W.A.R. 7-15 The Shots at the Lucky Strike

W.A.R. Part Seven - Dustin's World

(2nd edition)

Chapter Fifteen - The Shots at the Lucky Strike

by Jeff Wilson

Frank Smith stumbled out of the Lucky Strike Bar the day after Thanksgiving feeling a nice buzz. He was still good enough to drive himself home. He'd be dead in the cold hard ground before he'd let Harry the bartender call him a cab. Throughout his life, alcohol had been his best and sometimes only friend. He was getting used to the old routines again, ever since he'd kicked that fat bitch wife of his to the curb. She'd finally had the balls to file for divorce, but he would never sign the papers. Let her rot in misery for as long as possible, the way she'd made his life miserable for twenty-something years. He was determined to fight her for every last penny, and every scrap of property.

Once he finalized that, he was going to move on to his good-for-nothing son. He'd become tired of hearing from others about his son's sexuality. He'd done everything he could to beat the gay out of that little faggot. He knew the boy was queer right off. He knew the boy was sucking cocks up at the park when he was in high school. He'd hoped to teach the stupid faggot a lesson he'd never forget, but then everything went to shit because of the boy's nosy little friends. He couldn't believe his own wife had betrayed him and threatened to call the cops on him if he didn't leave! He wasn't afraid of that bitch, no matter how intimidating she could be to others. She was a large woman, and strong in her own way, but she was, after all, just a woman. He'd put her in her place many times before, he could do it again. He knew how to keep a bitch in line.

No matter what he did to toughen up his lazy and worthless son, the boy just became softer and softer. The good for nothing punk was due for another ass whopping, and Frank was ready to deliver. Yeah, maybe he'd gone a bit too far that night, but that was the shithead's fault! If the stupid little faggot hadn't gotten himself hurt, everything would have been fine! If he wasn't such a little bitch, Frank wouldn't have had to get rough with him. If people found out he had a faggot for a son, one who was whoring himself out to half the town... Frank had to put the hammer down that night! The boy made him do it!

But the lesson hadn't taken. Frank heard from afar what his so-called son was up to nowadays, and that his bitch of a wife was letting it happen, encouraging it even! Something had to be done. Apparently beating the boy's ass and smashing his cell phone wasn't good enough. Maybe another lesson with a broomstick would do the trick? And now that he had the boy's address, he was fixing to pay the little faggot a visit and deliver a lesson he would never forget. He'd given him a good scare when he stumbled upon that party with all those faggots, but now it was time to teach the boy some respect, and there would be no one to stop him this time.

There was always someone fucking things up and keeping him from teaching his son the lessons he deserved. From that crippled asshole George Roberts and his smart-assed, dipshit kid, to that bimbo psychiatrist and her bastard sissy-boy son who'd tipped off Carol about Dustin and the park. Even the dyke teacher Dustin had in school couldn't keep her nose out of his family business! Everybody wanted to tell him how to raise his kid. They didn't understand, none of them did! He'd had Carol convinced that the neighbor guy Dustin was fucking around with had been the one who'd put him in the hospital. He'd have gotten away with it if it weren't for that stupid Reilly bastard. He had a receipt ready for that little faggot too. There was always an extra broomstick around when you needed one.

"What the hell is this shit?" Frank fumed as he approached his car. He knelt down next to the driver's side tire. It would have been one thing if the tire had just been flat, but it had obviously been slashed.

"God damn fucking kids," Frank cursed. He wondered how he was going to get home with his vehicle in such condition. It was late and there was no one around who could help until morning.

"Having car trouble?"

Frank immediately knew the voice and turned to find his good-for-nothing son emerging from the shadows. The street lamp behind Dustin cast a long shadow which fell over his father. Dustin reached into his winter coat pocket and pulled out a large hunting knife. He tossed it to the ground near Frank's slashed tire, making a loud clanking sound as the metal bounced off the pavement.

"Kids these days..." Dustin mused, his face cast in shadow. "Always up to no good."

