Mercutio


“This is she! This is she!”
“Peace, peace, Mercutio, peace! Thou talk'st of nothing.”



Part II

† Mercutio †


     “What’s the matter with you, Marine?!” said the man from Naval Investigative Service. Dust blew all around us. He snatched the goggles from my face. My left side went numb. I opened my mouth to speak but no sound came out. There was only a sucking noise.
 

I fell to the street, just 500 meters from the gate of our compound at the edge of Mogadishu city. I watched the sky roll by while men carried me. I heard the rotors of a CH-53 Sea Stallion. Someone placed an oxygen mask over my face. Gunny had finally done it, he’d killed me.

****

     “Wake up Wagner!”


     I opened my eyes. Gunnery sergeant Higgle thrust his head through the side window of the Humvee. Corporal Fahrad stood behind him at parade rest.


     “And just like that you’re a dead man,” said Gunny Higgle. He opened my door. “Come on, sergeant. Lock it on a bit for the corporal here. Don’t teach him how to get killed on his first day in this god-forsaken place.”


     “He’s from here,” I said. I climbed from the vehicle then elevated the muzzle of my M-16.

     

     “Well twist my balls in a bow,” Gunny said, “Ain’t that kind of a conflict of interest there, corporal?”


     “I don’t understand,” said Corporal Fahrad.


     “He’s the interpreter,” I said.


     “Fair enough,” said Gunny, “Not trying to offend, just situation awareness, devil dogs. Gotta keep her tight before the money-shot. Follow me, marines, you’re late.”


     We followed Gunny Higgle. It was 05:40, March 28th, 1994. We entered a tent full of officers and enlisted men. Thousands of Marines from the 15th MEU (Part of the Marine Air Ground Task Force) had hit the beaches back in December. Gunny and I’d been here since August. We’d lost 18 men and two Blackhawk helicopters in October. A thirty thousand-man media circus called Operation Restore Hope didn’t do much to help matters either. President Clinton ordered all U.S. Forces to withdraw from Somalia by the 31st of the month. Everyone was going home. Everyone except for us.

     “Alright, listen up!” said a Major in desert cammies. “Eyeballs!” The tent fell silent. “Let’s talk security for a moment,” said the major, “Since General Aidiz continues to defy the United Nations, even though we are pulling out, we will still utilize all necessary means-”


     “Ooh-rah!” said a sergeant in sunglasses.


     “Easy, hard-charger,” said the major, “all necessary means to ensure the protection of the relief efforts. That includes this compound.” His eyes searched the faces of the men standing in the tent. “Gunnery sergeant Higgle?”


     “Sir,” said Gunny.


     “I want security det. to commence building to building sweeps and disarm the local population around the perimeter of the-”


     “Country club?” someone said in the crowd.


     “Supply Det,” the major said. “And do not take this lightly, devil dogs. Just because you’re short and ready to go home does not necessarily mean you will make it back. Plenty of marines in this room have seen what kind of price there is to pay for those who fuck around. We have snipers in the buildings behind 7th motor’s fence-line again. I want that shit suppressed before the final convoys arrive.”


     “Aye sir,” said Gunny.


     We all looked to one another.


     “That’s right, gentlemen,” said the major, “We’re meeting our final relief flights at the airport for one last tango in Paris. We’ll run six 5-ton trucks loaded with supplies then a Humvee with a 50cal. on the roof in escort. Another six trucks then a Hummer, and so on. The convoy will move past the Bermuda Triangle and down the green line. That means crossing the territories of two warlords, four militant sub-factions, and the generally pissed-off local population. The route ends right here at Supply depot."


     “Rules of engagement sir?” said a captain in the front.


     “We come in peace, if you fuck us we will kill you,” said the major, “That’s pretty much the policy for the moment. But remember, gentlemen, you will still be under the all seeing eye of the Associated press, CNN, the BBC, and fucking Telemundo. The media is everywhere, Marines. Do not make me have to grab my ankles in front of the old man because you did something stupid on TV. Cause if I’m grabbing mine then you’re definitely grabbing yours, you understand me?”

     “Yes sir!” we all said.


     “Situation awareness, gentlemen,” said the major, “This general Aidiz is a real piece of shit.”


Corporal Fahrad swallowed.


     “Anticipate and stay focused on the task at hand. If you get killed on my watch, marines, you will be in a world of shit.” The major stood at attention.


     “Atten-tion!” Said a first sergeant. We all complied. He saluted the Major.


     “Carry out the plan of the day,” said the major. He saluted and left. We filed out of the tent behind him, putting our helmets back on.


