Sex and Murder Magazine

By Bruce Memblatt

Abbey knew when the first card hit the table, when he saw the flip flop grin on the dealer’s face it would be his last day. The mouth that solidified in finality, the lips that looked like they had held their last smile, the smile that tricked, but didn’t lie because in the end it revealed the truth, Abbey’s hand was up. That’s how things worked in the new deal. Murderers got to choose, they got to pick cards. The waiting was cruel regardless.

The room where the game was held was small, dark, dirty, just a double cell at the end of the corridor, just another her steel cage. A florescent light, its corrugated plastic covering, yellow as piss, sizzled and flickered on the ceiling. The steady drip of a faucet from the sink in the back of the cell seemed to be the perfect unnerving accompaniment to the shake of the dealer’s wrist when the deuce fell from his hand. Yesterday it was Bradford’s turn, today Abbey’s, tomorrow who know? Who cares? Death wouldn’t be so bad, better than the wait, better than the nervous feeling that surged through his veins when the card fell.

On top of the table, in the center of the cell, a deck of cards, that’s all, just a simple deck of cards filling his head with an ancient memory of when he was a boy; how his uncle Stan would fix him ice cream soda and pull a deck of cards out and stretch them across the kitchen table. He could still hear the screen door rattle with the breeze. Most of his childhood memories burnt through his mind with regret, but this one was cozy, just the right temperature.

The dealer didn’t look at him like his uncle did. He didn’t look at him like he hated him or particularly liked him either. His eyes searched Abbey with total ambivalence. The dealer didn’t care if Abbey lived or died and why should he? He was just another play in the deck. That’s why Abbey was going to feel nothing when he shoved the shiv he had hid in his shoe into the dealer’s gut, because he didn’t care, either. Apathy was the new watch cry. Apathy thrived in this house. Apathy saved you from going crazy.

In the distance he thought he heard the screeching sounds of something swerving through the air.

He couldn’t think about the night he killed, he was hungry, that’s why he killed. It didn’t matter. He was guilty. Today he was going to kill out of boredom, because before he died he wanted to see something change, anything. For years it had all been the same every day, every moment, but this moment would be different.

The prisoner sitting next to him, Scott, maybe it will be his day to die tomorrow, maybe not. Maybe if Abbey had woken up two seconds earlier he wouldn’t have been sitting in this fated cold chair, this death chair. Maybe today would have been Scott’s day to die. Chance was a bitch, an icy whore.

Scott was a strange old bird, a real hard son of a bitch. When he thought of Scott he thought of his vacant eyes. And how Scott always curled his lips and looked at Abbey like he stole his last dime. As if he owed the fucker something. Prison was filled with weirdness and extremes. There was no middle ground behind bars. There was no middle ground for Abbey either. He hoped Scott would die tomorrow, not that he would know because this sorry world would disappear from his grasp in a few hours, but it might make his corpse grin.

Abbey knew if Scott didn’t die tomorrow he would surely die soon. It was all up to fate to the dealer’s toss. In those days death row was overflowing with murderers, most of them guilty too, bodies everywhere, in some cases eight- ten to a single cell. When they instituted the game to whittle the prison population down there were protests at first, but now everyone just went along. Everyone went along with everything now a days because no one really cared if they lived or died, or if they were rich or poor, or happy or sad, they just wanted to be left alone to breathe; eat and breathe, and smoke; cigarette smoke was everywhere.

But Abbey, he needed something to change.

The dealer’s second grin was just as frigid as the first. This time the grin was to signify what they both knew; in about an hour two guards would come and escort Abbey outside where he’d face the guns of a firing squad. No more electric chairs, or nice quiet gas chambers, the new deal brought things back to the basics, there was no room for mistakes, there was no room period, no time for anything but simple and cheap gunfire. The men who worked on the firing squad got paid well, not that they cared, they spent all their money on booze and cigarettes and whores.

“Would you like a drink?” The dealer looked down at Abbey, “you know you’re entitled to a drink.”

His face was wide, stocky, and rubbery, his eyes gleamed steely blue. For a moment Abbey thought in the corners of his pupils he could sense a hint of solidarity, like a circle of sadness as if to say he knew. But it must have been a fool’s wish because when the dealer turned his head his lips pursed with the clenched tightness of a boxer’s fist. It didn’t matter anyway. Abbey was going to kill him.

