SHORT STORY: "The Gentleman" By David Enicks

"The Ill-witted Gentleman"

By David Enicks

                "Yeh, we get around," Brian muttered, glaring at the cop rifling through the various trinkets, books, and other strange ornaments on Brians bookshelf.

            "That's nice, Brian. You know, I really like you. I hope we can make this nice and easy," said the cop. "That is, so long as you don't have anything to hide." The cop turned his head slightly and eyed Brian.

            "Nope, nuttin' I aware of," Brian said. The cop turned back to the bookshelf. Brian gripped a switchblade in his pocket and continued glaring at the cop.

            "You sure?" The cop said.

            "Positive."

            "You see, we've heard some complaints about loud noises, foul smells, and otherwise suspicious activity. This is all centered around your house, Brian, and-"

            "I ain't smell nothin."

            "-and we take very serious concern to this, Brian, because we care about you. Now get this, Brian: we did a little research and found out that the file for 'Brian McClellan' didn't exist until around ten years ago. How old are you?"

            "Twenny-sevuh," Brian said.

            "The file says 31." Brian gulped.

            "Das what I meant." The cop breathed loudly.

            "Ever hear the name Edward Cello?" He said.

            "Can't say I have." Brians eyebrows came closer together.

            "He was a famous criminal. Also known as 'The Gentleman'?"

            "Aw, yeh, I know, I know."

            "You see, this guy- real dummy- was a criminal at only age seventeen. Real queer kid. He had this obsession with strange, eccentric items. Kind of like what you have here, Brian."

            "Yeh." Brian pulled the switchblade from his pocket and held it behind him.

            "What?

            "I said yeah."

            "Well  anyway, the guy- like I said, an idiot- ended up giving away where he lived by- get this- calling one of our snitches from his home phone. How dumb is that, huh?" The cop turned around and smiled.

            "I guess he couldn't have known. Oney seventeen, I think that kid was pretty smart, to get so famous, you know?"

            "Yeah, seventeen," the cop said. "Well, anyway, stupid kid disappeared ten years ago when he realized what he'd done."

            "Stop callin' him stupid," Brian said.

            "He was a teenage criminal," the cop said.

            "He was gifted! Nobody understands, is all."

            "What do you mean?"

            "The cops are the ones that can't catch a goddamn seventeen year old. Either he's a genius or the cops are dumbasses."

            "You have a problem?" the cop said. His face said that whether or not he did it didn't matter. Brian began to sweat. Did the cop know? He opened the blade.

            "Naw, naw, it's just... childhood memories, you know? I guess I feel for him. Whatever happen'd tuh the guy?"

            "We think we found him. We can't be sure, though."

            " Yeah, ne'er can be, these days," Brian said.

            "So you remember the guy?" the cop asked.

            "Yeh, yeh. Genius."

            "I don't know, it seems like he's just making the same mistakes over and over again."

            "Maybe he wants you to find him." Brian said.

            "That's a curious way to look at it. What makes you say that?" Now the cop was sweating.

            "I don't think a guy that smart would let you find him unless he wanted to be found."

            "You sound different."

            "I'm smarter than people think, David Strey."

            "How do you know my name?" the cop said. Brian smiled. "Ha ha, well it's been nice talking to you Edwa- I mean Brian, it really has, I see nothing wrong here, we're all good, isn't that right?"

            "Sure is, Dave. Bye." The cop walked through the porch and climbed into his little black car. He reached for the ignition. He stopped and looked back at the house. Brian stood at the window, watching and grinning. He waved. David grimaced in fear and again gripped the key. Brian's smile grew wider. David clenched his eyes, and when he turned the keys...

            Bang! The car rumbled to life. David gasped for breath. Brian was laughing through the window. And for the first time in a long time, David was scared. He did not know who he was dealing with. He started for the station.

            He grabbed his walkie-talkie. Man, they are gonna shit themselves when they hear this, he thought. He was gripping the wheel so hard that his knuckles were white. He was driving past the speed limit. "Hey, Strey reporting back from Brian McClellan's place," he said into the radio.

            "Gotcha Dave, what's up?"

            "He's our guy. Hold on, I'm about to pull in to the lot-" Dave pulled into the department. Another officer approached his window.

            "He's our guy? Really?" the officer said.

            "Yeah, man, you guys are gonna' s*** yourselves when I tell you what just happen-"

            The car exploded.

SHORT STORY: "The Moral Death of Regal Sloan on a Neon City Night" By David Enicks

