out.”
Sullivan turned his back on his suspect and
walked towards the door.
“You know something?” Miller asked.
Sullivan stopped in his tracks. He turned to face
the suspect. Miller sat there, beaten to hell, and still wanted to say
something to him. Though the Agent would never admit it out loud, he envied the
old man. Miller believed in something higher than himself. The only thing
Sullivan believed in was doing enough to get by. To do just enough to care for
his son and for a wife who no longer loved him in return. This man had nothing,
yet he still stood firm and did not waiver. If not for the torture, the old man
would have said nothing and accepted his death.
“What now?” Sullivan asked.
“You’re a coward. All of you are cowards.”
A nerve was struck. Sullivan paced back towards
Miller. He leaned against the metal table and gripped the side with both hands
for support. His grip so tight it caused his knuckles to go pale.
“I’m a coward?” Sullivan demanded.
“That’s right.”
“Look at yourself. Look at this band
of…terrorists you associate yourself with. Always hiding in the shadows, right?
You cling to your…Bible and a way of life that has long since passed. And, you?
You sold out one of your comrades because you couldn’t stand a little pain.”
Sullivan wanted to finish the job that his
partners started. He leaned his body upright and peered down at Miller. The old
man looked away. Something started to come from his vocal cords. They
were…words to a song? It took a few moments for the Agent to make out what the
song was. Then he heard them. Those words that the USR taught him, to all
citizens, were never to be spoken of again.
“Oh, say, can you see…”
Complete defiance towards his captor. For the
government that Sullivan served every day. Miller remained devoted to that old
way of life. What was it about a country with no morals that attracted the old
fool?
“Sing all you want,” Sullivan said. He
straightened his back. “All the way to the gas chamber.”
When Sullivan turned, the singing grew louder. He
had all that he could take from Miller. All the disrespect he could take in one
day: the Bible, the flag, the letters, and now the singing. It was enough to
cause a civilized human being to throw up. Sullivan opened the door and slammed
it shut behind him.
“That how we pussies get it done.” Sullivan said
as he walked passed his partners.
“Blow me,” Mason said to Sullivan’s backside.
“Better yet, go blow Fitzpatrick again.”
Nine
The maggots inside the pit of Sullivan’s stomach
began their infestation. Their movements slow and deliberate. He could feel
them crawling around. The only thing he wanted to do at the moment was pull the
car over and vomit them out. He did all he could to keep his pale hands from
shaking on the steering wheel. A squint of the eyes and the words “Sycamore
St.” could be read on the green sign in white letters that glowed with the
sunlight.
The eagerness of the dip shits did little to
relieve him of his pain. Mason sat in the front with Wilcox in the back. They
both examined their Glocks with murder in their eyes. Fitzpatrick just didn’t
want to listen anymore. After a lengthy debate on leaving the two trigger happy
fuck heads behind, the decision was final. They were both going. If there was a
problem, a meeting could be set up with the Consul.
A part of Sullivan just wanted to pull the car to
the side of the road and be done with it. If Mason and Wilcox had anything to
say about it, he would give them both two in the chest and one in the head. He
thought better of it, though. There was still the roof that needed to be kept
over the family’s head. There was also the money that still needed to be earned
to keep Davie in school so he could earn a better education. Not to mention the
preservation of…
“This is the street boss,” Wilcox said from the
back seat. He cocked his pistol, placed it back into the shoulder
Sullivan turned his back on his suspect and
walked towards the door.
“You know something?” Miller asked.
Sullivan stopped in his tracks. He turned to face
the suspect. Miller sat there, beaten to hell, and still wanted to say
something to him. Though the Agent would never admit it out loud, he envied the
old man. Miller believed in something higher than himself. The only thing
Sullivan believed in was doing enough to get by. To do just enough to care for
his son and for a wife who no longer loved him in return. This man had nothing,
yet he still stood firm and did not waiver. If not for the torture, the old man
would have said nothing and accepted his death.
“What now?” Sullivan asked.
“You’re a coward. All of you are cowards.”
A nerve was struck. Sullivan paced back towards
Miller. He leaned against the metal table and gripped the side with both hands
for support. His grip so tight it caused his knuckles to go pale.
“I’m a coward?” Sullivan demanded.
“That’s right.”
“Look at yourself. Look at this band
of…terrorists you associate yourself with. Always hiding in the shadows, right?
You cling to your…Bible and a way of life that has long since passed. And, you?
You sold out one of your comrades because you couldn’t stand a little pain.”
Sullivan wanted to finish the job that his
partners started. He leaned his body upright and peered down at Miller. The old
man looked away. Something started to come from his vocal cords. They
were…words to a song? It took a few moments for the Agent to make out what the
song was. Then he heard them. Those words that the USR taught him, to all
citizens, were never to be spoken of again.
“Oh, say, can you see…”
Complete defiance towards his captor. For the
government that Sullivan served every day. Miller remained devoted to that old
way of life. What was it about a country with no morals that attracted the old
fool?
“Sing all you want,” Sullivan said. He
straightened his back. “All the way to the gas chamber.”
When Sullivan turned, the singing grew louder. He
had all that he could take from Miller. All the disrespect he could take in one
day: the Bible, the flag, the letters, and now the singing. It was enough to
cause a civilized human being to throw up. Sullivan opened the door and slammed
it shut behind him.
“That how we pussies get it done.” Sullivan said
as he walked passed his partners.
“Blow me,” Mason said to Sullivan’s backside.
“Better yet, go blow Fitzpatrick again.”
Nine
The maggots inside the pit of Sullivan’s stomach
began their infestation. Their movements slow and deliberate. He could feel
them crawling around. The only thing he wanted to do at the moment was pull the
car over and vomit them out. He did all he could to keep his pale hands from
shaking on the steering wheel. A squint of the eyes and the words “Sycamore
St.” could be read on the green sign in white letters that glowed with the
sunlight.
The eagerness of the dip shits did little to
relieve him of his pain. Mason sat in the front with Wilcox in the back. They
both examined their Glocks with murder in their eyes. Fitzpatrick just didn’t
want to listen anymore. After a lengthy debate on leaving the two trigger happy
fuck heads behind, the decision was final. They were both going. If there was a
problem, a meeting could be set up with the Consul.
A part of Sullivan just wanted to pull the car to
the side of the road and be done with it. If Mason and Wilcox had anything to
say about it, he would give them both two in the chest and one in the head. He
thought better of it, though. There was still the roof that needed to be kept
over the family’s head. There was also the money that still needed to be earned
to keep Davie in school so he could earn a better education. Not to mention the
preservation of…
“This is the street boss,” Wilcox said from the
back seat. He cocked his pistol, placed it back into the shoulder
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