"You stupid little shit!" Frank snapped. "You better be ready to pay for this."

"No, you're the one who's going to pay tonight, Frank," Dustin said, his voice uneven. "For everything."

"What are you, some kind of tough guy now, faggot?" Frank sneered. He stood up.

"Don't come any closer," Dustin warned. He reached into his coat once again.

"What are you going to do, tough guy? You want to take a swing at me? Go ahead, you stupid cocksucker. Take your best shot at your old man."

Dustin pulled his hand from his pocket. A flash of steel glinted in the street light.

Frank laughed. "Oh please! Where'd you get a toy like that, huh? Looks real enough though... You couldn't hit the..."

BANG!!!

Dustin fired a shot over Frank's head.

"Whoa!!! Jesus Christ!!!" Frank cried as he ducked and cowered. "That thing's loaded! What the fuck are you doing!?!?"

"Shut the fuck up!" Dustin shouted, pointing the gun at his father's chest.

"People are going to have heard that gunshot, boy. They'll call for help."

"Have you met the police around here, Frank? They're almost as worthless as you."

"I have friends in that bar."

"We both know you closed out the place like always. Who's going to help you? Harry the bartender? You think he'd be losing a good customer? He'll probably thank me for scaring off the riff-raff giving his bar a bad reputation. Besides, all anyone's going to think is that this piece of shit car of yours backfired when you tried to start it. There's no one to save you, Frank. It's time to pay for your sins."

"Okay you little faggot, that's enough. Let's just put the gun down and go somewhere and hash things out."

"Oh, I have every intention of hashing things out, Frank," Dustin said, his voice wavering.

Frank chuckled. "This is ridiculous. Just put the gun down and we'll talk."

"Why are you so afraid of me, Frank?"

"I'm not afraid of you. I'm just afraid you're going to accidently fire that thing."

"Trust me, it will be no accident when I fire this thing. And I always hit what I'm aiming at."

"Come on, you're going to hurt yourself..."

"I ALREADY HURT MYSELF!!!" Dustin exploded. Frank stepped back. He'd never heard his son react with such anger. Dustin held his left wrist up to the light. "This is what I did to myself after you made it clear my life wasn't worth shit. You did this to me, Frank. And these are just the scars you can see. There are others, worse ones."

"Okay, so what? You're going to kill me, boy?"

"Oh no. I'm not going to just kill you. That's far too good of a result for you. First I'm going to shoot your balls off."

Frank instinctively lowered his hands to cover his groin.

"You really think your hands are going to stop the bullets, Frank?" Dustin asked seriously.

"Boy, listen to me..."

"You know, after this thing goes off a second time that's probably going to draw a lot of attention..." Dustin mused. "Shit, they'll probably stop me before I can shoot you in the head properly. You'll probably just be an invalid slurping soup through a straw and drooling for the rest of your life. I'll probably only get charged with attempted homicide. I guess that's just the way I do things, you know, like the way I attempted suicide because I couldn't even get that right. But then, they'll probably go really lenient on me after everyone testifies about all the things you did to me. You kicked my ass in front of witnesses, you know. This whole thing can be written off as self-defense. If I get one of those nice liberal judges I'll probably get bonus points for being a cock-sucking queer with an abusive childhood. Hell, they'll probably give me a medal for doing everyone a favor and getting rid of you."

"Come on, Dustin. Stop this."

"Oh, did you finally remember my name?" Dustin sneered. "What's it like, Frank? What's it like to know that you're about to be hurt by someone who's supposed to love you?"

"You're crazy," Frank said.

"No I'm not," Dustin insisted. "I'm not. I'm a product of an environment that you created, Frank. See, like it or not, I am your son. And I am the way I am because of you. I'm not crazy, I'm just a good learner. All my life you treated me like trash. You treated the damn dog better than you treated me. You made me feel like I was worthless, like I was nothing. But all along, it was you who was worthless. You were a failure in life, and you took it out on me because you knew I had potential you never had! You always said I had to toughen up and be a man. But how could I ever become a man when the example I had on how to be a man was you?"

