a real time killer

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mustynutz

mustynutz

Sicc OG
#1
Jun 27, 2002
14,470
135
63
#1
Barry McGraw was an average person with an average age living an average life. He put on his average tie and shirt, average slacks, shoes, socks, and underwear, grabbed his slightly-better-than-average briefcase, and hopped on the shitty 6:45 a.m. train to his average fucking job.

He always took the SEPTA R6 to Paoli in the suburbs and walked the half mile from the stop to his cubicle at Spreewell Scientifics. Today, he wouldn't be walking anywhere. Right after he sat down, a man looking nearly identical to Dick Tracy in dress and in face sat down next to Barry, put what felt like a very big gun in his side and whispered in his ear, "Get off at the next stop."

Barry complied. The next stop was Manayunk, one mile away from Barry's House. Barry was familiar with the area and could have probably bolted from the guy in desperation. But, eerily, Barry didn't feel threatened. The fact that anyone noticed him at all made him feel ... well ... wanted. And to Barry, being wanted was good.

Barry had been shy all his life. He followed all the templates - high school, then college, then job, then another and another and another. He dated no one until he was close to thirty. He never owned a home or a car because he never really could afford one. He still hadn't had sex. The glamours of life weren't particularly important to Barry. He had become so accustomed to not experiencing those thrills that he had succumbed to the fact that he never would. He accepted his life and trudged his way through each day's routine.

Not today. Barry was nudged in the direction of a nondiscrete black Ford Crown Victoria with tinted windows. Dick Tracy pushed him towards the front passenger door and allowed Barry to open it and get in for himself. Inside, the car smelled faintly of smoke and cologne. The man in the driver's seat was about 50, had slicked back gray hair and looked like he could kick anyone's ass in a fight. His jawline was as sharp as the business end of a meat cleaver.

"Don't say a fucking word," Gray Hair said with perfect clarity. Barry didn't. He just sat there with his briefcase on his lap, totally calm, staring intently at Gray Hair. There was a long awkward moment of silence before Gray Hair spoke again. "Do you know why you're here?"

"No," responded Barry.

"Good," Gray Hair said. "Don't speak again and don't look at me again until I speak to you, understood?"

"Yes."

Gray Hair put the Victoria in drive and left the train station's cobblestone parking lot. Outside, passengers were boarding the train headed into the city. Plumes of breath pierced the cold air around the train's doors. Exhaustion was written on several of the passengers' faces. Some sipped from paper coffee cups in attempts to wake up and keep warm at the same time. Barry wondered if these people had any idea he was being taken hostage by the two strangers in the car with him. Barry wondered if he'd ever see this train station, these people, any people other than Gray Hair and Dick Tracy ever again.

They drove for what seemed like only a few minutes, then they entered an underground tunnel off a small road that Barry was familiar with. He was perplexed that he had never seen the tunnel before, but there it was, and there they were going into the tunnel just like that. The lighting inside the tunnel was dim, and the Victoria's automatic headlights sensed the darkness and activated themselves. Barry had the urge to turn around and see if the entrance to the tunnel had closed off, but he dared not to do it for fear that one or the other hostage holders blew his brains out right there in the car.

The tunnel turned sharply, and then ended immediately after the turn. It was still cloudy and barely morning outside, but the suddenness of the light still hurt Barry's eyes. The tunnel terminated at a road on the side of the Schuylkill River. The body of water churned east as usual, it's surface a sea of choppy waves and mud.

"Get out and look at the river," Gray Hair said, and Barry did. He brought his briefcase with him, although he doubted he would need it. He heard two doors slamming behind him, then heard footsteps clacking as Gray Hair and Dick Tracy approached.

Dick Tracy stood behind Barry and lit a cigarette. Gray Hair stood in front of Barry, took a deep breath, and sighed. "I'm going to make this real easy for you, BARRY." Barry felt fear and a chill from hearing his name spoken aloud. "You have one of two choices. One, you're going to do what we tell you to do in a few minutes. Then you're going to go where we tell you to go when you're finished. Or, two, we'll put you in the river over there and that'll be the end of your miserable life. Either way, you win. Now pick. You have three seconds."

"I pick number one."

