Chapter 6 - The Trickster

1:14

Above restraint the tides of sorrow rise…

A new wave of panic washes over the necropolis. Someone has pulled the fire alarm that now drones a perfidious warning. Bong… bong… bong… it’s a death march ringing down the stacks.

I lift my head. At the end of the classics, a young woman: strawberry blond, wearing blue jeans and a tee-shirt trips as she tries to escape and now frozen on her hands and knees, remains terrified. She’s all blubbery with tears and snot and her face is twisted out of shape with the dread of death. Out in the open, vulnerable and unprotected, she fails to take flight. On the brink of a blank oblivion, I envision an untimely grave and my heart reaches out to her, willing her to wake-up from her stupor and hide.

Thankfully the gods afford her a peculiar grace. A young man darting out from beneath a study cubicle scoops up the girl. He pulls her along and together they stumble towards the stairwell, disappearing down stairs towards safety. 

Chapter 5 of my novel "The Trickster."

Skip

Responding to small-mindedness with small-mindedness is how violence is perpetuated. My father shook his head.

Once wise to resolve and patient to perform; the rush of his disapproval alarmed me.

I was nine years old. Our house was in the throes of exaggerated disorder. My mother, Siobhan was ringing her hands, threatening to send me to a psychiatrist. Haven’t we taught you that violence is unacceptable?

He punched me first. My rebuttal amplified my mother’s scorn.

Don’t lie to us. Your teacher said it was unprovoked.

I rolled my eyes.

Skip grabbed me by the collar. He practically lifted me out of my chair and in a growl I’d never heard from him before. Don’t you dare roll your eyes at your mother!

My face contorted with terror.

Do you see how this works? While Skip spoke the ruddy sun had begun to set in the picture window behind him.

His behavior was so out of character, I began to tremble… then cry. But as soon as my sniffling turned to sobs, he pulled me close… cradling me to his chest. Then in a softer voice he cooed. You’re not a violent person are you?

I shook my head.

His green eyes were moist with emotion. So why did you punch that boy?

Virtue seemed lost, I was so confused. He said that Debbie was a slut.

Debbie?

My mom gestured at my father; a coy smile suddenly appearing upon her face, Debbie is that the little girl Valek has a crush on?

I don’t have a crush on her, I blushed.

You punched that boy because he called her a name? The sinking sun darkened into night.

It made her cry.

Mom smiled and a fog misted her eyes. She hugged me and Skip messed up my hair. Well, my boy, why didn’t you say so?

The Trickster Chapter 4

Prelude

I find myself standing upon a carpet of colour. Fallen leaves, for as far the eye can see, blanket the earth in fiery hue. Directly to my right, above the legions of maples, the sky erupts vermilion-orange… illuminating the frost-kissed treetops. And like the burning bush of Moses, one by one the trees catch fire: their red, yellow and orange leaves, sun kissed combust with the first touch of dawn.
My whereabouts are immediately familiar to me. Park Mont Royal, on the dirt path that cuts through the woods of upper Outremont. I’m just a stone’s throw from the cemetery and a whistle of a walk from home.

Savouring the fresh, invigorating air I allow the currents of my dream to carry me out to sea.

But then the tranquility is interrupted. Behind me, crunching through dry leaves… something or someone hurries towards me. I spin around, heavy of heart, fearing some vital stream, a chilling horror froze. But when I spot the source of my apprehension… black and low to the ground, scurrying through the colourful shag, I can’t believe my eyes.

Dropping to my knees, I cry out: Shirley!

The dream, plucking strings, opens my heart.

Woo, woo, woo! The black pug leaps forward and I catch her in my arms. It's been years since she died. She feels so alive I can’t help but surrender to the illusion and falling backwards to the ground I squeeze the dog close to me. Shirley.

Her musky, salami scent tickles at my nose. Whimpering happily, the pug pushes her snout into my face, begins blessing me with a barrage of sloppy doggy-kisses.

