A Psycho and his Disciple Read online

  Lucas tilted his head and furrowed his brow as he glared at the young man. A fire burned in his sharp eyes, crepitating like flames in a fireplace. For a brief moment, he considered killing Dean. I could smash this mug and rip your jugular out with the broken glass, he thought, I really could do it. Indeed, he could savagely kill him. It wouldn't bother him at all.

  Lucas bit his bottom lip and nodded, then he said, “That's fine. I get it. I can see you've got some issues right now. Maybe we can have a little chat later. We'll see how the night goes. Until then, cheers...”

  Lucas lifted his mug towards the ceiling – a motion of peace and understanding. He returned to his stool, chugging his beer as if he were dehydrated after a trek through a dry desert. He glanced over at Dean, curious. To his dismay, the lonesome man did not glance back at him.

  With his eyes locked on Dean, Lucas sniffled and asked, “You ever see him around here before?”

  Isaac glanced at Dean, then he nodded. He said, “Yeah, he comes around every now and then. He keeps to himself. He doesn't bother anyone.”

  “I thought so. He seemed like 'that' type of guy. He's got a bit of an attitude, doesn't he?”

  “I really wouldn't know. Like I said, he keeps to himself. I serve him, I take his tips, and I leave him alone. It's none of my business.”

  Lucas smirked and said, “You're a good one. You don't pry into anyone's business. I like that. I love it.” He pulled out his billfold and said, “Let me get another beer. I think I'm going to be here a while.”

  Lucas scooped up a handful of peanuts from a small tray, disregarding the lack of sanitation in the bar. He munched on the nuts and constantly glanced towards Dean. He hoped for a sign of interest – a sign of friendship. He was prepared to wait the entire night to make a connection.

  ***

  A minute turned into an hour in the blink of an eye. The patrons ate, drank, played, and danced, enjoying the buoyant atmosphere of the tavern. The world outside was a minor inconvenience to be dealt with at a later time. The friends, the beer, and the music were the most significant for the time being. Financial issues, relationship problems, and personal loss could wait until dawn.

  Lucas had reached his third mug of beer. He was feeling a bit buzzed, but he wasn't quite inebriated. He was not focused on his drinking, though. He was more concerned with Dean and his rejection. He was waiting for an opportunity to try again – a chance to pounce on his prey.

  From the other end of the bar, Dean shouted, “Get your damn hands off of me!”

  Lucas glanced towards the commotion. A rowdy man sat in the stool beside Dean, slurring his words and jabbing his index finger at the young man. The drunk had a hulking physique with strong arms and pecs. His flabby beer belly was not as chiseled as his biceps, but he wore the fat with pride – he couldn't be fat-shamed. He had grizzled hair, which protruded every which way, flushed cheeks, and bloodshot eyes.

  The drunk wore a black leather jacket above a white t-shirt, and blue jeans. He reeked of alcohol, old puke, and dirty laundry. He was on his nightly bar tour, wandering into any tavern willing to accept him.

  Lucas asked, “You know this man, too?”

  Isaac strolled towards Lucas and said, “Yeah. Otis, our local drunk. He shouldn't be in here right now. I'll get rid of him.”

  Before Isaac could walk away, Lucas said, “Wait. Let's give this a second. Let me just see what this boy does.”

  “I can't. I'm sorry, but this guy always causes problems for us. He's not supposed to be in here.”

  Lucas tossed a twenty-dollar bill on the counter and said, “Here's a tip, alright? Mind your own business for a minute. I'll handle this.”

  Isaac sighed as he took the money. The bartender turned towards the dirty dishes and nonchalantly scrubbed the mugs. Mug in hand, Lucas strolled towards the quarrel. He was eager to get a front row seat to the show.

  Otis tapped Dean's shoulder and said, “You... You owe me money, buddy. You owe... You owe me.”

  Dean shrugged off Otis' clammy hand. He said, “I don't owe you shit. Leave me alone.”

  “You owe me money, you rat bastard. I... I know your mamma, I know your daddy. Give me what you owe.”

  “You don't know shit, asshole. Leave me alone before you get yourself into trouble.”

