Getting Ugly by Mike McCrary Page B

nods.
    Brobee’s eyes lock.
    Just over the hill.
    In the distance, shining like a diamond in a goat’s ass.
    Brobee yelps, “There!” His stolen Caddie sits on the side of the road like a hooker’s corpse, right where he left it. “Stop!”
    The Suburban’s brakes lock.

    The crew moves through the same woods Brobee braved less than 48 hours ago. A heavily armed band of the most ill-tempered, badass Cub Scouts ever known, Brobee leads the way, still not completely confident where he’s going. They’ve been trudging through these woods for a while and the natives are getting restless, again.
    Pike looks up, down, all around the suffocating woods. “He build a nest or some shit?”, “You’ll see, fuck face,” spits Brobee.
    “Been staring at trees for two hours now,” says Patience.
    “We’re good. Trust. Please?” begs Brobee.
    Rasnick and Leon are bringing up the rear, staying a few steps behind the rest of the pack. Rasnick turns to Leon. “You said you tracked Big Ugly for a time, right?” Leon nods, not sure where this is going. “Who is he?” Rasnick asks. Leon fights off a grin. “Nobody knows for sure. Some think he was a Marine once, maybe CIA. Maybe trained in Asia. Contract killer for a time. Some even believe he was a cop for awhile.”
    “About to be a broke, dead bitch,” interrupts Pike.
    “Absolutely,” purrs Patience.
    Leon hopes they’re right.
    Pike keeps spewing testosterone. “Don’t know everything, but I know my skills, and they are sharp, tight and ready to light some fire on his ass.” Patience throws an arm around him and Pike spanks her backside. Leon thinks about using a nail and hammer to keep his eyes from rolling. Instead he says, “Confidence is cute, but a healthy dose of fear might keep you alive.”
    Patience stops cold, stares at Leon as if he slapped her Mama. “Fear? You be afraid, pillow bitter.” That earns a laugh from the rest of the crew.
    Leon looks to Rasnick.
Be afraid
.
    Rasnick gets it.
    The crew stops under a massive tree, its roots spiraling out of the ground and back in like a ride at a water park. They’ve reached a bullet-riddled body slumped against the tree’s trunk. Brobee recognizes the face. “Ahhh, man.”
    “You knew him?” asks Rasnick.
    “I—yeah, I stole his truck when I left. Feel bad, a little responsible.”
    Leon looks on.
A little?
These people are unbelievable.
    Rasnick motions for them to keep moving and they continue their march through the thick woods. Something bothers Leon, a question he needs answered. “Hey, Brobee.”
    “Yo.”
    “Did he see you?”
    “Who?”
    “Santa. Who do you think? Big Ugly, asshole.”
    “No, no way.”
    Leon’s face tightens. “You sure about that?”
    Rasnick joins in. “If we’re walking into a goddamn slaughter, so fucking help me.” Brobee attempts to reassure them. “I’m damn positive, man. C’mon.” Everybody stops. All eyes bore through Brobee. He can’t believe the lack of trust from his brothers and sisters in arms. “He did not fucking see me.”
    He’s sure.
    Really sure.
    So sure.
    Kinda sure.

Part III
    some kinda Willy Wonka prick cocksucker.

14
    L
ess than 48 hours ago…
    Brobee stood at the edge of the clearing, mouth and eyes agape.
    Up ahead was the object of his horror.
    Up ahead…
    Big Ugly.
    Forty-something, dressed in a slick, tailored Fioravanti suit and, oddly enough, not ugly at all. Actually better looking than probably 99% of men walking the earth. Cigar in his mouth, scotch in hand, and his baby blues locked on Brobee from across the yard. Big Ugly flashed a chilling smile, took a beat, then gave a tiny finger wave to Brobee.
    Piss flowed.
    Brobee bolted.
    Big Ugly stood in front of a 28,000 square foot sprawling mega mansion.
His
mansion. Aside from the open land that immediately encircles the home, the area is completely surrounded, protected by the dense trees and wilderness. This place won’t show up on any map. A stable of cows