The Nebuchadnezzar magazine

Milwaukee Noir 

Word Count: 2001

 “Slaughter”

by E.K. Anderson

April 1

Hun,

Do you remember the night we met off Brady Street? I was passed out on someone’s lawn, wearing a loincloth and a ushanka. The temperature was thirty, I think —and it was in the middle of November. 

This was before the AA meetings. 

If you’ve repressed the memory, I apologize for reminding you, but as a part of the Program, I’m supposed to write people letters. I suppose this is a way to apologize, and say thank you for helping me walk home that night. You were the first person I thought of who I owed an explanation to.

I was grateful for the warmth of the ushanka that night. As for the loincloth— that was part of the hazing. I’ll get to that.  I don’t remember where I’d gotten it from.

Anyway, this is what happened. It’s a cringeworthy tale, but worth telling.

*

We were instructed to meet at the parking lot at noon off Fordem Avenue, in the alleyway behind the Pizza Joint. Cooper and I had been given the notifications in person, from a Scout, like some good old fashioned rumble. 

The Omega Alphas had been inducting us two by two. As the Main Man put it, they were keeping us “ripe and fit as masculine specimens for biological, and dogmatic reproduction.” 

Adonis Completis. Whatever that means.

I’d never been in a street fight, less any kind of hustle before, and the nerves were getting to me. I’d been dubbed the Ferret in high school, and my gaunt physique showed it. 

I’d been instructed to wear a loincloth, and a ushanka — or else— by the Head Honcho, and I did it, because I was scared, Kate. 

To atone for this fear, Cooper and I’d studied up on basic Krav Maga, and watched Rhonda Rousey (for Judo lessons). We watched the World of WWE for all of Macho Man’s stints, and fashioned our own renditions of finishing moves. The moves were difficult to replicate, but we managed to learn a couple choke holds from Rick Flair, and some dropkicks from The Karate Kid. As an added boost, I’d brought a flask of Cooper’s homemade, grape juice-moonshine. 

The Omega Alphas had been hazing us, pitting us freshman against each other for a while, until Cooper spoke up. But that didn’t stop the threats. In fact, it exacerbated them. We just flared hotter on their radar, as two punk stoners deserving of exemplary treatment. 

“How do you beat a bully?” Cooper looked over at me from the sidewalk. His greasy, shoulder-length hair flowed violently in the autumnal draft. In his oversized Metallica shirt, he looked like Kirk Hammet’s obese cousin. The biker gang reject. 

Cooper adjusted his bifocals.

“I really don’t know,” I said. I never thought I’d ever meet any in college. 

“By meeting him on his own turf. That’s how.” He led until we reached the alleyway, then he stopped, and sniffed the air.

 “How are you feeling, Theo?”

“Queasy,” I said.

“Ya. Me too. We are about to get messed up, man. But don’t let that scare you. They’ll smell that fear. Stay strong, brother.” We weren’t brothers of course —roommates, actually —but the friendly sentiment did well to suspend my carnal fear. 

Just then, two guys popped out from behind the rear door of the Pizza Joint restaurant. Two more came from behind the dumpsters. 

I pulled down the ears of my lucky trapper hat, the ushanka, and rolled up the sleeves of my plaid sweater. 

“I’m just gonna slaughter ‘em,” Cooper said. “Pound them into oblivion if I can help it.”

“Two against four?” I choked. “In what universe was this even remotely fair?”

“Nope, we’ve got five.” The Main Man — that was the name he chose for himself— led them all. He looked like some well-to-do felon, who wore a black dress shirt and aviator glasses. He was stout: a full foot under Cooper’s six. He took off his cap.The shaved, oiled white head shined in the sunlight, and the glare almost blinded us. 

Douche Supreme, Cooper called him. 

“Might as well consider it slaughter.”

“I wish we didn’t have to.” I said

“Aggress or egress. That’s the name of the game, brother. 

“Avante garde!” He cried. “Bring it on, bitch,” Cooper said. He poured the grape-juice moonshine on the ground, as a libation. 

Damnit. 

“Call me, Darryl,” said the Main Man. He stepped over a concrete parking chock with ease. His black, well oiled pointy shoes gleamed in the afternoon light.

“Boys. Take it easy. I don’t want to scuff these here Winklepickers.” The Main Man smiled. He snapped his fingers, and the posse encircled us. I searched the mob. At no point, or angle were we without eyes. His boys were like Kim Jung Un’s security team, always searching —looking for structural insufficiencies.

They crept slowly forward as the Main Man encircled us, like a scene from a Scorsese flic. 

“Come on guys. We don’t mean you no harm. Honest.” Darryl said. He extended his arms, almost platonically. Almost endearingly.

“We don’t want your hugs,” Cooper said. “Why don’t you tell us the real reason you invited us to this brawl. Tell us this all about proving your ego. This is a dick contest ain’t it?”

I wanted to tell Cooper to shut the hell up. I wanted to tell him that the world of the Omega Alphas was all a goddamn, solid sham and that the shame of all it was upon us. I wanted to yell and hit and spit all over the establishment that represented the Omega Alphas, but despite every one of my inner denunciations I couldn’t muster the voice, couldn’t muster the inclination. I was one of those people, whose anger took a long time to rear its head, but when it did, I was a force of nature. And it was this cyclone, that even Cooper feared. 

“No,” Darryl said, “It’s not a dick contest.” He walked forward. “We’re not trying to ruffle you up.”

He pulled a crowbar from the rear pocket of his cardigan pants, and lifted it to Cooper’s face. “We’re just going to teach ya.”

He shrugged his shoulders. Cooper spat.

Darryl walked over to me. He slapped the flappy ears of my trapper hat. 

