Killing
A Novel By Victor Fortezza -- Contributing Author

WARNING: Killing takes place in a very real world where people are flawed and may contain material of a harsh nature. While the Cynic Online Magazine does not feel that the novel promotes racism, the novel acknowledges that racism exists in the real world and therefore acknowlegedges the possibility in its characters. If you are offended by content of this nature, please navigate to another feature within the magazine.

7

The crew was abuzz with excitement, the work day having been suspended at noon.

"Let's get goin'," said Sandy, leaning against the door. "It's prob'bly packed up deah awready."

As Dante was about to leave, he noted Ben seated in his customary nook.

"Comin', Benny?"

Ben shook his head. "No."

"But you fayvid the waw."

"I know. If that schmuck'd gotten hold of all that oil there's no tellin' how high prices'd be right now. There might've been riots in the streets all over the world, even here. Remember the gas lines in the seventies? Let's just hope we learned our lesson and start thinkin' about becomin' more self sufficient in terms of energy. I wouldn't count on it, though. A lot of politicians are afraid of the environmentalists. Then again, maybe it wouldn't be very smart to leave the Arabs without their biggest customer. There're no easy answers to anything. World politics is complex. I know one thing, though, Saddam can't be trusted with nukes."

Dante stared. "I still don' get why ya ain't comin'."

Ben shrugged. "I just don't think war should be celebrated. You should kick ass, come home, quietly hug your wife and kids, and thank God it's over. But this's what the people want, and I'd never spoil their fun. They've been waitin' for somethin' like this since Vietnam. Maybe that awful memory'll finally be erased."

Sandy reentered the building. "C'mon, Dan!"

Cheech, Tony and Pete were fidgetting on the other side of the glass.

"Ga'head," said Dante, "I'll ketch up to yiz."

"Whattaya tawkin' to dat commie faw?"

He ignored the comment and turned back to Ben. "We shoulda went awl the way to Baghdad. Look what the sfacheem's doin' to dose paw kurds."

"That would've violated the U.N. resolution and threatened the coalition, not to mention cost thousands of lives. We were supposed to drive him out of Kuwait. We accomplished that." He looked away, suddenly troubled. "Why'm I sayin' 'we'? I didn't face any bullets. Still, I wish somebody'd put one through that slimeball's head."

Dante smiled as if thinking: Gotcha! "Ya sapposta be against the deat' penilty, rememba?"

Ben chuckled halfheartedly, realizing he'd been got.

"Keahn't blame ya, though, not afta he sent dose missiles at Israel."

"You know what's weird, though? I was just readin' where some experts think it'd be better if Saddam stayed in power 'cause the region needs his strong presence for stability."

Dante shook his head. "Dis's too complicated fuh me."

Sandy poked his head back inside and, angrily, said: "Whattaya doin', Dan?"

"I tol' yiz to go."

Dante looked at Ben, to whom he loved to listen, so much he had difficulty tearing himself away. Ben reminded him of the pundits on the Sunday morning political programs. And he never volunteered his opinion or flaunted his intelligence. He remained silent until questioned and then held nothing back, no matter what anyone might think.

"He don' keah about the parade," said Sandy scornfully. "His side lawst."

"Go awready. I'll see yiz up deah."

"Ah fangoul."

Sandy stormed away. Dante smirked.

"Neva mine him," he said to Ben.

"I never do."

Dante looked through the glass. "Good, de'ah leavin'. Now I won' hafta put up wit' 'em. De'ah only goin' to pick up babes." He paused. "What'dja mean befaw about Saddam stayin'?"

"If he went, the Iranians might try to take over, and if they got the Iraqi oil they'd be even richer and even more able to sponsor terrorism, as if they aren't already. I'd still like to see him get it, though. He's responsible for thousands of deaths and he'll be responsible for thousands more before he's through. He's a lot different than your common criminal, whose terrorism's on a tiny scale, who, once he's behind bars, is no longer a threat. If the CIA has information on the location of terrorists training sites, I say level 'em."

"Me too."

"The criminal brings the law of the jungle into effect with his actions and has to accept the consequences, or should have to, anyway. If a store owner with a gun under his counter thinks there's a chance an armed robber might kill him, he should shoot."

"I would."

"But once a criminal's in custody the government's behavior should be exemplary, not savage, no matter how vicious the criminal's been."

"I'm from the ol' school. I say: 'An eye fer an eye.'"

"That's always been the prevailing philosophy, but has it worked? Has it made civilization any better?"

"Ya think it's made it worse? I think bein' too easy on 'em's made things worse. Besides, 'An' eye fer an eye' ain't ah philosephy no maw."

"We still have the highest execution rate in the world - and still lead by far in murder and violent crime. Where's the deterrent?"