How’s my girl? I suspend my disbelief, fighting to suppress the conscious mind that is determined not to let me forget that all of this is an illusion.

Shirley kicks and bucks.

Okay, okay, calm down girl, I place the pug down and climb back to my feet. Shirley is bouncing with excitement, pug dancing: back arched, tail between her legs, sprinting in excited circles all around me.

Conscious of the galling yoke, I surrender to laughter.

Woo, woo, woo, she nips at my shoe. I hadn't noticed, but I'm wearing running apparel: jogging shorts, cross-country footwear and a tee-shirt with a Nike swoosh stamped upon it. Shirley pleads with her barking, challenging me to move.

It's just like old times. Who wants a race? I tease her.

Woo, woo. woo, she howls and tears off down the path.

We spearhead our way up the twisting incline. Shirley, zooming effortlessly ahead of me, leads the way. Racing through the trees, the pug looks over her shoulder, taunting me with her barking, challenging me to keep up with her. Show-off, I call out and shift into a higher gear. But no matter how hard I push, I’m no match for Shirley.

The little prankster is determined to make mischief with me. She slows down only to speed up every time I close the gap. Who’s faster? Are you faster? I cajole as I attempt to rocket ahead. I’m faster than you are! My voice sings out across the morning. But the little fireball will have none of it.

Woo, woo, woo, she kicks it into overdrive and flies away.

On the wings of the wind we set our course, racing towards the back entrance of the cemetery. Near the crematorium, its chimney spilling white plumes of smoke, she slows her pace. What a good girl! Shirley holds her head high as we jog effortlessly, side by side, into the land of the dead.

Zigzagging our way between the tombstones, we move with stealth, barely disturbing the sleeping souls beneath our feet. The fields are pristine with October wild flowers, polished marble and unfading prime. The manicured green is dew-kissed shimmering with the rising sun.

But when we ascend a slope we happen upon a murder of crows. The birds are everywhere: some idle on the lawn, others perched in trees and upon the tombstones. Startled by our arrival, the crows begin to squawk and opening their wings, take to the sky.

However upon closer inspection, I realize they’re not ordinary crows… I hadn’t notice it at first, but all of the rooks are shouldering human heads: including long, jet black, hair and ruby-red mouths from which they spit and screech bloody terror. They’re not birds, they’re harpies.

A shiver of fear washes over me, but my courage is buoyed by Shirley, who leaps off her hind legs, lunging and snapping her jaws at the lowest of the departing human/bird hybrid.

Across the grove her ferocious barking resounds.

We’ll eat your dog and then we’ll eat you. The fifty or sixty transmutations sing in unison. We’ll eat your dog and then we’ll eat you… We’ll eat your dog and then we’ll eat you.

After hollering their chant they set sail across the horizon. But Shirley gives no quarter and continues to chase the flapping murder.
Come on Shirley, let’s go, I begin to run in the opposite direction of the harpies. She responds to my request with a howl, but follows after me just the same.

We swoop to the west, down a slope that leads towards the army of the dead. Together Shirley and I march through neatly arranged rows of white marble headstones: a regiment of soldiers… their markers all standing at attention.

Warriors that the ancient gods adored: these are heroes who gave lost their lives in battle.

We inspect the troops together. As I pass through their ranks I touch headstones and read the epitaphs. One that stands out is the marble of Captain Kim Temple.

Hey look Shirl. As I read the officer’s epitaph aloud Shirley regards me with a cocked head.

In life he was as radiant as the sun... but in death his glory shined even brighter. I make a mental note: tell Kim the next time I see her about my dream.

But the pug shows no interest in Kim Temple. Instead she’s begun growling and yapping. What is it girl? I follow her line of sight and near the chubby pine to my right I spot a red fox scurrying furtively behind a shrub.

Wait, girl, I command. But Shirley is already bounding after feral fox. I hurry after her and watch with apprehension as she dives into the bush. I hold my breath and wait. But when no battle of the fangs erupts I’m grateful that the fox has vanished. However a consternated Shirley, bouncing in circles, sniffs at the air, whimpering.

