Most of the time, it’s just some poor deadbeat or a random family man. Rarely is it a pro in his prime, and, even if it is, I make sure it never, ever comes down to fisticuffs. I liked living and getting paid for doing the job way too much to leave it to that much chance.
But Seamus? A whole other story. The fact that he was an asshole was just the icing on the cake. It was awesome. That dumb bastard had given me the best time I’d had on the job in my entire life.
I laughed my ass off. Until I started gagging. And puking up blood. Black blood. The damn needle.
And even though his head was rolling around on the balcony, Seamus still mocked me with that stupid, gap- toothed grin. I scrambled around the balcony, trying to get my grip onto something that could make it stop.
And, in that perfect moment, the cops kicked the door in.
“Freeze! Put the knife down, now!”
Fuck you. I’d rather take a bullet than die from my own poison. I staggered to my feet, spit black blood at them, and threw the knife.
I counted 18 hits before the shots knocked me over the rail. Not bad.
Of course, I was wide awake and puking into my own face all the way down to the pavement. Not nearly as magical and painless as you might hope. Then again, I was only on the 5th floor. Luckily, I landed headfirst. And, yes, in case your wondering, having your neck snapped as the full weight of your body squashes your skull into a lovely pink pate hurts about a hundred times more than it sounds for the millisecond it takes to actually kill you.
At least, it did with me. It took me a second to actually realize that I was dead. It’s not like the pain just stopped. Quite the opposite, in fact. If I had to describe it, the closest I could get would be to say “Imagine a 13 inch needle with a burning tip being pushed all the way through every single patch of skin, under every finger & toe nail, into every pore and orifice. And then they wiggle them all around, just for fun.”
I opened my eyes. I was lying face down on the street. I rolled over, taking a second to process where I was. I was still in the street where I’d fallen off the balcony. But I was still alive. Somehow. No broken bones. No pink pate brain fritter.
Something rolled off of my balcony and landed right next to me. It was Seamus’ head, bouncing like a soccer ball, still with that awful gap-toothed grin. Instinct kicked in. I remembered the cops and figured it would only be a minute before they were back down here and on top of me. Couldn’t take a chance that 20 gunshot wounds, poisoned heroin, and a squashed head might not get miraculously healed again. Thank you, Hitman Gods, but it was time to scram. I looked around for any sign of the police to see what direction to move. Someone was standing on my balcony. But I couldn’t make out who it was.
Because he didn’t have a head.
He leaned over the balcony and pointed at me.
“He’s here!”
But that voice came from next to me on the ground. It was Seamus’ head, talking and ratting me out. You son of a bitch. I punted that head down the street. But by then it was too late.
Every balcony on both buildings was filled with people. They looked down in the direction that Seamus’ headless body was pointing. And then they all started climbing down to my level. This was not good. Suddenly the street filled up with people. Men, women, children. And they were all glaring at me. Silently.
In the crowd, I recognized someone: “Johnny C.”, we used to call him. Always wore a fedora because he thought he looked like Frank Sinatra in those old studio portraits. He didn’t. He really looked like a Jersey Shore reject trying to class-up.
I killed Johnny C. six years ago. And he still had the bullet hole in his forehead to prove it. Slowly, I realized that I recognized them all. These were all of the people I’d killed over the years, still bearing the wounds I’d inflicted.
And that’s when it dawned on me. This was Hell.
I must admit, I was a little disappointed.
Where was the fire and brimstone? Where was the endless suffering and torment? This was just a random street corner from Brooklyn. And where was The Devil?
More lies the priests told us.
For a professional as prolific as yours truly, I fully expected to be greeted at the gates of Hell by the souls of all the men and women and children I’ve killed over the course of my career.
Frankly, that didn’t really phase me. I figured I could take them.
There was a family of three standing nearest to me — the Masons. I’d locked them in their own two-car garage and left the Camry running to end their blissfully suburban existence back in 2000. But on my first night in Hell, I kicked 6-year old Cindy Mason straight in the teeth.
Come on, you pansies! Show me what you’ve got!
Cindy Mason took a chunk out of my calf with a row of jagged, pointed teeth that would have made a great white cringe. They all snarled in unison, bearing their zombie fangs and descending on me.
I should have known better. Most of those people are really in the other place, sipping Mai Tais on Cloud 9 with St. Peter and Gandhi. I was actually surrounded by demons.
That was more like it.
I punched, kicked, and bit everything in sight. In the process, I lost my foot, my fist, my molars. They dug their claws into me and just start ripping me apart. It was like a bad George A. Romero movie.
Once everyone had a piece of me, they all just started wandering aimlessly, bumping into each other as they gnawed on my separated flesh. And even though I was no longer whole, I felt every bite, every chew in every demonic mouth.
A demon wearing the face of Gladys Page, a bookstore-owning octogenarian I had pushed down in her bathtub a few weeks back, managed to make off with my head and was nibbling on my chin on the front step of the building, when the crowd parted.
It was Seamus, holding his giggling head like the Heisman trophy as he approached Gladys and my head.
“Ah, Kingston. I told you I wasn’t done with you. And my friends here, this is just the beginning.”
This was Hell, and that dumb headless bastard was laughing. His shirt was open, and the eyes on the goat’s head tattoo were glowing a dull red. Seamus caught me looking, and grinned.
“Doesn’t look so stupid now, does it? See, I’ve known for a long time that I was going to Hell. So, I called ahead and made a reservation. While you were up there, running me down to the boss, I talked to our REAL boss down here. He promised me that, as long as I brought a soul with me, I’d have power down here.”
Dumbass. You’re holding your own head. Of course, at that point, I was just one head telling another head how stupid it was, so I suppose I really wasn’t one to talk.
“Doesn’t matter down here.”
He just as calmly re-attached his own head. Which gave me an idea. I could still feel my hand in the mouth of Holly Richardson, some co-ed who had the misfortune of laughing at the penis of a very well connected individual who employed me. As she turned my hand to get a good bite, I made a fist and punched her in the jaw. I could feel all of me everywhere in this street corner, and the one thought I pushed through my entire being was “Punish”.
Disembodied feet kicked. Demons all along the street with my flesh in their stomachs started collapsing in piles of their own puke and shit. My head spat in Gladys’s eye before I bit her nose off. The streets ran black with demon blood.
I told you I could take them.
Seamus looked around and laughed even more.
“Oh, you’re going to be so much fun, Kingston. He gave me power down here. I know all the things deep down inside of you that you don’t ever want anyone to know. Let me show you.”
I blinked.
I was whole and sitting on the ratty couch with the busted springs we used to have in my mother’s old apartment. A folding tray was in front of me with a half-eaten Happy Meal. Mom’s floor-model TV was directly in front, showing some old imported Japanese cartoon. I heard the doorbell ring. Instinctively, I reached for my knife. All I had was a handful of Bazooka Joe bubble gum in my shorts pocket. I looked down at myself. I was 9 years old again. And I remember what day this is supposed to be all too well.