"The Moral Death of Regal Sloan on a Neon City Night"
By David Enicks

The rain fell in waves that illuminated the air around the innumerable neon signs and blanketed the city with a reflection of the night sky. It added a gentle static to the murmur of the crowd and busy street-shops and sheltered bazaars below. The air smelled of smoke and electricity and stung with a bitter cold. From the rooftops, one could get a view of the nighttime sky by both looking up or at its mirror image in the city streets; and could see the lights of the city by its reflection in the rainy nighttime air.
Regal Sloan was atop one of these rooftops, but he was not there for the view. He was there, in the wind and rain and cold, for business. He looked at his watch. 12:50.
Regal was a very average looking man- almost six feet, with short, black hair that hung just above the eyebrows, and a gut that protruded from the rest of his body. Money was his priority, and was one of the few things that he applied value to. Even the loss of human life, he found, could be justified by the exchange of monetary objects.
Nothing was personal.
Three years back, he had undergone a mid-life crisis of sorts. His wife suffered from dementia, her mother was dying from Alzheimer's disease, his own mother had been addicted to drugs, and his children were showing signs of depression. This simply would not do. Regal had a business to run.
He could not do much because his ever-growing wealth had created an ever-growing gap between himself and the rest of his family. When he realized that they were becoming a problem, he tried to help them by moving a bit of money around from his company to them.
He was charged with fraud.
Regal Sloan, president of Sloan's Neon Advertising and Appliances, was given a 14-year prison sentence.
After three years there he had come into contact with a man called Clear. He was well-built, not to heavy nor too thin. He was blonde, and wore a tight black shirt and spectacles. He looked very business-like.
Clear told Regal that he, in collaboration with Mrs. Sloan, had secured both the company and the family. He made it very clear that he was in control. He said, that in exchange for Regal's participation in the murder of four people, he would sneak Sloan out of jail, and return to him his company. His family, too.
When Clear said this, Regal wasn't listening. When he finished, Regal said:
'How much money will be there for me when I return?'
'Oh, don't worry, sir, very, very much. You will meet with your victims next Wednesday, on the roof of Abbeyson's Automobiles at approximately 12:50. A revolver will be provided for you.'

And so the deal was struck. Here, in the rain and wind and cold, was Regal Sloan, about to murder four people, and be given back all of his money. And his family, too.
He nearly forgot.
He checked his watch: 12: 53. He heard the clank of sole against metal, and in the mist of the heavy rain he could see the faint outline of a person. Regal covered his face behind his collar and sputtered, "Clear?! What's happening?"
"Your gun is under the garbage can," said the figure. It was very difficult to hear, and Sloan's vision was becoming blurred. Whoever it was, it was not Clear.
Regal found his gun and cocked it. He had fired a gun once, as a child, at his grandfather’s farm. He had been very good at it. He shot clay disks with his grandfather.
The red door leading down into the building blasted open, and Regal stumbled. He dropped his gun. He could not see; he was drenched in rainwater. Out of the door came a figure. It ran to Sloan, its arms were held wide open.
Regal’s eyes were wild, his mouth was sputtering and gaping, and he was trying to get a grip on the weapon. He held it up with a shaking hesitancy and fired. The body fell and slid across the ground. Regal let  out a breath, and it joined the smoke of gunfire and drifted away.
The other three people emerged, looked at the body, and froze. Regal would have cringed, but people die every day, he realized. What really mattered was the business. People depended on his company. He wanted his money back!
He fired again. Another figure fell. The other two figures were quite short. He shot one, and the other slipped and fell. Regal got up, dripping water, and limped over to the figure. He looked down, and saw the face of his son. His eyes wide with fear, the boy stumbled up, and tried to run away. He slipped and hit his head.
Regal grunted. He looked down at his hands, and then at the bodies. He ran to the other one. it was his wife's mother. He looked next to her. His other son. He limped over to the body of the person that ran at him. It was his own mother. He looked, then, at the figure who gave him the gun. The figure yelled at him.
"You get your riches now, Regal! They're all yours! That's all you ever cared about!" The figure came closer. "People die every day, right? People depend on you, right?" The voice was getting  louder, and the figure closer. The rain and the nighttime blinded Sloan. "You want your money!" The figure was Sloan's wife. Her face materialized out of the rain, and in front of his own. It was grim.
"You've got what you want, asshole." She grabbed his hand, pulled the gun to her chest, and fired. She fell, and tainted the reflection of the starlit sky and the neon lights with crimson.
"I'm sorry, Sloan. I had no choice, it's my job. I... I do things other people won't do." Sloan looked down at his hands. They were wet. He looked up at the voice. It was Clear.
"Its fine. All in the name of business, eh?"
"Um."
"I was just curious- how much money did you say I get again?"

POETRY: "Reminiscence of a Machine" By David Enicks

"Reminiscence of a Machine"

By david enicks 

When I was a young man,

I had legs for running and jumping.

When I was a young man,

I had hands for holding and touching.

When I turned 18,

they drafted me into the army.

When I turned 18

they took me away from my family.

As I got older,

I used my hands and legs for different things.

As I got older,

I used them for punching, kicking, and killing things.

After a few years there,

I forgot how to use my hands for playing.

After a few years there, I had become a killing machine.

By the time it was over,

they had taken my hands and feet.

By the time it was over

I had been nothing but a breathing hunk of meat.

Now I am an old man,

a rusty, broken killing machine.

Now I am an old man

and I watch as they turn my kids into the same thing.

 (c)davidenicks|2013

POETRY: "For the Flying Eagle" by David Enicks

"For the Flying Eagle"

By david enicks

All around, tears are heard

shed for the dying people.

All around, cheers are heard

sang for the flying eagle.

A wooden fence splitting the sounds,

one side with party and drink and joy

one side with bodies falling down

very few know it is all a ploy

The leaders, the generals

they neither sing nor cry

they just watch, seeing the falls

watching the people die

With an eagle disguise,

they hover above

giving men their knives

while the men cry 'enough'

and then the 'eagle' replies,

you are fighting for freedom

it is fine if you die

and so to battle they do run.

For the flying eagle.

(c)david enicks|2013