Hard Bite

by Anonymous-9

I like to kill people.

It's important to admit the truth to yourself, even if you lie to others, and I do a lot of lying in my line of work. Inside my head, I try to keep the truth black and white, no grey area: I like to kill. I love to kill, people.

Sid knows we're going somewhere tonight because my eyes keep flicking to the clock, and it usually means we've got a job to do.

I found my latest target online, at a news site. A national story, local to Los Angeles. Killing locally is a necessity, since I'm not really mobile. A Mac with assistive technologies enables me to work the keyboard.

Assistive technology is a code word for "stuff that helps cripples use a computer." Easy to understand, right? Because it's the truth. People have a hard time with truth when it comes bent and deformed, crushed, or hideous—so they invent terms like assistive technologies to sidestep the one word that makes it crystal clear: cripple.

Crippled.

Crippling.

I went from noun to action verb riding a year-long bed of pain. After flirting with suicide, which lost its appeal contemplated deeply, a fresh start in rough justice sounded right. Why settle for cripple when you can be crippling, ha ha.

I admit, I don't look very imposing. It's my wheelchair, the steel hand, my pencil neck that would flop over and crack from the weight of my head if it weren't for the metal rod holding it up. I look useless, you think. You think wrong. And fuck you, by the way, for your perception. I bring righteous vengeance to evil people. I make a living, and take care of myself, by myself. What do you do with your life motherfucker???? ..........Sorry, I rant sometimes. Sorry, buddy. Keep reading. Please.

I was going to tell you about a few successful kills. At first I called myself an assassin to give the impression I wasn't just a whack job lusting for blood—there's a larger reason why I kill. But then Merriam Webster ruined that idea by defining it as "killing for impersonal reasons" and that's incorrect. I kill for extremely personal reasons. Starting with the individual who hit me with his black BMW, carrying me ten blocks on the grille, braking so I'd fall off, and gunning over top of me, shattering my neck, crushing my left arm and feet, and squashing my large intestine to mush. I can't digest much of anything, but my dick still works. Go figger.

Uh oh, look at that clock. Time's a-wastin'. Sid needs one more practice session before show time.

I drop my right shoulder so my neck is exposed. "Soft bite, Sid."

Sid scrambles up my body, so light and fast he's more like a breeze than a weight, and locates the bulging jugular vein. He gently squeezes it with his canines. Ever see a picture of a thirteen-year-old capuchin monkey's canine teeth? They're about a half inch long, curved and sharp. Sid lets go and gives me a lick.

"Good boy. Get down. Fetch pencil."

In one spring, Sid is on the desk, expertly plucking a pencil from a cup.

"Here." I extend my lips like I want to be fed.

Sid puts the pencil in my mouth.

I grip it and say out of the corner of my mouth, "Hard bite."

He snaps the thing off in one crunch. I taught Sid to bite using varying pressure—from a delicate bite that wouldn't break the skin on an overripe pear, to a hard bite right through wood. Then I got him used to biting close to my head and neck. He's smart enough to make the mental jump, and ace a hard bite to a guy's jugular. Later this evening, hopefully.

Sid is motivated to perform, thanks to my unique training and reward system. No nuts and bananas for Sid. When he does well, I let him watch monkey porn; a download of capuchins humping, and let him masturbate to it. Yeah, I know how you feel, but I get mine from a rental chick once a week, so he deserves some, too.

Cinda says she doesn't give anybody else bareback BJs, but me, so I'm trusting she's got no STDs. Of course she sees clients off her internet ads, but that's all condomized. She trusts I'm not seeing anybody. Who would see me? I look like an AIDS patient already, my eyeballs sunk in the sockets, cheeks hollowed out. That being said, Cinda actually calls me her boyfriend and I don't pay anymore. Says she feels safe with me. I guess when a woman's been kicked around like Cinda, a guy bolted into a wheelchair is a plus. I might see Cinda later tonight.

