The Murder Option 2 Page 4

  Her life, worth nothing so short a time ago, suddenly became worth a great deal. She jumped to her feet, her eyes on the seat of power.

  “I’m coming, boys. Fasten your seatbelts. It’s going be a bumpy ride.”

  the end

  KILLING SENATOR GREY

  _______________________

  1

  Corbin slammed down the shot glass like he intended to break it, but it withstood. The act merited a be-careful-there glance from the fat-ass bartender, Jimmy something. Were they all Jimmy somebody?

  “It matters, dammit!” Corbin claimed emphatically to his drinking buddy. He took a strong slug from his beer chaser, then shook his head vigorously. His new friend nodded in full agreement.

  Then Corbin said, in a deadly serious voice, but a quieter one, “Man can’t go to the end of his life and not make some difference. You know what I mean. I don’t care what he did or didn’t do, even if his life went down the tubes for one reason or another. Long as a man draws breath, he can do something to benefit the human race before he goes. Like taking some asshole with him.”

  “Hell, yes,” his drinking buddy agreed. “But there, my friend, is a goddamn conum—co—what the hell. Numdrom. Yeah. Fucking brain is getting fried.”

  Corbin liked this guy. They’d met once before at this seedy little bar down the street and now were fast becoming drinking buddies. He was the kind of guy Corbin found he could talk to about important things. Said he’d once been a reporter. He was intelligent, unlike most of the jarhead morons who wandered in and out of dives like this.

  They were talking about their messed up lives when Corbin had brought up his favorite subject: how he wanted to go out in a big way, streak like a comet, but with purpose.

  “I’m gonna let you in on something I never talked to anyone about before,” Corbin said in a hushed voice. “But first another round.”

  They got another round of shots and chasers.

  “Here’s the deal,” Corbin said. “I despise these idiots who kill innocent people, kids, good people. Why in hell can’t they pick somebody worth killing.”

  “Exactly,” his friend said.

  “That’s my point. You hate your life, hate yourself, are bitter and pissed off, fine. You want to kill somebody before leaving. Fine. But why not somebody who goddamn well deserves it? You know what I’m talking about.”

  After a moment’s reflection, there was a resounding, “Hell, yes,” from his buddy, who said his name was Kevin, or Evan, Corbin wasn’t sure. He then said, “I agree a hundred percent on that. How pathetic these bastards are. They kill innocent people. Makes no sense. Just because you’re a little nuts or pissed or depressed or whatever, you still have an obligation to do the right thing. You hit it, right? I mean, you want to at least kill some som’bitch who is doing bad things in this world.”

  “Absolutely,” Corbin agreed with enthusiasm.

  They clinked beers. Corbin was happy with his new friend. They went on into the wee hours with vodka shooters and beer chasers, discussing the topic of bad people getting a free ride while good people got shot down.

  “Somebody shoots John Lennon, JFK, or Martin Luther King,” Kevin, or Evan or whatever his name was, said, “but nobody shoots OJ.”

  They started naming off all the people who should be killed versus all those who had been assassinated by meatheads.

  At some point Corbin asked, “Is your name Kevin or Evan?”

  “It’s Evan. With an E.”

  Corbin nodded. Evan bought another round. He said he’d gotten his disability check and as long Big Brother was buying they were drinking.

  Corbin, who’d pretty much run out of his monthly Social Security check and cashed out his food stamps, had money in his storage locker, but that was for the mission. Long as he was drinking for free, life was good. At least as good as it got these days for a dying man. It had been some time since he’d met a guy who thought a lot like he did about life and the world and how screwed up things were.

  Corbin had a deep desire to get out his plan, lay it on the table. He didn’t think he was long for this world and not much concerned with that. He had a plan and suddenly, he had somebody who might really understand.