     “You need a weapon,” I told corporal Fahrad.


     “Slow down, devil dog,” said Gunny. “He doesn’t need anything yet. Get the troops behind the C.P. I’m gonna take a dump in the new porta-johns then meet you in five.” He walked off.


     “Is he always like that?” said corporal Fahrad.


     “You’re the only marine in the entire corps who speaks Somali?”


     “Yes, It’s just... I’m, only a reservist.”


     “and?”


     “I do this stuff on the weekends, man.” Fahrad’s chest heaved. He looked around our perimeter. “I was in my engineering class and two marines showed up and told me to follow them. No one told me I was going to be...” Fahrad’s eyes glistened.


     “Pull it together, devil dog,” I said, “Gunny coming.”


     Maybe I should have stayed in school after all, I thought to myself. I envied corporal Fahrad for a moment, then I didn’t envy him at all. “Could be worse,” I said. I chambered a round and engaged the safety on my M-16 with my thumb.


     “Okay, I’ve got us a driver,” said Gunny.


     “Driver?”


     “Got a problem with that, Sergeant Wagner? I want you with me.” 

     “Aye, Gunny.”


     Gunny reached into a duffle bag. “Here you go, Somalia. I brought you a weapon.” He tossed corporal Fahrad a bullhorn.

****

     “We come in peace. If you turn in your weapons we will give you food and medicine.”


     The voice of Corporal Fahrad echoed down the street, speaking Somali. A lone Humvee cruised in front of the buildings, beyond the fence-line. A woman Marine drove. Gunny and I peered over the rooftop of the third building, watching them, then pulled our heads back down. Bermúdez placed the bipod of his M-249 SAW on the brick ledge. PFC Thompson opened a second can of ammo, stretching the bandoleer of rounds within easy reach of their weapon.


     “Building two has hall exits and a fire escape down its port side,” whispered Gunny, “That is your only responsibility, Bermúdez. Do not fuck it up. Kill anyone who crosses this sector of fire, understand?”


     Bermúdez nodded. Gunny winked at me. I tightened my harness. Gunny counted with his fingers.


Three...
Two...
One...


     Gunny and I stepped onto the ledge of the building. I let body fall forward, committing to the drop, headfirst. Rope trailed out behind me. I kept my M-16 trained on the ground with my left hand. I brought my right to my chest to initiate friction. We ran down the wall in an Austrailian rappel. I hit the pavement and took cover behind a barrel of trash, in the alleyway between the two buildings.


     Gunny nodded.


     We ran, without making a sound, from hard cover to soft cover, leapfrogging each other’s positions without need for words nor hand signals. From a dumpster - to an abandoned car - to a rock pile - through a broken first floor window - down a hall - into the stairwell - 2nd floor - 3rd floor - 5th floor - we stopped with our backs against each side of the 5th floor doorframe. I nodded. Gunny opened it. I walked into the hall with my M-16 at the ready.


     The second fire team, led by Corporal Donovan, trained their rifles on my head and torso. They recognized me then elevated their muzzles. Gunny walked into the hall. He pointed to various doors. We each took a position in front of one. Gunny looked at his watch.


     “We come in peace. If you turn in your weapons we will give you food and medicine.”

 

     The Humvee was right outside the building now. Gunny walked to the end of the hallway and put on his earpiece.


     “Do not move unless we hear gunfire,” said Gunny’s voice in my earpiece, “Lance Corporal Hargett, tell Somalia to step out of the vehicle please.” Gunny took aim at the door in front of him. We all did the same.

     “We come in peace-”

 

     Shots fired.


     We kicked in the doors. I shot the sniper in the back. An antique M-1 rifle dropped to the floor. He fell. I shot him again in the back of the head. Blood pooled around him.


     I turned to leave. Gunny had been watching me. He walked over to the dead man and crouched down, looking him over. Gunny touched the blood on the floor with his fingertips. He stood.


     “Blood make the grass grow,” Gunny said. He ran his finger over my nose and chin, leaving a stain.


     “Kill, kill, kill,” I replied. Gunny turned and left. I stood there, trembling. 


     He knew.


     I hadn’t told N.I.S. anything about Okinawa, but Gunny must have known they’d questioned me. That’s why Billy Joe was driving today. That’s why he was keeping me so close. And that’s when I knew none of us would make it back to Japan.