  Chiming-in with a large grin plastered on his face, Lucas asked, “What are you going to do about it? Huh? What are you going to do?”

  Otis gripped Dean's shoulder with a powerful grip. Scowling, he said, “Yeah, boy. Wha–What are you going to do?”

  Dean glanced at Lucas, astonished by his unnecessary provocation. He didn't know the man and he couldn't decipher his intentions.

  Dean turned his attention to the belligerent drunk and sternly said, “If you don't watch your goddamn mouth, I will hurt you, Otis. You understand me? You don't know me. Maybe you know my dad, but you don't know me. You've got the wrong man.”

  Otis responded, “No... No, no, no. I want my money. You... You have to buy me a shot. No, you have to pay my tab. Yeah, you're paying for it. If you don't... If you don't...”

  Lucas asked, “Well, what are you going to do, Otis? What's going to happen? You're going to let this kid drink with your money?”

  “It's not his money,” Dean said.

  Lucas continued, “Or, are you going to beat his ass? What are you going to do about it, you stupid drunk?”

  Dean shouted, “It's not his damn money!”

  Otis pulled on the young man's sweatshirt and barked, “It is my damn money! Pay me, motherfucker!” He dragged Dean away from the bar and pinned him to the wall like a nudie poster. He shouted, “Pay me, motherfucker!”

  Dean breathed heavily as he stared into Otis' eyes – a bestial set of furious eyes. Lucas was a professional instigator, fanning the flame on a candle and burning the entire house down. With a mere glance at the rest of the bar, he could see every patron was watching the disturbance. Although the mood was cheery, they didn't mind a good fight. Watching drunks brawl was a pastime for other drunks after all.

  Lucas glanced back at the crowd and sternly said, “Mind your own business.”

  Despite some scowls and mutters, the patrons returned to their activities.

  The ex-convict walked towards the tussling pair and said, “You two seem to have a very serious problem. I think I know how to solve this, boys. Yeah, you do it old-school. You should take this outside, handle this like men in the alley. What do you say?”

  Dean clenched his jaw, then he said, “I'm not going out there. There's nothing to handle.”

  Tightly gripping Dean's sweater at the chest, Otis sneered and asked, “What? Are... Are you afraid? You scared of a real man, you slimy bastard? Is that it?” Dean did not respond. Otis smirked and said, “Listen... Listen to me, boy. You pay my tab tonight and I'll let you live. Sound good?”

  Dean gazed into Otis' zany eyes. The drunk's eyes were covered in webs of vibrant red veins. He could see the lingering deceit in his eyes. He would leave him alone for one night, sure, but he would return for more during another. A bully like him would abuse his power once he got his foot in the door.

  Dean refused to live at his mercy, even if it were only at one bar. He wouldn't allow himself to live like a coward. He sought to relief his stress anyway. Win or lose, a fight would allow him to release the venom in his veins.

  Dean shrugged off Otis' grip. He strolled past him and said, “Alright. Let's handle this like men.”

  The young man sniffled as he walked towards the back of the bar. Otis staggered as he trailed behind him. Lucas couldn't help but smile as he watched the heated pair. He instigated the fight and he was ready for the show. With a devious smirk, he sipped his beer and followed the couple.

  Lucas whispered, “Let's see what you're made of, kid...”

  Chapter Three

  The Beginning of a Special Relationship

  Lucas leaned on the doorway leading into the alley, casually slurping his beer and s
oftly shuddering. A cold breeze danced through the area, conjuring goosebumps on any unclad arms and legs. He was willing to endure the frigid temperature, though. He had endured much worse in prison – solitary confinement was not an ideal environment.

  Dean and Otis walked in a circle towards the center of the alleyway, glowering at each other. The pair angrily bickered about money, debt, and repayment. The couple, however, refused to fight. There was an occasional shove, but the men hesitated to throw the first punch. Instead, the couple square-danced in the alley – perhaps they were rehearsing.

  Lucas walked closer to the dance circle. He said, “Come on now, boys. Let's get this show on the road. What are you waiting for? Huh? An invitation?” He spat a blob of gooey saliva into a filthy puddle. He snorted, then he said, “No, that's not how it works. You're men, so handle it like men. Fight.”

