Callous

Michael Shaw, the man mentioned to Dio by Kate Mitchell, took, as the Irish say,

“Life aisy [sic].”

It wasn’t that he didn’t give a fuck, more that he didn’t give much of a fuck. His sailing school ticked over, never making a whole shitload of cash but enough to keep him in the essentials.

Beer.

Weed.

Roof over his head.

He’d never been to the States, but his inner voice was all Californian mellow, perhaps due to the sheer amount of dope he smoked. (Ludes he would have appreciated, but his generation missed the whole Quaaludes gig.)

Even his movements suggested a chilled dancer, moving sure but with no great urgency. His favorite expression/answer to most anything reflected this mindset.

Like this:

“Ain’t no big thing, man.”

He just didn’t take life too seriously.

Life was about to take him deadly seriously.

Saturday nights, Michael liked to tie one on, have some shots with his pints, maybe grab a chicken curry with chips on the walk home.

But first he needed to pee, badly. He was on the Grattan Road, figured he’d slip onto the beach, relieve himself.

He did.

Back on the footpath, a van pulled up, a guy jumped out, slammed his fist into Shaw’s gut.

Shaw, stunned, had the insane thought,

Pee police?

Then he was dragged to the van, thrown inside.

He managed to gasp,

“Gotta throw up.”

The man who’d hit him said,

“Do, and I’ll break your neck.”

Minutes later, they pulled up before a dark warehouse and Shaw was dragged inside, tied to a hard-back chair. The man said,

“Feel free to puke now.”

Shaw shook his head, trying to focus, trying to figure,

What the fuck is this?

Two men stood before him, literally a clash of light, one dressed all in black, with a shaved head and exuding darkness if such a thing were feasible; the other, blond hair, huge smile of great teeth and a T-shirt that seemed to proclaim

guns n’ roses.

Shaw, who had managed to make light of nearly every event in his life, wanted to ask

“Ebony and ivory?”

But the vibe coming from these guys was anything but mellow; violence seemed to glow and backlight them.

The Guns N’ Roses guys said,

“I’m Keegan and this imposing chap is Dio. He’s like...”

Pause.

“The Man, El Hombre, El Jefe.”

Shaw had a temper, not often on show but you didn’t run a business in Claddagh by being a guy who rolled over. He said,

“Not much of a man if he has to tie someone to a chair.”

Dio rocked on his heels, his machismo, always simmering, took a hit. He snarled,

“What are your intentions to the lady Kate Mitchell?”

Shaw was taken aback, took him a moment to even recall Kate, then he asked, with incredulity leaking over his words,

“The American babe?”

Dio lashed him with

With

Rosary beads?

It hurt. A lot.

Was this some fucked-up priest gig?

Shaw, reeling from the lash, blood already running down his cheek, said,

“Try that shite if my hands were free.”

Dio barked at Keegan,

“Free him.”

Keegan, unsure, asked,

“Like, seriously?” Dio shot him a look.

So, yeah, seriously.

Shaw, freed, rubbed his hands, asked Dio,

“Ever hear of the hard right?”

Then shot out his right fist, executing a perfect uppercut to Dio’s jaw. Dio was lifted clear off his feet, landing flat, heavily on his back. Shaw said,

“Not so much to say now, shithead.”

Keegan whistled, said,

“You’re, like, seriously fucked, dude.”

Shaw faced him, asked,

“So, what you got, asshole?”

Keegan said,

“You have some cojones, dude, but, alas, not going to have them long.”

But he kept his hands casually by his sides, his body relaxed. He said,

“Kate Mitchell, you forget about her, maybe we can let this whole dance slide.” As if.

Shaw said,

“I barely know her, but now, now I’m kind of keen to spend some time with her.”

Keegan said,

“Wrong, wrong response.”

Dio, leaning up on one elbow, plunged a long, thin stiletto into the back of Shaw’s knee, clean through. Shaw crumpled.

Dio moved toward him, the rosary beads in his hand, put his knee in Shaw’s chest, said,

“If thine eye offend me...”

Drove the crucifix into Shaw’s right eye, twisted it with ferocity, grunting like a crazed animal.

Finished, he stood up, said,

“Retrieve that cross for me.”

Keegan thought,

Like fuck.

His time with the Zetas, he’d witnessed

  Women with their entrails spilling out.

  Children hanging from bridges.

And other atrocities that could still bring a shiver to his spine but this, like, seriously?

He tried.

“Haven’t you got, like, a stash of those?” Silence.

It was rare to rarest for Keegan to ever, ever, question Dio.

Dio gave Keegan the look; only maybe three times in their fucked relationship had Dio allowed Keegan to see what lay behind those dead eyes. He did now.

It was malevolent, feral, slithering, encompassing every evil you hadn’t even conjured. Then it was gone, crawling back to whatever depth it lurked in.

Keegan said,

“I’m on it.”

As he knelt, twisting, pulling to get the cross free of the ruined socket, Dio said, “Find me a hill.”

“What?”

“A hill above the city.”

Keegan couldn’t help it, asked,

“We’re building something?”

Keegan realized he was asking way too many questions and, phew-oh, Dio had a real hard-on about being quizzed.

He stared at Keegan for one long chilling moment, then intoned,

“I will build a cross to make them shudder, a monolith to show them true awe.”

Pause.

“Then I will crucify that treacherous bitch with rusty nails, and her disloyal howls will ring out over this wretched plain.”

Not a whole lot of answers to such a scheme, none of them in the realm of sanity. I mean, did you go, “Great idea.”

“Just the ticket.”

Or,

Simply,

“You mad fucker.”

Keegan, always the survivor, said,

“I’ll start the search for a hill.”