Prologue

No Rest for the Weary

14 February 2004

2339 hours

The Droopy Eye Inn, six-point-three miles west of Pine Bluff, Arkansas on Interstate 530

She leans in until he smells a sickening, nauseating mix of recently leaked blood and evacuated vomit. Lips atremble, she peeks through the narrow slit of her left eye, swollen roughly half as grotesquely as her right, which resembles a ripe melon split partially in half.

“Wh-what’s he waiting on? Why don’t he j-just finish i-it…us a-already?” she stutters in a hoarse whisper and he feels a faint mist of warm spittle coat his exposed neck. Looking at her, he thinks it’s a miracle she can speak at all, considering her lips have burst like stomped grapes and several teeth have been violently extracted.

“How the hell would I know? Afraid the ol’ telepathy radar is currently on the fritz,” he barks harshly, his anger and frustration fueled not by the foolhardiness of the query but the constricting binds of fear currently squeezing his midsection like a fleshy vice. In a pathetic attempt to make amends, he reaches back with a free hand, groping momentarily before eventually discovering her own sweat, blood and puke-coated mitt.

“Listen, just concentrate on shielding the kid. Once that door’s breached, cover her with your body, look for an open space to dart through and take off. I’ll do my best to play human barricade.”

In lieu of a verbal response, she gives his hand as tight a squeeze as she can muster.

“Wish I at least knew her name,” she finally manages in the almost deafening silence, the last word more a choked garble than actual word.

“Plenty of time for proper intros later,” he replies with a matching squeeze, two sets of intertwined fingers fusing as one.

The trio squat together in a bathtub that strains to hold their combined bulk, the man on one knee, the woman on all fours, the child sitting with her back to a badly discolored tile wall: the six-by-eight bathroom and its flimsy, faux-mahogany door the lone source of blockade between themselves and the room within.

“He’s probably just reloading,” she decrees with a resounding sigh, the limited confines of the tiny space reeking equally with spilt fluids and desperation. “Piece of shit coward.”

“Right,” the man nods, the constant throbbing at his bloody scalp fighting for pain domination with the open, slowly seeping wound at his left shoulder. At the moment, it is a dead heat he chooses not to rate as victor, lest his weakening sanity pass them both in a wild sprint to the finish line. The mini-Louisville Slugger curled into his free hand sits propped atop the opposite shoulder, the handle slick with sweat.

“M-maybe he’s out of ammunition,” she continues with nary a trace of sincerity, wincing painfully as if to affirm the idiocy of such awkwardly out of place hopefulness.

Turning towards and shooting the crouching child—her face as pale, slack and emotionless as when the attack had commenced—a quick, steely-eyed glance, the man’s expression and tone are dismissive without undue arrogance.

“Not likely. Dude appears supremely confident, like he’s been plotting this or some other similar raid for a lengthy spell. Skidded into that parking lot doing at least forty but the heavy chains on the tires prevented even the slightest damn skid. Armed lunatics of a similarly warped mindset are notoriously meticulous planners.”

“H-how about your friend? You think he’s…he made it? Maybe he’s hiding out like us in one of the last few rooms down the line.”

“Yeah, well, maybe,” the man replies unenthusiastically, recalling the mercifully brief but graphic image of Terrance reeling back with a grunt, eyes-wide with shock as a softball-sized hole appeared at his ample midsection. “Seemed like a tough old bird, for sure. We can hope, anyway.”

After a half-minute’s silence, during which time the only discernable sounds are that of their own ragged breathing and that of falling sleet pecking the motel’s tiled rooftop, the woman responds in a dull, robotic monotone as if speaking to herself while applying increased pressure until he feels jagged nails dig a groove into the back of his hand.

“H-he’s was just shooting blind into the windows and doors of every room. Just pointing and s-shooting. But then, no witness left b-behind, right?” She grins, a sad, horrible parody of a smile that the man doesn’t have to actually visualize to know exists.

