Butcher

71

Memphis, Tennessee

Bunkowski woke up thinking about the little babies and the animals with their skulls open and the brain cavities empty. He knew that some of those photos were burnt into the deepest wrinkles of his own brain forever. Dr. Norman was to blame for all of this. He was every bit the devil that Emil Shtolz had been, and his government was just as corrupt. We didn't kill Jews, but we killed others. What was the big difference? Man was basically evil. Serial killers and mass murderers—he happened to qualify as both—were, in his opinion, like AIDS or cancer, just doing God's work. Getting rid of the assholes. Cleaning up the Big Experiment That Failed.

He flipped on the television set in the low-rent motel room outside of Memphis and lurched into the shower. The weather map showed the showers that had recently brutalized southeast Missouri clearing out and heading east, right into Memphis. Chaingang was unaware, even as water pelted him in the shower, that his own personal rain clouds were following him. When he emerged, cleaner than he'd been in a long while, he watched a fat female comedian make fun of animal rights activists while he dressed. He was dressing for success: expensive grey suit with striped shirt and microdot tie. Cologne. A close shave.

Daniel turned the sound off and tried mouthing the words along with her, seeing if he could lip-read her jokes. She had a mouth like a knife slash in a face nearly as doughy as his.

He was ugly to begin with and the bad eye had not helped his appearance. It gave him an even more gruesome visage, a sort of Satanic bloodshot look. But, amazingly, he could do all sorts of facial tricks with that rubbery physiognomy. If he held his head at a calculated angle, smiled that beaming doughboy grin just so, the old gunshot wound that puckered his cheek looked more like a big dimple, and the scar visible in his eyebrow became just one more wrinkle, a character line as it were.

His smile was, quite literally, disarming when he wanted it to be, and his talents included the ability to easily manipulate and sway people with his face, voice, and body English, to an astonishing degree.

“Good evening, ladies and gerbils. I'm Allan Hampster,” he ad-libbed into the motel-room mirror, his face scrunched up in the parody of a human smile. “I tell ya these animal rights nuts kill me.” The basso profundo rumbled out in the identical rhythms he'd just seen on television. His mimicry skills were totally professional.

Satisfied with the reflected image, he packed his duffel, left the room with lights on, water running, and a fresh puddle of urine soaking through the mattress, loaded the car, and headed for the other side of Memphis.

Midway to the Executive Suites Hotel out in southeast Memphis, he stopped at a pay telephone and confirmed his reservation under the name Lionel Hampster.

By midmorning he was parking his wheels outside the huge hotel complex and registering. The Executive Suites was a blur of activity, one of the busiest hotels he'd been in, a perfect hiding spot. How does one hide when one weighs a quarter ton, stands nearly seven feet tall, and has a puss like an exploded pizza? One doesn't.

If a person wishes to hide an object, as the old saying goes, the best way to do so is to hide it in plain sight. The easier it is to see, the harder it will be to find. Who looks for a stash in the centerpiece on the dining-room table?

A black girl fresh from hostelry school looked up from behind the registration desk to see a grinning clown bear of a man.

“Hi!” he beamed. “Man, I loves that brown sugar— mm! The darker the cherry the sweeter the meat.” He was so stupid she couldn't help but smile. “No offense, but if I was thirty years younger and a ton lighter, I'd jump right on your bones. I'd jump on them now but they'd never find you later.” Everybody behind the counter laughed. “Ladies and gerbils, I'm Lionel Hampster, and I demand service.” He snapped his fingers in a young man's face. “Oh, there you are. What took you so long? Gimme my room key thing and point me toward the bar."

“Would you like a bellman, sir?"

“No thanks, I'm trying to quit.” They laughed again. “Have someone take my bags up, please. But right now I need you to find me four or five strong men and put me on a baggage cart and wheel me to the drinks.” Laughter. Lionel was already a hit at the Executive Suites.

“Here's your key card, sir. Now don't lose it!” the girl joked with him.