Tacos (a memoir)

It was a beautiful morning. The haze hadn’t risen to the northernmost part of Mexico City yet plus everything was wet, like sand before the corridas. The grounds of Reclusorio Norte had been hosed down before dawn then scrubbed with brooms and Fabuloso. You could smell it in the morning air, even from the second floor tier of dormitorio cuatro. They called it the United Nations building.

I stood in my bathrobe, in the passageway outside the open door of my celda. I suppose one could call it a cell. It had bars and a door that locked. But the bars had been long since covered with sheet rock. Carpenters had framed in a kitchen counter, cabinets, and a private baño. There was a refrigerator, a large screen TV, a DVD player, and two bunks made of concrete with Sealy posturepedic mattresses.

Columbus, the Nigerian, and the new french guy from the Ivory Coast were already playing tennis on the courts downstairs. I looked over at the the gates to see who was in the caseta (guardshack). It was Telles. He’s the custodio responsible for keeping out the riffraff. The U.N. building housed very important criminals, like the heads of the Mexican narco cartels, as well as those who had the money and inclination to pay for that type of lifestyle.

The rent on my cell was 10,000 pesos a month (about a thousand U.S.) paid out nightly to the custodios. Not an easy feat to make that kind of rent while you’re in prison. But they gave me ten years, so I had to think a little more long term. My lawyer was having dinner with an important judge though. They all tell you that. So let’s just say I wasn’t holding my breath anymore. I was trying to survive and to create a somewhat safe space to write, and most importantly, a space to lay low.

That was the problem.

Since I moved my fellow marine, Eddie, into my cell and brought him to the U.N., the entire balance of power in the prison had shifted in the most dangerous ways. Don Servando was the head of the Familia Michoacana cartel. He was one of my benefactors and my neighbor three doors down. When I was in a pinch, he helped me open a restaurant, instead of letting me get deeper into trouble just so I could cover the high rent at the U.N.

“Everyone has to eat,” he’d told me.

I watched Carlitos give Telles twenty pesos at the gate. He entered the courtyard unmolested. Carlos was twenty-three. He’d been in the reclusorio since he was sixteen. He used to have a place in the U.N. until some cop who killed a journalist paid to have Carlos moved to another building, to a 15 men per room kind of building. That sort of thing happens everyday. Carlos owned half of our restaurant “Hungry Jose’s.” Today we were closed. He was coming over early so we could watch the world cup at my place on the big screen. I’d stepped outside to meet him because Eddie and six or seven of Don Servando’s henchmen were still passed out all over the floor from the party last night.

Don Serbando forbids his men to use dope. But since Eddie showed up and started throwing so much money around, all of Serbando’s main soldiers had lost all their discipline. Most of them were former cops and hitmen. Now they were becoming fat, lazy, crackheads. And Don Servando blamed me for their corruption, since I was the one who had brought Eddie to the U.N. What’s worse, they lied to him and said they weren’t partying with Eddie. He knew they were all crashed out on my floor. He’d already peeked in on them before the sun came up. The suspense was nauseating. It was really effecting my writing.

“Don Servando, buenos dias!” I said, trying to at least make everyone aware that he was approaching.

He gave me a hard glance in passing. He was pissed. He was getting his own coffee this morning. Plus I’d closed Hungry Jose’s for the game so he’d have to venture even further. As soon as he passed, I woke everybody up. They vanished before he returned. I was so stressed out I forgot to tell Charlie about the tacos when he met me at the top of the stairs. Some kid had stopped by the gate in a panic last night and asked me to tell Charlie to give him his tacos. Whatever that meant.

A half hour later all was forgotten and Charlie and I were watching the world cup.

The kid from last night walked through my front door. He had a busted lip and two black eyes. All of his hair and eyebrows had been crudely shaved off. He marched over to corner of the room, picked up a pair of soccer cleats and split Charlie’s head open with them.  They went at it, rolling all over the floor. I tried to break them apart. We all kind of fell out of the cell into the hallway. A crowd gathered. I pulled the guy off Charlie. Running and bleeding, Charlie escaped down the stairs. The kid was, after all, affiliated with the cartel. Then everyone looked at me. I let the kid go and walked back to my cell.

The crowd shouted all kinds of threats. The gathering of vigilantes grew in number outside my door. No one entered the room though. They knew about the marine thing. They’d seen Eddie and I in action before. No one wanted to charge in first.

“Lynch him!”
“Kill that son-of-his-whore mother!”
“Show him what happens to those who pass the dick in México!”

They pumped each other up outside my door, gathering their resolve to cross that point of no return.  I sat on the edge of my bunk. People died everyday in the reclusorios of México, yet to kill a gavacho… or was I a Mexican? It seemed like no one in the corridor desired to be the first to attack.

