"Why don't you grab the envelope when I roll him over?" Wesley looked at his visitor, who looked comfortable in the large leather chair with his legs crossed.
"I don't think so, Wes. You killed him, you get it. I'm just here to help you dispose of the body, and for, shall we say, moral support?"
"Dick.", Wesley said under his breath.
"I'm sorry, did you mumble something?", the other said as he leaned forward.
"No, nothing."
"I didn't think so." The other sat back and crossed his legs again, folding his hands this time.
Wesley took a deep breath and then proceeded to roll the body over. IT was lighter than he had expected. The blood that was all over the rug and under the body made a wet sticky sound. As if pulling a pack of cigarettes off from a table while sitting in maple syrup. Wesley saw the manila envelope, grabbed it quickly and let the body fall back into the position that it was in.
"Good boy, Wes. I'm proud of you. Why don't you have a look see at the contents. Make sure everything is there."
"I'd rather not. These pictures are the reason why I'm in this mess to begin with."
"But don't you want to make sure he wasn't bluffing about the pictures?", the others' voice was calm.
Wesley thought for a moment, turned the envelope over and opened it. He reached inside until he felt something like paper. Closing his eyes, he slowly pulled out the contents, then looked at what he held. There they were in black and white. The infamous pictures with a fifteen year old hooker. Wesley began to weep.
"Those pictures sure don't do you any justice. You're not the most photogenic person in the world. What about the negatives?"
Negatives? Why would.....then Wesley thought. With the negatives floating around, he was still screwed. Killing this man who was blackmailing him was all for nothing.
"Wait a minute. How come you know so much?", Wesley began, getting to his feet and picking up the gun as he did. "The pictures, my wife. What? Have you been following me too? Watching me? Are the two of you in this together?" Wesley was enraged.
"You could say that." The visitors' voice was still calm.
He was still sitting in the leather chair. The same chair.....Wesley was trying to put all of the pieces of the puzzle together. His head ached.
"What's wrong, Wes? Can't figure this out either? I'm surprised you made it this far in life, you pathetic piece of shit!" The visitors' voice became more hostile as he spoke.
"Enough!" Wesley was finished messing around. He wanted answers, and he wanted them now. "Either you tell me why you know so much about me or,"
"Or what?", the other cut Wesley off. "You'll kill me? Don't make me laugh."
"I'm the one holding the gun." With that Wesley pulled the hammer back with his thumb and pointed it as his....blackmailer?
"Ah, you finally figured it out, Wes? Why I know so much? Why I haven barely left this blood soaked chair? Why I'm not afraid to die? Because, you fuck! You already fucking killed me!" With that, the other leaned forward so that the one light could shine on his entire face.
Wesley could feel his legs get weak. He had flashes of the days events run through his head. He looked at the pictures in his left hand, then the body on the floor, the gun in his right hand. Finally to the empty, blood soaked high back leather chair.
It had been nearly four days since Wesley Green's neighbors had seen him around. At night, the one light stayed on in his den. The mail and newspapers piled up. The first police officer on the scene was a rookie cop, just off his training. He got so sick from the two rotting bodies in the den, that he got violently sick in the doorway. That was two years ago.
He still sees a therapist.
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You're right. I need your help because I'm scared...I don't know what to think or what to do."
Wesley looked outside and noticed that it was dark now. It only seemed like a few moments ago it was the middle of the afternoon. Wesley's head started to ache and spin.
The dizzying feeling was overwhelming. Stumbling towards the window seat, he tripped over the edge of the rug in the middle of the hardwood floor and fell to his face. He picked himself up to notice he was looking at the top of the head of the body that was lying motionless in the middle of the room. He got himself to his hands and knees. As he was beginning to stand, the smell of death filled his nose and his lungs. He tried to exhale, hold his breath, something as he stood. But his body forced him to take in a deep breath. A deep breath that filled every inch of his lungs until he couldn't breath in anymore. His lungs began to ache as if he were going under water for a long period of time.
