Viper (Short Story) Read online

  Viper

  By

  Stephen Shea

  Copyright 2012 Dava Enterprises

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author's imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or (un)dead, is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this publication can be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, without permission in writing.

  Other Works By Stephen Shea

  A side-splitting comedy...

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  Viper

  Viper's eyes are gun metal blue.

  That's the coolest thing about him. The way he stares down anyone who steps in his way. Waiting for you to flinch, to hesitate.

  Then he's on you.

  Bye, bye.

  I guess the first time I remember even knowing Viper was back in grade one at Bosco elementary school. He was in grade three, a thin, scrappy kid with bruised eyes who was always stealing from someone's lunch.

  I think we even called him Viper back then.

  I was in the playground when he beat up Mikey Stoltz by the swings. They were playing kick the can and Mikey was the guy who was it. He spotted Viper in the trees and called him out. Viper, pissed that he had been caught so early, walked up and punted the can. When Mikey gave him grief about breaking the rules, Viper hit him in the forehead. Mikey flipped and began swinging and Viper just stood there, half a head shorter than Mikey, arms down. He was like a machine, didn't care where he was hit, nothing hurt him. Mikey got this weird scared look in his eyes and his punches grew sluggish, more like slaps. Then he stopped, lowered his arms, opened his mouth to say something.

  Viper jabbed him in the guts, knocking him to the ground. Then he jumped on Mikey, slamming his knees into Mikey's shoulders so he couldn't move, grabbing his hair with one hand and using his right fist to reshape Mikey's nose.

  It's one of my most vivid memories of school. Viper hitting again and again and again into that red mound on Mikey's face.

  He didn't stop till Mrs. Robson came along and pried him off.

  No one messed with Viper after that.

  I sometimes wonder if Viper's mother loved him very much. I mean it must be hard to love a kid like Viper, a kid made of bruises, leather and spit. Kind of like loving a crocodile.

  Or a snake.

  I know my mother loved me. When she felt mushy, she'd wheeze: 'Matt, I love you, even though you're a useless tit.' But she smiled when she said it.

  I still sort of miss her. She died in '89 of the big C. Doctor said her lungs were just like two big lumps of rotten Swiss cheese. I don't think she breathed once during the last year of her life.

  Actually, Viper probably doesn't have a mother. I was born in a snake pit, that's what he loves to say, I was born with my fangs bared.

  Q: what were the best three years of Viper's life?

  A: Grade three.

  Viper always tells that joke, gets a big kick out of it.

  I caught up to Viper two years later, cause he spent a few years in grade three. He passed that year and continued to pass, not cause he was smart enough, but because the teachers didn't want him anymore.

  Viper dropped out of Bosco Junior High in grade nine.

  I left that monkey cage in grade eleven, went to the rigs to make money. Had a new truck before any of my friends had graduated.

  So there.

  The rigs kinda get inside you: all the grease and diesel fumes, all the metal, working with the big machines that are sucking the black gold out of the earth. They leave their mark.

  Viper is one of the few people who actually loves the rigs. I think he likes being surrounded by metal and big pipes thrusting in and out of the ground. It gives him a hard on.

  I started seeing this hairdresser named Tricia a little after I bought my new truck. We have a cool relationship, we only hang out with each other when we feel like it. The rest of the time we spend however we want.

  So picture this. Viper, toughest dude in Bosco, sitting at this hockey party, tequila in his left hand, arm wrestling with his right. Muscles popping, snake tattoos writhing up and down his arm, and he glares like a Doberman that's been beat up once too often.

  I've seen it a hundred and a half times. The guy across from Viper looks into those I'll eat your liver eyes and something inside him shrivels. I can't beat this guy, buddy thinks, I don't want to beat this guy.

  Crack! and Viper has his hand pinned to the table. He holds it there for a second, takes a long swig of his tequila, then lets go.

  Four wins in a row. Not even a bead of sweat on Viper's forehead. 'Who's next?'

