spark of creation.
“It’s alive,” he whimpered, drawing back his fingers.
He turned away, and his breathing became irregular. He spoke the words once again,
“It’s alive!”
Then his hands became nervous shaking hands, and he didn’t know what to do with them or with himself for that matter. The smell of ether and cooking resin permeated the room like a laboratory. He choked from breathing toxic vapors. Grabbing the handle to the sliding glass door and the storm without, he threw it open.
Serious thunder boomed like a howitzer, forked lightning slashed and tore at the clouds rending them asunder. Savage rivulets of rain ran in torrents down his face and crept down his body like slithering serpents. He faced the seething sky and announced to the heavens with his fists just as the lightning struck,
“It’s alive!” he petitioned the Gods of Thunder, “Alive!”
He liked being a dramatic fool at times, Dude did.
Then he said, “Frankenstein’s got nothing on me,” and calmly walked back inside.
He fell to the floor laughing, and rolled over on his back and tilted his head until he could see out the window. Clouds rushed past. The lightning appeared smaller and more distant. The interval between the thunder and lightning grew longer indicating the storm was heading away. The worst was over. The evil deed had been done and the powdered demon was locked between the layers of resin in the blocks, controlled for now. What would happen when it was released state-side could only be imagined or dreamt. Dude would be the last to know because right now he was asleep on the floor and wasn’t dreaming at all. The sh*t hadn’t lasted that long. The effects disappeared after forty-five minutes and he was exhausted from lack of sleep from the night before. While Frankenstein Dude slept soundly the storm headed north. The storm imprisoned in the resin would soon be heading north too. Either way, the northland was due for some changes, and Dude was to be at their epicenter.
A monster imprisoned by an idiot. What a story. You can only imagine. Would it slip it’s chain? Hell yes, and let loose the Dogs of War.