"We ain't killin' enough of 'em. We should show the onnymahls gettin' gassed an' juiced on TV, make the otha ones think twice about pullin' somethin'. We gotta keep tryin'. We don' try hahd enough, dat's ah problim - jus' like in 'nam. We awways get sidetracked, lose ah colyoans." He grabbed his crotch for emphasis.

"But isn't executin' people sayin' indirectly that killin's right?"

"Sometimes it is," said Dante firmly, squatting, now at eye level with Ben. "Ya jus' said so yaself about Saddam an' terrarists. Ya think not havin' the deat' penalty's gonna stop a murderah? Deah's awways gonna be evil in the world, Benny. I seen enough'a it up close."

Ben stared blankly.

"What's'a matta?"

"Your logic's crystalline. You may've just killed off the last of the bleeding heart in me."

Dante scoffed. "Ah, ya jus' sayin' that. We need the deat' penalty to keep the killin' to a minimum. People ain't afraid to kill dese days 'cause dey know dey got a good cheahnce'a gettin' away wit' it."

"You've certainly given me somethin' to think about. Maybe there is no other way to deal with violent crime. Maybe I'm dreamin' of a world that can never be, where all killin'd cease, not just murder but war, abortion, capital punishment. But can we go on like this? Is the world ever gonna get any better or is it always gonna remain on the same plain? If killin's the answer, when's all the butchery gonna start showin' some results? Think of all the wars, all the criminals who've been executed, all the fetuses that've been aborted. Isn't killin' to achieve a perfect society a twisted sort of logic?"

"Life could neva be perfec'. It could only be betta."

"Would you say we're better off now than we were ten or even twenty years ago?"

"Worse."

"Then aren't we doin' it wrong? Or is progress so slight as to be imperceptible? Or maybe you're right - this's the way life always was and always will be. There's just more of us now, which means more bad guys."

"The devil hangs tough. People laugh when I say dat. Maybe dey jus' don' wanna idmit he's reahly deah. Hah else kin ya explain the things some people do, to babies even? Maybe he's in an' out so feahst we don' even realize it's him. I felt 'em in me in 'nam - an' we wa the good guys. I liked killin' dose little bastids." His face twisted under the difficulty of admitting this, as if he were unable to believe it himself. "I liked payin' 'em back for takin' out ah boys. To dis day, I keahn't stan' the sight of 'em. I gotta look away. I don' keah if de'ah Chinese aw Japinese, even. Sometimes it looks like the devil's tryin' to get us awl to kill each otha. Awl he needs is the wrawng guy wit' 'is finga on the buttin. It ain't ova, though. He's got a lawng way to go to get us awl. Trouble is, hah do we kill him wit'out us awl killin' each otha firs'?"

"If he got us all he'd be atta work. I doubt he wants that. He wants to go on tormenting God through us."

Dante held Ben's gaze for a moment. "I figyid ya fer an at'eist."

"I could never be that certain about anything. I just know that the devil is as good an explanation as any for the evil that occurs in this world."

They fell silent. The center, usually bustling, was eerily silent.

"You're gonna miss your kid," said Ben.

Dante smiled. "I'm proud'a him. Why don'cha come? Ya don' gotta cheer. Jus' hang out an' take it awl in, check out the chicks."

"Nah. I don't get much of a chance to be alone any more. As much as I love my kids, I have a great appreciation for quiet now."

"I know what ya mean - but ya know what - now dat my kids ain't aroun' as much I miss the rackit. We'ah such tawkers in my fam'ly. Ya should heah the rackit we make when we'ah awl togetha." He despaired at the thought of the silence that had fallen over the house, a silence similar to that which characterized his mother's. "Dat's life, I guess. Ya kin neva have it igzackly the way ya wan' it. It's one thing aw the otha."

"Get goin. If my kid was in the parade I'd be there too. If I had any strong beliefs, my family's the only thing I'd ever compromise them for."

"Go home, at leas'. Stayin' heah alone's dumb."

"That wouldn't be right. We're only excused to go to the parade."

Dante rolled his eyes heavenward. "An' people say I'm thickheaded. Yaw worse den me. Lemme go."

He stepped away, paused, and turned. "Wa you heah the day we broke out the champagne when dey fried dat creep Bundy?"

"I'd just started."

"Ya musta thought we wa nuts."

"Not at all. I had no sympathy for him. I just think it's wrong to celebrate somethin' like that, although it's certainly more understandable than what he did. I was just readin' about a group that's so concerned about overpopulation that they think all killing is good."

Dante shook his head, chuckling. "Takes awl types to make a world. I jus' hope it's dem who get killed."

"They're all prepared for battle. They're tryin' to set up a hotline to help people commit suicide. They call themselves a 'church' too."

"Unbelieveable."

"They have slogans like: 'Save the world - kill yourself' and 'Drive fast and don't wear a seatbelt' and 'Thanks for not having kids.' Nobody told them that if birth rates don't pick up soon population'll be goin' in reverse in fifty or so years."