“Why n-no sirens? It’s been what, ten minutes since that nine-one-one call?”

“County badges are probably a half-hour drive away in good weather,” he counters calmly as to lower the rapidly rising frustration of her tone. “Interstate’s like a hockey rink out there. Side-roads are twice as slick. They’re probably slidin’, slippin’ and stumblin’ all over and around each other trying to get here.”

“Never th-there when you need ‘em, r-right?” she huffs, thumping the side of her head lightly against the shower tile. “Small-town cops more…used to busting stills or chasing down…chicken thieves. Jesus wept.”

Figuring diversion to be the best course to deflect a building tsunami of hysteria, the man largely ignores the comment and instead dons a mask of bravery, albeit one forged from the thinnest of iron wills. Chest pumped, clinched jaw set tight and chin jutted with a wholly false bravado that nonetheless appears genuine, he finds falling back into a character he’d long since abandoned remarkably easy considering the real-world circumstances at hand. He twists around and peers into tear-filled eyes, their foreheads mere inches apart.

“Hey, we got this. Trust me. I’m no stranger to what appears to be unsurmountable odds. Just follow my lead, all right?”

She nods in silent anguish, her damaged lower lip trembling uncontrollably even as her death grip eases. The man couldn’t help but think there was a rather attractive young lass beneath all the swollen, bloated bruises and open wounds presently on display.

“Okay, I’m thinking he’ll blast the windows and outer door open for drama’s sake, just like all the others, like something from the eighties B-movie the crazy bastard thinks he’s starring in.

“After a quick scan, he’ll more than likely plant a boot against the john door as to conserve ammo. First appendage that floats into range…” he pauses with a wink towards the upraised bat, “…and I’m swinging for the fences. I’ll either pull his ass in here to commence the pounding or shove ‘im back out. Either way, you snatch the kid and dash the hell past wherever we’re not. My Jeep is better on mud than ice, but it’ll take you to safer climes as long as you don’t gun ‘er too severe or lead-foot the brake. Road’s flat enough going west to get you into Pine Bluff without grille-planting a ditch. You got the keys, right?”

The woman nodded, her breathing visibly calmer than when his spiel has initiated.

“Shouldn’t we wait, I mean, on you?”

“Negative, sister. If I score the knockout, I’ll wait around for the county boys. If not,” he shrugs casually, forcing a shaky grin, “well, you sure as hell don’t need to be in range in case he exits this room looking to thumb a ride.”

Yet again resembling a pain-induced grimace than actual smile, the woman strains mightily to match his level of optimism, however faux. The child, eyes wide and unblinking, thin lips pursed to a purple tint, shifts just slightly in the woman’s grip before releasing a weak gasp as if to acknowledge an understanding of the conversation. The man gauges her age at between perhaps five and seven, a rail-thin waif with marble-round, gleaming brown eyes and a shoulder-length, tar-black coif whose fleeting existence was now hopelessly distorted for whatever timespan remained.

“The name’s Fowler, by the way,” the woman whispers, gently tonguing a deep, raw chasm at her ravaged lower lip in the aftermath. “Dana Fowler. Not exactly the Valentine’s Day celebration I h-had in mind.”

“Barrow,” he replies with the wink of a badly bloodshot right eye, his thick mustache moistened from melting snow. “Deron Barrow. Same here. Not a damn thing sweet to see here, right? Still, pleased to make your acquaintance, ma’am, though I sure as hell wish it was under better circumsta—”

The initial blast echoes like a detonated bomb, the man instantly leaping from the tub and planting his back flat against the wall in the limited space between the shower and bathroom door, the woman’s shrieking wails lost in a follow-up explosion that opens a fist-sized hole at the center of their flimsy barricade.

“Showtime, soldier,” the man groans between gritted lips, inhaling deeply and holding it with the mini-slugger poised at shoulder-level, his free hand reaching back, palm out, like a fleshy red light for his charges to obey.

