Kill Whitey

The chains clanked and the hydraulics shuddered. Then, after a moment’s pause, the forks ripped through Whitey’s torso, tearing his chest open and cutting him in half. Internal organs sailed through the air. Blood sprayed in all directions. His legs and abdomen fell into the water with a splash, sending a plume of spray across the pier. Pink-tinged foam lapped at the forklift’s tires. Even with his lower half missing, Whitey held on tight. Then his fingers started to slip. His arms sagged and his body dropped. He dangled from the forks. I thumbed the controls, spreading the forks apart the rest of the way and simultaneously raising them higher. Whitey lost his grip and he hung with one hand.

He still stared at me, his eyes expressionless and boldly defiant. I got the impression that even now, he refused to accept his fate—refused to acknowledge that this was it, that he was dying. Then his other hand slipped off and he plunged into the lake. The last thing I saw before he slipped beneath the dark water was his vengeful glare.

And then he was gone.

“Rest in pieces, you son of a bitch.”

The thunder roared.

The sirens grew louder now, drawing closer. Tires squealed. Red and blue lights flashed across the surface. I closed my eyes and rubbed my temples, but even in that ultimate blackness, I saw Whitey’s stare reflected over and over. I opened my eyes and turned the forklift off. Behind me, I heard car doors slamming and running footsteps. A radio squawked with static. Someone shouted at me, their voice audible over the thunder, but I couldn’t tell what they were saying and didn’t really give a shit. Fuck them. I was so tired. Weak and dizzy, I climbed down from the driver’s seat and collapsed onto the pier. The boards dug into my back. The rain washed over me, soaking me to the bone. I wanted it to feel like a baptism, wanted it to wash away my sins and carry off my troubles. Instead, it just left me cold. I was alive but empty. Alive but dead inside. Nothing mattered anymore and death would have been a welcome release. I wondered if that was how Whitey had felt, and if so, had I granted his wish? Was that what he had wanted all along?

I lay there on the pier and began to scream.

And that was where the police found me. I was lying there covered in the dried blood of my dead friends and the man who had killed them, howling at the wounded sky, my teardrops lost in the rain.

twenty-four

In some ways, that all seems like it happened a long time ago, and to somebody else. Another Larry Gibson. But then late at night, when I’m totally alone, it seems just like yesterday.

Alone. Hell, I’m alone all the time these days. It’s hard to find someone when you don’t trust anybody.

The cops arrested me at the lake and charged me with a whole shit load of stuff. The news cameras were there, filming the whole thing. I’m glad they were. Whitey had left a lot of dead officers in his wake, and if the television crews hadn’t been on the scene, I’m pretty sure the cops would have put a bullet in my head right there on the pier.

The rampage hit the national news—wall-to-wall, non-stop, twenty-four hour coverage on CNN, MSNBC, and Fox. How could it not? It made for quite the sordid tale. At first, when investigators had arrived on the scene at my apartment, they’d thought it was a domestic disturbance. Then it turned into a workplace shooting. Then a car chase. Then the wholesale murder of several police officers, the destruction of several police vehicles, and the downing of a police helicopter. And finally, the cherry on top of the media’s ice-cream, the bizarre and grisly forklift pursuit, in which several witnesses reported seeing a man impaled by a forklift while its operator calmly drove down the road. Oh yeah, the media loved me. I was a ratings bonanza. Within six hours of my arrest, they’d camped outside my parent’s house, interviewed several of my co-workers, and tracked down some of my old schoolmates. My parents had no comment. According to the rest, I’d seemed like a nice guy. Quiet. Hard-working. Never in a million years would they have thought me capable of doing something like this. I didn’t date much, true, but I had recently been spending a lot of time at a strip club, so obviously, that meant I was a secret weirdo suffering from some long pent-up rage or desire. All of which was bullshit, but it sounded good on television.

I told the cops my story, but of course, they didn’t believe me. If I were them, I probably wouldn’t have either.