  “It’s not about bucket lists,” Corbin said. “That’s bullshit. What does it matter if you do this or that, go here or there, just for your own gratification? See, the thing is, if you’re going to die, none of that means a fucking thing. I hate these infantile assholes who think bucket lists mean something to a dying man. No, what means something is leaving behind a better world. Your personal legacy that says you were here and you left it a better place. Am I right?”

  “You couldn’t be more right,” his new friend said.

  They drank to people on the way out who had the guts to take out some miserable bastard as their contribution to society. But so far, it had been all drinkers’ bullshit. And Corbin wanted to move on. At some point deep into the night, he got down to reality.

  “Talk is cheap, but what’s behind it? I’m on my way out, and I’m not going until I do what I’m talking about.”

  Evan gave him a somewhat curious look. He nodded, thought about something or other, then said, “You sound serious. Like you got an idea about this.”

  “Serious as a heart attack, my friend. Let me tell you something.” Corbin looked around to make sure none of the other drunks were listening in, then he said, “I never told anybody. Not even my soul mate, bless her corrupt soul.”

  “You married?”

  “No. Once, but not recently. I was thinking of this girl from … no matter.” Corbin chuckled and shook his head, all his relationships long ago at the bottom of the sea of mistakes. “You up to hearing something might sound a little strange to most, so-called normal people? You look like a guy who can handle the truth. Jesus, Jack Nicholson is beyond genius. One look and he sums up life. One fucking look.”

  Evan laughed. “That he does. That look combines the humor, wickedness, absurdity of it all. Absolutely. Yes, I think I can handle it. If I can’t handle it at this stage, then I’m not worthy.”

  Corbin took a pull on his beer, a Pabst Blue Ribbon, and said, “Here’s my deal. Every couple years I get word about who died from my high school. When it’s one of the guys gave me a lot of major shit back in the day—I mean real bad stuff, kind that humiliates you real bad, kind you don’t forget—when I hear one of those bastards has died, I always have enough saved so I can go to their funeral, wherever the hell it is.”

  “Wait, what? C’mon, you go to the funerals of guys you hate? Who did things to you in high school? Bully-types?”

  Corbin, lowering his voice and leaning to his friend, said, “We’re talking about fuckers that do shit to you messes up your life. I never miss one of those mother’s funerals, wherever the hell it is. I don’t always find out in time, so I can’t get there before the bastard goes into the ground, but, as a farewell gift to the miserable son of a bitch, I have a farewell drink at the grave when no one’s around, then I piss on his grave so the motherfucker won’t dry out on their way to hell.”

  Evan stared at Corbin. “Really? You do that? I don’t believe it. You’re pullin’ my leg.”

  “Really. I’m dead serious, so to speak. It’s become a highlight of my life.”

  Evan took a minute to process. Then he said, “You go to your enemies’ funerals and you give them a toast and then piss on their graves. That’s rich.” He shook his head and he smiled. “How cool and imaginative is that? I like it. Damn, that’s a story.”

  They clinked bottles again.

  “How many times you did that?” Evan asked. “Go to funerals of your enemies?”

  “Actually, only three times. First one was about ten years ago. The latest was last year. Only one to go. But he’s the one I personally want most to be put down. He was the ringleader of that little squad of assholes who made my life a living hell. Problem is, he’s gonna outlive me, given my liver is shot to hell and my lun
gs got hit with about a million cigarettes. The idea of leaving this planet while that bastard is still breathing plagues the hell out of me. But that gets back to my original point about taking out bad people instead of good people.”

  “Yeah. Taking out the right people, the ones who deserve it.”

  Corbin nodded vigorously. “Exactly. Not just some moron steals your parking space and your girl or whatever. It’s got to be bigger than your average jerk. It’s got to have meaning. I’m talkin’ about somebody everyone knows is bad news. The way I see it, there’s revenge killing and then there’s high moral killing.”

  “I’m not sure what the difference is.”