Let’s go girl, I call her, but then the red tail appears from behind a fifteen-foot high obelisk and Shirley breaks out into a bel-canto of woo woo woos. Wild with excitement, she tears off. But fox is as sly as he is fleet of foot, and darts away, disappearing behind a mossy crypt with the name Bagg engraved upon its cast-iron doors.
Shirley badgers towards the crypt. Should I be worried? Surely the fox, in a fight, will make haste with little Shirley. But my rational mind interjects: O'Brien, you're dreaming.

So instead of fretting, I sprint forward. When I reach the crypt, I spot Shirley. Led by her piggish snout, she sniffs hints of the fox that has eluded her a second time. I surrender authority to her canine instincts and encourage the pint-sized canine to pursue. 

Which way did he go, girl?

She moves to the east and together we trot towards the long shade of two towering maples.

Crimson leaves to the left, orange leaves to the right; we slide under a canopy of glowing pigment. The branches reaching towards the heavens like worshipful arms embrace the sun. Their leaves, as dry as parchment paper, whoosh and whisper... prayers on fire, ignited by the dawn.

As we move beyond the maples, a bronze fireman appears. Standing atop a pillar of marble, he guards the hallowed ground where some thirty firefighters lay buried. A cenotaph raised in honour of death’s eternal fame. The pug and I stroll around Fireman’s Lot, circling the tarnished sentinel.   But our quiet vigil is short-lived. The fox suddenly dashes out from behind a tombstone and Shirley is off again, sprinting up an incline.

I follow after her, marvelling at my dream-time strength and agility. Superior power, compressed; my breathing is easy, and my heart drums a calm and steady beat. Flying through the air, my feet barely touch the ground. Banking to the right, I follow Shirley.
To match her pace I begin hurdling over headstones. I surprise myself leaping effortlessly over one, two, three, four stones in succession. I move with an athleticism I’ve never known. But my dream prowess proves short-lived when my trailing foot catches on the top of the fifth tombstone and I thump to the ground with a thud.

Shirley slows down and glances over her shoulder. She regards me disdainfully. Her face betrays mixed emotions: to fox or remain loyal to her clumsy friend. She hesitates, but in the end loyalty prevails. Tail sans wag, she walks over to me, head lowered, eyes downcast. Once she’s assessed that the only thing hurt is my ego, she pulls at my sock, hurrying me back into the hunt.
Sorry girl, I stroke the top of her pug-head and rub her ears before making my way back to my feet. But instead of hurrying after fox, Shirley begins sniffing the earth; dances a half-circle to the left and a full circle to the right, squats down and squeezes out a shit right in front of a historic monument. I fret over a plastic bag and then remind myself that in dreamtime shit doesn’t need to be scooped up.

Hey, you little anarchistic, sitting on Sir John Abbott’s grave. What do you think you’re doing? Shirley’s face is euphoric. She finishes up with one final push and then kicks dirt onto the late prime-minister polished stone.  

Now let's find us that fox!

But a sudden a chill rouses goose bumps across my flesh as a shiver runs down my spine. I’m not alone…. When I turn around the intuition is confirmed.

Less than one hundred meters away, a man in a black ball cap regards me. He remains perfectly still. The brim of his hat, pulled low, hides his features. But from my vantage point it could be Arnold Palmer, adorned with navy-blue chinos and a white golf shirt. But when the man looks up and I see his face I can't believe my eyes. Is it possible? He hasn’t guest starred once in any of my dreams since he’s passed. I swallow hard. My heart begins to race, Dad!

When Shirley catches sight of Skip she whimpers. Without prompting, she flies towards him. I’m on her heels. But when we climb to the spot where we saw him, she howls!

Nowhere to be seen, I’m bewildered. I scan the four directions. Cursing myself, I’m certain that I’ve lost him. But then the dull whack of a projectile ricocheting off a tree twenty feet to my left lifts my mood. A golf ball bounces towards me.

