SCREAMING BATFISH BLUES #23

SCREAMING BATFISH BLUES #23

OMAHA AND MISSOURI

Brad Wake loved the Air Force. Everything about it. He couldn’t imagine doing anything else. He had been in the Air Force almost fifteen years with the last three spent in recruiting. His positive message and gung ho manner captivated both parents and their dipshit kids into signing on the dotted line within an hour or so after visiting his recruiting office in downtown Omaha.

Only last month he had visited the White House and met the man himself after Wake had been voted AF recruiter of the year.

The Presidents autographed photo now hung in a place of prominence over Brad’s desk. It had really help pick up his recruiting quota even more. Yes indeed, the Air Force had certainly been good to him.

It had gotten him away from his bitch mother in Ohio. He hated her more than he loved his precious Air Force. Not without good reason.

Mom had bitched poor old Dad right out of the house and then the old shrew had turned her attention to Brad. He wasn’t allowed to leave the house after school or on weekends. No friends were allowed in the house, not that Brad would have ever wanted anyone to see how they lived. He was forced to watch his mother drink a bottle of vodka almost everyday while she smoked three packs of Virginia Slims. Thursday night was enema night. Brad’s mom would tie Brad to his bed and forcibly give him a coffee enema.

On weekends she brought men home and forced Brad to watch them screw on the living room fold out couch. Sometimes the men wanted Brad, too. His mother really liked that.

Near the end of Brad’s senior year in high school his Mom had gotten really tanked and had fallen down the basement stairs and wound up shattering her leg. She was in the hospital and in rehab for over five months. In that time Brad would move in with his grandparents, graduate from school, and enlist and ship out with the Air Force.

He never saw his mother again, only the demons she planted in him.

While in military technical school in Texas, Brad had met a hooker in San Antonio, took her to a cheap room, but he didn’t screw her, that would be sick. He had strangled her with his belt instead.

She had looked just like his mother.

Once he started, he couldn’t stop. It was too good of a release. It continued in towns surrounding every base and in every country that he was stationed in. He only used a belt the first time. Now he used the tubing off of enema bags.

He had killed over thirty prostitutes and runaways. He never had sex with them. But when they died, he would sometimes come in his pants.

A couple looked just like Mom. It hadn’t happened in Omaha yet, but it would. It was starting to build in him. At first he would only go to the porn shops a couple times a  week. By the time he was ready to do another he would be going almost daily. He liked to watch the short loop films which showed older women screwing. How could those filthy whores do that? At their age! It made him hate her more. Tonight would be his fourth time this week.

SSG Brad Wake locked up his file cabinets, checked to make sure his outgoing mail included the enlistment packets of his newest recruits, went into the back room to change out of his uniform, shut off the office lights, and locked the front door, giving it several good shakes.

He didn’t notice the Chevy Vega parked half way down the street.

“Is that him?” The guy who had been assigned to pick Derek up had been driving him fucking crazy. They were in their third day together. He couldn’t believe the dude was driving a fucking Vega, he thought they had been outlawed or something while he was in the joint.

“That’s him,” Derek replied as he watched Wake get in his government issued sedan.

“Let him take off first. Don’t turn your lights on until he turns the corner. The fuck book store that he’s probably going to is only about two miles away so don’t get to close.”

His driver put his car in gear and farted wetly. He glanced over at Derek. “I’m sorry but I’m real nervous. Stomach is real queasy.”

“Do that again and I’ll give you something to be nervous about,” Derek barked as he rolled down the window.

A block down the road he could see the recruiter’s sedan. He looked over at his driver. Obviously, he was military; you could tell that by the haircut and poor choice of civilian wear. Probably an officer. I wonder how they recruited these guys, Derek thought. Want to be an accessory to a murder? Help you out on your promotion.

The sedan took a right hand turn. “OK. He’s going to the book store again. Find a parking spot as soon as you make the turn and shut off the lights.”

As they turned the corner, Derek could see the recruiter’s car pull into the driveway of the porno store and drive around the back into the hidden back parking lot. Without a doubt he wouldn’t want anyone to see that car.