Hit and runs are my thing. The kind where a driver drags a little old lady over a block of speedbumps, breaks her in pieces, and hightails it out of there. Or a methed-out witch plows through a little kid and puts the pedal down. I read every bit of news on local hit-and-runs. There are always people who can put two and two together—body shops and paint jobbers, people in the vicinity—they all have a little something for me.

What...you thought I cruise the city on a cripple scooter, playing detective? First of all, I ride an old-school motorized chair with big, spoked wheels, not a pussy scooter. I like the shock value. Second, everybody's on the net looking for drugs, sex, whatever. Hit and run drivers are not the most upstanding citizens. Anybody who flees the broken body of a person they've crashed is into nefarious shit in some other area of their life, guaranteed. I find 'em, uncover whatever illegal or immoral thing they want, and represent myself as the person who can deliver.

When necessary, I go out driving. You're wondering how a guy like me with one hand, and feet that don't work, got licensed. I didn't. My driving is 100% illegal. Illegal but not unsafe; there are five hands in my vehicle. One of mine still works, and Sid has four. Even his feet have opposable thumbs. Sid can't steer, but he hits the signal switch for me and assists with hand controls. I've got a chopped 1979 Chevy van with a handicap-access hydraulic ramp that extends and retracts out the rear. I cruise up the ramp, through the back, to the steering wheel. My chair locks into place.

In case you think I'm a danger on the road with a subhuman co-pilot, my advice to you is: never underestimate the abilities of a monkey with a porn habit. Can't beat it for keeping him motivated. Sorry about the pun.

My last kill, I let the guy try some dope in the back of the van—GBH, very popular with date rapists—knocked him out cold. Then Sid and I drove out Pacific Coast Highway to the Malibu canyons till we found a good spot. Backed the van up, opened the rear doors, beamed the guy out on the hydraulic ramp and dropped him a hundred feet off the cliff. Took weeks to find his broken, maggot-rotted corpse.

Would you look at that—Sid is jumping up and down; body language for let's roll. I tuck the van keys in my pocket. He hops on my shoulder, and we head for the elevator to the parking garage. The plan is real simple: meet the target in Lakewood, a nice 'burb of Long Beach—at a park. Late, there won't be anybody around. After Sid does his veinal chomp, the guy should bleed out in two minutes or less, and away we go. That's the plan, anyway.

Outside, there's a light drizzle, which is great, because nobody in LA goes out in any kind of wet, especially after midnight. We drive east on Washington Boulevard to Lincoln, head south a few blocks and catch the 91 to the 405. Sid is doing great with the signal switch. Wouldn't you know my cell phone rings, but Sid is all over it, pressing Call/Ans and Speaker.

"Where are you?" Cinda's voice is low and steady. Sexy without trying.

"In the van."

"Are you...?"

"Yes, on my way."

I'm meeting the driver of a Mustang who clipped a father of four riding his bicycle at 7:30 a.m. on a Sunday morning. The daddy fought for his life a long time, hidden in a drainage ditch, while people who could have helped drove on by, not knowing. He was barely cold when a neighborhood search party traced his bike route and found him.

"Are you in Long Beach now?"

"Close to." I turn into the parking area.

There were no paint traces, no witnesses. Mr. Mustang would have gone clean except for a dent he got banged out. Moron told the body shop he'd struck a bicyclist. Illegal employees won't talk to cops, but they spilled it in Spanglish to me.

Since the hit, the driver developed a Klonopin habit. Rumor has it, a guilty conscience can cause chronic tension, and Klonopin is a powerful anti-anxiety.You should try it sometime. One 0.5mg tablet induces relaxation on par with overboiled linguine. I passed myself off as a connection for generic prescription Klonopin, and that's supposedly why we're meeting at the park tonight—to do a drug deal.

"I'm here now."

My van swings into the lot. Another set of headlights flash making the same turn.

"He's here. I'll call you."

The target parks and walks over. I motion him in the passenger side. Seeing Sid, he shakes his head, makes a face. A sign from me, and Sid rolls down the window.

"I'm not getting in there with no fucking monkey."

"He's a pet. He's harmless."