Abbey looked up from his chair and said, “Bourbon. I want bourbon, dry as the Sahara.”
Without a word, the dealer stood. His bulging fat fell off the chair. The seat squeaked. Every sound in the room seemed to produce a sharp echo. He glanced at Abbey for a moment like he was the lowest dog on the food chain. Then he sighed, shook his head, turned around and walked to the back of the cell and stepped through a door.

Abbey’s eyes stuck to him as he walked away. He could feel Scott, in the chair next to him, let out a sigh of relief like someone blew fresh air into his lungs. When he saw the door shut behind the dealer he reached down to his ankle to check the knife he had tucked in his shoe. He could feel the tape that twisted around the end of the shiv that he formed into a handle the night before, sweat pouring down his brow, screws just feet away from the bars, breathing down heavy. He pulled it up just an inch. The steel chased against his skin. His eyes saw the blade catch the florescent light from the ceiling so did Scott.

“Are you out of you fucking mind?” Scott said in a salty whisper. He reached for Abbey’s shoulder. The jowls that hung from the bottom off his potted face shook.

Maybe he was out of his fucking mind wasn’t everybody crazy these days?

He pushed Scott’s arm away and said “What’s the difference we’re dead anyway.”

“We’re not dead yet. Well, you’ll be dead in a few hours, but me? Who knows? But if you kill that son of a bitch I’ll have to take the rap too. And I ain’t taking the rap for you; you low down sorry assed mother fucker. Why are you going to kill him anyway? What do you care?”

The words just flew out of his mouth like they entered his mind through the walls or through the air. He stared into Scott’s sunken eyes and said, “It’s my destiny.”

Scott squinted and leaned back in his chair. “You’re a crazy son of a bitch. You’ve always have been a strange one. Your destiny? What do you know about destiny?”

“What is there to know?” Abbey said then he pulled the knife out of his shoe and held it up to the dingy light.

Scott’s eyes opened wide. “Shut your damn fool mouth, and keep that knife in your shoe or I’ll stick it in your chest.”

“Listen everyone was born to do something. I was born to bring change.”

“What kind of change? What kind of sorry assed bullshit is that? Change is an empty word. It can mean everything it can mean nothing.”

“Since when are you a philosopher?”

“Since when are you?”Scott’s words dropped off when he saw the door in the back of the cell swing open. Dust spent into the air. He quickly whispered, “shush he’s coming back”

“So what,” Abbey said and then he felt the sudden weight of Scott’s shoe on his foot. He tired to pull away fast, but Scott’s hold was too strong, and too quick. He felt the knife leave his hand.

Fuck.

What was Scott up to? Why did he care? They were dying anyway. They were all dying. Abbey thought of a black hawk; the hawk that he saw in his dreams every night. A hawk that circled the prison yard like it was waiting, and today he knew what that hawk was waiting for. It was waiting for him to change something; anything and then he would die, like a sun, in a crack of fiery fury. Scott was going to fuck it up like he fucked up everything, because he didn’t’ understand, because he couldn’t understand. If Abbey changed one thing, then maybe everything would change, like a row of dominos, like throwing a can of paint against a wall, splashing, swirling into random chaos.

Abbey could feel the words form in the gullet of his throat. He tried to keep them soft, but they just came out natural. “Give me back that knife.”

The Dealer’s footsteps grew closer.

Abbey saw Scott lean back in his chair, holding the knife under his shirt as if he was a mother coddling a newborn. His scowling jowls shook like he was about to nurse the thing.

The dealer threw the cup of bourbon down on the table. Abbey could see the steely blue gleam in his eyes grow intense when he heard the thud of the glass hit the wood.

Then the dealer calmly said like he was a Sunday School teacher ignoring a mischievous student, “What is going on here?”

Scott began to stand. Abbey saw the gleam in the dealer’s eyes suddenly disappear. The script was changing, not like Abbey planned it but something was happening. The Dealer appeared different, frightened.

Then Abbey saw something that he never thought he’d see.

Scott lunged forward fast towards the dealer’s throat. The dealer looked like he didn’t know what hit him. So did Abbey. Shocked, the dealer fell, his hands trying to reach for the edge of the table, trying to reach for anything to grab onto. His chair toppled over and clanked against the floor. Then Scoot grabbed him from behind and held him tight. The dealer struggled, pulled, kicked, thrashed out, but Scott’s mid-day surprise was too fast and too determined

Then with a single twist he saw Scott reach his hands from behind his throat, force the dealer’s jaws apart, and the knife enter his mouth.