Derek reached into his gym bag and pulled out a .357 magnum revolver and checked the cylinder. Six rounds rested in there. He snapped it shut and put it in the shoulder holster under his leather biker jacket and

reached to feel the knife case at the back of his belt which contained a razor sharp Buck knife. Strapped to his right ankle was a .38 snub nose. He pulled on an Omaha Royals ball cap.

“Keep your eyes peeled and when you see me come out of that front door you start this piece of shit up and tear ass down the street to pick me up. Keep the motor running and leave my door open. Got it?”

His driver nodded sickly, farted again, and tried to open his door but puked all down the inside of the driver’s side.

“Jesus Christ. Get it together, man.”

The combination of the funk inside the car and his own nerves made Derek quickly step out for fear that he might have to vomit himself. He took a couple of deep breaths and began to stroll towards the skin shop. He could only hope that the driver would be there when he came back out.

The adult book store was a plain

cinder block building painted a baby blue color. Derek stepped inside.

At the elevated counter reading a Fabulous Furry Freak Brothers comic book was a punk rocker with a Sid Vicious T-shirt and a haircut that looked like he might have done himself with a pair of dog clippers, and without the use of a mirror. He barely glanced up at Derek and went back to his doper oriented periodical.

Wake was standing over in front of the magazine section and was looking at a fine publication called Bunghole Babes. Jake wandered over to the lesbian and S & M section and fingered through a few magazines. 

The recruiter put his magazine down and walked down the hallway where the skin flicks were. He entered a single’s booth with the movie title Grandma’s Gash over the door. Jake could hear the lock on the door click.

It was as quiet as a graveyard in there. He could actually hear the punker turn the pages of his comic books. There was no one else inside.

Jake put on a pair of sunglasses and walked to the counter, pulling out his pistol at the same time. He jammed into the punker's forehead before he could even look up.

“Down on our stomach on the floor, asshole, or your brains will be all over the counter.”

The clerk dropped to the floor without a word. Derek heard him crap his pants. Everyone he was working with tonight had bowel problems.

He held his breath as he fastened an electrical tie down around the punker’s wrists. He stuck his pistol at the back of the clerk’s head. “My advice to

you is to forget anything you’ve seen tonight.”

The clerk whimpered. “I’ll take that as a yes.”

Derek stood and walked over and threw the dead bolt on the front door. He turned over the open sign to where it now read closed and turned off the front lights of the store. He glanced down the dirty movie hallway, nothing was stirring.

Derek walked down the hallway and stepped into the booth across from the recruiters to give him some arm room. He reached across to the booth’s door knob and gave it a shake.

“It’s occupied,” came out of the booth.

Derek raised the pistol to head level and began firing while adjusting his aim down the door. Huge splinters of wood were flying from the door. The screams inside were almost drowned out by the roar of the

pistol. He kept firing until the hammer clicked on an empty chamber.

Derek quickly walked to the back room of the shop and exited out the back door. He walked down the driveway of the book store, looking both ways, no one was around, must be a slow night for the porno trade. He walked onto the street. The Vega was still in its parking place,the engine idling. It didn’t move.

Derek began to run towards the car. There was no one inside!

“Fuck,” he screamed. He jumped inside, did a quick u-turn, and tore the hell out of there as fast as the four cylinder engine would go. He was lost.

He hadn’t been paying attention to any of the streets since he hadn’t driven while he had been in Omaha. Realizing how stupid he was acting, he slowed back down and began to gather his bearings and composure. He saw a Burger King, pulled in, and went into the rest room.

After locking the door, he wiped down the magnum and shoved it along with the ball cap deep into the trash can. Giving himself a few more minutes to let the adrenaline subside, he then walked out and ordered himself a burger, fries, and a coke. He tried to casually ask the girl behind the counter, who was very pretty with dirty, dishwater blonde hair, and with very perky tits, if she could give him directions to the airport.

She smiled sweetly at Derek. “I live right out by the airport. If you could wait about forty five minutes, my shift will be over, and you can follow me out there if you want.”