He gives me the horrified, disgusted look I tend to attract from strangers—I have less visual appeal than Sid, obviously. It hasn't dawned on this guy that had the father of four lived, he might have ended up looking like me.

"Fuck this, too wierd."

He turns on his heel and starts back to the Mustang.

It's now or never. I look at Sid, point to the guy.

"Hard bite."

Sid blinks at me. For a second it doesn't look like he gets it—I'll have to watch this thug walk away with murder. Sid studies my face. Whatever his simian brain sees there catapults him out the window. In three jumps, he's across the pavement, and has the guy's pant leg. A flash, and he's climbing, canines bared.

The guy screams, arms wind milling, and breaks into a lopsided run. Sid takes a hard slap across the head. I hear Sid accelerate to monkey rage, and the two of them crash into a clump of bushes. I lose sight; all I can hear is bracken crunching, branches whipping, the man screaming over Sid's guttural grunts and chirps.

All goes still.

My heart hammers. The whole park, quiet as death.

Sid erupts from the bushes, bounds toward the van, and throws himself through the window, dripping blood and goo, wild-eyed.

I hear a long moan from the undergrowth—throw the van in reverse and turn shakily out of the lot. Sid's in no shape to help, but we have to get a move on.

A few miles down Carson Boulevard is a nice, suburban neighborhood, not so fancy an old van will be out of place, not so ghetto that people watch every move. I pull in a few streets, cut the engine, and press Cinda's number. Sid stops bouncing off the walls, now covered with bloody splotches, and curls in a ball on the floor. His fur is shiny and slick with blood. I can't tell if the blood is his.

"The guy was alive when I left the park. If Sid just nicked him, he could still spray some blood and be fine."

Neither of us voice the obvious; if the guy is "fine" my description will be circulating with police soon.

"You need Sid washed, find out if he's wounded, and clean the van. Can you find a coin-op car wash?"

"Hosing Sid with cold water right now might not be a good idea. I've got to find a warm place to bathe him."

Back on Carson, several gas stations turn up, but the ones with bathrooms outside and around the back, don't have hot water. Restaurants pass by, but the restrooms inside are multi-stall. If somebody walked in and saw a blood-soaked monkey splashing in the sink it would be over. I'm considering the wisdom of ordering about fifty cups of takeout tea at a drive-through, just for the hot water component, and rinsing Sid cup by cup, when I see a sign: 24-Hour Gym Inc.

I leave Sid with the van and roll inside. It's as busy as you'd expect at nearly one in the morning.

I approach the lone guy at the desk. "How ya doing. I want to buy a membership."

You should see the guy's face. He's taking a good look at me; could go either way.

I point to a poster. "Platinum level."

Interest sparks in his eyes. I continue, "I need a sauna. It's good for my injury."

His brain works that around, making sense of me, the crippled guy who likes heat, the commission on a Platinum membership. Ka-ching.

"You get towel service with Platinum."

I know this already because it says so on the poster. I also know the facility is handicap access and by law, there has to be at least one shower you can roll a chair into, usually equipped with a hand held shower wand.

"Would you like a tour?"

"Nope I just want to sign up and get in there."

Paperwork and a credit card later, I'm rolling back to the van, supposedly to get my gym bag. I keep an old backpack full of monkey treats in the rear. My plan is to empty it, and convince Sid to get in, so I can smuggle him into the shower.

He's shivering on the front seat. I make a mental note never to travel without a blanket again. He doesn't look happy, but lets me coax him into the bag with a treat, and zip it over his head.

I hear a little monkey sigh something like, "What a frickin' night."

I pat the bag. "It's okay Sid. Hot shower coming up."

Too bad there's no beer, he could use a drink.

The desk guy gets me a towel and doesn't notice the faint chewing sound coming from the backpack.

Sure enough, in the men's change room there's a cripple shower. I pull the curtain closed and unzip.

Sid rolls his eyes up like, WTF?

I get the shower going—a gentle spray, nice and warm, and for once, Sid doesn't complain about getting a bath. Two liberal soapings, and he's good as new. Not a mark on him.