Terse, tension-packed seconds pass as if sporadically freeze-framed to move forward in fragmented puzzle-pieces, the man’s squinty gaze frozen on the smoking ruin of their shattered blockade.

So, this is it: reality warfare revisited, all these years later, he ponders as the pulse at his temples pounds a frenzied solo. The life-and-death real deal, up close and personalized, only this time with a different twist. Not just my ass on the line this time around.

The broken door sails inward with a vicious jerk at the insistence of a square-toed cowboy boot with a snake design running its smooth, suede length from tip to heel.

Wouldn’t you just know it? Shit-kicker heaven, the man muses, lunging forth with a booming roar as the bat uncoils in a blackened blur.

One

Into the Think Tank

(From the Private Journal of Deron Joseph Barrow)

August 2019 Entry

Boone’s Crossing (four miles east of Holly Springs), Mississippi

That mid-morning in late April—might as well have been mid-July as far as my sweat glands were concerned—as I sat slumped over my trusty old Selectric II, pecking away at a snail’s pace, started out like most. The day’s second cup of coffee sat cooling to my right, parked just inches from the piled pages of the initial draft of what was fast becoming a manuscript of doorstop-size proportions; a half-eaten bagel with cream cheese took up the opposite end of the scar-infested oak typing stand, the latter purchased for a cool three bucks at a Corinth flea market a few years previous. Last but not least: a half-emptied tube of Ben Gay propped on a nearby window seal, its pungent scent radiating from an exposed left knee that still, despite three early-morning coatings, throbbed and pulsed like a rotted molar.

It wasn’t until I detected the faint sound of tires rolling over the gravel drive to the north side of the property that normalcy and routine were fated to take a permanent powder, though I was as yet ignorant of that fact. Looking back, it wasn’t as if a sudden surge of telepathy would’ve changed what was to come. Some things are just meant to be, no matter the timespan between that first domino falling and the last following suit. What one sows, he or she shall eventually reap. Cliché city, I know, but truer than a dozen of the most prophetic fortune cookies. As one learns when youth becomes middle-age and beyond, twenty-one years is but a flash on that ever-spinning wheel of time.

I spotted the mystery vehicle, not nearly as covert once its humming engine grew closer, as it glided slowly between the aged elms at the east end. The roaring engine cut off even as it continued its final roll, leaving the unmistakable guitar chords of AC/DC’s “Back in Black” thumping from the stereo to pick up the slack.

Rising from the rickety high-back that had served as my writing throne since the manuscript’s inception, the sharp cracking of my knees—one in particular—managed to temporarily drown out both a stiff mid-morning breeze and the glorious bellowing of Brian Johnson.

Radio silenced, a vehicle door soon slammed. Heavy boots or similar foot apparel crunched atop loose gravel.

“Greetings and salutations from civilized society!” shouted a familiar, gravelly voice, “Where ya at, partner?”

My own voice, having gone several days in mute mode from a welcome lack of human contact, croaked and cracked like a pubescent teen.

“Coming at you, Tank. Long time, brother.”

He stepped around the Ram thirty-five hundred’s sleek, massive hood just as I hopped down from the shack’s lower step.

“I’d say. Three, four months, right?”

“At least.”

Matching grins: the sincere, comfortable kind shared only by those whose bond is forged not just merely by time but circumstance. It’d been two, maybe three months since our last jawing session. I found I welcomed this particular intrusion. Lance “Tank” Garrett was without a doubt one of very few I could say that about.

We shook hands firmly and strolled silently towards the main house, where a matching set of recently refurbished rocking chairs awaited atop the front porch.

“How’s the knee?” he asked, head titled to study my gait as we ambled along.

“Nuts and bolts still holding firm but I won’t be entering a marathon anytime soon. Hey, I’ve got a semi-fresh pot of java brewed up,” I offered as our destination was reached and we soon began rocking away in almost perfect unison.

“Had plenty. More than a cup these days and I might as well tote a porta-potty on my back for easy access.”