  So some spiky-haired hockey dude sits down--cocky as all get up, arms like two big pistons. He plants his elbow on the table and offers his hand. Viper grins, the wrinkles hide a few of the scars on his face. He locks paws with the hockey dude, someone yells go! and they're off, straining so hard I think the table's gonna break. The hockey player's got veins sticking out of his forehead like they're gonna pop! pop! pop! but he holds on, even starts to gain a little. Pushing Viper's arm down.

  So Viper gives him the stare.

  And the goddamn guy ignores him, just keeps going, beads of sweat dripping off his face. People press around the table cause usually it doesn't last this long and no one's ever seen anyone who was stupid enough to beat Viper.

  The hockey player gives a roar like a mad bull then Whack! he wins, he actually wins, and he raises his arms in the air, whooping crazy and wild.

  Then he stops.

  Cause Viper's gone, he's up and left the party. Someone says they saw him on his bike. And Helmet-For-Brains doesn't get it. A few of his friends explain to him that this is vamoose time but he just laughs and says what's that jerk gonna do?

  There's one thing I didn't tell you about Viper. Doctor's put a steel plate in his head, to keep his brains in. No one knows exactly what happened, there's some rumor about Viper going to Calgary and getting on the wrong side of a biker with a pipe wrench. I guess this plate in his head makes him go nuts whenever there's a microwave in the room. I saw him smash one to bits.

  I did.

  So anyway this hockey ape hangs around the party, drinking it up and flexing and bragging about beating Viper.

  The party goes on, gets louder. The house is stuffed with Bosco people and some of the junior hockey team geeks and everyone's talking and yapping like they do at parties: the chicks about curling their hair and puking and the guys about mufflers and engines and puking. Then this eerie hush spreads over the crowd, starting at one end and zipping right to the other. Someone even clicks off the music and I swear, I swear, that this hockey guy was the only one left talking, as if he was completely unaware of what was going on around him.

  Viper walks in.

  He's got a crossbow in his hand, is pointing it in the air. His eyes cold, his jaw muscles tight. 'Where's the fucker who beat me? Where is he?'

  And the crowd opens like in a movie, like the ocean for Noah or Moses, pushing back out of Viper's way. Cause everyone knows there's two things you do when Viper comes into a house: you turn off any microwaves and step aside.

  So the crowd opens up and there's the hockey player sitting on the couch, his jaw on the floor.

  'Hey man,' is all he gets out then Viper lowers the bow.

  'Shut up, fuck face.'

  So he shuts up, showing he's not completely stupid.

  Viper stares at him a moment, lets him see the arrow on the end of the bow, how polished and sharp the point is. The guy looks at it, then at Viper. Viper smiles. 'Stand up.'

  The hockey player jumps to his
feet.

  Viper nods. 'Good little boy. Now, I want you to do something for me...I want you to piss your pants.'

  'What?'

  'Piss your fucking pants!'

  And the guy's face gets all squished up, he looks like a scared kid. He closes his eyes. Guess he was pretty close all along cause right away piss gushes down his pant leg, dripping onto the floor.

  People laugh and titter and Viper smiles, big as can be. The hockey player waits for Viper to lower the bow then he splits and asks the next day to be traded to some other junior team.

  In the rigs when you hit the pay zone, that means the long metal pipes have finally found the oil. But when you think about it, all we're really looking for in life is the pay zone.

  Thing is, it's different for everyone.

  You know this is weird, but I sometimes wonder what Viper's real name is. What's his first name? His last name? Maybe if he had a name like Leonard or Bill he wouldn't do all the things he does.

  Then I laugh. Can you imagine anyone going up to Viper and saying, Hey Leonard, how are you? Not fucking likely.

  I guess I should tell you about the shit storm I caused with the Rumble Fish. The Rumble Fish are the biker gang in Bosco. They don't seem to care that Bosco's not really big enough for a biker gang. There's maybe ten of them and they are pretty tough, I mean you don't get into the gang by pushing pencils or anything.

