A Psycho and his Disciple Read online

  “Does it matter? I'm trying to get you out of this, son. You shouldn't be questioning me. I'm on your side,” Lucas explained. Dean shook his head and refused to move, waiting for a satisfying response. Lucas sighed, then he said, “Listen, let's stop wasting time. We have a dead body on our hands and I don't want to go back to prison. Follow my lead and I'll tell you everything you want to know later. Deal?”

  Dean gazed into Lucas' vibrant eyes, searching for a trail of deceit. He was suspicious of his newfound peer, but he didn't have any other options on the table. Prison was certainly not an option in his mind. He barely survived a fistfight with a drunk, he wouldn't last long in prison. He slowly nodded in agreement – deal.

  Dean asked, “So, how do we do this? Where can we hide a dead body? Huh?”

  Lucas strolled towards Otis' head and said, “We're in the trashiest part of town, my friend. You can dump him on someone's lawn and he wouldn't be found for days. We want more than a few days, though. So, we're going to dump him in one of those condemned apartment buildings two blocks south. That's a good spot. No one will come looking for a body around those parts.”

  Dean furrowed his brow and asked, “Are you sure about that?”

  “I'm positive. I'll grab his arms, you grab his legs. We've got to be fast, you hear me? And, you better run like hell if we run into a pig. Come on, let's get going.”

  Lucas hooked his arms under Otis' armpits, then he lifted his torso. He beckoned to Dean with a nod. Dean rubbed the nape of his neck and bit his bottom lip, wrestling with his doubt. Without another thought, he ran forward and grabbed the drunk's legs. The pair lugged the man's body down the alley, escaping with the darkness.

  Chapter Four

  A New Home

  Lucas and Dean trudged towards a five-story apartment building, lugging Otis' heavy body with all of the energy they could conjure. The building was abandoned and vandalized. Fortunately, the other buildings on the block suffered from the same fate. The street lamps didn't work, either. The block was swallowed by darkness.

  Dean couldn't help but glance every which way as the couple stepped on the dead lawn in front of the building. The block might have been entirely condemned, but the apartment buildings across the street were still brimming with people. The vacant buildings in town also functioned as nests for homeless people. As far as he was concerned, homeless or simply poor, no one could find out about his deeds.

  Lucas said, “Come on. There should be a back room around the corner. A laundry room, I think. We can lock him up in there.”

  Between breaths, Dean asked, “How... How do you know that?”

  Walking in reverse, Lucas smiled as he spotted a doorway on the left side of the building towards the back. The door was missing, but the doorway was covered with plywood. Lucas and Dean carefully lowered the body. Dean watched as Lucas hit the corners of the plywood with his palm. The wood promptly snapped off the doorway.

  As a vile stench wafted through the doorway, Lucas pinched his nose and waved. He rubbed his nose and said, “I know because I used to live around here. I don't think I lived in this exact building, but it was around here. These apartments... They're all very similar, you know? Being poor, you're herded into these areas and they're all built the same so we can all feel the same... Poor and useless.” He stared despondently at his sneakers, ruminating about the past. He huffed, then he said, “Enough about that bullshit. Let's get him in here before we get spotted by some bum.”

  The couple dragged Otis' limp body into the laundry room. Dean stopped at the doorway and inspected the room. Broken laundry machines hugged the parallel walls to his left and right. Towards the center, there was an aisle of drying machines. There were a few missing machines and most of the equipment was damaged beyond repair. The body was dumped around the corner of the aisle, hidden behind the drying machines.

  Lucas said, “That should do it.” He chuckled as he stared at a drying machine. With a smirk plastered on his face, he said, “You know, when I was a boy, I found a baby in one of these. I mean, I found a fucking baby inside one of these machines. Imagine that, son. It was a small baby like a... like a fetus – someone's abortion. It looked like a red slug wrapped in a woman's shirt. I didn't know what to do about it, so I just–”

  Lucas paused and shook his head – never mind. He ran his fingers through his hair and sighed. He only had half of a life to reminisce about and it wasn't filled with beautiful memories. He decided to keep the grisly tale to himself for the time being. Who would ever want to hear a story about a fetus found in a drying machine?