The shared nod executed was also with almost supernatural sameness.

“So what ya been up to out here in the middle of blessed nowhere, Deron Joseph?”

Two sentences and I was already dead-letter certain this wasn’t just a social visit.

“Stopped by the station on the way. Locked up tight. What gives?”

Without breaking stride, Tank pulled a pack of smokes from a front shirt pocket and proceeded to light up. Five years my senior—meaning he’d tipped just over six decades of earthy existence—the man’s weathered face appeared carved from granite. His slim features served as a clever disguise for the rock-hard muscle worn as an outer shell.

“Lost my slot, at least ‘til they figure out how to retool to something more hip. In other words, probably tap city as far as my future employment goes. No sweat, really. More time to tap the keys.”

Tank grunted, and we rocked in brief silence as, in the distance, a semi’s horn echoed like the foghorn of a lost schooner. Being that the main highway was a four-plus mile ride from the homestead, the wind on rare occasions would serve proof of the four-lane’s existence.

“You still that certain someone’s favorite charity, I take it.”

“By the tenth of every month, like clockwork.”

“So no pressure to bring home the weekly bacon then. At least there’s that.”

I’d often pondered how a man’s perspective is altered if his reasoning to maintain gainful employment is tied only to the time it fills and not the necessity of the salary earned. In the almost fifteen years since my last bona fide “to eat or not eat” job, I wondered how many life decisions, especially the bad ones, might’ve gone the other way if that certain financial buffer hadn’t existed. Luckily, I also realized that obsessing did little nothing to solve anything so utterly hypothetical.

“So,” I switched gears quickly, the previous subject birthing a tidal wave of unease and mild shame, “how goes the security biz?”

The earlier breeze having evaporated, Tank’s face was temporarily cloaked in a stagnant cloud of fag smoke, the pungent stench of which served as a flagship of memories both haunting and treasured.

“Honestly dude, didn’t Lucky Stripes stop production in the late eighties?” I jabbed, frantically waving both hands to clear to air between us.

“Hilarious as ever,” he retorted, just the hint of a smile denting that granite visage. “Though I recall last time you told that joke it was Chesterfields.

“As for the aforementioned query, there is definitely no shortage of crime on the mean streets of the Rock, partner. Gangs are basically runnin’ three-fourths of our fair city.”

“I foresee no issue with job security for, say, the next century or thereabouts.”

“Correct me if I’m wrong, but weren’t you thinking of hanging it up around this time last year?”

“Yeah, well, it’s kinda embarrassin’ to confess, but I’m not exactly humpin’ it from dawn to dust these days. More like a series of weekly cameo appearances to make sure things are copasetic at the home office. Not an easy thing givin’ up a slice of cake that rich. ‘Sides, I get the feelin’ that a permanent reassignment to the homestead might just cause some serious dents in my own marital status.”

I reached over and tapped a heavily tattooed forearm with a tip of an elbow.

“You hinting that Wendy might prefer you keep busy and out from under foot?”

“Hinting, hell. Nail on the head, brother. Anybody ever ask me about the secret to a thirty-plus year marriage and I’ll tell ‘em it’s keepin’ your distance for the majority of said span. Give each other ample space. Wendy and I have found a Grand Canyon-type area agreeable.”

“Nice. Wish you’d have shared such invaluable wisdom around two wives back,” I ribbed, tossing up both arms in faux exasperation.

With that, Tank scanned the surrounding grounds as if expecting the sudden teleportation of a familiar face.

“Speaking of which, where’s Jenny? I was hopin’ for some of those special eggrolls of hers.”

“Lumpia?” I inquired indifferently, understanding the tap-dance he’d initiated.

“Yeah boy. Mouth-waterin’.”

“Afraid you’ll have to hop a bird to Cebu, dude.”

“Oh, she visitin’ the homeland, is she?”

“You might say that.”