  They've even killed one or two people. Indians, I think.

  So anyway the Rumble Fish have a pad, this dingy house on the west end that's got boards in half its windows. They park all their bikes on the dead lawn in front and have parties all the time and get a hooker from Calgary in every Saturday. You can get laid for fifty bucks.

  So I went there, just back from a two shift stint at the rigs, pockets stuffed with a wad of cash. I buy a bit of dope and pass up the hooker cause she's a redhead and I know red heads give you the clap.

  Believe me, I know. I got it from a redhead once.

  I end up drinking enough to tranquilize a rhino then I smoke a little stuff and that's it---poof!---I pass out somewhere in the corner.

  I don't know how long I was gone, but when I open my eyes and come to what's left of my senses, everyone's vanished. I learned later that the Rumble Fish had decided to move the party out to the lake so they could shoot at passing boats with pellet guns.

  So I drag myself to my feet and realize I gotta bleed the freak real bad. In my stupor I'm banging around the house cause I can't remember where the bathroom is and I open this door and damn if there's not a stairway. I should know that the bathroom's upstairs but I go down anyway, step by creaky step.

  There's just one little yellow bulb glowing down there and not much to see: dirt floor, a few shelves, a fender wheel from a Harley and some garbage. It stinks like old puke. Then I turn a corner and lo and behold I see the most beautiful sight in the world: Beer. At least a hundred cases, stacked all neat and tidy. The Rumble Fish must be planning some big party.

  Of course I decide to steal it.

  Not the smartest idea I've ever had. But I find a corner and piss away, eyeing up all that beer, thinking how I could store it in the shed at my place, and after I put the freak to bed I go back up the stairs.

  I check every room in the house, the only person there is the red head and she's dead to the world, still lying with her legs spread. Probably fell asleep halfway through her last john.

  I sneak out and get my truck, backing right up to the front. I miss the brake and hit the house, bending their screen door. I jump out, leave the truck running, and start loading up, carrying four cases at a time. It takes me almost half an hour and I have to stop to drink a little more and have a smoke. Then I hop in my truck and I'm off like a dragster back home.

  Thing is by the time I'm home I'm so fucking tired I just conk out, leaving my truck in the back. Uncovered.

  I wake up hours later on the floor and I don't remember a thing about last night till I look out the back window. Talk about double takes, this one's big--oh shit I think, oh shit and I go out there and all the cases are piled junky in my truck. A few are already on the ground. Did I leave them that way? I couldn't remember.

  So I throw a tarp over them and I stew for a minute and go back in my house. The clock says 6:30 p.m. and I know the Rumble Fish will be missing the beer by now and are probably prowling around the town like bloodhounds in leather jackets. They'd remember me at the party, one of them would, and eventually they'd come calling.

  Switches in their hands.

  I couldn't take the beer back. They'd want some part of my anatomy. I couldn't go anywhere.

  So, I phone Viper.

  He comes over five minutes later, smiling, wearing his dark, long raincoat. 'Stupid fucking puke,' he says. 'Get in your truck.' I obey. It was dark by then and he rides with me silently, smiling like he knows something.

  He tells me where to turn and I follow his instructions without a fuss. Bosco's small enough that I know where everything is so I think, maybe he's got a secret hiding place, a hold where we can dump the beer. He can even keep it and sell it to high school kids, fine with me, all I want is the Rumble Fish off my back.

  When he tells me to turn left down Elard Ave I start to feel really sick. Cause that's where the Rumble Fish have their pad.

  Are you fucking crazy? I want to say. It crosses my mind that maybe he was turning me in but I didn't say anything, cause I was screwed either way.

  He made me stop the truck in front of their house, right next to the Harleys. 'Come on,' he says, opening the door and getting out. I step out too, careful not to hit a Harley with my door, then I follow Viper as he marches right up the front sidewalk. The main window is cracked and taped with electrician tape so it looks like a black spider web. A light is on too, so they were home for sure.