  Curious, Dean asked, “What? What did you do?”

  Lucas nervously smiled as he walked out of the room. He gently tugged on Dean's arm, pulling him out of the building. He remained unusually silent, refusing to share another word concerning his story. Dean watched Lucas with narrowed eyes as the ex-convict covered the doorway with the delicate plywood.

  As he checked the wood's stability with a gentle knock, Lucas said, “That should do it. We just need to make sure the wind won't knock it over. We don't want the smell to get out on the streets. I don't think anyone will come looking around here, though. No... No one cares around here.” As he walked past Dean, Lucas said, “Come on, boy, let's go have a chat.”

  ***

  Dean followed Lucas to the front of the building. Lucas flumped onto the concrete porch and stared at the buildings on the other side of the street. The difference was striking. He was swallowed by darkness, pestered by flies, and pummeled by a foul odor. The buildings across the street were also damaged, but the standard of living was much higher. A narrow street separated extreme poverty from the working class.

  Dean reluctantly sat beside Lucas. He considered running away from his nightmare, but he figured he owed Lucas a minute of his time. Lucas was ultimately the cause of the problem, but he also solved it. The young man also feared the ex-convict would use the murder against him if he did not comply. He figured appeasing him would be best. A chat, he thought, what's the worst that can happen?

  As he stared at the moon, Lucas said, “Two murders got me locked up for 20 years. 20 goddamn years. I lived half of my life in confinement, boy. That's... That's just insane. I can't stop thinking about it.”

  Baffled, Dean stared at the ex-convict and stuttered, “You–You killed someone? Before tonight?”

  “Yeah, yeah. I'm a stone cold killer, Dean. Back in the 90s, some punks tried to jack my truck. These two junkie motherfuckers smashed the windows of my baby, then they tried to hot-wire her. They didn't know what they were doing, though. They were stupid, so I taught them a lesson. I went out there with a kitchen knife and I sliced them up. I defended my property and my life.”

  “If... If it was self-defense, why'd you serve time?”

  Lucas chuckled, then he said, “Well, the district attorney, a real stern son of a bitch, didn't believe me. He thought I killed them on purpose. I guess I stabbed them too many times. So, he fought and he fought for a first-degree conviction, but he came up short and left with what he could get: half of my damn life.”

  Dean furrowed his brow as he examined every nook and cranny on Lucas' face. He tried to decipher the sincerity behind the man's words, but to no avail. The ex-convict was enigmatic, difficult to read like a book written in an extinct language.

  Lucas smiled and rubbed his brow with his fingertips. He said, “Truth is: I did kill them on purpose. As a matter of fact, I've killed quite a few people in my time. Hell, I even killed someone in prison and pinned it on someone else. I'm a fucking stone cold killer, Dean. I'm a killer...”

  Lucas bit his bottom lip and sniffled, snorting his mucus like a druggie snorting cocaine. He struggled to keep his composure as he wrestled with his overwhelming emotions. He couldn't win the battle, though. Tears gushed from his eyes and streamed down his rosy cheeks.

  Dean scooted an inch away from the unstable killer, bewildered by the ex-convict's reaction. He was conflicted with feelings of fea
r and pity.

  As he swiped at his tears, Lucas said, “It's not my fault, though. No, it's not my fault. You see, this is a... a nurture thing. I learned about that in prison. It was my upbringing. My mother hated me and my father loved me. It wasn't the type of love you'd want from your daddy. No, he loved me too damn much...” He gave off a nervous chuckle – a clucking cackle like a coughing engine. He smiled and said, “Enough of that bullshit. You don't want to hear about that. No one does. Tell me about yourself, boy.”

  Dean stared at Lucas with uncertain eyes, remaining vigilant. He refused to be duped by the strange murderer, so he tried to maneuver himself to a vantage point. He did not want to appear soft and he did not want to leave himself vulnerable. In the presence of a killer, he had to be prepared for all possible contingencies.

  Running seemed like the most obvious escape plan.