The smell of piss, shit and old blood lingered in his nostrils. He felt himself getting warm, pale, and before he could stand fully and run to the bathroom, Wesley began convulsing and vomiting all over the floor. His legs were weak and shaky and he fell in a sitting position. Quickly he back peddled away from the body until his back hit the front of the bar.
"Fuck me!" Wesley finally let out as he caught his breath. He looked over to his visitor sitting in the leather chair, and noticed for the first time how familiar his faced looked. Even with a single light on in the room.
Wesley dismissed the thought and came back to the present. "So now what?"
"Well," the other said, "my suggestion is to cut up the body into six pieces, and put it in separate bags. Then, put it out when the next trash pick up is."
"You're joking! You really are fucking mad. In this heat, even the neighbors would be able to smell the fucking thing. Besides, next trash pick up is four days away."
"Like I said, it was only a suggestion. You could roll up the body in the rug, along with the gun, and dump him at the trash sight yourself. After you wipe off your prints, of course. Oh," the other finished, "don't forget to destroy the pictures in that envelope. You don't want those lying around for anyone to see."
The pictures! Wesley had forgotten all about them. But where were they?
"If you're looking for them, check under the body. I think he fell on the envelope when he fell out of the chair."
Wesley went over to the body on his hands and knees and paused.
"What? you going to be sick again? Come on! If you have the nuts to kill the son-of-a-bitch, you should have the nuts to roll his ass over just enough to get the envelope. Don't forget, you still have to roll him up in the rug."
"How did you know about the pictures? Have you been here the entire time?"
"Of course I have. Hence why I know about the pictures. A fifteen year old hooker, Wes. Tsk, tsk, tsk. You should be ashamed of yourself. He was blackmailing you, and you didn't want to play anymore. Well, to tell you the truth, fifty grand for the pictures is an awful lot of money."
"I didn't have the money to pay him. I had to kill him. He was going to destroy my life. Would you want to play that game if you were me?"
"If I was you I wouldn't be screwing a fifteen year old hooker."
Wesley let out a deep sigh. Right now he wished that his visitor was him.
Wes looked at the body, trying to determine the best way to do it. He put one hand on the left hip, and one on the left shoulder. He could feel how cold the body was. He started to move the body, as if he were opening the hood of a car. Without warning the body let out a deep breath. Wesley fell back, releasing his hold.
"Shit! Fuck! Fuck Fuck!", he yelled as he quickly moved back away from the body, His breathing was fast and heavy now. His heart pounding hard in his chest as if ready to burst under pressure.
"Calm down. Breath slowly." His visitor said.
"Calm down!? He's still fucking alive!" Wesley replied, pointing a shaky finger at the once again still body.
"He's not alive, believe me. He's quite dead. You forget that he's lying on his face. He wasn't able to let out his last breath. You rolling him over just helped release it."
Wesley thought about what his visitor had said. He started to breath slower. His heart not so ready to burst anymore. So he went to try it again.
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Wesley began to move slowly towards the door and almost stopped when he passed the body that was face down on the floor. He continued to the bathroom feeling dizzy and sick to his stomach.
In the bathroom, Wesley ran the cold water and splashed some on his face. He looked at himself in the mirror and noticed, for the first time, how pale he was. Before he knew it his head started to spin and Wesley started to vomit in the sink. Shaky and still sweating, he cleaned himself off once again, then returned to the other room.
The other gentleman was still sitting in the leather high back, working on his second glass of scotch. Wesley paused as he passed the body again. He felt as if he were going to be sick again, but he found the strength to hold it in. Wes sat down on the window seat and ran his fingers through his already messed up hair.
"Damn, Wes. You look bad. Don't get me wrong, I've seen you look better. But right now, you really look like shit. Why don't you go fix yourself a drink and calm down a little bit."
"The last thing I need right now is a fucking drink to calm down. Besides, how am I supposed to calm down when there is a dead fucking body in the middle of my den?!"
"I don't give a shit what you 'think' you don't need. If you want my help out of this, then I suggest you listen to what I tell you. Now, go over there and fix yourself a fucking drink!"