Tank’s rocker hit the brakes, obviously breaking our paranormal rhythm. I didn’t have to glance over to imagine the dramatically tilted head; the squinted eyes; the characteristic sneer of befuddlement.

“Aw, crap. Don’t tell me. Trouble in paradise, partner?”

“A fool’s paradise if it ever qualified to begin with,” I replied, noticing with no small amount of embarrassment the disorder of the front yard. Knee-high grass infested with crabgrass and dandelions that hadn’t seen a mower blade in what appeared like a solid month. On either side of the mailbox—a good thirty-yard walk down the dirt/gravel (mostly dirt) drive—leaned a pair of rust-ravaged garbage cans overflowing with tattered bags that somehow, miraculously, had been spared the local raccoon population’s curiosity. Lucky thing the nearest neighbor was old man Pruitt a half-mile up the road or I might’ve found myself victim of a surprise midnight garbage bonfire.

“Is it any wonder? Jeez Louise, the place is a sty unfit for pigs. Can’t remember the last time I hauled the trash away. For that matter, the last time I dragged a bag from the kitchen.”

“So she left your lazy ass for not takin’ out the garbage?” Tank snorted while rejoining the rocking party and, within seconds, falling right back into a steady cadence.

“Tip of the separation iceberg.”

“‘Zat so?”

“Let’s just say Jen didn’t consider Holly Springs the American dream she’d envisioned, much less Boone’s Crossing. Can’t say I blame her. Not exactly a thrill a minute.”

“Well, it ain’t like you didn’t do some travelin’ in, the what? Five or six years since she flew over?”

“Almost seven. Yeah, if you consider Jackson, Biloxi and Orleans a proper representation of the country as a whole. Kind of pathetic, in retrospect.”

“Didn’t you trek over to Gulf Shores a few winters back?”

I nodded casually, though in truth the very fact I’d completely forgotten that specific trip underlined my indifference to the subject as a whole. Bottom line, I hadn’t cared enough to resolve the problem of my latest, soon-to-be ex-wife’s boredom and overall dissatisfaction with small-town life.

“Biloxi, Mobile, Orleans; same thing really. A natural beach lover that one, for obvious reasons. Me? I couldn’t give a rat’s hairy hind end if I ever saw another spec of sand.”

Never a big fan of secondhand cancer-stick smoke, even in my heaviest bar-hopping days, I nevertheless found myself appreciative of its company when compared with the drifting stench of neglected trash.

“So, pray tell old buddy, what does Deron Joseph Barrow give a rodent’s ass about?”

“Same as the last time we chewed the fat, I reckon.”

“That book thing, ya mean? Holy cats, man, you’ve been hammerin’ away at that for what, three years now?”

“Four, but who’s counting?”

“Well, right off the bat I’d say your better half.”

We traded sly grins, tendril-thin smoke billowing from each of his dramatically flaring nostrils.

“Touché, partner.”

“So, she purchase a one-way ticket?”

“For now, yeah. We’ll see. We’ve been face-timing on Skype every other day or so. Maybe she just needs some time. Maybe we both do.”

The casual jawing session having apparently run its course, we rocked quietly for a full minute. Knowing Tank like I did, and thus figuring waiting on him to get the actual purpose of his visit might mean rocking on that front porch until the passing of summer into fall, I quickly caved.

“So what’s up? I can’t imagine you made that multi-hour drive just to swap tales of marital woe.”

“Tell ya what, I might just have a cup of joe after all,” he replied with surprising sternness while staring straight ahead into nothing. “You might want to pour yourself something a tad stouter.”

With that, we relocated indoors to the living room, which was, sad to say, not much of an upgrade in terms of neatness from the disaster of the front yard.

“Maid’s year off?” he cracked while clearing a space from the couch as I searched the kitchen cabinets for two clean cups.

“Hey, feel free to commit a neatness if the urge arises,” I managed to volley despite a building trepidation.

“Brother, I’d have to rent a backhoe.”