“No,” he said, as a tongue the length of a tongue in a pair of shoes and the color of fresh lox lizarded out. He placed the room opener on this horrible appendage, retracted it into his mouth, made a show of swallowing, gulped, and opened his mouth to show it empty. “It's nice and safe now where I won't lose it.” Nobody made a sound. They'd never seen anything like this in their lives. Suddenly, he reached over and goosed the bellman, who let out an involuntary scream. “Ooh!” He held up the key card in his right mitt. “Good thing I brought a duplicate along.” The people behind and gathered around the desk applauded as one, and the huge man waddled off, swaying from side to side like Chaplin, the sound of laughter music to his cauliflower ears.

No, they would not soon forget Lionel Hampster the entertainer, there at the hotel's reservation desk. But Lionel Hampster a wanted fugitive? Nah. He was hidden in plain sight, a ton of fun on the run.

He spent a great first night in his suite, ordering one hundred and twenty-four dollars’ worth of room service from Guido Lucci's Italian restaurant down in the inner courtyard of fountains and fake rock. Tournedos buona fortuna, stacked filets of beef béarnaise with march-and de vin, baby duck salad made with Italian spinach, and fettuccine Alfredo ("named after the weak Corleone brother,” he told the room service waiter), and visions of baked pasta danced in his massive head as he slumbered behind a Do Not Disturb sign for thirteen hours.

Lionel Hampster would stay there for a week, eating, feasting, drinking, sleeping, riding up and down in the elevators, resting and recuperating, and then he would go make Dr. Norman remove his fucking implant, after which he'd suck out the sissy's bone marrow for dessert.

He donned his finery and went out to do a bit of recon and resupply, and felt the first pings and twinges of something. Watchers, perhaps? Probably not. He shrugged it off, in too good a mood to permit thoughts of a dark nature to intrude. He concentrated on finding beer, snacks, and the planning of his menu for the next gargantuan meal.

Was there a more delicious beer than ice-cold St. Pauli Girl? If there was, well then, God help him, his duty was to seek it out, buy it, and bring a large quantity back to the room. His thoughts were of hops and barley and delicious foodstuffs, so he did not allow his vibes to warn him of the unmarked vans and their escort cars from the Shelby County Justice Center, downtown at Third and Poplar, that pulled into the busy parking area of the hotel as soon as the target cleared the place. Nor did he dwell on the obvious, that he could never lose himself so long as the implanted locator was functioning.

The unmarked vans and escort cars were long gone by the time he returned. The meat wagon was parked around in back of the hotel in the form of what looked to be an off-duty Shelby County ambulance. There was a full complement of “medical and paramedical personnel” already inside the hotel, on the fifth floor and in the room next to his. There was even a shooting team, just for emergencies, disguised as visiting soccer coaches, loitering not far away.

Chaingang parked and came in, his arms full of treats, joking and jiving, a sight to behold. He got on the nearest elevator and headed for the fifth floor, listening to a couple of young soccer hardbodies talk about how whipped they were. The door opened, he got off, went to 569, unlocked the room, shoved the door closed behind him, and carried his bags to the wet bar. The room was exactly as he'd left it, all the lights and TV on and the faucets running. He took out his cold St. Pauli Girl imported from the Bremen, Germany, brewery, tasting it in his mind, and was so distracted by his taste buds he didn't let his warning system get his attention in time. Of course he realized his error the moment he opened the refrigerator. They'd probably put a sensor-operated device in the microwave too, knowing he'd be sure to open both. The dart struck him squarely in the belly, and he let the beer drop, grabbing for the nearest heavy object before the Alpha Group II took him completely under. He might not escape, but he could certainly fuck up their day. The tub chair was flung with every ounce of strength he had and it went sailing right through the drapes, curtains, and windows of 569 in a shower of exploding glass.

He'd have been disappointed at the results. It was so noisy downstairs and along the balconies from all the screaming soccer lunatics that nobody even heard the glass break.

Only a visiting advertising man and his assistant, out of an agency in Oklahoma City, who had the misfortune to be sitting five levels below in Guido Lucci's Italian restaurant, were alarmed when a shower of glass shards fell into their Miss Martha salad, and lobster thermidor with shrimp and almonds. But that's life. As they say, into every life a little pane must fall.

Visit www.e-reads.com for information on additional titles by this and other authors.