Máguila grinned with a mouthful of metal and missing teeth. He stood in the doorway and drew Excalibur from his pantsʼ leg. It was a makeshift sword he always carried. He used to brag about he killed people with just one good stab. Last new year’s eve we talked about Musashi and bushido. I’d thought we’d become at least a little closer than this bullshit. He swung the crude blade above the heads of the vigilantes. Bloodstains peppered the duct-tape wrapped around its handle. The lynch-mob cheered.

“Thatʼs the way, Máguila, show him!”

“Who has more dick than that, boys?!”

I rose from the edge of my bunk. I tried to maintain control over my heart rate and breathing. I held a steak knife in one hand a pencil in the other. I crouched into a fighting stance.

“Weʼre going to kill you, cabrón!” said someone in the crowd.

“I know,” I said, “I also know that I’ll kill the first two or three of you who attack me,
before I’m dead. I swear to you.”

Eyes in the crowd searched for reassurance. No one stepped inside the cell. I remembered then that tacos can also mean soccer cleats. Tacos - a small word with more than one meaning. Charlie had borrowed them from the kid, the kid had borrowed them from someone else, and now I was about to die for them. It’s always the smallest things that end up killing you in this world. I didn’t want to die over tacos but I had no choice now.

“Who wants to die with me today?”

Máguila smiled.

“Who’s ready to come with me?”

Máguila stepped into the room.

Carry on My Wayward Son

Friday night.

Good morning, Devil Dogs. Mission accomplished.

I’ve found him.

It took three weeks of recon, five tanks of gas, two bottles of Wild Turkey,  a drive from Santa Cruz, California to Sacramento, to Eureka, to Redding, then to the Bureau of Indian Affairs and finally to the tribal police on the Hoopa Indian reservation, but I located our brother marine,  Cpl. Gene Ryan.

We were squad leaders together in boot camp, (3rd BN. Kilo Company, Platoon 3029). We ran into each other a year later in Okinawa, Japan. From Okinawa we deployed to Somalia together as a security detachment in 93’ then spent a hairy-assed year in the shit, until “the incident” that sent me home occurred. We have neither seen nor heard from each other since.

The debriefing in Virginia had been a bit rattling for me. The confidentiality agreement we signed forbade us to speak about anything, much less have contact with the marines who were present when the rounds started going down range, at least for a period of five years. Once the five years were up, I was already in Mexico and in the middle of another world of shit. So I have never had the opportunity to find out what became of Cpl. Gene Ryan.

I guess I’ve been looking for closure lately. Being back in the U.S. and on this new crusade of conscience and curiosity, I had to know. I needed answers. I was afraid of the answers, either way it could turn out, but I just needed to know.

Did Gene readjust, adapt, and become Joe civilian when he came home? Was I just some mal-adapted freak of nurture? Had Gene able to do what so many of us have been incapable of pulling off? My mind wandered back to a time that I’ve tried to put as many miles and years in between as possible.

Until now.

The snow on top of Mt. Shasta reminded me of Mt. Fuji, of Camp Fuji, of Japan in general. I got out of the car and stared out over the lake for a while. Gene used to talk about fishing here when we were in Mogadishu. I climbed back into the car. It was a hot bitch. I guess spring would be over early this year.

“All that goddamned Aqua Net…” I said. I drove off.

I pulled up to the Win River Casino Bingo at sunset.

I’d already found Gene’s Grandfather earlier that morning around ten. He’s a full-blooded Pit River / Hoopa Indian Marine from the Korean War. We got to drinking and talking so much that I passed the whole day on the porch in front of his trailer with him. I laughed so hard I cried. God knows I needed it.

“Discipline creates strength, and perfection comes from absolute focus.” he had told me sometime that morning.

I repeated it to myself. Gene’s grandfather was an amazing human being. I found it hard to leave for some reason.

He gave me Gene’s work address. Gene was now a security guard at the Indian Casino Bingo Palace, on the Pit River reservation. Gene is only a quarter American Indian, the rest of him is Irish, so he makes one hell of a drinking buddy. He nearly got us butchered by a group of Yakuza in a bar in Okinawa once. He wouldn’t eat some egg dish then he started patting the boss guy on the top of his head like in a three stooges movie…. I’ll tell you later. You get the gist though.

The Win River Casino was in the middle of nowhere. The parking lot rumbled with activity. Groups of guys gathered around pickups with gun racks in their rear windows, drinking beer.