The driver who had picked Derek up at the Springfield, Missouri airport for the second hit was the absolute opposite of the moron in Omaha who had run off on him. Southern redneck to the core, he was of course, driving a huge four wheel drive pickup covered in rebel flags and NASCAR stickers. It had a camper shell on it and the redneck had told Derek to climb in there if he wanted to crash, they’d be in Ft. Leonard Wood in less than two hours. He’d wake him when they got close.

Jerry Banks had come completely fucking unglued after the hit in Omaha. Derek and the broad, Natalie, from Burger King, had stopped off at a local watering hole and one beer had led to two, two to three. And three back to her place and a night of all star fucking.

She was a student at the University of Nebraska-Omaha, and was going with a football player who had gone out of town on spring break and left her to work her shifts at the home of the Whopper. She had thought Derek was a ball player and would be an adequate substitute for her beau while he was gone drinking Corona at wet T-shirt contests and banging college beaver. The sun coming through the cheap blinds in her

apartment had finally woken Derek at about nine the next morning.

He had slipped out her bed to go into the kitchen and make the call to Banks. The agent had answered on the first ring, and man, was he pissed.

“Where the fuck are you?”

“Why,I’m still in Omaha, Jerry. Thanks to that inbred mountain retard that you set me up with.”

“What happened?”

“I came out of the store and he was gone. He left the car, a fucking Vega by the way, and I took off in it.”

“A Vega? That son of a bitch had four grand advanced for expenses and that included a rental car. Is Omaha that much of a shithole that they still rent Vegas? Any idea what happened to the driver?”

Derek blew out his breath. “The last I saw of that guy he was puking down the side of the car. He just freaked out and bolted. I hope you make a better choice for my escort next time.”

“Did everything else go down as planned? Any problems?”

“Everything else was perfect.”

“Where did you spend the night?”

Derek looked over at Natalie’s bedroom door. She was leaning against the door frame, buck naked. She smiled at him as she rubbed her beaver.

“You fuck like you just got out of prison. Shit, I’m sore.”

Derek clamped his hand over the phone.

“Who the hell was that?” demanded Banks.

“A waitress, I’m at a Burger King.”

“So where did you stay last night?” Banks repeated.

“In the car.”

“All right. Get your ass to the airport and go to the lounge. When you hear the name Sam Jacobs paged, go to the front of the terminal and wait in front of the Avis counter and I’ll have a contact meet you there. I think I can arrange for the Air Guard to give you a hop back here to the base. Give the keys to the car to the contact. He’ll dispose of it.”

Derek hung the phone up. “I’ve got an hour or so to kill. What do you want to do?”

She wanted to do everything all over again. 

Willie Nelson blasted Derek awake. The redneck must have a hell of a of a sound system in this truck. Shit, the guy had speakers built right into the bed of the truck. The air mattress that Derek was laying on was vibrating like a hotel bed that you pumped quarters into.

The truck was pulled over on I-44 and the redneck was waving through the back window for Derek to join him up in the cab.

“My names Jim Pitre. I’m a first lieutenant in the infantry.” He had his hand stretched across the cab as Derek hopped in. The floorboard was littered with Budweiser cans. He obviously had been drinking all the way from Springfield.

“You really shouldn’t tell me anything personal,” answered Derek.

“Fuck, man, I don’t give a shit. This ain’t the first time I’ve done this crap. I joined the army to kill folks and I ain’t had a chance to do it yet, no wars, so I do this for a little extra pin money and the hope that maybe one of you boys will let me join in on the fun.” Derek couldn’t help but laugh.

There had been no need to case the area or to place the subject under surveillance. Gunnery Sergeant Brian Oneal had such an obvious routine going on that Derek couldn’t believe that the cops hadn’t busted him yet.

Monday through Friday he performed his military duties at the base and went home to his trailer immediately after work.

There he changed clothes and went on a daily five mile run and then returned to pump iron in the building adjacent to his trailer house. On Saturday mornings he drove out to a farmhouse located in a deep hollow just north of a town called Licking and cooked meth all day long with a couple of good old boys know locally as The Butcher Brothers. Intelligence could not pick up the reason for the nickname although it did pick up that the trio was cooking some of the finest methamphetamine in the surrounding five counties and were making a fortune doing it.

