Ten Men Laughably: Chapter I
Chris begins his debauched revenge on bully Jessie - a gritty tale of spite.
Authors Note: Read Here
Artwork by Christopher Wolf
I
Fill the pot, mix it through with a finger; spit on top for extra bliss. A slick, stimuli-free conclusion like only a young man can manage—I mean, I could've slashed in it, but it's a creamy white sauce, so... The passage stays clear whilst I finish up. No cars. No side lights in the alley. I zip back up and tuck back in. I step back into Burger Master through the side door at the rear. Back into the painful droning light, and hand the pot of newly seasoned 'garlic sauce' back to Matt. He takes it from me with a nod, places it on the pizza box atop the counter, and gestures to me to go back out from whence I entered. He'd be arriving shortly to pick up the order.
In a way, it's fortunate not to have suffered in isolation at the hands of this particular dummy—but I'm sure no such ordinary victim would come to that same conclusion. Not unless they had selfsame plans for such debauched retribution. To be a serial bully is to spawn a web of embittered, indignant nodes. And as the bully, you'd better hope that particular network of folks doesn't begin to collude.
I head back across the pissing-wet street and get into my car. The yawning night and late traffic mix with the spray of rain, making everything supremely opaque. Soon enough, condensation forms on the window—I clear it with my sleeve and continue to wait. The figure of my skinny, instrumental accomplice is busy behind the counter; the take-out place throws its cheap, parochial light out onto the pavement like some tawdry Edward Hopper counterfeit: that's when HE arrives.
Ten Men Jessie. With that slow, measured, inflammatory stride. A little, little man with a very big walk. Arms flared out like a mutated, anachronistic vision of a Bush Jnr-type, though in command of far less nous. Eyes just as blank, inadequate chest out-puffed - which as per usual, struggles to impose. Perhaps an unlikely-seeming threat to one's personhood, but intent, or rather mal-intent, can take you quite far indeed.
I'm hoping he starts to eat straight away—walk-ins often eat in the waiting area, especially when it rains. The traffic's not too frequent now—not for a midsized rural market town at this time of evening. I watch him arrogantly pay for the order, looking to one side. He hands over the money without once making eye contact with my friend and, incidentally, fellow victim. A typically predictable behaviour that makes my lip begin to curl.
His insolence is just as conventional as Matt's courtesy. He seamlessly navigates the transaction by sliding the order forward across the counter without a hint of malice or knowing. One order of fries, one large pizza, and a NICE pot of 'garlic sauce'. They exchange one or two words before Matt returns to his duties. A hand pilfers a fry from the box as Ten-Men turns to leave. He heads to the front of the shop, but not for the door. He stands square in front of the large plate glass window, pizza box at his side, stuffing in fries with a free hand. He surveys the weather and his newly procured dominion over the dank, petty shopfront. You'd have to be really, really tough to be able to stand like that, with no one watching, in the window of a beat-up rural takeaway!
Yeah, we may be a few years out from school, but this is a grudge well kept. And more than well-earned... What would I forfeit, this instant, for a box-eye view? To be the eyes of that very lid? Groped by that piss-pale, undersized hand with the kind of sketchy skin that never quite looks eczema-free. Heh... That's right, pal, those fries eat heartily, don't they? Although, better with some sauce! No, no, it's not time for me yet. Why not take a little stool? Keep yourself out of the cold, moist night. Keep yourself nice and warmed-up on those fries. But just don't forget about your yummy, proteinous pot of dip!
'Yeh, cheers, see ya la'er.' The lazy, remedial language is fairly audible as the crooked bell above the door sounds. He isn't eating in. He turns left into the night instead; the creamy garlic payload, as yet, untouched. I wait in the car for a few yards before scooching over and stepping out of the passenger side door. I'm pretty sure Matt sees me get out, but I don't look or cross to his side. Simply, simply, must know the fate of that little dishy.
Hood up, I remain over the road, a few yards out. Other pedestrians: sparse. The traffic: slim. As I follow, I feel my core tighten. My fingernails dig in as my fists begin to ball... Ha! He looks like a parlourmaid carrying a pretty silver platter. Isn't it tricky to conduct one's paseo with a pizza box stuck out in front and still maintain a hard-man walk and rugged countenance? He wouldn't even know the meaning of the bloody word. I look up at the gaping night above where he walks... If all that celestial weight fell on us both right now, I'd consider it a bargain.
He crosses the junior roundabout, toughly, leaving the commercial street, heading south on Elm Street. I stay back to roll one in the bus stop by the library. He leaves my site for a moment but probably wouldn't mind being followed: he's as tough as ten men, remember? Miss Virginia fills my lungs as the pursuance resumes. The fine drizzle gathers our steps into its dim particular matter. He doesn't once look back. His laughable little march remains admirably affected throughout the whole journey.