I didn’t even make it half way across the parking lot.

“You looking for someone?” said someone.

I avoided them. Walking, I counted them. They followed. The someone guy repeated his question. The group blocked my path, and there we were, in some sort of half-assed Sergio Leone cliche -

a Casino Bingo standoff.

I regretted not wearing my USMC baseball cap. It usually serves as a deterrent for undisciplined civilian types.

“Very well,” I said.

“Very what?” said Mr. someone.

“Well.” I said.

“Well, what?” said someone.

I grabbed his trachea with one hand and his Mr. someone in the other then pulled him towards me, using him as a human shield. I backed away from his friends.

Gene hit me in the back of the head with a Maglight.

I was still glad to see him, once I could see him, and when I saw him I told him he was a shitty security guard. I said he would probably get sued someday with that ready-fire-aim mentality of his.

Gene smiled. Tears streamed down his cheeks. He had already pepper sprayed me, himself, and all of the casino bingo parking lot mafia before the situation was explained and contained enough to finally talk with each other. We had a lot of catching up to do.

We’re heading back to San Francisco now.

I didn’t feel welcome on the “res” anymore. I don’t think the res was feeling me either. Plus, I want to introduce Gene to my wife and family. I want take him out on the town then get some answers, some peroxide, alcohol wipes, and some bandages for my head too.

“Why did you tell those guys you had swine flu?” said Gene.

“Gotta’ improvise, hard-charger.” I said. “Psychological warfare.”

Gene is driving my car for me.

I’m on the keyboard.

The lights of the city are just now coming into view.

It’s 12:06am.

Talk to you soon, my brothers, wherever you are.

Stay green, disinfect and keep it clean…

Semper Fi.

Dos(e) part 1

Saturday, September 9^th, 22:43hrs

Hunter fought them. 

Six men in shirtsleeves struggled to hold him down on the floor of a freight trailer. One of the men carried a clipboard and a flashlight. He shouted orders to the others. Hunter fought them when they stripped him. Keys jingled. Sweat poured. Men grunted. They lifted and dragged him to a plastic tank of water the size of a coffin. It was bolted down. It had a lid with a lock.

The man with the clipboard mentioned bruises and time of death. Hunter kicked and twisted. The men forced him into the water coffin on his back, submerging him. Hunter stretched his neck out. His lips broke the surface of the water. Hunter took the deepest breath of his life. A hand shoved his face back underwater. The other men slammed the lid closed and locked it.

Hunter watched them roll their sleeves back down, staring down at him, watching and waiting for him to die. If only he were Harry Houdini and this were a magic trick. If there were a hidden key or some secret means to escape but Hunter was no Houdini. Why had he even bothered to hold his breath at all, he thought for a moment. 

Hunter gave in. He let go. He let his heart slow and allowed himself to drift.

“Time of death is 11:46 pm,” said the man with the clipboard. He wrote something down. “Let’s get started, gentlemen.”

****

Thursday, September 7^th, 05:30hrs. Santa Cruz, California…

Hunter held his breath. 

He swam the length of the rooftop swimming pool underwater. He smiled. Hunter reached out for the wall and surfaced on the other side. He climbed out of the pool. A woman in a nurse’s uniform waited for him with a towel. Dawn broke over the Santa Cruz Mountains behind her. The air smelled of salt.  

“Hunter, I don’t think I should go in today,” said Mariposa, “I’m worried.”

“Everything’s fine,” said Hunter. He smiled. “We still have time.” They stopped in front of an elevator. Mariposa shook her head. Hunter nodded. They took the stairs down to Hunter’s flat on the eighth floor of the Palomar Building. Outside his living room window, stone conquistadores stared over downtown and the Pacific Ocean. Mariposa looked down. The black Chevy Tahoe was still there, parked across the street. She looked at her watch. Hunter walked to the dressing room and opened a closet. Eight sets of the same model shirts and pants hung in perfect order at two inch intervals.

“Why we are together, Hunter?” said Mariposa. Hunter dressed in front of a mirror. He watched Mariposa’s reflection. He put on a white short-sleeved shirt, a thin black tie, black trousers, and psychedelic socks. 

“I feel like a facilitator,” said Mariposa, “a lonely, used-up facilitator.” 

“No,” said Hunter.

“Don’t tell me how to feel, you asshole.”

“I’m not.” Hunter washed his hands in the sink then checked under his nails for dirt. There wasn’t any. “I just want to get through this and get the hell out of here. That’s all.”

“I?” said Mariposa.

