Dastardly Bastard(16)

He could see it very clearly in his mind’s eye. A subtle trip, his foot catching on a jutting stone, and he would fall forward. The couple behind him would get tangled up in his flailing body, and over they would go. Tubby might even reach over to grab one of them, trying to be some kind of obese superhero in their time of need—Fatman: The Pork Knight—but his stomach wouldn’t allow it, and his girth would carry him over the steel-braided guard wire. Marsha and Lyle would reach for the overturned man’s immense calves, grabbing hold of them before finally being overcome by all that was Tubby. Then, they, too, would shoot head first into the chasm. The tour guide would try to help, diving for them with some inane thought of responsibility to act, believing he could fly. But alas, R. Kelly he was not. And then, there would be one. Lonely Donald seated on the rock face all by himself, singing an old Baptist hymn, the juxtaposition striking because he was, after all, an atheist.

Donald shook his head, coming out of his self-induced fantasy of horrors, a shiver running down his spine. That was how he scared over two million people a year with his novels. That was the author in him speaking—H.R. Chatmon, the stoic, clean-shaven storyteller, all five-foot-nine and confident, not Donald Adams, the bumbling midget who nursed a sore foot and a thundering headache.

“Fuck you, Jeff,” Donald said.

The outburst caused the boy in front of him to turn around. “What?”

“Nothing,” Donald snapped. He hadn’t meant to bark at the kid, but it seemed to have the proper effect. The boy’s mother glanced over her shoulder, gave Donald a dirty look, and took hold of her son’s hand. Their footsteps quickened.

Donald still couldn’t wrap his brain around Jeff’s blatant betrayal. He’d known the man far too long. Jeff had been there after Sunne was murdered, a friend during Donald’s darkest times. To throw all that history away for money seemed a ludicrous idea. Donald only hoped Jeff Carter choked on every stinking penny.

Donald had been betrayed in the past. He made a living out of knowing people, knowing that none of them could be taken at face value. The human condition, the lies they all told, the darkness they all held within their too-small hearts made him physically ill. He repressed vomit like a prizefighter knocked out opponents, with well-honed skill and experience. The writing helped. Those people Donald couldn’t stomach, he’d just kill off in one of his books. It was cathartic, even if a little sadistic.

In the end, Donald had become one of them—a liar. But a useful liar, nonetheless. His stories spoke to people. Even the biggest shit-stains of them all loved his tales of death and darkness and suffering. He wrote to appease his demons. His hatred was let free on the world in short bursts of grisly detail, and those sorry sods sopped him up like a biscuit in a side of gravy. His work was his escape, his release, and no one could ever take that from him.

He might forever be smaller than the masses, but he was the bigger person. He’d adapted, learned his surroundings, and evolved. The butterfly to their caterpillar, he was forever one step ahead.

In reality, he was better than all of them. Grander. The alpha male.

Yes!

Unconsciously, Donald had moved past the mother and her son. Matching the tour guide’s steps two to one, he looked up at the man’s light brown face and smiled.

“Do you have a question, Donald?” the tour guide asked, looking down at him.

Of course, they all looked down on Donald Adams—Jeff Carter, Lars Stillstead, even his beloved Sunne. Every one of them thought themselves so high and fucking mighty. Well, he would show them. Starting with Janeel… Jamaal… Jah-whatever-his-name-was.

“Yeah. In fact, I do.”

“What’s that?”

Wait for it…

Donald grinned. “How’d a nigger like you get such a cushy government job anyway?”





12


LYLE LAKE WAS STOPPED DEAD in his tracks by both his mother’s death grip embrace and what the little man—Donald, according to his nametag—had just uttered to the tour guide.

“What did you say?” The guide, who had halted in his tracks, looked down at the little guy, confusion contorting his face. Lyle had expected full-blown anger, but Jaleel surprised him. Instead, the guide looked mildly shocked, more disappointed than anything.

“I didn’t say anything,” Donald responded.

Lyle could see something had changed in Donald’s face. His countenance had been screwed up into a joker’s grin, a wicked little Cheshire Cat number, but had become softer, the skin looser. His entire affect seemed lighter.

“Yes you did! You called him a nig—” Lyle felt a hand slap over his mouth and another wrap around the nape of his neck as his mother fought to silence him.

She hissed, “We don’t say words like that!”

Jaleel looked at Lyle, his eyes questioning. “He did. Didn’t he?”

Muted by his mother’s sweaty palm, Lyle nodded with exaggerated movements. His mother, apparently not wanting him to communicate anything else, shoved him up against the rock face. She stole his breath with a forearm to the chest while the other hand kept its hold on his mouth.

“Would you just shut up!” his mother bellowed. “For once in your miserable existence, please, learn how to be fucking quiet!”

Spittle covered Lyle’s face in a fine mist.