Elm Street has narrow, terraced housing lining each side. Alleyways are dotted intermittently down the rows for access to the rear yards—I don't know why it's called Elm Street. There isn't one fucking Elm tree along the entire street. There was a mill behind the Eastern row of houses. Maybe that's from where it hails… A final left turn before the bottom of the road, down the narrow passageway whose waiting blackness finally gobbles Ten Men from my sight. His place is next-door-but-one from said passage. He prefers a rear entrance, I feel. I head for the opposing alleyway over the road. Reddish-brown, beautifully arched, and so very dark. I stand taking heavy draws as Miss Virginia's tender orange glow illuminates the masterful brickwork. My view's ideal: a touch with the high ground and on the faintest diagonal to his puny front room; a hopeful aspect of a large coffee table standing perpendicular to two most saddening couches.
Lights on. Arco: First into the room, a toddler, no more than three at a guess. Hopping, jumping, innocent. Now, with plates and napkins, his gorgeous wife. (She was one of my first, but I'll deal with her later.) Here, the big man himself! Oafishly merry with what appears to be his delinquent younger brother—I'm almost certain. Their loutish, mumbled sound just about clamours through to where we stand. She is seated first, peachily, and delicious. The two 'men' take off their jackets as the poor, unfortunate junior climbs aboard to join his mother. Don't you dare drop the curtains, you measly little pissant...
Aw, how nice. A lovely sight of a suppering family. Almost bucolic. The strings begin, a pianissimo swell, fitting the scene to a tee! Adagio: the lid's flipped back, the big guy smells the cheese. Napkins go out; the kid drops his; plates are passed around. Moderato: Now, no need to rush. There's slices-a-plenty for all. Ah, now, that's the spirit! With pride of place, the special sauce takes to centre stage. Though, what's this sight by yonder lowe? My lidded pot remains pristine. Largo.
Woolly-jumpered, the kid jumps down and tots around, his head cocking playfully from side to side. He inspects the pizza and Daddy's fries and now turns his attention to our majestic main act. He's only three feet tall, not much bigger than the table itself. With a small push of his wee little hands, his curiosity gets him up just high enough for a foot to creep up onto the table. And with this, that's quite enough! Caesura: The back of Daddy's punishing arm hooks the boy; he briefly folds in the middle as he's yanked back onto the couch; his oversized head lashes aggressively back against the cushion. Huh, the child appears unnerved… no doubt already accustomed to this particular brand of dysgenic treatment.
I fish out Miss Virginia from the front pocket of my jeans: a brief intermission in proceedings. I feel the tacky patch near the bottom of the pocket left by the broad avenging end. Damn leg hairs sticking to the fabric… A dot of pride if there ever was one! But now, my dearest maestro, with first slices almost crust-bound: play on!
Stretto: Her beautiful chest leans forward over the table—of course she should go in first, damn near chivalrous of them! She reclines again, folding her lovely legs back onto the sofa. Plate in hand, pot on top, crust ready. Some light conversation and passing remarks whilst Junior works on his slice. Mother leans over to tend to the child as the two lads continue to chunter. Then glory, glory, above the chatter! Mrs Ten Men removes the saucepot lid; her finger plunges straight down and in! She samples the essence and seems to approve before venturing in for one more pop. A large heap this time… some fell to her bust, dearly. A rapid and keen response; her finger locates the spill without issue. She reinserts with a sparkly smile and accented giggle. Now pass it around; don't be coy!
After dipping her crust a time or two more, the big man gestures towards the table. She leans forward again, breast freshly a-glaze, placing the pot in reach of the chaps. Looks like Junior can't manage a whole slice—bless him. Or perhaps his little nibs had a change of mood? Mother stands up, gathering the child, and carries him back through the door: stage right. His tired head safely cleaved between her bosom; off for a more age-appropriate feed.
Now, gentlemen, ALLEGRO: if you please! The remote is snatched, the TV switched on, their legs manfully spreading. Rory (the brother) grabs the box and slides it into the slot between the two—the sumptuous sauce comes with. With gusto and chuckles, the pair dive in, another slice apiece. They gleefully chomp in unison, or so it seems, and soon they're down to the crusts again. Right then, chaps, presto, presto: INTO THE SAUCE YOU GO!
A colossal crescendo worthy of at least a half-satisfied smirk from the audience. They even treat themselves to a terse, double-barrelled snicker as they watch the pair seemingly fight over the dwindling contents of the pot. Him dining with his brother on this night was just a bit of a bonus feature, really... And when his stripling exuberance led him to just about finish off the sauce solo, his alpha bro wrestled it back and beautifully finished it off himself to the great satisfaction of those in attendance.
A splendid show! The archway as amphitheatre, and the golden-stranded Lady of Virginia as my date—and a better smoke, she never gave. The name of the piece: 'A Treat for All the Family'? No, perhaps not. A touch on the nose, but a ball for the eyes! I set out from the heady, smoke-filled passage, crossing to the opposite side, heading north. I pass their window at medium pace, clocking the scene with firm intent. There they sit, gawping away... Their sauce-soaked mouths completely unthreatened by napkin nor sleeve. The miserable light from the television projecting erratic colours into their faces as I move along the pavement, gratefully. Bra-fucking-vo!