The Nightrunners Part 9

Not so long ago, about a year back, a very rotten kid named Clyde Edson walked the earth. He was street-mean and full of savvy and he knew what he wanted and got it any way he wanted.

He lived in a big, evil house on a dying, grey street in Galveston, Texas, and he collected to him, like an old lady who brings in cats half-starved and near-eaten with mange, the human refuse and the young discards of a sick society.

He molded them. He breathed life into them. He made them feel they belonged.

They were his creations, but he did not love them. They were just things to be toyed with until the paint wore thin and the batteries ran down, then out they went.

And this is the way it was until he met Brian Blackwood.

Things got worse after that.

TWO.

-guy had a black leather jacket and dark hair combed back virgin-a.s.s tight, slicked down with enough grease to lube a bone-dry Buick; came down the hall walking slow, head up, ice-blue eye working like acid on everyone in sight; had the hall nearly to himself, plenty of room for his slow-stroll swagger. The other high school kids were shouldering the wall, shedding out of his path like frenzied snakes shedding out of their skins.

You could see this Clyde was bad news. Hung in time. Fifties-looking. Out of step. But who's going to say, "Hey, dude, you look funny"?

Tough, this guy. Hide like the jacket he wore. No books under his arm, nothing at all. Just cool.

Brian was standing at the water fountain when he first saw him, sipping water, just blowing time between cla.s.ses; thinking about nothing until along came Clyde, and suddenly he found himself attracted to him. Not in a s.e.xual way. He wasn't funny. But in the manner metal shavings are attracted to a magnet-can't do a thing about it, just got to go to it and cling.

Brian knew who Clyde was, but this was the first time he'd ever been close enough to feel the heat. Before, the guy'd been a tough greaser in a leather jacket who spent most of his time expelled from school. Nothing more.

But now he saw for the first time that the guy had something; something that up close shone like a well-honed razor in the noonday sun.

Cool. He had that.

Cla.s.s. He had that.

Difference. He had that.

He was a walking power plant.

Name was Clyde. Ol', mean, weird, don't-f.u.c.k-with-me Clyde.

"You looking at something?" Clyde growled.

Brian just stood there, one hand resting on the water fountain.

After a while he said innocently: "You."

"That right?"

"Uh-huh."

"Staring at me?"

"I guess."

"I see."

And then Clyde was on Brian, had him by the hair, jerking his head down, driving a knee into his face. Brian went back seeing constellations. Got kicked in the ribs then.

Hit in the eye as he leaned forward from that. Clyde was making a regular bop bag out of him.

He hit Clyde back, aimed a nose shot through a swirling haze of colored dots.

And it hurt so good. Like when he made that fat pig Betty Sue Flowers fingernail his back until he bled; thrust up her hips until his c.o.c.k ached and the rotten-fish smell of her filled his brain . . . Only this hurt better. Ten times better.

Clyde wasn't expecting that. This guy was coming back like he liked it.

Clyde dug that.

He kicked Brian in the nuts, grabbed him by the hair and slammed his forehead against the kid's nose. Made him bleed good, but didn't get a good enough lick in to break it.

Brian went down, grabbed Clyde's ankle, bit it.

Clyde yowled, drug Brian around the hall.

The students watched, fascinated. Some wanted to laugh at what was happening, but none dared.

Clyde used his free foot to kick Brian in the face. That made Brian let go ... for a moment.

He dove at Clyde, slammed the top of his head into Clyde's bread basket, carried him back against the wall crying loudly, "Motherf.u.c.ker!"

Then the princ.i.p.al came, separated them, screamed at them, and Clyde hit the princ.i.p.al and the princ.i.p.al went down and now Clyde and Brian were both standing up, together, kicking the G.o.dd.a.m.ned s.h.i.+t out of the G.o.dd.a.m.ned princ.i.p.al in the middle of the G.o.dd.a.m.ned hall.

Side by side they stood. Kicking.

One. Two. Three. One. Two. Three.