  Dean glanced around the area and said, “There's not much to say. I dropped out of high school before I graduated, I work any job I can get, I scrape up a few dollars, and I struggle to live. I'm just an everyday man. That's all.”

  Lucas asked, “You got any family? You got a lover? You got anyone?”

  “My family is broken, man. I've got a father somewhere out there, I've got a mother hopped up on any prescription drugs, and all of my brothers are buried six feet deep. Shit, I don't even have a home right now. As far as love goes, I've got myself a broken heart to tend to. I'm not really looking for anyone.”

  “Jeez, boy, you remind me of myself when I was younger. I didn't tell you this when we were back there, but I saw a little of myself in your eyes at the bar. I knew there was something to you. We're what you call 'kindred spirits.' I learned that in prison, too. There are a lot of kindred spirits in there...”

  “I've never killed a man before,” Dean responded, shaking his head in disagreement.

  “Well you have now and I bet you're feeling less stressed about all of your other problems. Speaking of those problems, let me give you a hand.”

  A hand – the term could mean anything when it came from a self-proclaimed 'stone-cold killer.' He could use his hands to kill a man in an instant or he could offer a helping hand to a peer. The connotations sparked by the term did not ease Dean's mind.

  Before the young man could question him, Lucas said, “Let's get this education crap out of the way. You don't have to go to high school to be successful. That's bullshit. Hell, you can go to prison and get yourself a better education. You know you can learn to be one of those underwater welders in prison, right? That pays more money than any of the shitty jobs these crappy public schools prepare you for. So, forget about that shit. It shouldn't be on your mind.”

  Dean bit his bottom lip as he absorbed the information. He wasn't sure of the accuracy, but Lucas' confidence was reassuring. I should go to prison, he thought, I'd be more successful than my teachers. He took the advice with a grain of salt. He was already out of school, so it would cause no harm to him.

  Lucas said, “Family is important, Dean, but you don't have to share blood to be family. I'm already starting to feel like a father to you and we just met. I know you can feel it, too. That sort of connection is only formed with people your heart steers you towards. Trust me.”

  Dean tapped his chest and said, “Sure, sure...”

  “Girls? Don't worry about girls. Believe me, there are plenty of women around. Some care about money, some care about looks, but there will always be a few without a care in the world. You want that kind of woman, you hear me?”

  Dean reluctantly nodded as he pondered the advice. He wasn't fond of labeling people. He didn't want to classify women under certain 'types.' He didn't want a woman without a care, either. At heart, he sought a kind and loving partner.

  “As for money, there are plenty of ways to make cash. It shouldn't be an issue for you.”

  Dean responded, “I don't know about that, Lucas. Once you're homeless, it's hard to get a job. It's a... It's a cycle that you can't get out of, you know? Like, what the hell are you supposed to tell your employer? Huh? 'Yeah, you can find me on the corner of 5th and Main.' It's bullshit, man.”

  Lucas smirked and wagged his index finger at Dean. He said, “Oh, you stick with me, boy. I've got a remedy for all of your money problems. Sleep with me tonight and I'll teach you how to make money tomorrow morning.”

  Dean shuffled another inch away from Lucas, cocking his head back like a walking pigeon. He was flabbergasted by the peculiar request.

  The young man asked, “You... You want me to sleep with you?”

  Lucas shook his head and said, “Not in some homo way, boy. Just sleep around here.” He nodded at the apartment building, staring at the dilapidated structure with hopeful eyes. He said, “This is my new home. This is our new home. You understand me? Stick with me and I'll help you get through your problems. I'll teach you the way of the world – the real world.”

  Dean slowly nodded as he analyzed the proposal. He didn't like being put on the spot, especially by an admitted killer, but he carefully evaluated the offer. Lucas was undeniably a murderer, but he was genuine and charming. Perhaps it was his wavy hair or his glowing eyes, but the man was unusually charismatic.

  Dean said, “Okay, sure. I can sleep here for a night or two...”

  Lucas grinned and said, “That's what I like to hear. Come on, follow me inside.”