"I did everything I could to provide for my family," Frank protested.

"Shut the fuck up!" Dustin replied. "You hid your inadequacies behind a bottle of booze and took out your frustrations on your family!"

"Okay, so I wasn't the best father in the world. I know that. I never said I was. I did what I could."

"I think you should apologize," Dustin said.

"What?"

"You should apologize to me for being a shitty father."

"I'm not going to apologize for..."

BANG!!!

Frank's driver's side window exploded into shards of glass.

"OH SWEET JESUS!!!" Frank cried.

Dustin laughed.

"You've lost your goddamned mind you fucking psychopath!"

Click...

Dustin cocked the gun once again and aimed it right between his father's eyes. "Apologize for insulting me," he said sternly. "Apologize for calling me a fucking psychopath."

"Okay, fine! I'm sorry I insulted you. Just put the goddamn gun down."

"Apologize for being a shitty father."

"I'm sorry I wasn't a good father!" Frank replied.

"Apologize for busting my cell phone."

"Christ! I'm sorry! I'm sorry for everything! Alright?"

"Not good enough, Frank!" Dustin replied. "You'd like to just brush everything under the rug, wouldn't you? I could go on and on with all the things you've done to me. You made my life a living hell, and even when you left I still had to live with the scars. So let's make it easy. Apologize for raping me."

"Dustin..."

"DON'T SPEAK MY NAME AGAIN, MOTHER FUCKER!!!!" Dustin shouted. "You have no business speaking my name! You say it again and I'll blow your balls off!"

"I gave you that name. Your mother would've named you Vince."

"Shut up!" Dustin snapped. "Just say the words and I'll leave you alone. I just want to hear you say you're sorry for what you did to me. Apologize for raping me."

"Dustin please..."

"I warned you. Right nut or left nut?" Dustin aimed the gun at his father's groin.

"Alright! Alright! I'm sorry I raped you!" Frank cried, his hands firmly clasped to his crotch.

"See that wasn't so bad," Dustin said. "Now apologize for breaking my arm when I was thirteen."

"I don't even remem..."

"DO IT!!!" Dustin ordered.

"Alright, I'm sorry!"

"What are you sorry for?" Dustin asked.

"I'm sorry I broke your arm."

"And?"

"I'm sorry I broke your cell phone."

"And?"

Frank remained silent.

"It's easy Frank. `I'm sorry I fucked you in the ass and came all over your face and treated you like a whore' will do."

"Yes! Yes! I'm sorry for all that."

"You cowardly son of a bitch." Dustin sighed. You can't even say you're sorry properly. You're not a monster. You're not even a man. Why was I ever afraid of you? You're just a cowardly little bitch beating up on people weaker than yourself. I don't know why you're covering your groin. You don't have any balls to shoot."

"You're real brave when you're holding a gun to my head," Frank replied.

"No, Frank. I'm brave all the time. See, you may be an evil son of a bitch but you'll never be half the man I am. I can look in the mirror and be proud of who I am. Can you? See, I loved you. You beat me. You broke me. You never loved me. But despite it all, I still loved you. But what did you do? You took a sweet, innocent, little kid and turned him into me. But here's the thing... See, you thought you could beat the queer out of me. You thought you could destroy my capacity to ever love anyone again. But you failed, Frank. I'm in love with an amazing guy, and he loves me. He's taught me how to love again even after everything you did to me. He's helped me to put my soul back together again. And for the first time in a long time, I'm happy. I'm happier than I've ever been, and happier than you'll ever be."

"That's just great," Frank replied. "Now can you please put the goddamn gun down?"

Dustin sighed. "I hate you," he said. "Okay, it's time to do what I came here for. Turn the fuck around and put your hands on the hood of the car."

"Are you serious?"

"TURN THE FUCK AROUND!!!" Dustin demanded.