Left leg. Right leg. Feet moving together like the legs of a scurrying centipede . . .

THREE.

They got some heat slapped on them for that; juvenile court action. It was a bad scene.

Brian's mother sat at a long table with his lawyer and whined like a blender on whip.

Good old mom. She was actually good for something. She had told the judge: "He's a good boy, your honor. Never got in any trouble before. Probably wouldn't have gotten into this, but he's got no father at home to be an example . . . ," and so forth.

If it hadn't been to his advantage, he'd have been disgusted. As it was, he sat in his place with his nice clean suit and tried to look ashamed and a little surprised at what he had done. And in a way he was surprised.

He looked over at Clyde. He hadn't bothered with a suit. He had his jacket and jeans on.

He was cleaning his fingernails with a fingernail clipper.

When Mrs. Blackwood finished, Judge Lowry yawned. It was going to be one of those days. He thought: the dockets are full, this Blackwood kid has no priors, looks clean-cut enough, and this other little s.h.i.+t has a bookful . . . Yet, he is a kid, and I feel big-hearted.

Or to put this into perspective, there's enough of a backlog without adding this silly case to it.

If I let the Blackwood kid go, it'll look like favoritism because he's clean-cut and this is his first time-and that is good for something. Yet, if I don't let the Edson kid go too, then I'm saying the same crime is not as bad when its committed by a clean-cut kid with a whining momma.

All right, he thought. We'll keep it simple. Let them both go, but give it all some window dressing.

And it was window dressing, nothing more. Brian was put on light probation, and Clyde, who was already on probation, was given the order to report to his probation officer more frequently, and that was the end of that.

Piece of cake.

The school expelled them for the rest of the term, but that was no mean thing.

They were back on the streets before the day was out.

For the moment, Clyde went his way and Brian went his.

But the bond was formed.

FOUR.

A week later, mid-October Brian Blackwood sat in his room, his head full of pleasant but overwhelming emotions.

He got a pen and loose-leaf notebook out of his desk drawer, began to write savagely.

I've never kept a journal before, and I don't know if I'll continue to keep one after tonight, but the stuff that's going on inside of me is boiling up something awful and I feel if I don't get it out I'm going to explode and there isn't going to be anything left of me but blood and s.h.i.+t stains on the G.o.dd.a.m.ned wall.

In school I read about this writer who said he was like that, and if he could write down what was bothering him, what was pus.h.i.+ng his skull from the inside, he could find relief, so I'm going to try that and hope for the best, because I've got to tell somebody, and I sure as h.e.l.l can't tell Mommy-dear this, not that I can really tell her anything, but I've got to let this out of me and I only wish that I could write faster, put it down as fast as I can think.

This guy, Clyde Edson, he's really different and he's changed my life and I can feel it, I know it, it's down in my guts, squirming around like some kind of cancer, eating at me from the inside out, changing me into something new and fresh.

Being around Clyde is like being next to pure power, yeah, like that. Energy comes off of htm in waves that nearly knock you down, and it's almost as if I'm absorbing that energy, and like maybe Clyde is sucking something out of me, something he can use, and the thought of that, of me giving Clyde something, whatever it is, makes me feel strong and whole. I mean, being around Clyde is like touching evil, or like that sappy Star Wars s.h.i.+t about being seduced by the Dark Side of The Force, or some such f.u.c.king malarky. But you see, this seduction by the Dark Side, it's a d.a.m.n good f.u.c.k, a real j.i.s.m-spurter, kind that makes your eyes bug, your back pop and your a.s.shole pucker.

