On nights like this, it was difficult to not howl at the moon. Full. Thick. Heavy. Impossible to look away from. Hanging in the air like a car wreck.
Logan made his rounds at the junkyard. Down the rust colored trails cut through mountains of fridges, toasters, dishwashers.
Logan stopped and stared up at the moon. It's funny how some things can flood you with random memories. First time you cut class, shoplifted, got locked in the trunk of an '86 Caprice Classic.
A bullet ripped into the trunk, the heat and speed peeled the metal inward. The bullet flew through, inches from Logan's head, landed in an empty jerry can sending sparks and tiny steel slivers everywhere.
First though: Oh fuck I'm dead.
But the bullet missed his head.
Second thought: Oh fuck, I'm going to get exploded.
But the gas can was empty.
Thank fuck. What a shitty way to go. Being tied up in the trunk of a shitbox sure was a motherfucker.
-You dead bro?
Bro? Who the fuck was this frat boy? What advanced psychological technique is asking if someone you just shot at is dead?
No I'm not you fucker. Ha ha. You missed.
Well thanks for the heads up, victim in the trunk. You fell for my plan thus proving I am a genius. Time to get shot and die.
Is that how he thought it would play out?
Logan struggled with the ropes. Unfortunately the rope was tearing the shit out of his forearms. Skin raw all the way up to his elbows. Persistance. Needed to get out. Claustrophobia handing him a beating. Being shot at sucked dicks. And, oh yeah, his Browning wasn't going to jump out of his waistband and into the palm of his hand by force of will.
So he wrestled. The pain made him grit his teeth. He bled and sweat. And bled some more. The rope loosened.
-Bro, I asked you a question.
Seriously, this guy was a fucking douche bag.
A little give. More blood. More give. More blood. The blood lubricated his escape from bondage. One last push.
The rope slid off faster than Logan thought. So fast in that he inadvertently stomped the inside of the trunk at about 60 km an hour.
Logan grabbed the Browning from his waist band and crouched in a corner of the trunk in the fetal position. The bullet hole looked like a full moon the way the street light seeped in. In his own little microcosm.
Three bullets ripped into the trunk. Had he been lying in the spot he was a second earlier he would've gotten one in the brain holder, one in the lung, and most likely, if he was lining up the angles properly, one right in his ball sack.
Thank fuck for that.
He stretched out and reached for the emergency release.
Had to bide his time. Hoped this fuck would slip up before he pumped more lead into the trunk.
-Bro, you're dead now right?
Logan would've rolled his eyes had he not trained them on the bullet holes. He waited, staring at the street light seeping in.
Rustling outside. Pacing maybe? Darkness overtook the trunk. The bullet holes stopped letting any light in. Logan flicked the latch and shoved his body upwards, blasting off. His shoulder connected with the inside of the trunk and sent the trunk lid sailing upwards.
Then he felt it. A connection. Rusted metal on soft flesh. Logan got out in a hurry. His kidnapper was on the ground cupping his bleeding forehead. Logan trained the gun on him.
He looks up at Logan.
-Indeed. Get up and get in the fucking car.
Logan motioned him towards the car with business end of his gun.
-In. I'm driving. Give me the keys or I'll shoot you in half.
He handed over the keys.
After failed attempts to plead for his life, the once-predator panicked as he took in his new surroundings. Junkyard. Late, late night. No one for miles.
-So what the fuck did I do to you?
-Cause man you fucked my girl. You put your greasy weasel in my Amy.
-I guarantee that my "gentleman's situation" was nowhere near an Amy. It's attached to my body and I'm pretty sure that I'd know who I was putting my greasy weasel in.
-Fuck you bro. I know you did it ok. She fucking told me!
-She did, did she? Your old lady use any other names?
-No she doesn't. But whatever bro. Not the fucking point. She fucking told me! Fuck! Why would she lie? She fucking told me ok? She said, she fucking said 'I fucked Herman, I let Herman fuck the shit out of me'"
-I'm sorry, Herman? Is that what I heard?
-Yeah. Herman. Herman. Herman. Got that? She fucking said she fucked you!
-At some point did it ever strike you that I don't look like an 84 year old man?
-My fucking name's not Herman, you shit.
-Herman. My. Name. Is. Not. Herman. Although now I wish I were, your old lady sounds like she'd be a great roll in the hay.
-You're lying! Fuck you! Go to hell you fucking bastard.
-Hell? Look around college man. Where the fuck do you think you are?
Logan cocked his hand back and laid him the fuck out with handle of the gun. The nameless attacker mumbled a pearl necklace of curses as he collapsed face first into the trunk. Logan gave the rest of his limp body the helping hand it needed.
Logan looked away from the moon and continued his rounds. Past random piles of cutlery. Past stationary bikes and rowing machines. Past the crushed cars. Past a '54 Impala. Past a '96 Civic. Past a '91 Elantra. Past an '86 Caprice Classic.
It looked this Herman asshole was off the hook.
BIO: Scott Shewan was born and raised in Montreal where he still lives and continues to speak English despite the wishes of the Provincial Government. He is currently working on his first book, Crowbar, which he will never finish and no one will ever read. He also has a blog ( sshewan.blogspot.com) that no one reads as well. He is tall and wants to be your friend.