Driven Insanity
Prologue:
~of all the shady places~
Marcus Fletcher was a mouse of a man. He stood six feet tall but you’d never know it the way he hunched forward, he wore thin wire framed glasses, and had an exceptionally long neck. His arms dangled down loosely, and like the rest of him overly long and gangly. His face was worn and blotchy, and his eyes always on alert. Marcus was a man of little to no significance; a glorified and overpaid accountant. Right now, Marcus Fletcher was nervous. You could see it on him, and you wouldn’t have to linger there to spot it. In dead silence you could have heard his bones rattling, his teeth chattering, and is intense labored breathing over and over.
The night previous Marcus had spent in a shady motel room on the outskirts of The City. There had slept in his suit, the very same faded gray thing he was wearing tonight. Before he shut his eyes after an hours long struggle to sleep, his overpriced outfit was still pressed, lint, and wrinkle free. Tonight, however it was a mess, ruffled, dirty and smelling of booze and cigarette smoke and this too would have been an accurate description of the man himself. An array of red stubble was forming around his cheeks and down and around his jaw line. It was safe to say Marcus was distracted.
Tonight before Marcus made his way to the run down motel, he decided to get another drink at the neighboring tavern which was the motels twin in shabbiness. A briefcase was clung to his chest, his arms embracing it like a lover he couldn’t live without. The hug he gave his suitcase while he entered a crowded bar was an accurate representation of his internal struggle. It has to be stated that Marcus Fletchers Achilles heel was alcohol. The man would take a bullet for another drink. Inside his body was wracked with nerves, with horrified indecision. He wanted to pass this place and never look back, but he could not. His body told him to get out, to run, but the booze told him to stay and it quieted his screaming nervousness into a nagging whisper.
The bar was a monumental cliché. Cigar and cigarette smoke rising thick and growing thicker. Everyone in that place was reducing their life spans by days, maybe weeks. And the alcohol flowed forth like an endless fountain, an underground spring erupting never ending from the bottom of the earth.
Marcus stepped inside, his steps heavy, his impulses battling his addictions, and his addiction winning, a deliberate B line he made to the bar, a slow but deliberate approach. The fog from the cancer sticks tunneling his vision. An elbow bumping a person here, his shoulder grazing there, and with each new touch a heavier weight sinking into his stomach, an increase of the force he clung to his briefcase. His glasses had slid to the tip of his nose ready to slide off his face, but he relinquished not one bit of his hold to fix them. Finally he arrived at the bar and as though an angel of mercy had descended, there was one empty space. As if a spotlight, a naked bulb dangled over that worn stool, and he bar called to him. With a great satisfaction he took his seat, the briefcase in his lap, his left arm lying on top of it, his free hand fumbled around in his pocket. After a moment a clean crisp new hundred dollar bill rested between his thumb and forefinger, raised, beckoning the sight of the pretty little thing passing out the poison and when her sight landed on him, his demons smiled.
“Scotch on the rocks, and keep ‘em coming.” She smiled her fake tip leeching smile and removed the hundred swiftly and poured Marcus his drink. He twirled the glass upon the bar, studying it, debating it. And with an urge of confidence he swallowed the poison. His demons were now excitable, satisfied, and aroused inside they tickled his ribs, and allowed him a smile on his brittle outside. Sighing with relief he held up the ice filled glass and shook it, the solid water clanking about. No sooner was one poured again that it was gone, in the last few months he had never felt such calm and satisfaction. He even managed to find humor in his situation, such as it was, and for the first time he’d felt he’d gotten away with it.
“You should slow down there guy.” Said a young fascinated voice. Marcus had just gulped down another and laughed shaking his head turning to the voice. “Are you celebrating something?” The young man asked. Marcus could see amusement on his face.
“Something like that,” he replied. He knew he was entering a stupor, but he tried to sound sober and confident. “Here let me get you something.” Marcus invited, he waved to the bartender, “get my friend here a..?” he looked to the twenty-something.
“Gin and tonic, thank-you.”
“As the drink was presented to him he sipped slowly. Marcus studied again his most recently poured glass.
“I notice you do that every one.”
“I do, don’t I.” A nervousness entered into his joke, because it was true, there was a warning sign flashing before him for a few seconds as he watched the ice dance and vanish. His demons however tickled him again and he couldn’t help but let in this faux joy.
“So what is it?” the young man asked.
“What’s what?” He replied taking his time to drink the next one, the scotch burning over his tongue like a gently flowing stream of lava.
“What are you celebrating?”
“Life. Having it. Living it. Just, being alive.” This time the glass came down on the bar still half there. Marcus was having doubts again. The arm on his briefcase was heavy and tired again. He was getting nervous and wary again. The demons were falling asleep.
“To being alive,” the young man said holding up his own glass, Marcus by habit brought up his and knocked it into the other. “To being alive.” He said as though lifeless, as if not believing his own words.