Frank did as he was told. Dustin walked up behind him. "You have no idea how much I want to find a broomstick to jam up your ass so you can feel what I felt that night. But this isn't about vengeance. This is about justice. You have to pay for what you did."

Frank felt the barrel of the gun pressing against the back of his head.

"Oh god!" he cried. His mind searched for the memory of a prayer. "Our father who art in heaven..." he prayed.

"What the fuck are you doing? Are you praying, Frank? Do you even know the whole thing?"

"Hallowed be thy name. Thy kingdom come..."

"Thy will be done, blah blah blah..." Dustin continued. "Sorry dad, God won't save you. It's my will that's going to be done tonight. And you're going to Hell."

"Son, please don't do this! Please don't kill me, Dustin! Please!!" Frank cried.

"Three... This is going to make a mess."

"Dustin PLEASE!!!!!!"

"Two..."

"Oh God please help me!"

"One..."

"I love you!" Frank cried.

"Go to Hell," Dustin said coldly.

BANG!!!

...

...

...

...

...

"What do you expect to see when you open your eyes?" Dustin asked. He knelt down beside his father. "It won't be Jesus. It'll be me."

A thick red liquid slowly crept across the parking lot. A large puddle of it collected under the car, and it had splattered all over the place. Dustin stood triumphantly over the quivering mess of his father's body. Dustin delighted in the fact that his father had pissed his pants in fear when the gun went off. Did it make up for years of abuse? Not really. Did it make him feel better though? Oh hell yeah!

Frank opened his eyes and looked into the face of his only son. Dustin dipped a finger into the red liquid which had pooled beneath his father and observed how it flowed down his arm.

"Looks like you've got a bit of a problem here, Frank. Looks like your car is leaking transmission fluid for some reason. You should probably get that taken care of."

"You shot my car!" Frank protested.

"At least I didn't shoot you. This time. And you know what? All the times you scared me I never pissed my pants, not even when you raped me. You're a pathetic joke."

"You son of a bitch..."

"That's right. I'm no son of yours, so I guess I am just a son of a bitch. And she's a better person on her worst day than you'll ever be in your whole life, Frank. And you better believe I have her fire inside me. You have twenty-four hours to pack your shit and get the fuck out of this town. Get out and never come back. You give mom any trouble and I'll find you. Sign those fucking papers and disappear forever. You come back and I will kill you, Frank. And it won't be quick either, but slow... And bad. Remember, I always hit exactly what I'm aiming for and next time I'll be aiming for your asshole. Oh, and I won't be using a gun. I can swing a baseball bat incredibly hard."

Dustin put the gun back into his pocket and began to walk away. "Oh, one last thing..." he said. He didn't bother to turn around. "Tonight's the first time you ever said you loved me. If you'd have said it at any other point in the last twenty-one years maybe it wouldn't have had to be this way. Goodbye, dad."

Dustin walked into the Lucky Strike Bar. Harry the bartender was cleaning up for the night. He handed Dustin a can of Coke on the house.

"Three shots, Big Red? You were pushing your luck weren't you? I'm not the only one in the neighborhood, you know."

"In this town? Who's going to care?"

"You take care of the problem?" Harry asked.

"Yeah," Dustin replied. "Thanks for the help."

"Guys like us have to stick up for each other," Harry replied with a wink. "So, who's going to get that piece of shit out of my parking lot?"

"Call him a taxi or something. I don't give a fuck."

"I was talking about the car."

"Well you need to be more specific when you say `piece of shit,' Harry," Dustin laughed. "Tow it away, he won't be back for it."

"What about him?" Harry asked. "It's supposed to snow."

"It is?"

"Yeah, and the temp's going to be in the teens."

"Harry..."

"Yeah?"

"Fuck the taxi," Dustin said with a smile as he sipped his cola.

I hope you found this one as satisfying to read as I found it to write! What did you think? I'd love to hear! You can reach me at jkwsquirrel@yahoo.com

Next time - The Light in the Darkness (AKA The LAST CHAPTER!)