Getting Ugly (7 page)

“Where the fuck are they?” asks Buster.

Talley scrunches his nose. “They keep going in circles. It’s like they’re…”

“L
ost?”

Rasnick stares out in the wilderness. “Fucking lost? You have no clue where we are?”

The bus of an SUV cruises down a one-lane road that snakes through a seemingly endless patch of dense woods. The crew fills the three rows of Chevy seating, Patience nestled in Pike’s lap. A lot of pissed off looks fire in Brobee’s direction, and he tries to hide the truth as he rides shotgun, Rasnick at the wheel.

“I’m not lost.”

“Really? Fantastic. Where are we?” snaps Rasnick.

“We’re close.”

“Bullshit,” snorts Vig. On cue Oleg chimes in, “Fucking bullshit, man.”

Brobee can’t believe this; he knows what he saw dammit. “It was dark as shit that night. Take it easy, you animals, I’ll find it.”

Pike fidgets, annoyed. This makes Patience annoyed. She barks, “This is a joke, right?” Leon keeps to himself, but his face says it all.
Fuck me.
His mind even drifts to a place that thinks his office building security gig maybe wasn’t all that bad.

Brobee is completely flustered. “Look, goddammit, I trying here. I’m trying, damn, ok?”

Chats jams a knife into the headrest next to his ear. Leon looks to Chats then taps Brobee. “Think he’s saying trying is for pussies.” Leon leans into Chats. “Close?” Chats nods.

Brobee’s eyes lock.

Just over the hill.

In the distance, shining like a diamond in a goat’s ass.

Brobee yelps, “There!” His stolen Caddie sits on the side of the road like a hooker’s corpse, right where he left it. “Stop!”

The Suburban’s brakes lock.

The crew moves through the same woods Brobee braved less than 48 hours ago. A heavily armed band of the most ill-tempered, badass Cub Scouts ever known, Brobee leads the way, still not completely confident where he’s going. They’ve been trudging through these woods for a while and the natives are getting restless, again.

Pike looks up, down, all around the suffocating woods. “He build a nest or some shit?”, “You’ll see, fuck face,” spits Brobee.

“Been staring at trees for two hours now,” says Patience.

“We’re good. Trust. Please?” begs Brobee.

Rasnick and Leon are bringing up the rear, staying a few steps behind the rest of the pack. Rasnick turns to Leon. “You said you tracked Big Ugly for a time, right?” Leon nods, not sure where this is going. “Who is he?” Rasnick asks. Leon fights off a grin. “Nobody knows for sure. Some think he was a Marine once, maybe CIA. Maybe trained in Asia. Contract killer for a time. Some even believe he was a cop for awhile.”

“About to be a broke, dead bitch,” interrupts Pike.

“Absolutely,” purrs Patience.

Leon hopes they’re right.

Pike keeps spewing testosterone. “Don’t know everything, but I know my skills, and they are sharp, tight and ready to light some fire on his ass.” Patience throws an arm around him and Pike spanks her backside. Leon thinks about using a nail and hammer to keep his eyes from rolling. Instead he says, “Confidence is cute, but a healthy dose of fear might keep you alive.”

Patience stops cold, stares at Leon as if he slapped her Mama. “Fear? You be afraid, pillow bitter.” That earns a laugh from the rest of the crew.

Leon looks to Rasnick.
Be afraid
.

Rasnick gets it.

The crew stops under a massive tree, its roots spiraling out of the ground and back in like a ride at a water park. They’ve reached a bullet-riddled body slumped against the tree’s trunk. Brobee recognizes the face. “Ahhh, man.”

“You knew him?” asks Rasnick.

“I—yeah, I stole his truck when I left. Feel bad, a little responsible.”

Leon looks on.
A little?
These people are unbelievable.

Rasnick motions for them to keep moving and they continue their march through the thick woods. Something bothers Leon, a question he needs answered. “Hey, Brobee.”

“Yo.”

“Did he see you?”

“Who?”

“Santa. Who do you think? Big Ugly, asshole.”

“No, no way.”

Leon’s face tightens. “You sure about that?”

Rasnick joins in. “If we’re walking into a goddamn slaughter, so fucking help me.” Brobee attempts to reassure them. “I’m damn positive, man. C’mon.” Everybody stops. All eyes bore through Brobee. He can’t believe the lack of trust from his brothers and sisters in arms. “He did not fucking see me.”

He’s sure.

Really sure.

So sure.

Kinda sure.

some kinda Willy Wonka prick cocksucker.

L
ess than 48 hours ago…

Brobee stood at the edge of the clearing, mouth and eyes agape.

Up ahead was the object of his horror.

Up ahead…

Big Ugly.

Forty-something, dressed in a slick, tailored Fioravanti suit and, oddly enough, not ugly at all. Actually better looking than probably 99% of men walking the earth. Cigar in his mouth, scotch in hand, and his baby blues locked on Brobee from across the yard. Big Ugly flashed a chilling smile, took a beat, then gave a tiny finger wave to Brobee.

Piss flowed.

Brobee bolted.

Big Ugly stood in front of a 28,000 square foot sprawling mega mansion.
His
mansion. Aside from the open land that immediately encircles the home, the area is completely surrounded, protected by the dense trees and wilderness. This place won’t show up on any map. A stable of cows sits to the side of the jaw-dropping home. There is no visible road that leads in or out of Big Ugly’s land.

This is a lap of luxury that does not want to be found.