Skip is about twenty five yards away. Resplendent as a blaze of summer noon, it is a younger version of my father; not the man who, at the end of his life, was levelled by cancer. This version of my father is the proud and virile man I remember as a boy. He holds a golf club in hand... and as he strides towards me he uses it like a cane.

I should have yelled fore! When the words leave his mouth, Shirley turns around and flies towards him.

Dad chuckles, drops his club and catches the charging pug as she leaps into his arms. She kisses his face, whimpering happily. When I reach my father, he places Shirley on the ground and opens his arms to hug me. The embrace reminds me of the child I once was. His smell... a smoky mix of musk and freshly cut grass triggers a surge of nostalgic emotions.

When we disengage, I begin, Dad... But before I can get the words out, my father cuts me off with a shake of his head and places his hand upon my shoulder.

You shouldn't be here.

Where?

He scolds me affectionately. Valek, you’re hiding from your responsibilities.

I stare at him, confused,

That’s why you’re here. He opens his arms expansively.

I shake my head, disappointed: What are you talking about?

But before dad has a chance to answer, the cemetery fills with the sound of adrenaline inspired excitement. The harpies are back; leaping from trees, spreading their wings and filling the sky with their collective shadow. From their plumes huge drops of blood descend like rain and their raucous cries are so forceful that the earth begins to shake.

First we’ll eat your dog and then we’ll eat you!

First we’ll eat your dog and then we’ll eat you!

The birds swoop down. They descend upon Shirley, pecking and clawing. The pug howls frantically and yelps in pain. I scream out. Shirley!

Woo, woo, woo, she squeals as the frenzy of harpies tear into her. I try to run after her, but I can't. My father is holding me back... his left hand is grasped firmly to my forearm.

Let go of me! But it’s too late. I’m unable to stop what happens next. A spray of blood jettisons from Shirley’s neck as the harpies tear pieces of flesh from her body.

What the Christ are you doing!? I turn towards my father trying to shake him off.

But he’s holding a gun in his free hand that he has pointed at my chest. Tears fill his eyes. Fear the fool you’ve become.

First we’ll eat your dog and then we’ll eat you!

First we’ll eat your dog and then we’ll eat you!

Skip shakes his head. I’m sorry. He pulls the trigger..

The Trickster - Chapter 3

1:12pm

The sirens trumpet a terrifying apocalypse! Their otherworldly music, wild and discordant, intensifies my panic.

Blood… there’s a lot of blood. I’m covered in it. How, I wonder, did I not see this coming? There were hemorrhaging red flags flapping around me all day long. If only I’d paid closer attention. I shake my head; dragged to destruction by the links of fate…

The pain in my stomach is searing. The slightest movement causes a chain reaction of stabbing tremolos to burn through me. Resigned, I burrow down, determined to ride it out. Slouching against a bookshelf, dozens of copies of Homer’s Odyssey all spattered with blood, stare back at me.

The black humour makes me grimace. I suppose I should be grateful that I’m not lying amongst the manuals in the computer programming section… or in between rows of engineering texts. Those sections of the library couldn’t be any less heroic. But here, surrounded by the blind story-teller’s poetry, the irony isn’t lost.

Anticipating the coming fury; Homer’s words resound. And like the stalwart Ulysses I listen to the song that the sirens sing.

In the past I grimaced whenever a squawking emergency vehicle raced past. The overbearing scream of horns, the high pitch squeal ricocheting off my eardrums has always unnerved me. But today, the duet of police and ambulance sirens is a life-affirming melody to behold. While the rest of the world, like the shipmates of the wily Greek, plug their ears against the terrifying wail, the sirens’ song sets my spirit free.

Above restraint the tides of sorrow burst their banks… Why would someone shoot me?

The necropolis, normally austere and quiet, now reverberates with shock and awe. Frightened pleas and involuntary crying float down the stacks, bleeding panic and confusion. Students are running in all directions. Some bewildered, in a state of shock, wander out in the open: mannequins and zombies just waiting to be picked off. Others, hidden beneath study cubicles have turned on their cell phone cameras and aim their devices in my direction.