The old hacienda, built in the mid-seventies, far past its prime and bought on the cheap by yours truly nearly a decade past, was most definitely missing its mama. Jenny was, if not quite your basic OCD neat freak, not one to tolerate the overt slob tendencies I’d acquired in her absence. During our Skype sessions, I’d at least possessed the common sense—and survival skills—to strategically clean up whatever area might pan into camera range.

Moments later, with steaming mug of Death Wish in hand, Tank sighed heavily, looking as blatantly ill-at-ease as I’d witnessed in our almost three-decade friendship.

He sipped noisily, eyeing me with a pained scowl as I took a seat in the recliner directly across from the couch.

“Dang good joe. What ya got there, a White Russian?”

I raised my cup—a large black mug with a faded Mississippi State Bulldog gracing its bulk—and executed a semi-toast.

“You know I cut out the booze years ago. Well, all but the occasional brew. Now, what’s this dreadful news that you seem to think will shove me, arms flailing, right back off the souse wagon?”

As Tank paused for an additional sip and accompanying grimace, I felt my heart skip a beat. I hadn’t felt such a rush of dread since a certain military court proceeding that concluded quite negatively for yours truly.

“Well, maybe I am bein’ a bit of a drama king in that respect. You be the judge.”

Maybe it was living relatively stress free for such a lengthy spell, but as my old friend sat his cup aside, folded his arms, leaned back and commenced with his tale, I was only able to quell the shaking of my own hands by squeezing that MSU mug to the point of implosion.

“A few weeks back, I had a potential client request a meetin’, a client that had requested me by name as their first contact. Not exactly a regular occurrence these days—I’m more of the on-site consultant type after the sale—but not altogether bizarre either.

“So meet ‘em I did, for brew and nachos down at Carlito’s downtown. Straight-laced and very professional, as clean-cut, stone-cold serious and to-the-point as any I’ve met. No beatin’ around the bush with those two. A man and woman, the former tall, slim and bespectacled, a walkin’, talkin’ CPA if I ever saw one, the latter sweet-talkin’, strikingly attractive and upper-class elegance personified. Turns out their interest in me had beans to do with security, and everything to do with the fact that I might steer ‘em to you.”

And there it was. In the aftermath, every ounce of pre-explanation stress and concern were vanquished, snuffed out like a candle flame in a monsoon. Two quick sips of brew—unlike Tank I preferred a little coffee with my sugar and cream—and a quiet belch later, I regarded my old friend with a deep frown birthed from utter disbelief.

“And this was supposed to trigger a mental meltdown? Damn, Tank. You really consider me that unstable? Don’t tell me, media types digging for that exclusive front-page story? Better yet, internet bloggers with far too many slow news days of late that caught wind of a potentially hot take? You do understand that this is far from a new phenomenon in the last decade-and-a-half or so? Hell, If I had a ten-spot for every jackass junior-grade TV producer or B-grade novelist that proposed to give my story the ‘fair, unbiased’ angle it deserved, you and I wouldn’t be parked in this shithole but some Pacific island mansion with a staff of buxom, scantily-clad servants providing refills along with unlimited eye-candy.”

My rant had little or no effect, as Tank’s expression remained as hard and stoic post-rant as it had pre.

“You ought to at least listen to ‘em, Deron.”

“And why the hell should I? What separates them from all the others just looking for a quick cash-grab at my…at the expense of those who lived it?”

Tank leaned forward, eyes squinting as if he were staring directly into the midday sun.

“You consider me a pretty decent judge of character?”

I nodded, albeit stubbornly hesitant. Lance Garrett was, in truth, probably the best judge of people I’d ever known, but I wasn’t about to lose the argument, even in the face of such cold, hard fact.

“Well, I can’t really explain it but they were just…different. As you recall, I was present at more than a few of those previous, um, offers, through the years. These two were, well, sincerely passionate, for want of a better term. Besides, I think you need to consider at least a courtesy listen for other reasons.”