“We,” said Hunter, “I want us to get through this so we can get out of here.”

“So you squeeze me like an orange and then you want to throw me away,” said Mariposa, “You can admit it now, Hunter, it’s okay…”

Hunter walked to the kitchen.

“I said you can admit it now!” said Mariposa. She followed him. She glanced at the knife sitting on the granite counter-top. Hunter stopped. He grabbed Mariposa by the arms and looked into her eyes.

“I’m with you because I love you,” said Hunter. He tried to kiss her.

“Not because I can get you closer to what you want?” said Mariposa. Hunter let her go.

He put on a black jacket and sunglasses. He took 12 boxes of Altoid’s Mints from the kitchen counter and put them inside a leather briefcase.

“I want to go to the Big Island with you,” said Hunter. He draped a laboratory coat over his forearm.

“That’s not an answer,” said Mariposa.

“Forty-eight hours from now it will be.”

“And what if I don’t go?”

“I don’t want to leave without you, Mariposa.”

“And what if I don’t go to the hospital today?” said Mariposa.

Hunter glanced at the knife on the granite counter-top.

Mariposa smiled.

****

Thursday, September 7^th, 05:33hrs. Santa Cruz, California…

The Big Dipper rollercoaster and the log ride sat silent on the beach from the view at the Fireside Inn. A diamond shaped neon sign out front said ocean views. Darryl smoked cigarettes in the corner room, above a decaying pool and parking lot. He was unshaven. A pencil rested behind his ear. Darryl stared at the wall in front of him. Index cards, threads, and pushpins covered most of the surface area.

U.S. Government

Pharmaceutical Mind Control

Project MK-Ultra

CIA

Stanford Research Clinic, Menlo Park.

Creative writing fellow

Perry Lane

Ken Kesey

Jack Underwood

Agnews Mental Hospital, 

said some of the index cards. They were written in various colors of Sharpie ink.

Darryl pressed the red button on a voice recorder.

“Jack Underwood was a creative writing fellow at Stanford University in 1965,” said Darryl. He lit another cigarette. “He lived on Perry Lane with his wife, Vera. Ken Kesey lived there at the same time. He was working on One Flew over the Cuckoo’s Nest.”

Motorcycle engines roared outside.

Darryl ran to the windows. A dozen men on motorcycles drove into the parking lot. 

“Oh no,” said Darryl. He snatched index cards from the wall. He grabbed a double armful of papers, file folders, and binders from the table and the bed. Men were on the staircase now, outside his door. He reached out to lock it. The door opened. Leather-clad men forced their way into the room. The last one to enter wore a shaved head and a goatee. The words Dirty White Boy were tattooed on the inside of his forearms. He shut the door behind himself.

“Cock-a-doodle-doo,” said the man.

“Ghost,” said Darryl, “aren’t you guys are up at the crack of-”

“-ass?” said Ghost, “Oh yeah, Darryl, me and the boys are always up at the crack of ass.”

Papers spilled from Darryl’s arms. Smoke rose from an ashtray on the bed. 

“Two more days till the Burning Man, sweetheart,” said Ghost, “you must have an address for me by now.”

Darryl swallowed. “That’s what I’ve been working on, Ghost, I’ve been up all night…” 

Ghost placed an arm around Darryl’s shoulder. He steered him towards the bathroom. The men followed. Leather crackled.

“Darryl, let me ask you something and be honest with me,” said Ghost.

“Sure,” said Darryl.

“Have you ever been to prison?” said Ghost.

“No,” said Darryl. His hands trembled. Ghost took a cigarette from the ashtray on the bed. 

 “See, if you had, Darryl, you’d have a certain look about you,” said Ghost. He puffed the cigarette back to life. The cherry glowed.

“A look I don’t have,” said Darryl.

Ghost stood an inch away from him. “A look on your face that says, I could watch another man get fucked today and give two shits less,” said Ghost. His breath smelled of chewing gum and cigarettes.  

The men formed a semicircle. They were corn-fed, tattooed, and looked ready for anything on the menu.

“Look, Ghost,” said Darryl, “I’ll have an opportunity to see the lab today, I’m sure of it.”

“I want a location. I want an address,” said Ghost. He caressed Darryl’s face.

“I’ll get it,” said Darryl, “I will, I just need some breathing room, man.”

Ghost smiled. “How about we open things up a bit for you then?”

“Whoa, easy, guys. Come on,” said Darryl.

“Turn around and put your hands on the wall,” said Ghost. He opened a buck knife.

“Ghost, come on man, I swear to god!”