Wesley was scared. He would admit to that. He got up slowly and went over to the bar and did exactly what the other said. He pulled out a glass, poured himself a shot, downed it, and poured another one.
"How do you know I won't pick up that gun and kill you too?" Wes' voice was unsteady. He was taking a big chance and he knew it.
"Because," the others' voice was calm again, "first of all, you don't have the nuts to do it. Second, you need me more than you think you do."
"And third?" Wesley continued for him. His back facing the other. He could feel those cold, lifeless eyes pierce through him again.
"Third, you're not in the right mindset at the moment. Think! If you kill the only person who could help you through this mess that you've created for yourself, who would you turn to then? The police? You'd either become someones bitch in prison, or they'd just kill you. I have to admit, I am impressed. One shot to the chest."
Wesley turned round and faced the other. His visitor made a gun out of his hand and finger and pointed it at Wesley, then pretended to shoot him.
"That's some nice shooting. I take it back, you probably do have the nuts to kill me. But you won't."
"I don't know. I could probably figure this out on my own. Besides, you're a witness. How do I know you won't turn my ass in?"
"Turn you in? Not likely. As far as you 'figuring this out by yourself', doubtful. Why? Because you're a fucking tool. You have never been able to figure things out by yourself. That's the reason your wife left you to begin with. Because she was sick and tired of thinking for you. How pathetic."
Wesley's' visitor was right. Whenever a decision was to be made as to where to go, what to eat, what to get his mother for Christmas even, she was the one who would make it. He was a pathetic, spineless little shit and he knew it. When they would fight and she would become violent, he never called the cops. Was it because he loved her? OR because he had no spine.
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Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. There also may be some language that is not meant to offend anyone.(cursing)
The Visitor
"You're fucking mad!"
Wesley finally said breaking the silence which seemed to last forever. The tension was fully clear in his voice. " I knew that one day you would just completely unravel at the seams, but I never knew it would be this soon! Or even to this extreme!" He ran his fingers through his hair and paced the floor vigorously.
Wesley Green was a fairly tall man in his early thirties. He was slender in build, but just as tough as the next man. Wesley was good about keeping his composure, even when his next door neighbors' kid, and several of his friends, burned down his Gazebo that he had built with his own two hands. Maybe it was all of his pent up anger, or just the fact that he was overwhelmed with what was going on that made him finally snap. Call it what you will, but the truth was that he was more pissed off now than he had ever been in his entire life.
"Talking to yourself again, I see." The gentleman sitting in the over-sized leather chair, finally spoke as he got up and crossed the room towards the bar to make himself a drink. As he crossed the room he patted Wesley on the shoulder. Wesley pushed the others hand away and watched as his visitor poured himself a large glass of scotch over ice.
"You really should relax, Wes. Have a drink, jerk off or something. You're to tense."
The visitor turned around and leaned up against the bar. His eyes were lifeless, cold as stone. His hair was thinning in front. He was almost as tall as Wesley, but thinner. He had a long, narrow chin that had a well maintained goatee. But those eyes of stone that glared at Wesley just over the rim of the glass, seemed to pierce right through Wes.
Wesley brought himself out of his daze and wiped the sweat from his brow. He had never intended for things to get this out of hand, or even go this far. The situation was completely out of his hands now. There was no turning back, what was done, was done. Wesley started to have flashes of what was going to happen to him now, and he didn't like it.
His visitor crossed the room past Wesley and sat down again. "You really shouldn't worry. Well....", he took a sip of his drink, "actually you should, seeing as how you're still holding the gun."
Wesley looked down at his right hand. The other was right. He was holding a .9mm that felt heavy and cold in his hand. Quickly he dropped it and brought his hands in front of his face. He began to cry.
"Pull yourself together, you little shit. Own up to your actions. There's no turning back now. On the other hand," he paused and finished his drink in one last long gulp. "You can always make it look like nothing ever happened."
Wesley pulled his hands away from his face slowly and wiped away a few of the remaining tears which were streaking down his face. He looked over his visitor, who was still sitting in the high back chair, with a confused look.