Saturday nights were spent at

a roadhouse just off the interstate where the Gunny was known to get totally bombed on Beefeaters gin while he enjoyed the company of several of the wives of lower ranking enlisted men who Oneal had scheduled

conveniently for weekend duty.

On Sundays, Oneal attended services at the local Licking Baptist church all dressed up in his fancy Marine dress blues, and then spent the afternoons lecturing at various youth groups about the dangers of narcotics and marijuana.

Monday mornings when he drove on base for work, he had the weekly meth deliveries, which would be distributed to his base contacts, hidden inside the spare tire of his Pontiac GTO, which had a D.A.R.E sticker on the bumper.

There was absolutely nothing in Oneal’s documented past that would lead one to believe that he would become a major player in a narcotics ring.

Born to a loving couple who were still married. Dad a retired Colonel in the Corps, Mom a stay at home gal. He had graduated in the top ten percent of his class, had placed third in the Virginia state high school wrestling championship in his senior year, and had turned down a scholarship to the University of Iowa, a huge wrestling school, to join the Marine Corps instead.

Marine Corps evaluations had shown him to be an outstanding Marine with only one blemish on his record. A fist fight with a sailor at the enlisted men’s club in Quantico. The swabby had made a crack about the Corps and had to pay for it. Other than that, nothing.

“You know where this guy’s trailer is?” Derek asked.

“It’s just outside this little dirt bag town called Licking. South of Leonard Wood. We’ll cruise by the club and see if his Goat is parked outside. I’m sure it is. He gets fucked up there every Saturday night.

Shouldn’t be back to the trailer until way after closing. Sometimes he screws those enlisted guys wives out in the parking lot after closing, but not always. We’ll still have plenty of time even if he doesn’t score tonight.”

They pulled up into the parking lot of the club. Typical military and southern Missouri beer joint. Country music blaring out the doors and a fight already going on around the back. The bright red GTO sat two cars

over from the front door. USMC sticker displayed prominently in the back window. Pitre threw his truck in park and jumped out. “Be right back.”

A minute later he climbed back and threw a six pack of tall Buds between them.

“Damn, I’m thirsty tonight. Grab a couple if you like. We got plenty of time. Our boy was sitting at the bar with a broad that must weigh two bills. He must like ‘em big. I can’t see her turning him down. Unless she’s ragging.” They headed off for Licking while listening to a Charlie Daniels tape, drinking beer, and Pitre telling tales of Tennessefootball and black pussy.

The truck cruised by the grove of woods where Oneal's trailer sat in the darkness.

“There’s a big patch of scrub land coming up on our right about a quarter mile down. We can hide the truck in there and work our way back up in the ditch. No one will be able to see us if they pass by,” Pitre said.

“What the hell do you mean, we?”

“Oh, shit, man, come on,” whined Pitre.“Let me have some of this action. Please?”

Derek sat and stared at Pitre as he pulled the cab down into the scrub bush. He was thinking about the driver in Omaha. This guy here was undoubtedly a loose cannon but he sure as shit wasn’t going to bolt on him.

But he could get them both killed, or worse, caught. Pitre shut off the truck and hit the lights. He turned and looked at Derek again.

“Please?” He gave a grin.

“All right, what the fuck, let’s go. You carry this.” He handed Pitre his gym bag.

They climbed out of the truck and headed back towards the trailer using the deep ditch. No cars passed by. It was a warm, clear night, and the stars were so bright you didn’t need a flashlight. Derek was worried about snakes and kept his eyes close to the ground. They came around the back of the trailer. The intelligence report had stated no dogs were on the premises.

Derek had been leery about that. Meth dealers and makers were famous for having pit bulls around. Pitre took a long screwdriver out of the bag and stuck it into the door jam. The door groaned and popped open with a loud crack. Derek pulled out his 9 mm out of his shoulder holster and walked inside. He clicked on his flashlight.

The place was tidy beyond belief. It was decorated with cheap furniture bought at the base store and the walls were covered with Marine Corps posters and Oneal’s citations and awards.

But the place was so clean it actually smelled like lemon Pledge and Lysol.

“This cocksucker must have a bitch living with him,” whispered Pitre.

