This One is Deadly

This One is Deadly by Daniel J. Kirk Page A

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Authors: Daniel J. Kirk
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didn’t land with Jack the know-it-all.
    “There’s a reason for the way things are done,” Jack said.
    “Why not a net?” I asked. “A giant net.”
    “Tried it.”
    “See they tried it, honey,” Michael said. “Tranquilizer darts probably don’t work either. These aren’t animals—they’re supernatural, right?”
    “These things have control of their human anatomy like you have never imagined. It might disturb you to know that most time he only pretended to be asleep. He likely listened to everything you ever said, he had to know he was fooling you all. If it wasn’t working out, he might’ve gone an alternative route.”
    “Like what?”
    “I shouldn’t be talking this much, not right now. Once he’s caught…”
    “You need a freaking army.” I said. “He tore through you two like it was nothing. Your partner is Swiss Cheese’s regurgitated brother.”
    “He got a good jump,” Jack said. “He calculated our attempt. Used you against us. It’s not atypical. I apologize. Apprehension has gone much smoother in the past.”
    “I doubt that,” I said.
    Jack didn’t take the bait.
    Michael did. “How will you catch him now? What’s the backup plan?”

HANSON:
     
    I rolled my head against the brick fireplace. The bricks snagged pieces of hair. Every moan came with a head toss and a tug on my hair. The sudden jolt of pain was almost sharp enough to take away how the rest of my body felt for just under a nano-second.  So I volleyed my head off the bricks to see if I could make myself forget all pain.
    It didn’t go as planned.
    Nothing had today.
    Jack had his hands full with this couple.  It was a little better since the husband arrived. He was a strange voice of reason. It was almost creepy how eager he was to take advantage of not having a child to raise. Maybe he was just an optimist. I’ve always been a pessimist. Even before the twenty-six years I served as a collector.
    That’s how long it had been?
    Christ.
    I was old. Slow.
    No wonder this crap happened to me today.
    I’d be pulled from field duty. My eyes were shit to begin with, so I won’t be doing too much paperwork. They’ll have me folding brochures, licking envelopes.
    Christ.
    Damn thing cut me open like a bag of gummy worms. Try as I might, I wasn’t very good at not looking, and not dabbing my fingers in the warm blood. I always felt more than I had intended. I’d puke if my organs were still properly connected.
    I bang my teeth on glass. Jack stuck one in my mouth. Maybe my eyes had been shut for longer than a blink. I didn’t remember him walking over with rum. I was foolish enough to think it would help, but it was like drinking hot soup when you’re thirst on a hot day.
    The mother glared at me because I spit the rum back up with blood. I almost spat again, just to soak the handmade blanket draped across her leather couch.
    The husband, Michael, asked, “Is there anything I can do?”
    I wanted to tell him to stop being so damn chipper.
    I tried to remember a video they showed me twenty-six years ago. I could hear the sounds of the wonky synthesizer more than the tinny voice that I barely remembered saying, ‘Everyone deals with it in their own way.’
    If this had gone smoothly we would’ve handed them brochures, showed them a different video and set up counseling sessions. Free of charge—supposedly. They’d never notice the money that came out of their tax refund next year. It was the easiest way to do it. Uncle Sam still thought it was a person’s fault for harboring a fugitive. Seems fair enough, given that perfect parenting would’ve led to an anti-Christ, right.  We were supposed to pat them on the back and smile like we enjoyed doing it for free.
    I had a pension.
    If I live I have a pension.
    I could take it.
    I could cash out.
    I’d taken enough of these assholes off the street.
    But they keep coming.
    They’ll never stop.
    If not me, then who.
    Oh, shut it. I’m talking to myself.
    Feeling

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