Maybe I don't understand this yet, but I think it's sort of like this guy I read about once, this philosopher whose name I can't remember, but who said something about becoming a Superman. Not the guy with the cape. I'm not talking comic book, do-gooder c.r.a.p here, I'm talking the real palooka. Can't remember just what he said, but from memory of what I read, and from the way I feel now, I figure that Clyde and I are two of the chosen, the Supermen of now, this moment, mutants for the future. I see it sort of like this: man was once a wild animal type that made right by the size of his muscles and not by no bulls.h.i.+t government and laws. Time came when he had to become civilized to survive all the other hardnoses, but now that time has pa.s.sed 'cause most of the hardnoses have died off and there isn't anything left but a bunch of f.u.c.king p.u.s.s.ies who couldn't find their a.s.s with a road map or figure how to wipe it without a blueprint. But you see, the mutations are happening again. New survivors are being born, and instead of that muck scientists say we crawled out of in the first place, we're crawling out of this mess the p.u.s.s.ies have created with all their human rights s.h.i.+t and laws to protect the weak. Only this time, it isn't like before. Man might have crawled out of that slime to escape the sharks of the sea back then, but this time it's the G.o.dd.a.m.ned sharks that are crawling out and we're mean sonofab.i.t.c.hes with razor-sharp teeth and hides like fresh-dug gravel. And most different of all, there's a single-mindedness about us that just won't let up.

I don't know if I'm saying this right, it's not all clear in my head and it's hard to put into words, but I can feel it, G.o.dd.a.m.nit, I can feel it. Time has come when we've become too civilized, overpopulated, so evolution has taken care of that, it's created a social mutation- Supermen like Clyde and me.

Clyde, he's the raw stuff, sewer sludge. He gets what he wants because he doesn 't let anything stand in the way of what he wants, nothing. G.o.d, the conversations we had the last couple of days . . . See now, lost my train of thought. . . Oh yeah, the social mutations.

You see, I thought I was some kind of f.u.c.king freak all this time. But what it is, I'm just new, different. I mean, from as far back as I can remember, I've been different. I just don't react the way other people do, and I didn't understand why. Crying over dead puppies and s.h.i.+t like that. Big f.u.c.king deal. Dog's dead, he's dead. What the f.u.c.k do I care? It's the f.u.c.king dog that's dead, not me, so why should I be upset?

I mean, I remember this little girl next door that had this kitten when we were kids. She was always cooing and petting that little mangy b.a.s.t.a.r.d. And one day my Dad- that was before he got tired of the Old Lady's whining and ran off, and good riddance, I say- sent me out to mow the yard. He had this thing about the yard being mowed, and he had this thing about me doing it. Well, I'm out there mowing it, and there's that kitten, wandering around in our yard. Now, I was sick of that kitten, Mr.

Journal, so I picked it up and petted it, went to the garage and got myself a trowel.' I went out in the front yard and dug a nice deep hole and put that kitten in it, all except the head, I left that sticking up. I patted the dirt around its neck real tight, then I went back and got the lawn mower, started it and began pus.h.i.+ng it toward that little f.u.c.king cat. I could see its head twisting and it started moving its mouth- meowing, but I couldn't hear it, though I wish I could have- and I pushed the mower slowlike toward it, watching the gra.s.s chute from time to time, making sure the gra.s.s was really coming out of there in thick green blasts, and then I'd look up and see that kitten. When I got a few feet from it, I noticed that I was on a hard. I mean, I had a p.e.c.k.e.r you could have used for a cold chisel.

When I was three feet away, I started to push that thing at a trot, and when I hit that cat, what a sound, and I had my eye peeled on that mower chute, and for a moment there was green and then there was red with the green and hunks of ragged grey fur, spewing out, twisting onto the lawn.

For as I knew, no one ever knew what 1 did. I just covered up the stump of the cat's neck real good and went on about my business. Later that evening when I was finis.h.i.+ng up, the little s.h.i.+t next door came home and I could hear her calling out, "Kitty, kitty, kitty," it was all I could do not to fall down behind the mower laughing,. But 1 kept a straight face, and when she came over and asked if I'd seen Morris- can you get that, Morris? - I said, "No, I'm sorry, I haven't," and she doesn 't even get back to her house before she's crying and calling for that little f.u.c.king cat again.

Ah, but so much for amusing sidelights, Mr. journal, I guess the point I'm trying to make is people get themselves tied up and concerned with the d.a.m.nedest things, dogs and cats, stuff like that. I've yet to come across a dog or cat with a good, solid idea.