  “The difference,” Corbin said, “is you get rid of a dirt bag, but you also make a statement. So the thing is, even if your personal life didn’t turn out to be the big deal you wanted, you still do something good for the world. A legacy. That’s what I’m talking about. It doesn’t have to be personal so long as the person you take out is worthy and well known so the message gets sent. In this case, it is. So I get two birds with one stone.”

  The reporter thought about that a moment. Then he said, “You know what, I like the idea better the more I think about it. I mean, if you’re gonna do somebody, by all means, do somebody deserves it. You’re right about that. Absolutely. But you can’t make much of a statement if you’re just taking out a high school guy nobody knows. Isn’t that kinda contradicting what you were saying about make a big statement?”

  “Exactly. He is somebody in this world. And a badass big somebody. Actually, he was from another school across town, but he ran with some of the guys in my school. He was their leader. And he’s the one made it big, got himself famous. That’s the thing. He’s somebody.”

  “Like a movie star or politician?”

  “Funny, but in this world, maybe you got to be either one or the other to be really public. He’s political. And he’s a bastard who parades himself as this great guy, but I know better. Guys like him are ruining the goddamn country. Hell, who knows? He could even become president someday. Only I’m gonna make sure that day never comes.”

  “Who is he?” Evan asked.

  Corbin shook his head. “I can’t be divulging that. I mean, you just don’t go around naming names and what you’re thinking about. Not if you’re serious. I don’t know you that well.”

  Evan nodded. “What you said, he’s got to be pretty damn big. I’m thinking governor, senator, congressman. Something like that, right?”

  “Something like that.”

  “I’ll drink to the end of bad dudes,” Evan said. “You got the journalist in me curious now.”

  They got refills. It was becoming a solid night of drinking and revealing. Corbin hated drinking to no purpose. He liked getting wasted to some purpose. His new buddy snuck outside for a quick smoke, then came back, and they got another round.

  After a time, Corbin said, “So … what about you? You said you had some heath issues.”

  Evan said, “I got plenty, plenty.”

  “Like?”

  “Like two bouts of cancer and a pancreas that ain’t worth the cells it’s made out of. I have one foot in. I like your idea a lot. It’s the best way to go out if there’s nothing much else.”

  They clinked bottles. “You said you were a reporter. Journalist.”

  Evan nodded. “Yeah. For a small paper. I had big ambitions, but circumstances, injuries, then the bottle got in the way.”

  “We’re done. We are at the end of the road. We’re in a final moment in our lives. So it’s time to make that final and definitive act. You probably know people deserve to go?”

  Evan let out a strong chuckle and another drag. “Hell, I can think of a dozen people personally who should be removed. I agree absolutely.”

  They laughed.

  Corbin said. “The reason we, and those like us, let the bastards keep on keeping on is because we’re beaten down. We’re drunks. Losers. No gumption left. We’re just waiting to die. Guys like us, maybe we didn’t do what we wanted in life. Maybe the cards were stacked against us. Or just bad luck. But here’s my point, it’s wakeup time. As long as a man is alive, he can make a mark if he has enough balls to accept the challenge. That’s what I’m talking about. People always talk about how they want to give back. Well, in my opinion, the best way guys like us can give back is take out some self-glorifying, self-important bastard who’s messing up other peoples’ lives. You know what I mean?”

  Evan studied Corbin for a moment, his eyes looking a bit shot but struggling for focus. He said, “Absolutely. I’ve never thought about it as some sort of moral imperative. But you have me looking at it different. Hell, everybody thinks about taking some bastard or other out. Especially when society doesn’t get any justice because these bastards are too slick and powerful and get away with shit. A lot of ‘em go around portraying themselves as heroes out to help others and the world as nothing but self-exulting assholes. You got a valid point, my friend. Yes, indeed. You got a very valid point.”

  They drank to that. Corbin tried to hide his excitement that he’d finally found somebody who really got it, understood what he was all about.

  Evan said, “If you’re really doing it, you got to tell me, who is this guy you’re going to take out?”

  “Can’t do that.”

  “Okay. I understand. So when you gonna do this?”