Gurgling followed, sad, raspy gurgling like water running down a rusted drain pipe.

Then Scott threw the Dealers’ bloodied tongue on to the dirty floor

Abbey stood stunned like he was watching some crazy movie when Scott turned to him, grinned and mouthed out, “well, you said you wanted change.”

The black hawk entered Abbey’s mind again in tandem with images of rows and rows of corpses dancing a strange jagged waltz. This was change. He didn’t know what to say to Scott. He didn’t know where to look. He glanced down at the dealer’s tongue on the floor.

Scott pushed the rest of the dealer on to the floor next to his tongue. He lay there simpering, wet with blood, shocked. His arms stretched out across the tiles like they were praying.

Then Scott tugged on Abbey’s shoulder. Scott’s face was strained, his eyes squinted strangely. For a moment Abbey thought Scott looked like a cartoon image of himself. Everything suddenly seemed surreal.

Scott hushed, “This is what we’re going to do. The dealer is mute. He’s taking your place. We’re going to set him in your chair and we’re going to get the hell out of here. They’ll come and take him outside to the firing squad. We’ll disappear into the crowd.”

Abbey stood from his chair, he felt a weakness in his knees, but his lungs felt strong when he hollered at Scott. “Are you out of your fucking mind? You must be crazy. Do you think they won’t be able to tell the difference? Think they won’t notice the blood pouring out of his mouth? And do you think the dealer is just going to sit still in that chair.”

Abbey took in the scene again, the dealer lying on the floor, the blood, the chair, his tongue, Scott standing next to him with determination and stupidity in his vacant eyes. And the knife just inches away from Abbey’s foot on the floor beneath the table.

Scott got quiet and he began to pace between the dealer and the edge of the table. Then he abruptly turned to Abbey and he said, his eyes wide like he’d just discovered a cure for the cold.

“You’re wrong. They may notice, but they won’t care, and even if they do care they won’t say a word, because they won’t want to throw anything off the track. They’re just cogs. Like you keep saying you want something to change. Well, they don’t. They won’t tolerate it. They’ll just throw this sucker right in front of the firing squad and that will be that. You’ll see.”

Maybe he was right, Abbey thought, maybe it would all go down just like Scott said. What did it matter? What did if fucking matter if Scott fucked everything up. Everything was fucked up anyway. They were going to die, and they only change he brought came in the form of a mute dealer. No one would even notice, if Scott was right, so what was the point?

Scott began to kneel down on the floor towards the dealer. “We’ve got to get him in your chair, C’mon help me.”

“Sure Scott,” Abbey smirked, and he paced towards Scott and the dealer. His shoes squeaked against the cold linoleum. Then he leaned down on the floor over the dealer and pulled up on one of his arms while Scott pulled on the other.

“He’s a heavy mother fucker” Scott said as he began to lift the dealer’s left arm up.

Then the dealer started to kick and squirm. Unbearable raspy gagging sounds poured of his bloodied throat. His steely blue eyes were alive and filled with anger, and pain.

“Shit!” Scott yelled, “Shit”. He tugged on the dealers arm tighter. The dealer pulled back, grunting, gagging, squirming, spitting up blood.

“What did you expect he’s not dead? What did you expect Scott, you stupid son of a bitch?” Abbey cried while he hunched over struggling with the dealers right arm. The black hawk entered his mind again but this time it was falling chaotically through the sky like a missile that suddenly veered off course ditching back and forth erratically.

“Fuck it, just fuck it,” Scott cried, and he started to kick the dealer. The weight of his foot on the dealer’s body caused his him to chuck back and forth. His raspy, gargled grunts grew louder. The sound of his broken throat trying to scream like a strangled suction tube pierced through Abbey’s ears with unbearable pain.

“You’re going to fucking kill him,” Abbey cried as he laid his first kick into the dealer’s gut, because he couldn’t stand the sound of it.

“What does it matter? He’s going to die anyway.”

“You idiot those guards will be here soon, and what do you think they’re going to find? Us beating the dealer to death, his tongue on the floor. They’re not going to ignore that?” Abbey said as he kicked the dealer again.