“No. He lives alone. Let’s check the place out.” 

They went through all the cupboards and shelves in the kitchen and living room and found no evidence of drugs. The bedroom was clean too. Just a couple of Penthouse magazines and a box of rubbers. Ditto for

the bathroom.

“Shit, I’m not sure they have the right guy. This place is spotless. If a guy is running as much as they say he is, he would have to have something to show for it. There’s not even a fucking baggy in here, for

Christ’s sake.”

Derek looked over at Pitre. The redneck army officer was looking down at a huge throw rug with the USMC trademark bulldog on it.

“Give me a hand here. Let’s get this couch and chair off this rug and see what’s underneath.”

The rug was pulled free from the furniture to reveal a small trap door cut into the floor of the trailer. Pitre stuck his screwdriver in the side and pried up the little door. Sitting inside was a combat boot box. Inside, stacked neatly, right up to the lid, was nothing but twenties and fifties, tied off in neat bundles with rubber bands.

“Jack fucking pot,” grinned Pitre.

Derek emptied the box into the gym bag and stood up. Lights swept through the living room.

“Shit, someone pulled up, get out the back,” ordered Derek.

The two ran out the back door, quickly closing it behind them, and then scampered over and hid behind an old model T Ford that looked like Oneal might be attempting to restore.

The lights came on in the trailer. Oneal’s GTO was still idling in the driveway. They could see him walk into his living room, stop, look down, and run immediately over to pick up his phone.

“Fuck, he’s calling for his partners. He knows someone has been inside, get your head down. I got to do this quick.” Derek stood and quickly fired three shots from his 9 mm into the propane tank behind the trailer.

The propane tank and the house trailer exploded into an enormous fireball with such force that it threw Derek back ten feet in the air, his fourth shot going high into the sky, where he landed hard against a young sapling.

Pieces of the burning trailer were falling out of the sky all around Derek as he rolled over onto his hands and knees and tried to get the breath back into his lungs. He felt like he had been hit square in the chest by a runaway Volkswagen. He tried to stand but collapsed over onto first his side, then over onto his back. Their was a roaring in his ears that sounded like the time his Dad had taken him to stand right next to Gooseberry Falls up in northern Minnesota. Jesus, he missed his Dad. Why did Billy make him fight that retard? Was that why he hurt so badly?

“Get up, man. Get the fuck up. We got to get the hell out of here.The sheriff will be here any minute. That was like a fucking nuclear blast. I swear to shit there was a mushroom cloud.”

Derek opened his eyes. The retard was standing over him. He blinked his eyes a couple of times. They felt like sand had been ground into them. No, it wasn’t the giant. It was that guy who had picked him up at the airport in Springfield. He never though about it before but he looked just like that kid on that television show his Mom use to like. What was that show? Oh yea. The Andy Griffith Show. His driver looked like Opie only with a military buzz cut.

Jim had him by the front of his jacket and was shaking him.

“Derek, get the hell up. Now!” Pitre bent down, grabbed an arm and then one of Derek's legs and hoisted him up in a fireman’s carry. He took off down the driveway in a fast trot.

They were half way back to Springfield when Derek finally came to. He looked over at Pitre who was cruising down the freeway and drinking a beer just like they were on their way to the county fair. Only

Pitre’s face was almost totally black from the flames and smoke from the explosion.

Jim looked over at grinned. “Hey there, sleepy head. Thought I lost you for a minute. Man, was that a fucking rush or what? Hunks of that trailer shot straight up the air and came crashing down. I’ve never seen anything like it.”

“How did I get here?” asked Derek.

“Shit, I carried you to the truck. You flew through the air like Superman and landed right against a tree. That fat bitch that was at the bar with the Marine must have been in the driveway in his car when the tank

blew. When I carried you around the front of the trailer, she was running around in circles and screaming like a banshee. I don’t think she even noticed us.”

“Where’s my pistol?”

“Check your holster. I put it back there after we got to the truck. You held the damn thing through the explosion and when I carried you back. I had to damn near break your fingers to get it loose.”

The truck rolled into a motel parking lot. Jim wiped his face off with a rag and got out of the truck.