  Corbin got them a refill. Waited until the thick-neck, fat-ass bartender moseyed on down to the loudmouths at the other end of the bar. “Pretty damn soon, my friend, pretty damn soon. In fact, I’d say in a couple days. I don’t have time to mess around. It so happens, there’s a window of opportunity, and I’m going to take advantage of it.”

  “I’m gettin’ a little worked up in a real good way with this idea of yours,” Evan said. “And I’m really fascinated by the fact that you went to the funeral of your enemies. Your childhood bullies, tormentors. Man, this is something. All of this. It excites the journalist in me. Recording and getting understanding of the actions and meanings of what people do that’s in the extreme, that’s my thing. I’ll tell you what, this idea is like the big ticket for somebody like me. A way to get back into my game, even if for only one last big story. Are you kidding me? I’d do a story on this whole thing. I dream of stuff like this. You know what, I’d love to do a ride-along with a guy like you. That would be something. Interview you and all that. But don’t talk about something like this, get me all worked up, and then when we sober up, it’s not real. Be like some broad backing off, saying you aren’t worth taking her panties off for.”

  “Don’t worry. It’s real, my friend. And it’s bigger and more important than any pussy you didn’t get. And, if I may be so bold, I’m pretty sure there’s a ton of chicks passed you by. No offense.”

  Evan laughed and said, “You got that right. You have some kind of a plan worked out to get this big-deal politician? He can’t be all that easy to reach.”

  Corbin smiled. “Fact is, I know more about the bastard and his little secrets than he does himself. I know when he vacations, when he runs off to see his latest secret squeeze. He’s been something of an obsession of mine for a long time. Now that I’m on that final leg of this journey, it’s now or never.”

  Corbin was careful, no matter how drunk he got, not to give his new friend too much. But he had to admit he loved the idea of having a journalist-type ride along, witness the whole thing, and deliver the message to the world about what was behind his plan for totally justifiable homicide.

  Near the end of their night, when the bar was closing, they were both shot to the wind yet still in their way somewhat focused. Evan said, as they maneuvered their bodies out into the night, each about to go to their separate ways, “I got a gut feeling this is something real and I’m serious about joining you. I’m around. You get ready to do something, you ask. You’ll find me.”

  “I get ready to move,” Corbin said, “you’ll be the first to know. And it’ll be real so
on. How do I find you? You got a cell number?”

  “That’s my home right there,” Evan said, pointing to a pickup with a camper. “I park it in different places, but none of them far. You want to find me, I’ll be in one of the bars around here pretty much every night.”

  2

  Corbin’s binges sometimes put him down for a couple days. This was another bad one. He woke on and off, felt like a dead man, but decided not to die in the Shithole Motel, as he called it, where he’d been staying for the last month or so. The only thing he liked about the place was they never bothered him long as the rent came in. He lived on Social Security and what was left of a 401(k).

  It was the end unit and he had blackout curtains to keep it dark. He stuffed earplugs in his ears and had a sound machine but neither really kept out the traffic noise, horns, and loudmouths. Many a night, he just lay in his misery and imagined what it would be like to be the most powerful man in the world, much like what could have been the future of the man he was going to kill.

  Corbin often fantasized, especially when he couldn’t sleep, how he’d take down his enemies, the country’s enemies, and all the people he despised. He imagined giving speeches, orchestrating drone attacks, killing off the entire governments of various Muslim countries.

  It was Corbin’s absolute belief that if he hadn’t been attacked and grotesquely humiliated as a kid, his life would have been completely different. He might have gone on and achieved great things.

  But all that was in the past now. It was time to take some real action in the real world. No more fantasies. It was time to go on the hunt. Settle the score. The senator took away his life, now he would return the favor.

  When Corbin finally rolled to a sitting position, he had a quick calm-down drink, took a piss, and remembered some of last night, or at least he thought it was last night. But before he could think about it, he had to lie down and quickly fell back asleep.