Big Ugly’s right-hand man, Bobby, runs from the house. Big Ugly’s gaze is still fixed out into the distance as Bobby races up to him. He’s knee-deep in a thinking man’s trance. Bobby controls his breath. “Big Ugly, I saw something breached the red line.” Big Ugly doesn’t bother with eye contact as he cuts Bobby off. “Somebody. Somebody breached, Bobby.

“I’ll get the dogs.” Bobby pulls an old school Uzi while springing into Code Blue mode.

“No, Bobby. Not this time.”

Bobby stops. “Did they see you?”

Big Ugly cracks a grin. “Oh, yes. Saw me…knows me.”

“Interpol? CIA?”

“No.”

“How did he find you?”

Big Ugly puffs his cigar. “Luck. Fate. Doesn’t really matter.”

“I need to get you out of here. They’ll send people.”

Big Ugly finally turns to Bobby. “Oh, people will come, Bobby. Nasty, filthy, scary people. People with bad childhoods and questionable morals will descend on me with guns, bloodlust, and visions of murderous mayhem dancing in their heads. But Bobby, make no mistake…” Big Ugly puts the cigar out in his own palm with a sizzle. “I’m not fuckin’ going anywhere.”

Inside the mega mansion Big Ugly glides through a foyer that rivals the lobby of Caesars Palace. Bobby stays close, trying to reason with the unreasonable. “I know you haven’t been yourself recently.” Big Ugly appreciates the concern—not really. Bobby continues, “Depression is a natural response…”

Big Ugly spins, jamming his Smith & Wesson down Bobby’s throat. “Depression is for cock deprived housewives. Do you find me cock deprived?”

Bobby gurgles a “No.”

“I’ve walked on water, turned water into scotch. I’ve cleaned out the Gods—stuffed their balls in my pocket and then simply walked away. You know the win/loss record for people who nail the big score and then retire to the sweet life?” Bobby shakes his head. Big Ugly completes his sermon. “There’s one winner and two million, six hundred and fifty eight thousand limp-dick losers. And Bobby-Boy, I’m the one.”

Big Ugly slips his gun from Bobby’s lips. “Warriors are born to war, not to hide. Sure, I’ve done the cocaine and orgy thing for good while…”

Bobby wants to appear agreeable. “And done it well.”

Big Ugly chews on that a bit. “I have, haven’t I? I need to…need something. Killing the occasional hiker ain’t cutting it anymore. Oh yeah, there’s a guy out on the road who just lost his truck. Would you kill him and leave him in the woods for me?”

Bobby doesn’t bother answering. He knows it’s neither needed or appreciated. Big Ugly pauses, wants to frame this the proper way. “I’m bored, man.”

Bobby looks into his master’s crestfallen eyes. Bobby even feels sorry for him. “I understand, but are you sure?”

“I fucked a goat yesterday, Bobby. A goat.”

Bobby can only stare back. Really, there’s not much to say to that.

Big Ugly spins a finger in the air, a signal for Bobby to round up the staff.

Big Ugly and Bobby enter an oversize formal dining room. This is where royalty grazes. Standing in a long line at full attention are maids, butlers, kitchen help and a scholarly-looking man. He wears a lab coat and a stethoscope. Not because he really has to, but because Big Ugly has him on staff to be a doctor and, by God, in Big Ugly’s mind he should look like a doctor.

Big Ugly walks down the line, Bobby next to him carrying a basket filled with stacks of rubber band bound cash. As Big Ugly shakes the hand of each staff member, he hands him or her a severance stack.

Big Ugly reaches an attractive maid and gives her a nipple twist. She smiles. She gets an extra stack. He reaches the doctor.

“I’m not leaving you here,” announces the doctor.

Big Ugly nods.

“You need help. Treatments need to…”

Blam!

Big Ugly drops him with a bullet to the brain. The staff barely flinches; this happens somewhat frequently around here. Bobby motions to an open door leading to an adjacent room. The nondescript room contains a lone bed, a sand box, and walls padded with blue foam egg crates.

Booby asks, “And them?”

Looking toward the room, Big Ugly eyes a row of five semi-nude hookers. “Get rid of them.” Bobby moves towards them, not completely sure if he’s supposed to kill them or just set them free. Big Ugly places a hand on Bobby. “On second thought, leave two.”

The remaining staff and hookers exit with Bobby, who is carrying the dead doctor. They all pile into waiting Escalades. Bobby stuffs the doctor’s body into the back of one Escalade and turns to his master with watery eyes.
Good-byes are hard.

Big Ugly shows a flicker of humanity. “Bobby, words do not do justice.” Bobby extends a hand. “It’s been an honor and a privilege.” Big Ugly hands him four stacks, pauses, then takes back one.

Bobby gets in and the Escalades drive off into the woods. Big Ugly watches them leave. He’ll miss them, some of them.

Not really.

He snaps his fingers.

The Escalades explode, bursting into multiple fireballs.

Inside his home, Big Ugly stands in front of sound system that reaches from floor to ceiling. A hand carefully loads a CD. Yes, he still uses CDs. Can’t very well have an iTunes account when you’re trying to be a ghost, can you? The windows shake and the walls rattle as the rock anthem
For Those About to Rock (We Salute You)
booms. Big Ugly moves through the mansion with the music following him.

It’s time to prepare for his guests.

Instruments of murder are laid out on an Olympic-size table, a white linen cloth underneath. Glocks, Colts, submachine guns, a sawed-off pistol-grip 12 gauge, an axe, a samurai sword, tactical knives, a whip, bullets and shells piled high. Weapons served up buffet style.