"First things first." The other said. "Go to the bathroom, clean up and pull your shit together. I'll wait for you here." Wesley stood up and stared for a moment. "Well, go on!"
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"I don't think so, Wes. You killed him, you get it. I'm just here to help you dispose of the body, and for, shall we say, moral support?"
"Dick.", Wesley said under his breath.
"I'm sorry, did you mumble something?", the other said as he leaned forward.
"No, nothing."
"I didn't think so." The other sat back and crossed his legs again, folding his hands this time.
Wesley took a deep breath and then proceeded to roll the body over. IT was lighter than he had expected. The blood that was all over the rug and under the body made a wet sticky sound. As if pulling a pack of cigarettes off from a table while sitting in maple syrup. Wesley saw the manila envelope, grabbed it quickly and let the body fall back into the position that it was in.
"Good boy, Wes. I'm proud of you. Why don't you have a look see at the contents. Make sure everything is there."
"I'd rather not. These pictures are the reason why I'm in this mess to begin with."
"But don't you want to make sure he wasn't bluffing about the pictures?", the others' voice was calm.
Wesley thought for a moment, turned the envelope over and opened it. He reached inside until he felt something like paper. Closing his eyes, he slowly pulled out the contents, then looked at what he held. There they were in black and white. The infamous pictures with a fifteen year old hooker. Wesley began to weep.
"Those pictures sure don't do you any justice. You're not the most photogenic person in the world. What about the negatives?"
Negatives? Why would.....then Wesley thought. With the negatives floating around, he was still screwed. Killing this man who was blackmailing him was all for nothing.
"Wait a minute. How come you know so much?", Wesley began, getting to his feet and picking up the gun as he did. "The pictures, my wife. What? Have you been following me too? Watching me? Are the two of you in this together?" Wesley was enraged.
"You could say that." The visitors' voice was still calm.
He was still sitting in the leather chair. The same chair.....Wesley was trying to put all of the pieces of the puzzle together. His head ached.
"What's wrong, Wes? Can't figure this out either? I'm surprised you made it this far in life, you pathetic piece of shit!" The visitors' voice became more hostile as he spoke.
"Enough!" Wesley was finished messing around. He wanted answers, and he wanted them now. "Either you tell me why you know so much about me or,"
"Or what?", the other cut Wesley off. "You'll kill me? Don't make me laugh."
"I'm the one holding the gun." With that Wesley pulled the hammer back with his thumb and pointed it as his....blackmailer?
"Ah, you finally figured it out, Wes? Why I know so much? Why I haven barely left this blood soaked chair? Why I'm not afraid to die? Because, you fuck! You already fucking killed me!" With that, the other leaned forward so that the one light could shine on his entire face.
Wesley could feel his legs get weak. He had flashes of the days events run through his head. He looked at the pictures in his left hand, then the body on the floor, the gun in his right hand. Finally to the empty, blood soaked high back leather chair.
It had been nearly four days since Wesley Green's neighbors had seen him around. At night, the one light stayed on in his den. The mail and newspapers piled up. The first police officer on the scene was a rookie cop, just off his training. He got so sick from the two rotting bodies in the den, that he got violently sick in the doorway. That was two years ago.
He still sees a therapist.
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Wesley looked outside and noticed that it was dark now. It only seemed like a few moments ago it was the middle of the afternoon. Wesley's head started to ache and spin.
The dizzying feeling was overwhelming. Stumbling towards the window seat, he tripped over the edge of the rug in the middle of the hardwood floor and fell to his face. He picked himself up to notice he was looking at the top of the head of the body that was lying motionless in the middle of the room. He got himself to his hands and knees. As he was beginning to stand, the smell of death filled his nose and his lungs. He tried to exhale, hold his breath, something as he stood. But his body forced him to take in a deep breath. A deep breath that filled every inch of his lungs until he couldn't breath in anymore. His lungs began to ache as if he were going under water for a long period of time.