If these are my final moments, I prefer to look inward, pining for home… for Ithaca… for Molly.

Lying in a pool of my own blood I realize something: hope defrauds those it has promised to save. I know it doesn’t sound all that profound… but at this moment… Christ, I’m so fucked! I have dreams and a child on the way. This can’t be happening.

Clearly I’m in shock. My short-term memory, short-circuited, provides no clue as to how I ended up like this. The hole in my stomach is large enough to fit my thumb. Worse, the amount of blood bubbling out doesn’t bode well for my future.

Taking a deep breath I try to make sense of my predicament. What’s the last thing I remember? Shackled to my fate, I rack my brain but can’t free my short-term memory. What the fuck happened to me?

I begin to rewind, going further back in time to the start of my day. And in a flash I find myself back in that moment when dream and consciousness played tricks with me. I remember feeling fractured apart: locked in a tug-of-war between dimensions. Compelled I lost myself in the illusions that Hypnos conjured up for me.

Chapter two of my novel "The Trickster."

Skip

Don’t grow up to be like your grandfather, Skip’s voice rose from the floor. I’m begging you. He was lying on his back, studying the plumbing underneath the bathroom sink.

The recollection startles me. The flash of the heroic sire from which my youth had sprung wrenches open memory banks that flood me with nostalgia. Vice-grip in hand, Skip cursed at the leaky pipe he was wrestling with. Son of a bitch!

Why? Gramps was alright. I was 18 years-old, naive, filled with an unwavering faith in myself.

He never worked an honest day in his life. Skip slid out from under the sink and sat upright.

But he was happy.

He was an entertainer and a charismatic… I’ll give you that. But he never provided for his family. The head shake was quintessential Skip: totally dismissive. What little money he made from playing music, he gambled and drank away. Pause. Is that your idea of happiness?

I ignored the question and jump-started ahead to what my father really wanted to talk about. Just because I want to be a painter doesn’t mean I’m going to turn into an asshole.

Climbing onto his feet, he placed a hand on my shoulder. I know that.

We’d fallen into this conversation countless times after Skip learned that I was enrolling in art school. In retrospect it all seems so laughable. Those hot-headed debates about art and my future are meaningless shadows now. By the end of his life Skip was my biggest fan, a convert who was convinced that painting was my true calling. But back in ‘81, my father feared that his firstborn would become entangled in the same dark web that undermined his own father’s artistic ambitions: drugs, alcoholism and depression.

Skip was still in his prime. A year shy of fifty, he was as strapping as most men fifteen years his junior. His green eyes were clear and sparkled with an unwavering certainty about the world they interpreted. A no-frills sort of person who laboured hard for the betterment of his family, he was a pragmatist who looked the part. Void of flash, from the clothes he wore to the car he traveled in, practicality was the force that motivated him. A much respected, no-nonsense high school teacher, he was the polar opposite of his Dionysian father. Where gramps was compelled by his muse Skip, the stoic, shied away from her call.

What stratagems he formed what toils he bore! For months he cajoled and encouraged, pressing me to study engineering or law… anything but the Goddam arts. But the harder he pulled the more I pushed. It was maddening; he was in such complete denial about my nature. He just couldn’t accept how similarly gramps and I were hard-wired.

I just think you’d be better served with a degree that is going to make you a little money.

I exaggerated a yawn.

Don’t give me your attitude... Skip started to lose his temper, but managed to keep it in check.

The thought of another lecture about me ‘wasting my life’ was making my skin crawl. So I steeled myself, bracing for the obligatory speech about irresponsible artists and the life of poverty I should expect.

Skip sighed: Listen. Do you want me to support your decision?

I was caught off guard by the tactic and answered him hesitantly: Ah… absolutely.

Then you have to promise me something.

Our eyes met. What?