“I’ll get us a room to lay low in for the night. You’re looking a little ragged, son.”

Derek was able to get into the room under his own power and he soaked in the tub while Pitre left to buy even more beer. The guy must have a terminal thirst or a hollow leg. When he popped back into the room with a

twelve pack and a bag of pork rinds, Derek was spread eagled on his bed.

“Beer?”

Derek shook his head no and closed his eyes.

Pitre shrugged his shoulders and began to channel surf the television. “Hey, fucking Showtime! Look at the jugs on that bitch.”

When Derek opened his eyes to check out the tits it was already morning and the morning news was on.

Pitre was sitting up in a chair and by his appearance had already showered and was ready to go. He was shoving a huge sweet roll into his mouth and was pointing at the screen. “Jane Pauley. Now that’s a broad I could wake up to.”

They headed back to Springfield. Derek was to meet his plane at the National Guard flight activity out by the airport in three hours. Since they were only a half hour away, they had time to kill.

Derek was starting to recover a bit and Pitre had a hankering for Chinese food.

“Come on, dude. My treat. I owe you. I’ve never had more fun that last night.”

“Jesus Christ, Jim. If anyone owes anyone anything, it’s me. You saved my ass last night. If you hadn’t picked me up off the ground and carried me back to the truck, the cops would have me in the slammer right now on a murder one charge. Or his hillbilly friends would be burying me in a shallow grave.”

“Don’t sweat it my man. I had the time of my life. Tell you what, you ever come back this way again, you just make sure they ask for old Jim to drive you around. That’ll be more than enough payment.”

Derek laughed. “You are definitely one of the craziest fuckers I have ever met.”

They pulled up in front of the Chinese buffet.

“It’s a little early but what the fuck. I can eat good Chinese food anytime of the day or night. I eat here every time I come to Springfield.”

They were the only ones in the restaurant due to the early hour, but the buffet was open and loaded with Chinese delicacies. Both men had filled their plates twice and were thinking about hitting it a third time when

the two scumbags walked in the front door. It was a salt and pepper team.

One white guy and one black guy. Both of them looked like they were in the terminal stages of drug addiction and poor hygiene. When the slight Asian waitress approached them, she was greeted with the sight of a Saturday night special aimed at her forehead.

“Just give me the money you slope bitch,” barked the black one.

Derek reached under his jacket and slid his 9 mm down into his lap. The white skel walked over to them and smiled. It looked like he might have been eating shit sandwiches before they decided to rob the place. He opened his filthy denim jacket to show another Saturday night special tucked into his belt.

“You boys just sit there and enjoy your meal and we’ll be out of your hair in a jiffy. But first I’ll have to ask you for your wallets.”

Pitre picked up an egg roll and dipped it into his hot mustard. “I don’t think so.”

The white scumbag scowled. “What the fuck did you say?”

Jim started to bite into his egg roll, then stopped, “I said I don’t think so, you white trash piece of shit.”

Derek fired the 9 mm he was holding in his lap directly into the stick up man’s gonads.

The scumbag grabbed his crotch and felt straight onto his back while screaming like an injured rabbit. The only word that Derek could make out was “Mommy.”

He quickly stood up and assumed a shooting position at the black robber who was standing at the cash register with one hand in the cash drawer while he had the waitress by the back of her hair. He whirled around at the sound of the shot. Derek fired four times, placing each shot within a five inch radius in or around the skel’s heart. If he wasn’t dead when he hit the floor, he was dead soon after. The waitress ran screaming into the

kitchen.

“Fuck, Derek. This is sure gonna screw me from ever eating here again,” yelled Pitre.

“We better roll.” Jim jumped out of the booth and leaned over to pull the white trash robber’s piece out of his belt. He pulled back the slide, glanced inside the chamber, aimed and shot the skel in the forehead.

“That screaming was getting old.”

Checking both directions as they exited the restaurant, the two men walked swiftly to the truck and raced out of the parking lot.

“I guess you’ll get to enjoy my company a little longer,” said Derek. “My cover could be blown here so we’ll have to go to the alternate pick up point. That’s in Tulsa.”

“Tulsa? Shit, I better stop for some beer.”