The smell of piss, shit and old blood lingered in his nostrils. He felt himself getting warm, pale, and before he could stand fully and run to the bathroom, Wesley began convulsing and vomiting all over the floor. His legs were weak and shaky and he fell in a sitting position. Quickly he back peddled away from the body until his back hit the front of the bar.
"Fuck me!" Wesley finally let out as he caught his breath. He looked over to his visitor sitting in the leather chair, and noticed for the first time how familiar his faced looked. Even with a single light on in the room.
Wesley dismissed the thought and came back to the present. "So now what?"
"Well," the other said, "my suggestion is to cut up the body into six pieces, and put it in separate bags. Then, put it out when the next trash pick up is."
"You're joking! You really are fucking mad. In this heat, even the neighbors would be able to smell the fucking thing. Besides, next trash pick up is four days away."
"Like I said, it was only a suggestion. You could roll up the body in the rug, along with the gun, and dump him at the trash sight yourself. After you wipe off your prints, of course. Oh," the other finished, "don't forget to destroy the pictures in that envelope. You don't want those lying around for anyone to see."
The pictures! Wesley had forgotten all about them. But where were they?
"If you're looking for them, check under the body. I think he fell on the envelope when he fell out of the chair."
Wesley went over to the body on his hands and knees and paused.
"What? you going to be sick again? Come on! If you have the nuts to kill the son-of-a-bitch, you should have the nuts to roll his ass over just enough to get the envelope. Don't forget, you still have to roll him up in the rug."
"How did you know about the pictures? Have you been here the entire time?"
"Of course I have. Hence why I know about the pictures. A fifteen year old hooker, Wes. Tsk, tsk, tsk. You should be ashamed of yourself. He was blackmailing you, and you didn't want to play anymore. Well, to tell you the truth, fifty grand for the pictures is an awful lot of money."
"I didn't have the money to pay him. I had to kill him. He was going to destroy my life. Would you want to play that game if you were me?"
"If I was you I wouldn't be screwing a fifteen year old hooker."
Wesley let out a deep sigh. Right now he wished that his visitor was him.
Wes looked at the body, trying to determine the best way to do it. He put one hand on the left hip, and one on the left shoulder. He could feel how cold the body was. He started to move the body, as if he were opening the hood of a car. Without warning the body let out a deep breath. Wesley fell back, releasing his hold.
"Shit! Fuck! Fuck Fuck!", he yelled as he quickly moved back away from the body, His breathing was fast and heavy now. His heart pounding hard in his chest as if ready to burst under pressure.
"Calm down. Breath slowly." His visitor said.
"Calm down!? He's still fucking alive!" Wesley replied, pointing a shaky finger at the once again still body.
"He's not alive, believe me. He's quite dead. You forget that he's lying on his face. He wasn't able to let out his last breath. You rolling him over just helped release it."
Wesley thought about what his visitor had said. He started to breath slower. His heart not so ready to burst anymore. So he went to try it again.
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In the bathroom, Wesley ran the cold water and splashed some on his face. He looked at himself in the mirror and noticed, for the first time, how pale he was. Before he knew it his head started to spin and Wesley started to vomit in the sink. Shaky and still sweating, he cleaned himself off once again, then returned to the other room.
The other gentleman was still sitting in the leather high back, working on his second glass of scotch. Wesley paused as he passed the body again. He felt as if he were going to be sick again, but he found the strength to hold it in. Wes sat down on the window seat and ran his fingers through his already messed up hair.
"Damn, Wes. You look bad. Don't get me wrong, I've seen you look better. But right now, you really look like shit. Why don't you go fix yourself a drink and calm down a little bit."
"The last thing I need right now is a fucking drink to calm down. Besides, how am I supposed to calm down when there is a dead fucking body in the middle of my den?!"
"I don't give a shit what you 'think' you don't need. If you want my help out of this, then I suggest you listen to what I tell you. Now, go over there and fix yourself a fucking drink!"
Wesley was scared. He would admit to that. He got up slowly and went over to the bar and did exactly what the other said. He pulled out a glass, poured himself a shot, downed it, and poured another one.