“Hey there, Weasel. Good job for wearing proper attire.”

“You shouldn’t have touched his ushanka.”Darryl paced back to Cooper. 

“His what now?”

I almost pissed myself.

“I said, you shouldn’t have—“

The crowbar swung and I heard the crack. Cooper’s glasses fell off his face, tumbled to the pavement. He didn’t dare pick it up. 

“His ushanka?” Cooper’s words trailed slowly out, like a squeaky toy. 

“And what the hell is a ushanka?”

“I’m not gonna explain that.”

“Fair,” Darryl said, pacing. “Fair.”

“Anyway,” he continued, “We just want to heighten the pace of natural selection. See who’s fittest to join our club. Our Frat Tribe. The Omega Alphas.” The Main Man tossed the crowbar in the air, and caught it. 

Cooper flinched. 

“So, then are you a pussy, or a Centurion?” The Main Man asked. He raised the crowbar.

“C-Centurion,” Cooper said. The Omega’s laughed. 

“H-Hiyah!” I stammered. The words exited far sooner than I’d meant to, inspirited in part by the moonshine, and my own fight response. I moved slowly into a ninja stance.

The awkward silence came.

Darryl looked at me long and hard at me, until my own reflection in his glasses made me feel uneasy. He grinned. 

“Now this guy,” said Darryl the Main Man, “Is a real Centurion. He’ll get feral if you let him. Isn’t that right, Flappy?”

 I didn’t say a thing. 

“Your Animal man here doesn’t know how to answer a question, Coop,” said the Main Man. 

Darry sized me up. “All fight. No brawn.”

“Isn’t that right?” He struck the ear of my ushanka. “Goof!”

I don’t remember slapping Darryl. I remember my hand moving of its own accord, and his buggy aviators flying off his fat face. When I bopped him, the fight began.

Ding!

The rest of the Omega’s swarmed. 

To Valhalla. 

I took a swing at the first guy. 

He punched me first. 

I tried drop kicking. 

It failed, and I crumbled. 

“Ow, goddamn it.”  

I staggered back, bracing myself against a bike rack. I felt like a boxer getting slammed up against the ropes. Then the other guys, the Cavalry, swamped Cooper and the best I could do was to try and pry each of them off from him. Each henchmen served a purpose I thought. Like Igor from Young Frankenstein. If I could get them to re-calibrate their Hive mind, maybe they’d let him live.

I tried drop-kicking the final one, but that too failed. 

Cooper swung at one of the Fantastic Four. Then at me. But I ducked. 

Then, Cooper and another guy accidentally punched each other at the same time. With a glorious spurt of blood, they both collapsed, to the ground. 

When they came to, Cooper’s nose was a mess — smushed upon itself like some deflated, balloon — mushed like a raspberry, with snot and juice spilling out all over onto the pavement. He spat out a tooth. 

He crawled on all fours, looking for his shattered glasses.

The other guy was knocked the fuck out. 

“Theo.” Cooper reached a hand out. 

I saw him from behind the bike rack, as I, myself, was getting pummeled. The least I could do was sequester myself from the blows of the big guys, in a tuck and roll fashion that felt instinctual.

Then, when the bastards got the best of him, he crumpled onto the ground again, knees to his chest. 

We’d done good thus far, taking two out of the five. But it wasn’t enough. The Omega Alpha’s were gaining territory, again. 

“Now, it’s time, Son.” Darryl shoved a spur in my side. “We’ll call it the coup de grace.” He cocked his head, and beckoned towards Cooper.

“Come on over here, Judas!”

Cooper could hardly stand. 

“Lift him up then,” Darryl said, and his two remnant henchmen put Cooper on his two feet. “You called yourself a Centurion did you?”

Darryl lifted his crowbar. 

“Well if you’re a real Centurion, you’d uphold that honor, soldier.”

 “Sorry, Theo.”

With a slam, Darryl hit Cooper’s ribcage. I heard a crack.

It was his ribs, and his glasses. 

“Oops,” Darryl said. “Looks like I stumbled on your glasses, Mink.”

“I’ll be needing myself a new pair.”

Darryl rolled up his sleeves. I heard a snap, as he struck Darryl again in the ribcage.

“It’s time to prove yourself, boy.” 

He handed Cooper the crowbar. “Coup de grace,” he said.

Cooper leaned in and whispered. “It won’t hurt. We’ll pull a finisher. Just like on WWE.”

Cooper raised the crowbar. He swung at Darryl.

“I’m Rick Flair, bitch.”

In what I can describe as a jolt of punkish adrenaline, Cooper tackled Darryl. And finally my drop-kick hit more than air. I still got punched, but I held my ground. 

I looked over at Cooper. He kept punching. I swear he hit concrete a couple of times. But that didn’t phase Cooper, much. Darryl looked off than Cooper was. 

“Toxic Masculinis! Vulgaris. Stupid frat.”

Darryl was out cold. His band of Igors fled the Coop.

Then with a “This is Sparta” reference, I calmed him down. 

“Hey, Jude. You can stop now.”

Darryl was out for the count. 

“We won.”

He took the crowbar and threw it over the rooftop of the Pizza Joint. I heard a clang, and then shattered glass.

We hobbled from off of Fordem Avenue, away from the alleyway. We’d popped ourselves a few cold ones, because the nerds had won. 

*

Anyway, hun that’s how I met you. We’d finished the rumble, and after we each took a swig from the flask of grape-juice moonshine, I don’t much remember what happened after that. But I do remember meeting you.

I was on my back sleeping on someone’s lawn. The time was 2 a.m.

You kicked me in between the ribs. It wasn’t a hard kick. 

You were wearing Uggs.

-From your Ex, Theo