"Good. Here's what's going to happen. I'm going to open up the trunk of this car. Inside is a small package. You will pick this package up and place it in that there mailbox." Gray Hair pointed to a blue U.S. Mail mailbox on the corner of the road. "The address is face down. You are not to look at the address of the package. If you do I will kill you and throw you in that fucking river. After you drop the package in the mailbox you will get back in the car, and we will take you to the airport. I will hand you a ticket and take you to the proper terminal. My friend here will escort you to your gate. He also has a ticket, but he will not be boarding the plane. You will sit by yourself in first class. When you get off the plane a man will be waiting at your gate with a sign that reads 'Garcia'. You will walk up to this man and say 'It's me. Not this year.' This man will then escort you somewhere. That is all I will say. I will not repeat this and I will not clarify myself any further. Understood?"
 
mustynutz

mustynutz

Sicc OG
#2
Jun 27, 2002
14,470
135
63
#2
Yes."

"Good. I'm going to open the trunk now." Barry heard a light THUNK and a creak as the Victoria's trunk came open. "Okay, it's open."

Barry walked to the open trunk, and Gray Hair followed him. Dick Tracy came around the car from the driver's side. The trunk was lined with the same color black carpeting as the interior. Inside the trunk was bare, save for a cardboard cube about twice the size of Barry's hand. The cube sat securely in a small indentation in the trunk. The cardboard looked as if it had been produced an hour ago. Barry picked up the package and carried it towards the mailbox. He anticipated Hair and Tracy following him, but they never did. He heard a slight CLICK behind him ... was that one of them pulling the hammer back on their gun? He got to the mailbox and carefully placed the package inside. He heard the CLUNK of the cube hitting the box when he let the door slide back into place, and fully anticipated feeling his head explode from a bullet. It never did. Barry could hear his heart thumping in his ears. It was the first time his adrenaline rushed in over 15 years. And he loved it.

Barry tried not to smile as he walked back to the passenger door of the Victoria. He had no idea why he was here. He had no idea what was in that package he just mailed out. He had no idea if these guys really were going to take him to the airport or if they were simply going to kill him and throw him in that there fucking river. Barry didn't care. He was having more fun in one hour's time than he ever had in his whole miserable existence.

Barry got in the Victoria, and his two companions followed. Gray Hair drove down the river road until it dead ended, then snaked his way through back roads until he got to the expressway junction. Outside, Barry could see the mountains and train tracks that provided scenery to those motorists who traveled this road each and every day on their way to work. Barry saw this scenery from a distance on his way to work everyday when he looked out from his seat on the train. Up close it was even more smog-filled and exhausted than it looked from the tracks. Barry wondered why human beings were so dirty, so destructive and wasteful with everything. Here he was, watching ten thousand motorists clog up the expressway on their way to monotony, analyzing the future fate of this area and possibly the world. He felt like the President of the United States must feel when he gets escorted around the country. Lots of time to think, but no resolutions to anything and no real reason to care.

An hour later, Gray Hair pulled up to Terminal E at the Philadelphia International Airport. Dick Tracy got out of the back seat and came around to the passenger side to meet Barry. Gray Hair reached over to the glove compartment and unlocked it. It came open, and inside was a mint-condition airline boarding pass. Gray Hair glared at Barry, and on cue Barry picked up the boarding pass and put it in the inside pocket of his wool overcoat. Barry then let himself out and shut the door. Dick Tracy remained by his side as they snaked their way through the plethora of passengers in the terminal. Tracy reached into his jet black trench coat and pulled out a mint-condition boarding pass that looked identical to Barry's. They walked right up to the security gate and its big robotic metal detectors, and Barry wholly expected Dick Tracy to be rejected because he had a gun on him. Dick walked right through, and the robot screeched in rebellion. A guard came over to pat down Dick, but then another guy, much bigger and older, said "I'll take care of this one. Over here, sir." Dick was led to the side where he was patted down with the big man's leather gloves. As Barry put his change and keys in the tray behind the metal detector, he could see an outline of the gun Dick Tracy was carrying. There it was, and the guard patted it down and glanced right over it as if it weren't there. "Shit," mumbled Barry. "I must be in the movies or something. Shit like that doesn't happen in real life." Or does it? he thought as his briefcase came out of the X-ray machine without protest. He felt Dick grab his arm and say something while smirking. It was Dick's way of being Dick Tracy-ish, only this guy had the United States airport security in his pocket. Movie script indeed.
 
mustynutz

mustynutz

Sicc OG
#3
Jun 27, 2002
14,470
135
63
#3
Dick and Barry arrived just as all the passengers were boarding the plane. Barry took the boarding pass out of his wool coat and noticed it was first class, just as promised, one-way to St. Lucia. He had never flown anywhere in his life, but here he was, escorted by a gangster or a madman or maybe even a CIA operative, flying to a tropical destination with a bunch of old couples in Hawaiian shirts and luaus, all getting ready to drink sunshine and pina coladas. Dick Tracy walked away once Barry got in line, and Barry knew that was the last time he would ever see him again. It was fine. Everything was fine. Barry was a happy man.