"How do you know I won't pick up that gun and kill you too?" Wes' voice was unsteady. He was taking a big chance and he knew it.
"Because," the others' voice was calm again, "first of all, you don't have the nuts to do it. Second, you need me more than you think you do."
"And third?" Wesley continued for him. His back facing the other. He could feel those cold, lifeless eyes pierce through him again.
"Third, you're not in the right mindset at the moment. Think! If you kill the only person who could help you through this mess that you've created for yourself, who would you turn to then? The police? You'd either become someones bitch in prison, or they'd just kill you. I have to admit, I am impressed. One shot to the chest."
Wesley turned round and faced the other. His visitor made a gun out of his hand and finger and pointed it at Wesley, then pretended to shoot him.
"That's some nice shooting. I take it back, you probably do have the nuts to kill me. But you won't."
"I don't know. I could probably figure this out on my own. Besides, you're a witness. How do I know you won't turn my ass in?"
"Turn you in? Not likely. As far as you 'figuring this out by yourself', doubtful. Why? Because you're a fucking tool. You have never been able to figure things out by yourself. That's the reason your wife left you to begin with. Because she was sick and tired of thinking for you. How pathetic."
Wesley's' visitor was right. Whenever a decision was to be made as to where to go, what to eat, what to get his mother for Christmas even, she was the one who would make it. He was a pathetic, spineless little shit and he knew it. When they would fight and she would become violent, he never called the cops. Was it because he loved her? OR because he had no spine.
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Wesley finally said breaking the silence which seemed to last forever. The tension was fully clear in his voice. " I knew that one day you would just completely unravel at the seams, but I never knew it would be this soon! Or even to this extreme!" He ran his fingers through his hair and paced the floor vigorously.
Wesley Green was a fairly tall man in his early thirties. He was slender in build, but just as tough as the next man. Wesley was good about keeping his composure, even when his next door neighbors' kid, and several of his friends, burned down his Gazebo that he had built with his own two hands. Maybe it was all of his pent up anger, or just the fact that he was overwhelmed with what was going on that made him finally snap. Call it what you will, but the truth was that he was more pissed off now than he had ever been in his entire life.
"Talking to yourself again, I see." The gentleman sitting in the over-sized leather chair, finally spoke as he got up and crossed the room towards the bar to make himself a drink. As he crossed the room he patted Wesley on the shoulder. Wesley pushed the others hand away and watched as his visitor poured himself a large glass of scotch over ice.
"You really should relax, Wes. Have a drink, jerk off or something. You're to tense."
The visitor turned around and leaned up against the bar. His eyes were lifeless, cold as stone. His hair was thinning in front. He was almost as tall as Wesley, but thinner. He had a long, narrow chin that had a well maintained goatee. But those eyes of stone that glared at Wesley just over the rim of the glass, seemed to pierce right through Wes.
Wesley brought himself out of his daze and wiped the sweat from his brow. He had never intended for things to get this out of hand, or even go this far. The situation was completely out of his hands now. There was no turning back, what was done, was done. Wesley started to have flashes of what was going to happen to him now, and he didn't like it.
His visitor crossed the room past Wesley and sat down again. "You really shouldn't worry. Well....", he took a sip of his drink, "actually you should, seeing as how you're still holding the gun."
Wesley looked down at his right hand. The other was right. He was holding a .9mm that felt heavy and cold in his hand. Quickly he dropped it and brought his hands in front of his face. He began to cry.
"Pull yourself together, you little shit. Own up to your actions. There's no turning back now. On the other hand," he paused and finished his drink in one last long gulp. "You can always make it look like nothing ever happened."
Wesley pulled his hands away from his face slowly and wiped away a few of the remaining tears which were streaking down his face. He looked over his visitor, who was still sitting in the high back chair, with a confused look.
"First things first." The other said. "Go to the bathroom, clean up and pull your shit together. I'll wait for you here." Wesley stood up and stared for a moment. "Well, go on!"
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