From The Archives: Carpentry (Flash Fiction)
“Da fuck I tell ya?” Johnny lit a cigarette and took a drag. “Ya’ll done fuck’d dis up real good.”
“Mommy said—” Sarah said.
“Hey!”
Sylvia nodded, “And Daddy said—”
“bout had’it wit da bout ya.” Johnny said.
The sack was fatter than the cadaver.
Several Xbox One X’s, a few PlayStation 4’s and even more Nintendo Switches.
And games. Lots of games.
Smartphones. Lots of smartphones.
iPads. Lots of iPads.
“How ya tink dis fat bastard lugg’d all dis?” Johnny asked.
“Momma don’lik dat stinky smell, Johnny.” Sarah said.
“Listen here, doll face. Momma also don’ like no dead prick in da livin’ room, huh?” He bent down. “Look at da goddamn carpet.”
Sylvia put a finger to her lips. “Ya gonna wake Mommy and Daddy.”
“Gimme papa’ towels and a gabage bag.” Johnny checked his watch. 4:37am. Two hours before the alarm. “Soak dat shit up, and place each towel in da gabage bag.” A cigarette dangled from Johnny’s bloody hand. “Sarah, ya know the peroxide unda da bathroom sink?”
“Huh?”
“Fizzy shit.”
“Oh!” Sarah said. “Mommy uses that to—”
“Grab dat too.”
While the two of them worked, Johnny grabbed a large rug from the basement.
Sarah’s eyes bulged. “Mommy likes—”
“Focus. Time’s a facta.” Johnny’s cigarette burnt to the nub. “We get the stories straight layta, aight?”
Johnny gasped for breath moving the gelatinous man. It wasn’t just the size, but the stench only fat men give off. The kind that strips paint from walls.
5:37am.
“The carpet still looks like spaghetti sauce.” Sylvia said.
Sarah chuckled. “No, more like—”
“Enough.” Johnny said. “don’ matta. Ya’ll done did’a fine ass job.” He grinned at the pink spot. “We’ll be a’ight.”
“We done good!” The sisters said.
“ya know wha?” Johnny cracked a smiled. “We go ova ou’ story.”
* * *
“Ya’ll up early.” Their father said, stumbling down the stairs. “Well, I ‘spose it’s Christmas.” He looked at his watch. 7:03am. “Hope ya’ll ain’ expectin’ shit.”
“Neva do.” Johnny said.
The old man’s ring hand cracked Johnny’s jaw. “Talk back ‘gain. I dare ya, cocksucka.”
Johnny cocked his head back. “We gotta confession, Pops.”
“Ya little faggot. Been smokin’ in here ‘gain? Fer da hundredth fuckin’ time, ya motha’s allergic. What bout that don’t ya fuckin’—”
Johnny puffed out his chest, “dat’s right, mudderfucker.”
“Da fuck’da say?” Pops brandished his ring hand again. “More, sissy boy?”
The old man lumbered over to the spot. Johnny nodded the girls toward the basement.
Pops cursed under his breath. “I told yer motha’ to have an abortion. Dis what happens when bitches refu—”
Johnny cracked his father in the head with a baseball bat given to him as a boy.
Blood seeped from his father’s ears and Johnny lit a cigarette. “15 fuckin’ yea’s I’ve been puttin’ up with ya. A belt. A wrench. A stick. A hand. Dis fuckin’ bat right hea’,” Johnny seethed as his father wept. “Ya cryin’, bitch? Who da fuckin’ faggot, now? Yer done lucky I ain’t got time to use dis fucka’ like ya done did on me.” Johnny looked his father cold in the face. “The first time ya touch’d me, I promised meself I’d fuckin’ bury ya.” He exhaled at the celling. “Dis a long time a comin’, bitch.”
Father tried to move but collapsed. “Yer mudda’ will…will—”
“Na, don’t tink so. Bet she’s still passed out. Dumb whore’s a bigga boozebag den you.” Johnny twirled the Zippo lighter and took a satisfying drag. “Dat fuckin’ cunt won’t eva fuckin’ touch me again. Ever. Not eva ‘gain. Not. Eva. ‘Gain.”
“Ya little cocksucka. She—”
“Wan’d me arous’d by a woman ‘stead’a man, right? Dat’s yer ‘scuse? Yea’, I am a faggot. I do suck dick, and I fuckin’ enjoy it.” Johnny knelt down and grabbed his father by the throat and spat in his face. “Guess what, boy? You done got yerself a murda’ on ya hands. Who’s the mudderfuckin’ man now?”
“Fuck ya talkin’ bout?”
Johnny got up and dialed 911. “Dey gonna make you a real nice faggot in prison, bitch. You wait. You just fuckin’ wait.”
* * *
Johnny met Tony Montana outside the court house. Johnny in a stained shirt and ripped jeans. Tony in a double-breasted grey suit, hair slicked back, reeking of Aqua Velva.
Tony patted him on the back. “Ya done good, kid. That cocksucka won’t do easy time, eitha. Judge knows who lines his pockets.” Tony put an envelope in Johnny’s hand. “D.A don’t care ‘bout drunken rednecks. But they care about two kilos of pure, uncut Columbian cocaine.” Tony smirked. “Catch my drift?”
“Mr. Montana.” Johnny said. “We squa’?”
“We’ll never be square, kid. No goin’ back.”
“But ma sistas?” Johnny lit cigarette. “Dey out?”
“Clean. With a good family, and we straightened that whore of a mother out too.” Tony shook his head. “I don’t get you kids. Surgeon general’s warning on the fuckin’ pack and ya still smoke that poison. It’s like you’re beggin’ fer an early grave.” He laughed. “I’m breakin’ yer balls, kid. My guys do worse. I still don’t fuckin’ get it.”
Johnny nodded. “Now wha?”
“Word of advice,” Tony said. “Stay off drugs. Don’t drink. Keep a clear head, kid. You can go places ‘round here.” Tony flicked the cigarette from Johhny’s lip. “And don’t go diggin’ yerself an early grave. Yer generation’s fuckin’ retarded.”
Johnny nodded. “I passed ya test?”
Tony put his arm around Johnny, “I know a guy, real fuckin’ good. Getting’ ready to retire. Let’s teach ya how to paint houses and do carpentry properly.”