“Are you celebrating anything?” Marcus wanted to turn the conversation away from himself.
“Something like that.” The stranger shuffled in his seat, turning his body to point fully at Marcus, completely ignoring his unfinished drink. “You ever lose something,” he gestured almost theatrically with his hands, “and you look all over, day and night for it, you even try to retrace your steps. It makes you frustrated, because you think it’s gone forever. But then, then, you go back to the start, you feel defeated, and you are emotionally just drained and exhausted, and when you’ve given up looking you see the thing, sitting right, where, you started.”
Happens more often than you think,” Marcus added. “Like my car keys, you’re sure you left them sitting by the phone, but they are not there at first, but you go back and what do ya know, they were just under this, or over just a little bit.”
“Exactly!” he responded slapping Marcus on the shoulder a little too aggressively, “and all that anger just goes away and you laugh at yourself. It is such a fucking relief!” The young man’s voice rose above the roar of the bar, he was obviously ecstatic. “That’s what I’m celebrating. Being relieved.”
“Amen.” Marcus drank the last of his glass and made to get up, “I better go, I have a long day ahead of me.”
The same aggressive slap was now applied to pushing Marcus’ shoulders and him back into his seat. “Mr. Fletcher, you need to wait here.”
Suddenly the demons were no longer sleeping, in that instance the demons fled from within and Marcus found a controlled petrified chaos sober his mind.
“My name is Jeffrey Tallasky.”
Marcus could feel the color leave his face; he could feel the cold overtake his fingertips. Most importantly he felt his hold on the briefcase loosen to the point that wanted to drop it, and let it go. Hearing that name made Marcus value something more. His life.
“It’s almost time for last call.” Jeffrey said, “Go ahead get yourself another before its too late.” Jeffrey took a longer sip from his own drink. “Tell me something Mr. Fletcher why did you leave your wife and children for that whore?”
The only reason Marcus Fletcher was still in The City was because of Michelle Borden, a twenty four year old call girl who whispered she loved him, and everything else was a blur.
“She was a pretty little thing. She loved you I’m told.” Jeffrey laughed, “loved you. Tell me was it your idea or hers?”
“Mine.” Marcus’ hand shook as he brought his drink up. “She had nothing to do with it.”
“Now, I wouldn’t say that. I’d say she had lots to do with it. Motivation. She was motivation.” Jeffrey pointed out correcting Marcus. “Right?”
Marcus nodded forcefully. He knew the name Jeffrey Tallasky and with it he knew stories of horror, and knowing this littered his nerves with unshakeable terror. He had to find a way out of the situation. He ran his free hand through his hair leaning back; he watched the naked bulb burn in his eyes its ugly yellow light. The want to flee did not transfer to ability. He was immobile, crippled, and lost in the fear of this young man, this walking death.
“I need to piss.” Marcus said defiantly, he pushed his excuse through his grinding teeth.
“I wouldn’t doubt it, you haven’t pissed since you’ve been here, but we are going to sit her for another half hour, at least.” Jeffrey took a swig from the melted ice that now composed his gin and tonic. He took a cube in his mouth, “You should know I admire you, Mr. Fletcher.”
Marcus doubted it but Jeffrey continued, “It’s not just anyone who would steal from Dmitri Valkov. I admire the stomach a man would have to have, in order to rip off that son of a bitch. What I don’t admire.”
Marcus’ eyes drifted in other directions, his body cooperating with his mind to embody physically what he was thinking. Jeffrey punched him in the shoulder. Marcus’ attention returned.
“What I don’t admire is you betraying a man who pulled you out of the shit you called your life. And made you royalty,” Jeffry pushed his forefinger into Marcus’ forehead, “you were like a son to him. Did you even realize that?”
Marcus tried to respond, muttering over his words, but he was hushed by Jeffrey’s finger upon his lips. “We are not here to discuss, Mr. Fletcher, we are here to drink, and you are here to listen, I talk, there will be no discussions.” After he removed his finger, he grabbed a napkin from the counter and wiped down his finger in disgust. “I’ve heard all the apologies, all the begging, bargaining. So what kind of man would I be if I let you waste your breath like that? Drink.”
Marcus found that he had begun urinating, a steady stream began running down his right leg and dripping onto his shoe.
Last call went by and the people began to dissipate and thin out. Before long it was Marcus and Jeffrey along under that naked light. The bartender was washing off the counter tops, and she removed Marcus’ still full glass.
“Are you gonna be much longer?” her question was directed at Jeffrey.
“No Peggy. I’ll be wrapping things up.” Jeffrey smiled and winked at her, and she gave no attention to Marcus who must have looked like a ghost. And Marcus realized he wasn’t the first fool to hide here, that this was the regular safe haven, for dead men. Peggy knew what was happening; to her he wasn’t even here anymore.
“She knows you?”
“And I know her.” Jeffrey stood up casually, as though he did this every day. He gave another slap on the back, “and I don’t like to keep her here later than necessary. Let’s go.”