Here it came, right on cue. Even if I wasn’t in the mood to hear it. The truth is known, very often, to hurt. This was no exception. Still, logic and good sense be damned, I didn’t have to like it.

“Look around ya, buddy,” he continued, in the tough-love, tried and true ‘schooled-by-Tank’ mode that I’d witnessed countless times as a casual observer but rarely been the target of. “It ain’t squalor, sure, but it does bring to the forefront that you could, and should, be doing better for yourself, and to Jen for that matter. Not-so-mystery monthly allotment aside, you don’t have to just scrape by. Plus which, twenty-plus years is a long spell to be fightin’ a battle when you’re both the one throwin’ the haymakers and catchin’ ‘em on the chin.

“Besides, if the story is told the factual and correct way, why shouldn’t you cash in? From my corner, I don’t see a damn thing to be ashamed of. Truth to told, I never have.”

Sure, I wanted to get mad, go berserk and start throwing shit while screaming at my oldest—and perhaps only true—friend to take his advice and opinions and shove ‘em. Instead, I calmly sat back and sipped quietly as he did the same. We traded slurping noises—dueling smacks, if you will—for several surprisingly mellow moments, the ticking sound of a nearby wall clock the lone distraction other than our own swigging.

“So tell me what impressed you so much about this pair,” I finally said, potential berserker mode having quickly passed.

Perhaps relieved at my relatively easygoing response and openness to the prospects, Tank retrieved yet another smoke and parked it between bared teeth. To this day, it amazes me no end those possessing the almost supernatural skill to belt out lengthy speeches with a cigarette bouncing wildly atop a lower lip as if stapled into place. I swear Tank could negotiate hurricane winds without misplacing a single spec of tobacco.

“Well, if I was to put my finger on it, it was the fact that they weren’t pushy in the least. Cool, calm and professional with nary a single hard sell tactic. Then again, it could be they’re savin’ all those peculiar techniques for you. Bottom line, the lady in charge simply stated they had an idea for a project that wasn’t about demonizing the bad guys or sanctifying the good. Fair and balanced story-tellin’, I think she put it, written to cover all the dramatic bases with one-hundred-percent honesty and without the usual Hollywood sweetener or punch-ups. They weren’t promising the moon, just asking for a fair shot to tell a story that deserved tellin’. I tell ya, Deron, my inner BS monitor was as quiet as a church mouse for the duration of the interview. No easy feat, advancin’ years and fadin’ superpowers not withstandin’.”

“Agreed,” I replied, pausing for a trio of sips of rapidly-cooling java. “But like you said, they might be saving up the PR push for yours truly, complete with the requisite promises of fame, fortune and infamy. Remember those assclowns from Full Moon? Their suits spouted the same crap and the final script draft read like some soft-corn porn serial killer space opera.”

Tank nodded knowingly while finally torching his smoke. Pretty subtle, hardly noticeable at all, but that was the first time I took note of a slight tremor of his left hand.

“Or that independent crew out of Santa Carla that offered to fly me to Amsterdam for a month of unlimited booze, dope and carnal sins, all for the right to change my character into some kinda Bizarro-World hybrid of Dick Clark DJ by day and transvestite vigilante by night. Of course, the fine print of their contract also stated this would constitute full payment for my permission to thoroughly butcher reality.”

“Yep, seems I do recall you tellin’ me about that particular offer,” he cackled softly, tendrils of smoke spewing from both nostrils. “From what I gather about these two, they’re strictly documentary flick-makers dedicated to their craft. That was one thing that struck me as original about ‘em. They confessed right off that any budget would be of the shoe-string variety and whatever money was paid out in the aftermath of the project would come from profits made on home video and streamin’ services. Apparently, they do have some seriously tanked-up PR folks in the company bullpen that have the capability to take such a project and slowly turn it into a hit on the home market.”