  I had a feeling that things were going to get very messy.

  Viper pulls something out of the inside pocket of his jacket and it's not until we're right on the front step that I realize it was his shotgun. Spit shined and gleaming.

  He kicks the door---the hinges rip out of the wood and the door goes crashing down in front of him. Viper steps on top of it and there are all the Rumble Fish, dressed in their leathers, sitting tough as could be on their couches and chairs, watching a brand new t.v.

  Viper shoots the t.v. It explodes, sparks fly halfway across the room, making all the Rumble Fish's faces glow yellow. The boob tube hisses, spits a few more sparks.

  Then silence. The Rumble Fish stare, big wide eyes on unshaven faces. One of them starts to move ever so slowly, reaching towards something beside his chair...a bottle or a gun, I can't see. 'Everyone of you Fuckers get down on the floor!' Viper screams. Quick as could be they obey, rolling off their seats--whump! whump! whap!---and hitting the hardwood. 'Don't even dream of moving.'

  And I think, oh shit, he's going to shoot them, one by one. I didn't want to be part of a murder. Not at all.

  Especially not over beer.

  Viper turns to me, smiling. The t.v. farts out another tiny flash, red in colour making his eyes glow. 'Bring 'em back their beer.'

  Then it dawns on me what we're doing and I run to the truck and armfuls at a time I carry in the cases of beer, piling them on the floor. The Rumble Fish don't even move, twitch or look up. Fifteen minutes later I set down the last case.

  'Sorry about the t.v.,' Viper says and we walk away.When we are back in the truck Viper turns to me. 'You owe me a beer.' We go to Randy Andy's and drink for the rest of the night.

  The Rumble Fish never bother me after that. It's like none of it even happened. In fact, in a strange sort of way, I think they like me more for the whole thing.

  Viper said his dad used to spend a lot of time trying to pound sense into him. When Viper grew big enough, he pounded back. No surprise though, he was just doing what his father taught him.

  Viper's dad left when Viper was fifteen, went to Montreal or someplace.

  Who knows maybe
he's hanging around with my dad. Whoever he is.

  So Viper's tough. But one day he goes a little too far. You see he's up in Prince Albert working at a mill there and pulling in lots of dough. He goes to the bars every night getting women--he was always so good at that--and drinking his face off.

  A guy's entitled to his fun.

  One night he's playing pool against some big burly brute and they keep betting against each other and eventually get the total up to two thousand dollars. It all comes down to one shot--bang!--and the big guy sinks the eight ball in the corner pocket.

  He turns to Viper, says, I win, Motherfucker, and holds out his hand for the cash.

  Viper smiles, shrugs and pulls his pant pockets inside out. No money.

  The burly guy freaks on him, starts pushing Viper around and Viper freaks back with his pool cue, breaking it over the guy's head, knocking him cold. Then Viper beats on him some more, eventually breaking eight pool cues.

  The guy never walks again, never talks anything but mumbles. Vegetable city--eating pabulum and drooling.

  But I guess this veggie's got four brothers and a father, big bastards grown in some slough somewhere north of P.A. They're called the Zemeki's and they ain't too happy about what Viper did. They drive their Chevy trucks into town a few days later and find out where Viper is playing pool and they drop by for a visit.

  They bring baseball bats.

  I guess the first thing they do is smash the phones right off the wall, even the Taxi phone. And no one says anything cause these are the Zemeki's and everyone in P.A. knows to stay out of their way. Then they turn to Viper.

  Someone says he could have got out then, could have ran for it. But that's not Viper. He stood there, pool cue in hand, waiting, a big toothy smile on his face.

  'How's your brother,' he asks.

  Then the Zemeki's go at it, swinging like it's the grandest baseball game ever. Viper dodges, Viper lashes out and I guess he even gets two of them with a cue, but it's like hitting stones. When he lifts the cue again a bat crunches into his knee.