Like Grownups Do by Nathan Roden

and his organization.
    “No, no, no, Mr. Stemple. I do, however, need to speak with you concerning a matter of some importance— tomorrow night, if you please. Do you remember the picnic area at Lake Cochituate, where we met before?”
    “Yeah, I remember. What time?”
    “Shall we say ten o’clock?” Vlada said.
    Vlada knew that Stemple had another doctor’s appointment tomorrow afternoon, at which time he would find out about the cancer and the proposed treatment plan. Vlada also knew that Stemple had no relationships of the type that would have him sharing this information with anyone between tomorrow afternoon and tomorrow evening.
     
    Graham Stemple slammed on the brakes of his BMW, sliding on the loose gravel in the parking lot of his favorite local soul-food barbecue hole-in-the-wall. He slammed the car into “Park” and sat, leaving the motor running. The air conditioning was at maximum and the cabin of the car dipped to near fifty degrees. Sweat continued to pour from Stemple’s forehead.
    He was unable to piece together coherent thoughts. He had come from a medical specialist’s private clinic where a bored, condescending oncologist had been brought in to break the news; the specialist had looked down his nose and recited from memory a juvenile description of the presence of colon cancer. As he began to expound on the prescribed treatment plan, Graham Stemple stood.
     
    “Go fuck yourself, you fucking Mr. Rogers wannabe piece of shit.”
    Stemple drove immediately to the more upscale of his old haunts and threw down cash for the most expensive available prostitute. He had swallowed two Viagras before he left the clinic parking lot. His equipment had not performed without it for the last five years.
     
    Stemple ignored the whimpers of the beautiful young girl, drawing energy from her complaints of “You’re hurting me”.
    You think this hurts?
     
    When he was finished he stood and waited for the girl to follow him out of the bed, which she had no intention of doing. The girl lay there, wide-eyed and frightened, with the sheet pulled up around her neck. Stemple stood above her, naked—his belly heaving from the exertion. He held his hand out to her. Trembling, she took his hand and stood.
    Stemple drew back his right hand and punched her in the face.
    He got dressed, taking his time. He turned one last time at the door. The girl was in the floor in the fetal position with a puddle of blood in front of her mouth. Her face was ruined and her entire body heaved in convulsions.
    Stemple snorted. “You win, anyway. You’re going to live.”
     
    Stemple yanked the car into gear. He wasn’t going to throw in the towel just yet. Maybe he could beat this thing, but the huge daily intake of pork would have to stop.
    He had no desire to go home, especially since he had to meet Dante Vlada later. So, he drove out toward Lake Cochituate and stopped in at a little dive where he drank until nine o’clock.
     
    Stemple managed to weave his car into the roadside picnic area at Lake Cochituate at nine twenty. The area was quiet with little traffic. He nodded off.
    The bright lights of an approaching vehicle woke him thirty minutes later.
    Stemple watched Dante Vlada step from the passenger side of the car and then the car pulled away. Vlada stepped to Stemple’s window.
    “Is that our old pal, Hans? Where is he going?” Stemple slurred.
    “Moving the car, as a simple precaution. He will join us soon. Come, walk with me, Graham,” Vlada said, opening the door of the BMW.
     
    “So, you have some health problems, Mr. Stemple?” Vlada asked.
    “Yeah, afraid so. But I’m not so sure those fuckers know what— hey, who told you— ?” Stemple stopped walking and turned to face Vlada.
    He cocked his head and closed one eye.
    Vlada smiled and lifted his hands to his side to display his innocence.
    “Come now, Mr. Stemple. I am an information junkie and I like for everything to make sense. Is that so