Lying to myself was pointless. There was a twinge of excitement at the possibility. A faint tingling at the scalp, a spattering of butterfly wings tickling the inner gut. Conversely, a palpable sense of distrust remained firmly intact. Not nearly a virgin to such conflicting emotions since the late nineties, there was but one way to declare a clear winner: tally up the pros and cons of either taking a dive or retreating back to square one.

“I dunno. Trust is a hard thing to come by, especially considering that most days I’d rather not be reminded about the subject matter at hand. Time hasn’t altered that mindset. I may not be the hothead of yesteryear, but the level of stubbornness has increased ten-fold. I get what you’re saying about the money and closure and the need to stop beating myself up over the whole deal but allowing a group of strangers to have the final say is, to me anyhow, comparable to tip-toeing barefoot and blindfolded through a field littered with claymores.”

“I got’cha, boss. I’d be similarly cautious, if not more so,” he said between huffs before pausing to paw through his wallet, though not before donning a pair of reading glasses to aid in the search. I couldn’t help but smile at the sight, tempted to bombard my old friend with assorted geezer jokes. That is, ‘til I recalled my own rapidly deteriorating state.

Pocketing the bifocals, he leaned up and over with hand (complete with barely detectable shake) extended, a black and gold business card pinched between thumb and forefinger.

“Still, here ya go. They said take your time, but not too long, whatever the hell that means.”

Solid in stock—no Vistaprint dot com special here—with bright, vibrant blue lettering inside a dark crimson border, it read simply “Dragon Lady Productions, LLC” and provided phone and fax numbers along with an email address and website URL.

Tank pushed himself from the couch, having tossed what remained of his smoke into the coffee mug, which briefly shook so vigorously I thought he might accidentally toss it across the room.

“How long?” I asked, gesturing towards the clutched cup, now clasped in a double-fisted death-grip.

He briefly regarded his own grasping mitts as if they belonged to someone else, obviously having grown accustomed to playing dumb, before remembering to whom he spoke and coming clean with a resounding sigh.

“Funny. The right started shakin’ first but now the left has passed it by in both consistency and frequency of tremors. Didn’t cave to see a sawbones ‘til ‘bout six months ago, and not even then until Wendy threatened to slip a mickey into my mornin’ java and haul me there herself. Parkinson’s runs in the genes from way back from my ma’s side. Guess I was hopin’ it would skip more than a single generation. No such luck, Chuck.”

“Prognosis?”

“Not good, señor. I’ll fight the bastard all the way though. This you know. I worry more for Eric and hope like hell it does at least skip the next one.”

Eric, currently a junior at Memphis State and the couple’s only child.

I nodded, smiling as broadly as possible despite feeling as if I’d been gut-punched.

“For now, worry about yourself. Goes without saying you can count on me for anything you or Wendy need.”

“Good for now, but the offer is duly noted and appreciated.”

No doubt desperate to switch channels, he tip-toed over and around the assorted piles of organized mess littering our path towards the front door.

“Say, since I drove all this way, how’s about an early lunch?”

“Sounds like a winner. Take your pick: the Sonic drive-through or Maggie’s Munchables.”

“Maggie’s still servin’ chicken ‘n dumplin’s with cabbage and pinto beans?” he grinned mischievously. Same old Tank. Never one to forget a plate of top-notch grub, despite, if I recall correctly, only visiting the source of said spread a single time in his lifespan.

“Best in the state, maybe this part of the country.”

With that, Lance “Tank” Garret, former security police specialist, non-commissioned officer and participant in many an armed conflict and all-around tough guy, smacked his lips like a drooling toddler at the mere prospect.

“Well by all means, soldier, lock up this here hooch and let us make tracks. Promise to get ya back to your precious typewriter before dark.”

As had been the case for the duration of our friendship, said promise was kept, as was the continued oath we’d unofficially reestablished while shaking hands upon his departure.

From there, I had some serious decision-making to undertake. No better place than behind the keys of my trusty Selectric with a fresh cup of steaming joe parked nearby.