Promise me that you won’t attempt to live on painting alone. Skip took a deep breath. You can’t believe the burden my mother had to carry around. If it wasn’t for Margaret, there wouldn’t have been any food on our table. Skip messed up my hair. I don’t want you to be the kind of person who can’t provide for his family.

Beloved old man! Benevolent as wise… I nodded my head.

If your grandfather had been a bit more grounded. Had he been willing to take a part-time job, something that brought in a steady income… Skip shrugged his shoulders; his eyes glazed with concern. But Ray was too proud. He was so obsessed with his music he ignored his responsibilities.

I laughed.

What’s so funny? A look of irritation flashed upon the Skip’s face, but quickly disappeared once he’d heard my explanation.

I’ve been working part-time jobs since I was fourteen. I’d be lying if I told you that I believed I won’t have one when I’m sixty-five. 

The Trickster - Chapter 1

Tell me, O Muse, of that ingenious hero who traveled far and wide after he had sacked the famous town of Troy.

It

From the time I first set eyes on it, it has laboured too hard to impress me. Unable to grasp that with each attempt to win my favour I respect it less, I’m tortured by its constant need for approval.

It’s the sound of its voice that makes my skin snake. The way it ruins every potential silence with its moronic monologues is grating enough, but its compulsion to repeat anecdotes, ad nausea is what makes me despise it even more.

The lowly cur is a coward and a fraud. A dog that thinks crass manipulations make it clever. Cursed, it is the bane of the necropolis. Its presence in the library makes me dread the days I’m scheduled to work with it…

A part-time employee and full time dirt-bag, the two days a week that it punches in transforms the endless hours of book sorting into a Sisyphus crawl. Forced to endure its endless blather, it has worn my patience down with an assault of pornography, misrule and disgrace. It poses as a student, enrolled in the creative writing program, but its literary ambitions extend no further than to the drugs it peddles on campus,

There’s this dope-head in the school’s HR department who loves my weed. It must have repeated this story two dozen times. He told me that if I enrolled at the university he could pull some strings and get me this library gig. So I signed up for the most Mickey Mouse program this shit hole offers: creative writing.

Laughter… It’s so gangsta! Not only am I making an hourly wage shelving books I’m raking in tons of coin selling bud and ecstasy right out of the stacks.

This is the part of the tale he loved to repeat the most. For you this is just your average shit job that you can’t wait to shake, right bro? It would often accompany this remark with the placement of one of its paws upon my shoulder. Me, I’m clearing a thousand bills a week.

Ranging the dark bounds of a drug dealer’s reign… it dreams of nothing but profit.

The bonus, it confessed, is that creative writing students are a dope peddler’s bonanza. Self-loathing pot heads are great for business and the creative writing department is filled with them. What a sweet stunt! And I don’t even have to sweat about the academic standards.

It leaned close and whispered confidentially into my ear. The herb I sell is so dope I’ve made an arrangement with a couple of students in the program to write my essays in exchange for eighths.

A delegate of Neptune’s watery reign… it turns the necropolis into drug-deal-central whenever it’s on the clock. Between rows of books, right in front of me, I’ve witnessed countless indiscretions. Sometimes when money and product are exchanged, it winks at me conspiratorially. On one occasion when a bag stuffed with grass fell out of its jacket pocket while it was hanging its coat up in the staff lounge I cleared my throat and pointed at the ground.

Gray, pasty and hungover, it looked me straight in the eye and smiled. Most of my customers would have waited for me to bounce before scooping that up without me noticing.

I shook my head. Maybe if I was a smoker I might have done the same thing.

It laughed. You don’t partake?

Just the thought of its sales pitch made me uneasy. I don’t touch the stuff, I lied. There’s a reason they call that shit dope.

No kidding. The scrawny blade of grass bubbled with delight. Potheads; they’re sheep just waiting to be fleeced.