Marcus still held onto the briefcase out of impulse. It had been a safety net, such a security blanket to him. He remembered with a great struggle the promise of a perfect future. A future of sunny open beaches, and passionate sex with Michelle. A promise of ecstasy, and simplicity, of pleasure and calm. “No. I’m not going anywhere.” He said through gritted teeth. He had to be strong and defiant, but then the gun was pressed into his side, and he felt his confidence wither away like a dying flower. His nerves began to fall off, and become brittle.
“Get up Mr. Fletcher, or believe you me, I’ll make this as uncomfortable as possible.” The barrel pressed harder in.
Marcus moved at a turtle pace. Twisting his body, extending one leg and then the other down as he removed himself from the stool. He lifted his eyes to meet his oppressors, hoping to find something human in the eyes. In those eyes however he saw cold, calculated focus and upon the lips of this handsome face he could see an obvious smirk, some sign of joy, and this terrified Marcus to the core. And in that face his hope was leeched, however small it was, it was gone.
He made his way to the back door as if floating in slow motion. This was his death march, heavy his footsteps were, heavy his shoulders, heavy his everything. All of him drifting toward the inevitable, not wanting to but going anyway. He turned the door handle as best he could, his hands rattling the knob.
Outside was a dirty dingy alleyway, the wet pavement reflecting the lights of the towering buildings of The City. There was no one in sight but sitting there was a fancy black car, quietly parked in the shadows.
Jeffrey fumbled around in his pockets and removed a key as he directed Marcus to the car. “Turn around,” He commanded. Marcus did. “Hold out your hand.” Marcus did, and the key was dropped in it.
“Open it.” Jeffrey motioned to the trunk of the car.
Marcus didn’t want to, he felt a darkness coming from within, he knew whatever was there could not be good. He knew whatever happened after he turned the key would be the beginning of the end. Somehow he turned it, there had to be one ounce of hope left and he’d try to figure it out.
And then there she was. She was cold. A stiff remnant of herself. Just by looking at her he could feel her stiff body in his mind. His fear made way to rage. A bitter angry tear began seeping from his duct. “Why did you do this?”
“Me?!” Jeffrey was confused, and offended. He slammed the gun against Marcus’ forehead.
The blow sent Marcus to his knees, and he felt once again his defense fall down again, his acts of defiance fall through again. And his hopelessness grew again.
And Jeffrey continued, “don’t try and push this on me. You’re pathetic attempt to prove something, that’s why this had to happen. You pathetic fuck! Look at yourself, look where you are. Look at you still clinging to that case. It’s the reason she’s dead. And you’re on the ground covered in your own piss.”
“Did you do it?”
“We’ve already established that you did this. But I pulled the trigger, yes.”
Marcus tried to let out an animal urge, he made a swift movement to rise to his feet, but Jeffrey raised the pistol. Despite the fact he could either die defenseless or die defiantly, his hopes chose the former.
“There, there has to be something.” He pleaded.
Jeffrey let out a chuckle.
“I can return the money, pay it back with interest.” The desperation polluted him, he was sweating profusely.
“Get up.” Jeffrey aimed the gun steady and cold at his target, he directed him to the dumpsters next to the bars alleyway door. Marcus complied as he backed up against the cold rough bricks of the building; he could imagine his skin felt the same. “What if I kept the money, and let you go. Would you tell anyone?”
“No.” And he meant it, he would leave this ungodly place abandoned everything. “You know it’s probably more than they pay you to this shit. Take it.” He held out the briefcase with both arms extended in front of him. He didn’t see the holes in his logic; he was ready to accept any alternative solution.
“You know what I couldn’t do that to you. You worked so hard to earn that. Keep it.” And with that Jeffrey fired off two rounds, and two rounds passed through the briefcase, and two rounds passed into Marcus’ chest. He was dead instantly, his body had gone limp and he slid down the bricks his legs sprawled out before him. The briefcase lay in his lap two holes present.
Jeffrey walked to the body and stared for a moment at the nothingness behind the fear in the man’s eyes. He smiled, and spit on him. After removing the clip, he tossed the handgun in the dumpster, and returned to his car. He pulled the woman out, and dragged her to Marcus’ corpse. He sat her up next him, so that her head was lying on his shoulder. But then Jeffrey heard a ruffle of garbage bags. Someone else was here.
On the other side of the dumpster he found a homeless man wrapped in plastic bags sitting on top of an old warn blanket. He was filthy and smelled of shit and cat piss. “Have you eaten today?”
The old man shook his grizzled oily head; he was scared of Jeffrey, as if he’d seen him numerous times before.
Jeffrey returned to the bodies of Marcus Fletcher and Michelle Borden and took the briefcase from them. He gave it to the homeless man, “Go buy yourself some breakfast, but I wouldn’t stay around here with that if I were you.” And with that Jeffrey Tallasky climbed into his car and exited the scene.
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