Dante's gaze found the floor. Suddenly he seemed troubled. "I gotta go."

Again he paused, this time at the door, leaning against it, leaving it slightly ajar. He looked at Ben, then lowered his head.

"We neva had a parade."

Ben did not reply.

"Den again, we lawst."

"You're jealous?"

His body coiled. "I guess I am." His voice cracked. "Dey had it so much easier den us - an' de'ah heroes. We'ah losahs. It ain't feah."

"That's not your son's fault. He didn't ask for the parade. Political graverobbers did. Ignore the fair-weather patriots."

"Like ya buddy Sandy?"

"Exactly. The staunch anti-communist, maniacal union man - the living oxymoron."

Dante raised an eyebrow. "Dat's the firs' time I eva heard ya say somethin' bad about somebody."

Ben appeared to have regretted the slip.

"Ya hate me too? I'm an anti-commie uneyin guy. Guys like me an' Sandy'd be nothin' wit'out a uneyin behin' us. The big shots'd wawk right ova us. He is a mawron, though."

Ben chuckled.

"Wha'? What'd I say now?"

"An 'oxymoron' is a contradiction in terms, not an idiot. It's like when you say 'jumbo shrimp' or 'soft rock.'"

Dante reflected a moment, then shrugged. "What'oo I know? I sucked at school. He's a mawron, anyway. I'm atta heah. See ya tamarra."

He hurried from the grounds and fell in step with the flow of pedestrian traffic heading toward Broadway. Even here, blocks away, electricity was in the air.

At the corner he veered uptown, hoping to avoid his co-workers. Tomorrow he would say he'd been unable to find them in the mob. He wanted to be alone, which seemed strange considering the thousands that would be lining the streets. Was this an oxymoron? he wondered.

He considered taking the train downtown, surprising his wife, but decided it would be unwise, as she might be in the company of her lover. There was no sense risking a spoiling of the occasion. Tomorrow his son would depart to a new assignment which would complete the final months of his commitment. His wife and he were bound to be alone in the house one day. Jo Jo would be out regularly now that summer was imminent. He would force the issue when the time was right. Just the other night he'd stumbled across the stub of her most recent paycheck, which did not reflect a single hour of overtime in a week wherein she'd professed to have worked late each night. No wonder their bank account had not increased proportionately. What further proof did he need? He had hoped the deliverance of their son would set her straight. Thus far it had not.

Still blocks from Broadway, he noted a hum in the air, which grew louder at each step. Ahead, a sea of tiny American flags was waving. The parade was flowing by above the countless heads before him. Confetti and streamers were raining down from the sky. Although he was unable to get anywhere near the curb or to find a vantage point that would afford more than a fleeting glimpse of a passing soldier, he was not disappointed. He did not want to be there. His mind was searching for any semi-legitimate excuse to motivate him to leave. After all, he could always tell Junior he'd seen him and called out and that his cries were lost in the din. He was pained by the adulation with which these young men were being showered. How many had faced the peril, the psychological terrors Vietnam veterans had? He realized he was indeed jealous, even of his own son, and it made him feel worse. And although he was acutely aware of his negativism, he refused to relinquish it, even though it was as painful as it was comforting. It also occurred to him that he was behaving as his father might have.

Nearby, isolated in the doorway of a storefront, stood a middle age man in a worn Army jacket, eyes constricted, troubled. Dante approached him, noted the name on the jacket - Karkosa. Pollock? he wondered.

"'nam?" he said softly.

Karkosa coiled slightly, suspicious, then, the light of recognition entering his blue eyes, nodded.

"Me too. C'mon, I'll buy ya a drink."

In a dark dive on a side street they commiserated, recounting experiences, oiling memory with alcohol. The place seemed a haven for the downtrodden, the underclass. Dante hadn't been in one like it since Saigon. It was as if he'd travelled back in time. This was not what he wanted, however. He wanted to move forward, not wallow. He did not want to use the war as an excuse for drunkenness or failure. Karkosa kept ordering drinks, however, and Dante did not have the resolve to refuse. Soon they were drunk. Karkosa pulled his shirt out, unfastened his jeans, and had Dante feel an area below the line of his underwear, where shrapnel remained lodged. Suddenly Dante feared homosexual advances were being made. As Karkosa staggered to the bathroom, Dante knocked back a shot of scotch. He decided to sneak away. Stricken with guilt, realizing he'd probably mistaken Karkosa's intentions or conceived them merely to have a reasonable excuse to escape, he left two twenties with the bartender as penance, even though he knew that money might not find its way to Karkosa.

He walked around midtown in effort to sober up, stopping twice for coffee. Realizing the trains would be crowded with parade-goers, he decided to take in a movie. He fell asleep in the theater. Awakening hours later, his head was pounding.

As he took a seat on the subway, he realized he had, as he'd done more than 20 years ago, abandoned a comrade in arms.

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