G.o.d, it feels good to say what I want to say for a change, and to have someone like Clyde who not only understands, but agrees, sees things the same way. Feels good to realize why all the Boy Scout good deed s.h.i.+t never made me feel diddlys.h.i.+t. Understand now why the good grades and being called smart never thrilled me either. Was all bulls.h.i.+t, that's why. We Supermen don't go for that petty stuff, doesn't mean d.i.c.k to us.

Got no conscience 'cause a conscience isn't anything but a bulls.h.i.+t tool to make you a G.o.dd.a.m.ned p.u.s.s.y, a candy-a.s.s coward. We do what we want, as we please, when we want. I got this feeling that there are more and more like Clyde and me, and in just a little more time, we new ones will rule. And those who are born like us won't feel so out of step, because they'll know by then that the way they feel is okay, and that this is a dog eat dog world full of f.u.c.king red, raw meat, and there won't be any bulls.h.i.+t, p.u.s.s.y talk from them, they'll just go out and find that meat and eat it.

These new ones aren 't going to be like the rest of the t.u.r.ds who have a clock to tell them when to get up in the morning, a boss that tells them what to do all day and a wife to nag them into doing it to keep her happy lest she cut off the p.u.s.s.y supply. No, no more of that.

That old dog ain't going to hunt no more. From then on it'll be every man for himself, take what you want, take the p.u.s.s.y you want, whatever. What a world that would be, a world where every sonofab.i.t.c.h on the block is as mean as a junkyard dog. Every day would be an adventure, a constant battle of muscle and wits.

Oh man, the doors that Clyde has opened for me. He's something else. Just a few days ago I felt like I was some kind of freak hiding out in this world, then along comes Clyde and I find out that the freaks are plentiful, but the purely sane, like Clyde and me, are far and few- least right now. Oh yeah, that Clyde . . . it's not because he's so smart, either.

Least not in a book-learned sense. The thing that impresses me about him is the fact that he's so raw and ready to bite, to just take life in his teeth and shake that motherf.u.c.ker until the s.h.i.+t comes out.

Me and Clyde are like two halves of a whole. I'm blond and fair, intelligent, and he's dark, short and muscular, just able to read. I'm his gears and he's my oil, the stuff that makes me run right. We give to each other . . . What we give is ... Christ, this will sound screwy, Mr. Journal, but the closest I can come to describing it is psychic energy.

We feed off each other.

Jesus f.u.c.king H. Christ, starting to ramble. But feel better. That writer's idea must be working because I feel drained. Getting this out is like having been constipated for seventeen years of my life, and suddenly I've taken a laxative and I've just s.h.i.+t the biggest t.u.r.d that can be s.h.i.+t by man, bear or elephant, and it feels so G.o.dd.a.m.ned good, I want to yell to the skies.

h.e.l.l, I've had it. Feel like 1 been on an all-night f.u.c.k with a nympho on Spanish Fly.

Little later Clyde's supposed to come by, and I'm going out the window, going with him to see The House. He's told me about it, and it sounds really fine. He says he's going to show me some things I've never seen before. Hope so.

d.a.m.n, it's like waiting to be blessed with some sort of crazy, magical power or something. Like being given the ability to strike people with leprosy or wish Raquel Welch up all naked and squirming on the rack and you with a d.i.c.k as long and hard and hot as a heated poker, and her looking up at you and yelling for you to stick it to her before she c.u.ms just looking at you.

Something like that, anyway.

Well, won't be long now and Clyde will be here. Guess I need to go sit over by the window, Mr. Journal, so I won't miss him. If Mom finds me missing after a while, things could get a little sticky, but I doubt she'll report her only, loving son to the parole board.

Would be tacky. I always just tell her I'll be moving out just as soon as I can get me a job, and that shuts her up. Christ, she acts like she's in love with me or something, isn't natural.

Enough of this journal s.h.i.+t. Bring on the magic, Clyde.