“Don’t worry we just have to get him into the chair. They’ll walk in pull him out of the chair and that will be that.”

“And what about us? If we do manage to get out of here aren’t they going to wonder
why anyone isn’t sitting in the dealer’s chair?”

Scott cried as he took another kick. “Like I said they won’t care!”

Suddenly the dealer’s arms latched onto Scott’s leg. Scott’s eyes shot like they’d just seen a ghost but he kept pounding into the dealer. Then Abbey kicked the dealer harder from his side. The dealer still held on strong. Hanging on to his last chance at life. He knew his card was about to fall.

Scott cried, “The son of bitch won’t let go. Get the knife get the knife!”

“What are you going to do? Leave a dead bloodied dealer in my chair?”

“I don’t know just get the fucking knife!” Scott shrieked, still kicking against the dealer’s grip.

He’d get the damn knife what was the use. He pulled his foot away and began to step towards the table. He glanced back at Scott standing over the dealer, his foot kicking, the dealer struggling for life on the floor. Change isn’t easy. Everything’s a struggle. He didn’t know what he was going to do. How was it all going to end? He wondered. When he caught the gleam of knife on the floor next to the table leg it suddenly came to him. He saw the hawk in his mind begin to circle the prison yard again, and he grinned and quickly picked up the knife like he’d just found the Holy Grail.

Abbey saw Scott’s back grow closer as he stepped toward him. Scott’s plaid shirt jutted in and out to the motion of his kicks against the dealers hold. Abbey stood and watched his back carefully, the knife outstretched in his hand. He thought when Scott’s spine moved forward again that’s when he’d do it. And then he pulled the knife back and shoved it into Scott’s back.
Scott wrenched forward, and then he wrenched backwards, frozen. Abbey could feel his jagged death throes through the handle of the blade as he dug it in further, and then he ripped it out of his back. Blood oozed from Scott and pooled across the floor. Then he joined his blood on the floor with a thud.

Abbey still held the knife in his hand. He stepped above the dealer. The dealer struggled harder, kicking, writhing madly, gagging up blood. Abbey looked down at his face into his steely blue eyes and he saw that he knew, that they both knew, and in that moment in a strange way they were joined. Then Abbey grinned and plunged the knife into the dealer’s gut.

The fluorescent light above sizzled. The world seemed to stop.

Abbey stood silent above their bodies. He stared at the pool of blood on the floor. And he drifted into a thought about a world where nothing changes and everything dies. He looked around the cell and stared at the walls. This was his world. He listened for the sound of a black hawk when he heard the creak of the door in the back of the cell begin to open.

Quickly, he ran to the dealer’s chair and sat down at the table. He picked up the deck of cards and shuffled them in his hands.

He watched calmly as the two guards walked towards the table. He knew what he was doing finally. He heard their shoes click. He kept his face blank as stone.

When they reached the table the tall guard rapped his hand on the surface and said. “What’s happened here, dealer?”

“Afraid a scuffle broke out between these two prisoners. Looks like they killed each other too. I didn’t even get to deal their cards.”

The other guard, cried, “Shit what are we going to do, Dealer?”

“Listen,” Abbey said, “Why don’t you just take them out before the firing squad, no one’s going to know, they’ll just dispose of them as usual. Otherwise, there’s going to be a lot of questions, paperwork, who knows? It doesn’t matter they’re all going to die anyway.”

The tall guard shook his head in agreement, the second one joined in.

Abbey grinned and returned to shuffling the cards while the guards removed Scott and the former dealer’s remains from the cell.

Abbey thought about change while the cards passed through his hands. Nothing would ever change he was sure .Then he pulled a deuce out of the deck, just like the steely eyed dealer did that morning when he was dealt his fatal card, and he thought maybe things would change, maybe what happened that day would somehow change everything. He didn’t know. Maybe Scott was right. Did it really matter? Apathy was the word of the century. Apathy saved his butt. He sighed and scratched his throat and thought of a cool drink. He saw the glass of bourbon still on the table. He picked it up and poured it down his throat. Then he smacked his lips and grinned a dealers’ grin. Things changed for him. He knew he wouldn’t die, because dealers don’t die.

His ears turned to the distinct sound of a black hawk circling the prison yard.