Every time it opens its mouth: the braggart’s stink of ignorance and halitosis fills the air. I suppose it’s the undeserved bravado that I especially dislike. The way it struts around, cock of the block, imagining its self a player. It’s painful to watch. No street-smart Casanova, on the contrary, it is a nervous wreck: a nail-biter and cuticle-chewer whose fingertips are bloodied and scabbed. More a filthy punk than a Bugsy Malone, it is a lowly drug grunt, destined to remain at the bottom rung of the criminal ladder.

The manifestation of some cruel power; I curse the fates for having introduced it to me. I’ve distrusted it from the start. Any hope it had of earning my respect disappeared that morning, shortly after it was hired when it offered me a ride. It had spotted me as it was driving down Sherbrooke in its 1987 rusted out Volkswagen Rabbit. It slammed on the brakes and skidded to a stop at the corner of St Laurent. The passenger door opened; the stink of marijuana wafted out.

Wanna lift?

Cringing, I reluctantly accepted but made a mental-note never to walk to work down Sherbrooke again.

Pimp ride, I commented as I sat down.

It frowned, hurt by my sarcasm. Yeah, well, I’m saving for a Chrysler 300.

On a library assistant’s salary? I laughed.

As we traveled west it cursed and spat profanities at every driver it shared the road with. But when a Ford Bronco cut us off it really began to tilt: leaning on the horn in a completely inappropriate fashion. Its animal face turned purple. The nostrils flared and it stepped on the gas, racing to catch up with the offending driver. After rolling down the window, it hollered: You stupid cunt! The insult embarrassed me. Adding to my shame, a wad of phlegm, spat from its mouth, splatted onto the Bronco’s front windshield.

Its road rage was exasperating. The ponderous engine surging was determined to crush us all; I could feel my blood catching fire and my hands knotting into fists. You’re lucky she’s a woman and not a pissed off carpenter with a hammer tucked under his seat.

It turned to face me. Fuck that! It flapped a hand dismissively at the world beyond its car. Man or woman… if they drive like an asshole I’m going to get up in their face…

Anyone ever call you out?

It pointed at the glove compartment: Open it up.

Excuse me?

Open it; I want to show you something.

I pressed the button and opened the drawer.

It smiled mischievously: On top of the maps. There’s a canister. Take it out.

After fumbling inside the box, I latched onto a small inhaler-sized cylinder. What is it?

Don’t point it at me! It laughed proudly, its mace.

I returned the weapon back to the compartment. Have you ever used it? I regretted asking the question as soon as it came out of my mouth.

About a year ago this asshole in a red BMW cut me off on the Decarie. After obscene gestures were exchanged this weasel prick started tailing me. I scoped him in my rear view mirror screaming smack at me. The stupid faggot must have thought he was GSP or some shit like that ‘cause, when I exited the freeway, he’s treating me like a bitch, driving up my ass. It shook its head. The stupid cracker followed me south all the way St Catherine. It looked away from the road and smiled at me.

It claimed that it turned into a grocery store parking lot in Lower Westmount. Well past midnight, the secluded space was dark and empty. Its adversary followed, leaving a trail of rubber in the parking lot where he slammed on the breaks. I stepped out of my ride and marched right up to him. As soon as that dumb fuck stepped from his vehicle I aimed the mace and blasted the stupid cock-sucker right in the face...

It chuckled. The son of a bitch didn't know what hit him. He fell to his knees, blinded, wailing like a baby torn away from the tit.

It pondered over a left hand turn before resuming its tale of violence. Did that cunt ever get it! I stepped back and lined him up good. His eyes were so clouded with tears he couldn’t see what was coming next. And with all the force I could muster I punted that motherfucker right in the side of the head. The toe of my boot caught him right in the ear.

It laughed again. This is the best part. His head literally made a popping sound before his body buckled to the ground. And the blood, holy fuck, did the blood ever pour out of him!

It was smiling proudly. It was totally Scarface. He tried to pick himself up off the ground, but collapsed under the weight of his effort. As a final insult I walked over to his car, removed the keys from the ignition and tossed them over the fence into an adjacent field. Then I pissed on the front seat of his car before driving away.