  Dean jabbed his index finger at Lucas and said, “Watch yourself, old man. I swear, you're next. I'll beat the–”

  In a fit of rage, Otis punched Dean. The swift jab landed on his jaw, causing the young man to stumble back. He was caught off guard and temporarily dazed by the punch. The drunk had more strength than he originally imagined. The alcohol coursing through his veins fueled his ferocity, consequently amplifying his strength.

  Dean shook his head and lifted his fists to his chests, trying to prepare himself for the inevitable beating. The young man was not a fighter. Aside from a few schoolyard fights, which he certainly lost, he had very little experience in the art of brawling. At most, he hoped to land a lucky punch – something to stroke his ego.

  Before Dean could strike, Otis lunged forward and punched him again. Dean lurched towards the dingy gray brick wall behind him. He wrapped his arms around his dome and slumped his head downward.

  Like a pervert stalking a woman at night, Otis seized the opportunity to pounce. He rushed towards Dean and started pummeling him, hitting his face past the young man's feeble attempts at defense. After two vicious uppercuts, Otis hit Dean with a knee to the face.

  Lucas took a swig from his beer, then he shouted, “Come on, boy! You can do better than that! You've got to fight back! You've got to show him you're not his bitch! You have to show this godforsaken world you're not its bitch! Fight back!”

  With his arms wrapped around his head, absorbing the fists and knees like a human sponge, Dean gritted his teeth and grunted. Blood spurted from between his teeth and oozed from his bloodied gums. His nostrils leaked blood like open faucets. The gash on the bridge of his nose worsened with each strike. His face was bumpy and bruised.

  With a sudden surge of strength, Dean screamed and pushed Otis away from him. As the drunk staggered in reverse, the young man hurtled forward and pushed Otis towards the other side of the alleyway. Otis groaned as his back collided with the rusty steel wall of a disgusting dumpster.

  Dean planted the top of his head on Otis' chest, pinning him to the dumpster with his dome. He figured the drunk's weakest point would be his gut – flabby and soft. So, Dean hit Otis' belly with a flurry of punches. He grunted with each consecutive hit, breathing heavily through his mouth. His busted nose was useless after all.

  Yet, the attack did not thwart the drunken man. The punches, like a toddler hitting a bear, only served to infuriate him.

  Otis shouted, “You rat bastard! You stupid bastard!”

  Despite being pinned to the dumpster, Otis punched Dean's ribs with all of his might – right, left, right, then another left. Dean hopped and grunted with each punch, coughing blood through his fluttering lips. He feared his ribs would shatter due to the man's brute force. His punches became stronger with each hit.

  He's unstoppable, Dean thought, he's a damn monster.

  Lucas walked towards the dumpster, smirking. He leaned closer to the fight and said, “He's drunk, boy. You realize that, don't you? A few punches aren't going to hurt him. Not with those weak arms, at least. He's not going to stop until you make him stop. You understand?”

  Dean gritted his teeth as he scowled at Lucas. The ex-convict was spewing advice like a coach in a boxing movie. To his utter disappointment, he was not in a film and he was going to be beaten senseless unless he turned the tides of the fight. Lucas' interruptions were not particularly helpful, but the man was correct in his assessment: Otis was benumbed by the cold temperature and excessive alcohol.

  Dean inhaled deeply and clenched his jaw. Exerting all of his energy, he lifted Otis from the ground and tossed him over his shoulder. He lurched towards the center of the alley, then he slammed him on the ground – head-first. The unnerving thud of a skull colliding with concrete, like a melon hitting the kitchen floor, echoed through the desolate alley.

  Wide-eyed, Dean staggered in reverse and stared down at Otis. He was astonished by his actions and rattled by his brutality. He was temporarily blinded by a lust for blood. He did not realize the severity of his attack until it was too late. Otis convulsed on the floor, violently shaking as blood leaked from the back of his head.

  Dean said, “Oh, shit. I... I killed him... Shit, I actually killed him.” He stared straight ahead, then he glanced back. Aside from Lucas' presence, the coast was clear. As his bottom lip quivered, Dean stuttered, “Wha–What am I going to do? What... What the hell am I going to do?”