I rinse the backpack, intent on drying it at the hand blower before getting Sid back inside. I shove the curtain open, and in the shower opposite, a woman has her back to us. A woman. This is the men's change room. Curvy hips and nice round butt cheeks, small waist—here comes my hard-on. She turns around, soaping her breasts, and we both scream at the same time. She has a dick. Not a big dick like those operated-on she-males that are just guys with implants—but a real little two-inch soft dick with pussy lips below.

He-she is bug-eyed at a monkey in the room, and my jaw is hanging, looking from titties to dick, dick to titties. We make eye contact.

"Excuse me," we both shout at the same time.

She snaps the curtain shut, and I wheel the hell out of there.

Sid and I get back to the van without incident. Have to admit, I'm a little shaken. Some people have their bodies altered by accident, like me. Others come out of the womb that way. I'll remember that the next time I want to feel sorry for myself.

Back in the van, I call Cinda.

"Sid's okay."

Cinda makes a relieved sound. "There's a coin-op carwash at Norwalk and Del Amo."

"In Lakewood?"

"More like Hawaiian Gardens."

"Gang Banger Gardens?"

"Fraid so. I could send you to Cerritos, but there's more police presence."

"I'll take my chances with the Mexican mafia."

"Stay in touch."

The carwash is a bargain for six quarters and the change machine even works. It's one of those open air, cement-stall drive-in places where you work the hose yourself. Nobody's here, no pedestrians, hardly any traffic on the wet streets. I throw the van doors wide, put Sid on my shoulder and turn the high pressure hose on the interior. It's going to be a squishy ride back to LA.

We're nearly done when Sid does the inexplicable—he leaps away and goes bounding down a back alley.

I roll after him, whisper-shouting his name—the last thing we need is attention from the locals. Grimy, cinderblock garages line the alley. One has the door up, spilling a square of light onto cracked cement. Sid stops in the dingy yellow and cringes, watching. The tortured sounds of an animal stands hair up on my neck.

A man with his back turned is hanging a muscular pit bull to death. It gags and jerks, drool dripping from the swollen, protruding tongue. Another dog, scabbed and scarred, is tied close, barking like hell—the graceless end of a failed fight dog.

"Let the dog down!" I hear myself command, immediately thinking what the fuck am I doing?

The dog convulses. His executioner, a scrabble-survived son of the third world, whirls, and laughs.

"What you going to do?"

I said, "CUT THE DOG DOWN."

"Hey man, you look dead already, maybe I help you faster."

He leers in my face, as a rock smacks the bridge of his nose. I don't have to look—Sid is a sure shot with projectiles. I lash out my steel hand and catch a corner of the guy's mouth, ripping it open to his ear. He falls, gurgling blood, and I slash the hanging dog free—he thuds to the dirt, hauling great gulps of air. The tied dog gnaws ravenously at his own rope.

We don't wait to see the credits. Sid leaps onboard as my chair reverses out. The tied pit breaks free. One mighty lunge, and his slavering jaws lock around the fallen man's windpipe. The snarling and flesh-ripping fades as Sid and I haul ass up the alley.

My van is still okay in the wash bay. We pull out, and the two pits lumber into view, drooling red. They look one way, then the other, deciding on a direction, and head north. We don't wave goodbye.

Cinda and I spend a sleepless night, while Sid snores on the couch. We surf for news and avoid the subject of traceable evidence. Cinda creates the perfect distraction by splaying her legs on my desk so I can roll in close, and get her in the mood to reciprocate.

At 6 a.m. we turn on the TV news.

"Two men are dead after a series of animal attacks in Long Beach last night, one in Lakewood Park and another a few miles away in Hawaiian Gardens. Both victims had their throats torn, consistent with dog attacks. It's not known if the same canines were involved in both deaths. Last night's rainfall has made tracing difficult, say police."

A grin spreads across Cinda's face, and mine is pretty wide, too.

"What direction did you say those dogs headed?"

"North."

"Hope they're still running."

"All the way to Canada, baby, all the way."

- END -