Standing in line between two sets of fat old couples, Barry smiled. It was the happiest moment of his pathetic fucking life.

The flight was tumulous, and Barry was afraid of heights, but his joy numbed him from the experience. He felt so important. He knew somewhere, somehow he had done something illegal or mysterious or both or even more, and yet it was a bigger accomplishment than the aggregate of the last thirty-seven years of his existence. Barry drained his third glass of chardonnay just as the plane touched down on the St. Lucia runway. He noticed that he was on the only jetliner surrounded by a bunch of puppy-dog prop planes and floaters. Barry was ushered out directly onto the tarmac from the plane's steps, the intense heat hitting him like a brick wall. Directly at the bottom of the steps was a very tall and very skinny Jamaican-looking gentleman with a large cardboard sign that read "Garcia." Barry smiled at his cue and walked right up to the man, tiptoeing so he could put his face right next to his ear. He could smell cocoa butter and smoke on the man. The sound of the plane's jet engines was deafening.

"IT'S ME! NOT NEXT YEAR."

The Jamaican nodded his head, took Barry's briefcase, and led him across the runway to a sand-and-gravel parking lot, where a bunch of shitty cars lay parked or dead. The Jamaican selected an old VW Empi Inch Pincher, dusty and yellow from years of sand and wind. He threw Barry's briefcase in the back seat, then climbed in and opened the door for Barry. It was hot as hell in the VW, and the heat on the leather seats and vinyl dash seared through Barry's clothing. He scrambled to get the wool coat as far away from him as possible. He knew he would welcome the heat eventually.

The roads in Jamaica were lined with palms and bushes. Dust swirled in the baking breeze. Barry couldn't decide on whether to keep the window open and inhale the air devils or shut them out and battle with the oven inside the Pincher. The heat finally beat him, and Barry cranked the old window all the way down and welcomed the outside, dust and all. Somewhere in the distance there was a beach, and the sounds of the waves crashed in the distance of his ears. Barry hoped he was headed towards the beach. He had never seen a real beach. Philadelphia was all he knew.

The Pincher accelerated to seventy, screaming across the dust road, and then abruptly skidded to a halt in front of a pink and teal motel. The tall Jamaican turned his bloodshot eyes toward Barry and nodded, the top of his head scraping against the Pincher's ceiling. Barry smiled and grabbed his briefcase and coat from the back seat, the only effects of a life already forgotten. No longer would Barry be Barry. How could he be? In a matter of a few short hours, his life had been turned inside-out. He could be whoever the hell he wanted to be. He was probably already fired from his job. Maybe the cops were looking for him. He had no friends; no one cared about him. No one would come looking for him.

He was free.

Barry rummaged through his pockets and found a crumpled-up five. He handed it to the Jamaican, but the tall man just stared at it and then Barry. "Take it," Barry said, but the Jamaican only squinted and put the Pincher in gear to signal that it was his time to go. Barry shut the door to the Pincher, the hollow sound of the metal absorbed by the oven outside. Barry waved instinctively, but there was no response from the tall man as the Pincher departed in a whirlwind of dust. He watched it go back down the dusty road, knowing he'd never see that guy again but wondering, begging to know if the Jamaican had any clue as to what just happened to his existence during this strange and wonderful day.

The motel was old and had the classic 1950s look to it - flamingo pink, teal blue, old-fashioned style neon sign, roofs slanted and covered with palm fronds. There was an old couple, Spanish or Mexican in origin, sitting on the balcony above the entrance. All the doors to the various outdoor bungalows were closed. Other than the Mexicans/Spanish people, there wasn't a sign of life in the building.

Barry entered the only entranceway on the ground level. A bell chimed as he opened the entrance door. The long, narrow foyer was incredibly hot and musty. At the other end of the foyer was an exit leading to an outdoor pool. A seagull chirped through the back door. The pool water rippled in rhythm with the suffocating breeze.