  ***

  Lucas sighed as he examined the damage, analyzing the situation from every corner. He chugged the rest of his beer, then he placed the mug near the back door. To his relief, none of the other patrons decided to pry into the fight.

  Lucas towered over Otis and stared down at his trembling body. He said, “You didn't kill him, boy. Can't you see he's still kicking? He's probably going to die without some medical assistance, but he ain't dead yet. Nope, he's still kicking.”

  Dean stuttered, “Do–Do I call an ambulance? What do I do?”

  The ex-convict did not respond. He lifted his foot over Otis' throat. Without warning, he stomped on the drunk's neck with the heel of his foot. The sheer power behind the stomping crushed Otis' Adam's apple, leaving a deep depression on his neck – like a dimple on a cheek.

  Otis squirmed on the ground as he gargled his own blood. His limbs tightened as he struggled to breathe, rasping and gasping, then he became limp.

  Lucas knelt down beside the murdered man. He carefully removed the drunk's leather jacket. The garment was scuffed and muddied during the fatal takedown, but it was intact. He yearned to cover himself up in something a bit more stylish than a basic white t-shirt.

  As he slipped his arms into the jacket, he said, “Now he's dead...”

  Teary-eyed, Dean watched the murder and theft in utter awe. Although he was partly responsible for the death, he had never witnessed such savagery in-person. He was desensitized to fictional violence, but watching the brutal stomping made him queasy. The popping and gurgling sounds echoed through his mind.

  Dean took one step in reverse. He pointed at Lucas and said, “You... You killed him. This had nothing to do with me. You started this fight, you told me to hurt him, and you killed him. This... This wasn't my fault.”

  Lucas huffed, then he said, “Calm down, son. Let's just get a few things straight here. I killed him, but I didn't force you to fight him and I didn't force you to slam him on his head like that. That wasn't me, boy.”

  “But, you told me to fight back. You told me–”

  “So, what? Huh? I don't have mind-control powers, you stupid fuck. I'm not the government. You knocked him on his head. Hell, I'm willing to bet his death was certain with that slam. He wasn't going to survive that. I just put him out of his misery. I stole from him, too, but I don't think that's a felony. It better not be, this jacket can't be worth more than $100...”

  Dean stuttered, “I–I don't... I don't know what's happening. This can't be real.”

  Lucas held his hands up in a peaceful gesture – calm down. He said, “Listen, we're accomplices to the same crime. I mean you no harm. You think I wanted this to happen? Huh? You think I want t
he cops to come around here and put us both in jail? No. No, I don't want any of that bullshit. I'll get us out of this. Don't you worry about that.”

  Dean watched Lucas with a furrowed brow, mystified by his indifferent demeanor. The ex-convict walked around Otis' body, circling the deceased man like a shark at sea. He was clearly strategizing an escape from the sticky situation. To the young man, he did not seem malicious. He instigated the fight, he killed a man before his very eyes, but he did not pose a threat to Dean.

  Dean asked, “Who are you?”

  Lucas responded, “I told you already, son. My name is Lucas Walker. Now, since I answered you, I figured you can do me a favor and answer me. So, who are you?”

  “My... My name is Dean Crow. That's all you need to know about me now. What are you doing here? What... What do you want from me?”

  Lucas gently chuckled as he glanced towards the other side of the alley. He said, “Well, I was here celebrating my freedom. You see, I just got out of prison. But, that's all you need to know about me now. I can tell you more about it later. Now, we've got to move this body before someone sees us.”

  Dean was well aware of the situation. He glanced back at the tavern door, hoping no one would walk out. He didn't need a drunk man shambling into the alleyway to further complicate the situation. Yet, he was afraid to move forward. Moving dead bodies was not his forte. He didn't want to show weakness around Lucas, either.

  Dean said, “I've never hidden a body before. I don't know what to do.” He sniffled as he placed his palm on his moist brow, anxious. He stuttered, “I–I'm... I'm sorry, I've never done this before. I just can't do it.”

  Lucas said, “Don't worry about a thing. You just have to follow my lead and everything will be okay. It's pretty damn simple to hide a body, especially in a city like this.”

  Dean bit his bottom lip, then he asked, “Have you done this before?”