DRIVER

 

 

 

The troup of frustrated, not to mention disgusted, soldiers pounded over the squashy terrain that seemed to be the whole of the thick Peruvian jungle. Many of the men in the company were silent as they ran but for harsh puffs followed by loud gasps, but a few of them swore every now and again as heavy boots clouted the ground.

 

“S**t!”

 

“Damn!”

 

“F****r!”

 

Hands on the ends of arms wrapped within formal sleeves tore at tangles of vine and low-lying branches as the men ran at near breakneck speed, sweat pouring down their faces, fatigue-leg cloth snapping to and fro. Teeth gnashed and a strange, collective fury beat like an ailing heart on the verge of collapse, but to run was the only thing for it.

 

Orders had been given by Dowling.

 

Dowling was a man unaccustomed to having his orders followed with anything less than shining precision.

 

Dowling was a forever-scowling man who stood four feet tall who had a great liking for old south tobacco. He was also a man who spoke with nothing but an oddly crisp Boston accent.

 

“Find the slippery son of a b***h and bring his scalp to me on a china plate,” Dowling had said two days ago from within the dense shadow cast by the depth of his EZ chair recliner. Curls of fetid blue smoke rose from the shadow as he spoke. He was smoking quite a bit lately, (many of the soldiers noticed this with faint, though subconscious dread) and that was never a good thing.

 

When Commander Dowling smoked like a choo-choo train bound for CancerVille, as he was doing now, as he had been doing for weeks, somewhere in Hell, a demon got permission to ram his pitchfork as far up some poor schmuck’s oblivious corn-hole as possible.

 

“Bring the b*****d to me with his scalp peeled off and his hands cut away and his balls soaking in brine,” Dowling said with a broad, thick-lipped sneer.

 

There was silence in Dowling’s lair after he said this. No one seemed eager to acknowledge that he’d given an order. The soldiers knew their commander as the crocodile bird knows even its most cooperative host.

 

“Commander Dowling?” whispered the short Asian soldier (Choy, his name was) who stood on the right end of the line before the squat man in the bowels of the deep chair. The soldier’s normally sharp features were laced with dim fear, but evidently, he saw no way around what he wanted to say.

 

“Pickled testes, Sir?”

 

There was a diminutive smile on the soldier’s slender, rather handsome face. A loose, unassuming curve of thin lips moved by the chaotic flirt with everyday amusement brought on by everyday things.

 

The smile was still there when the earsplitting belch of fire from the barrel of Dowling’s service pistol swept the top of the soldier’s head away. The wall behind the soldier was suddenly lumpy and red an instant before he fell to the floor, the protuberance of ruined flesh and bone above the shoulders. What was left above his mouth gave off wispy billows of grey smoke.

 

“Any more queries, boys?” asked Dowling, his right thumb in his mouth, his teeth at the ragged nail of the thumb. “Any more inane, pointless goddamn questions?”

 

No one said a word. The sound of brain matter sliding down the wall behind the line of remaining soldiers was dreadfully loud in the total hush in the room.

 

“Then carry on,” said Dowling.

 

Miles away, a mini-jet carrying Newton Price landed on a stretch of hot tarmac in South America.

 

Minutes later, Price was off the jet and bustling through a quaint airport, an old book sack on his back, a valise in his left hand. As he hurried through the airport at top walking speed, he pulled a cell phone from his pants pocket and dialed a number. The line was quiet for a moment and then there was a series of beeps.

 

Beep. Beep. Beep.

 

No answer,

 

“Damnit,” Price muttered. He stuck the cell phone back into his pocket and checked his flank for suspicious followers. There was nothing out of the ordinary, which eased his brittle state of mind a bit.

 

“My father is coming to kill me,” he whispered to himself.

 

The small airport swallowed the man with the backpack and the valise.

 

Reviews

[Inda Lauryn]

This has definitely got to be the beginning of something bigger. My appetite is now whetted. By the way...

When Commander Dowling smoked like a choo-choo train bound for CancerVille, as he was doing now, as he had been doing for weeks, somewhere in Hell, a demon got permission to ram his pitchfork as far up some poor schmuck's oblivious corn-hole as possible.

...I'm still laughing at this. If I had your gift for description and comedy for just five minutes, I'd be even more conceited than I already am.

[Jonathan Escoffery]

Interesting start. I'd like to see where this goes.

[W. Braid Anderson]

Nasty people you deal in! I had to laugh at the start, since soldiers normally come in troops, as opposed to actors who come in troupes. Then again, maybe.....? Not the sort of thing to read while partaking of a rare steak. It hits you in the guts, and won't be easily forgotten.
All the best
Braid