  ***

  Lucas shoved the plywood aside, then he strolled into the building. Dean carefully followed behind. He winced with each creak and howl in the building, afraid the structure would collapse on him. The entrance opened up to a wide corridor. There were four doors on each side, each door leading to a different apartment. The staircase to the left led to the other floors. It was a simple but effective structure.

  The couple entered the first apartment on the left.

  With his arms away from his body as if he were welcoming a hug, Lucas said, “This is our home now, son. We'll be close to the body so we can hear whenever someone comes snooping around. We'll also be right next to the exit so we can make our escape if anything goes wrong. It's perfect!”

  Dean stood at the doorway as he glanced around the simple apartment. The front door opened up to the living room. The kitchen was seamlessly connected to the right. A hallway to the right also led to the other bedrooms and the bathroom. Aside from the missing doors at every doorway, there was nothing out of the ordinary in the small home. The missing furniture was expected after all.

  Lucas fell to his buttocks towards the other end of the room. He leaned on the wall and said, “It'll be cold and uncomfortable tonight, but we'll just have to make-do until we get some funds tomorrow. Go on, get some sleep.”

  Dean inhaled deeply and nodded as he walked into the living room. He leaned on the wall across from Lucas, then he slid down to his buttocks. He was anxious, but he was not afraid. At heart, he welcomed Lucas' friendship – despite the murder. The lonesome heart was always most vulnerable to the deceptive mind.

  Dean said, “Thank you, Lucas.”

  With his eyes closed, trying to sleep, Lucas nodded and said, “Good night, Dean. I'll see you in the morning.”

  Dean crossed his arms and shut his eyes. Instead of counting sheep, he counted sleeping pills. He imagined each pill floating over his mother's chapped bottom lip, then spiraling down her throat. He had been practicing counting pills since he discovered his mother's addiction when he was a child. It was a proven method to induce natural sleep.

  Slowly, Dean dozed out of consciousness.

  Chapter Five

  A Lesson in Money

  Lucas and Dean stood in an alleyway behind a liquor store. The neighborhood was rough and loud, filled with shouting people, barking dogs, blaring music, and coughing cars. The buildings were vandalized, scrawled with graffiti and burdened with broken windows. (Of course, one broken window led to another, validating the 'broken window' theory.)

  The friendly pair were not concerned with the bad side of town, t
hough. The couple stared at the desolate area under the neighboring bridge. The area did not shelter a troll, but the trash was plentiful. The dirt ground was littered with plastic bags, rotting food, broken syringes, and used condoms. The balmy early morning sunshine could not wash away the filth.

  Staring at the only man under the bridge, Lucas asked, “Are you sure this man's a drug dealer?”

  As he glanced at the bridge, counting the whizzing cars on the road above, Dean said, “Yeah. I'm positive.”

  Lucas paced near Dean and constantly glanced towards the man. The suspected drug dealer leaned on the bridge's dilapidated pier. He was a scruffy man with wild black hair and a thick beard. He wore layers of tattered coats and rumpled jeans. The man's head swayed left-and-right as his eyelids flickered. He was hopped up on drugs of some sort. To the man's right, there was a large cardboard box – a makeshift shelter.

  A raven-haired woman rested on the ground to the dealer's left. She was unconscious, likely due to excessive drugs in her system, but she was still breathing. Her white sundress, riddled with holes and stained with dirt, barely covered her petite body. Abuse was not a far-fetched assumption considering her condition.

  Lucas said, “He doesn't look like any drug dealer I've ever met. Not from my era, that's for sure.” He shook his head as he watched the drugged couple from afar, baffled. He said, “This man looks like he's strung out on his own supply. What kind of drug dealer would do that? Huh? Who would waste their good shit on themselves? That's not how you make money. That's bullshit.”

  Dean responded, “He's a druggie that sells drugs. That's all I know. I mean, I've seen this guy sell drugs to friends and family, alright? I've seen him sell drugs to kids, man. He'd sell cocaine to a baby girl and call it sugar. He's a drug dealer without a fucking code or any of that bullshit. What... What do you want with him anyway? Huh? What are you planning? Listen, I don't sell or take drugs, Lucas. I don't do that shit. I'm not going to–”