"Hello?" Barry yelled at the old wooden welcome desk. There was an office behind it but no one in it. He heard footsteps above him, but couldn't locate anyone. After a minute, the male Mexican/Spanishman from the balcony appeared. He frowned at Barry, then produced a key from the desk. It was a gold room key with a wooden handle. 107, it read. The man nodded toward the back exit. Barry picked up his stuff and started towards the pool.

What had happened here? Why him? Who were these people? Where was the explanation? Why did they pick HIM?
 
mustynutz

mustynutz

Sicc OG
#4
Jun 27, 2002
14,470
135
63
#4
The exit led to an enormous pool area. Several women, black and white, were sunbathing by the pool. One was completely naked. Barry was taken aback by her, and skated by embarrased as he searched for 107. He realized it was on the upper level of the back end of the motel. He ascended the stairs, admiring the view from up top. The pool was immaculate, painted and clean. Beyond the boundaries of the motel were endless grass fields of timothy, palm trees, sand dunes, and, about a quarter mile out, a beach. The beach was empty. The ocean rolled beyond the coast for miles.

This was his new home.

107 was a small clean room on the upper level. There was a king size bed and an old-style air conditioner that was already running and turning the room into a virtual freezer. An old Philco color television faced the bed. The shower and bathroom effects were flamingo pink, like the outside of the motel. The rugs looked like they hadn't been cleaned in decades.

Home.

Barry sat on the bed and stared out the open window. From his room he could see the continuation of the road he had traveled to get here. Long and boring and dusty, it seemed to lead nowhere. There were few signs here. There were no advertisements for anything. This was nothing like Philadelphia, where the vibe was always some form of stress and everyone was struggling to keep up with every other Jones in the city. There were no corporations here. Technology had left this place behind. Current events had left this place behind. The rat race didn't come through these parts. There was nothing here but Barry, a quiet Mexican proprietor, and some sunbathing women. He put his head on the pillow, closed his eyes, and nodded off.

Seven hours later, an ancient rotary phone rang right by his ear. It was dark in the room. He found the receiver.

"Hello?"

"Turn on the TV." Click.

Barry reached out in the dark for the Philco and pulled out the power knob. He heard a shock as the electrons started flowing through the tube. He couldn't see the picture initially, but he could hear the sounds. Almost instantly, the panic started.

"... and again thees is Rohan Regal, CVM-TV, reporting on breaking news from zee United Stots. Dare are unconfirmed reports that a package, some sort oof package, has made it eento the Capitol bealding ..."

More panic as the picture of Rohan appeared. Barry squinted as the light pierced his eyes through the dark. On the screen, the Capitol was in the background. It was smoking.

"... no one yet knows where or how the package made it, but they are confirming that zee package contained ... bomb elements ... make dat strong bomb elements ..."

The panic subsided and in its place came a sense of wonder. Wonder and a sick, perverted sort of pride. Could this be his package?

"... 'zee path of zee package will be traced,' say one official from zee American Zeecret Zervice ..."

Then he heard it, and the emotions swirled and sloshed in his heart.

"... possible that the perpetrator is a one Barry Magraw, a purported loner and possibeel anti-government citizen from Philadelphia, Pessilvainya. Officials are checking to see if Missa Magraw ever ..."

Perpetrator. Anti-government. Barry hadn't voted once in his whole life. He didn't even know who his own senators were from Pennsylvania, and here he was, the single point of reference for a terrorist bomb.

Single point of reference. Important. Notorious. People were paying attention to him. In a matter of hours, his face would be plastered all over the world news outlets.

The Capitol continued to smoke. Rohan continued to talk in his Jamaican accent. In the room, illuminated only by the gruesome images from the Philco, Barry smiled.

If they caught him, he would take full credit for the crime. When they ask him why, he'll make something up. Regardless of what he says, they'll believe him.

On the TV, pictures of airline security cameras flashed. There was a black-and-white image of Barry and Dick Tracy going through the security gate. Another flash and another black-and-white, this one of just Barry walking away from the gate. Hadn't Dick led him through once they had been searched? Where the hell was Dick in the second still?

Somewhere in Philly they were raiding his apartment and his desk at his former job. Somewhere in Washington they were digging up every shred of dirt they could on Barry McGraw. In other places, they were working hard to make up whatever dirt they could to paint their pretty little picture of Missa Magraw.
Let them dig. Let them paint all they wanted. They just made him the happiest man on Earth.

Barry turned up the air conditioning to full blast, got back under the covers of the king-size bed, and fell asleep while the news channel continued to flicker. It was the best night's sleep he ever had.

the end
 
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