The Ballad of Billy Badass, page 1
Copyright © 2024 by Patrick Sheane Duncan
All Rights Reserved.
Cover Design by Chad Lutzke
Interior design and formatting by Mark Alan Miller and Sean Duregger
The characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living, dead or undead is coincidental and not intended by the author.
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CHAPTER ONE
Hot night. Muggy.
Hot wet, wool blanket laying over the land. Michigan in July. 1951. Blueberry bushes. Row upon row. Five, six feet high. Trimmed for a picker’s reach. Separated by plowed earth. Dirt powder and clods.
A full moon. Casts all into blue, gray and black.
Two men charge through the bushes. Arms in front of faces. Charge at a diagonal. Busting brush. Flail for balance. Charge the next. Attacking the columns of bush. One after another. Kick dust into a low-level fog.
Suddenly burst into the open. Stop under black tree shade. Access road. Forest beyond. Chests heave, gulp air, lungs burn. Guts cramped. Sweaty faces plastered with leaves and dirt, arms. Scratches bleed, blood fading in sweat.
One man, big, wide, severe crew cut. Flattop level as a rule. The other thin, face all bones. Pointy chin, blade nose, cheekbones sharp. Black hair Brilliantined shiny as a ten-inch record. “Brylcreem, a little dab’ll do ya.”
Silence for a moment. The men listen. Crickets cheep, frogs squeak. Solos, then chorus. “Creek, creek, creek.”
Something else. Voices. Laughter. Muted. Rhythmic. A radio.
The two men step into the forest. Maples and dogwood. Dogwood flowers impersonate the crucifixion. Once a year. Blood on white petals.
The hardwood segues to pine. Carpet of needles below. Every footstep cushioned. Quiet. Brylcreem snaps a branch underfoot. Crack! Crewcut cast pale blue eyes on him. Brylcreem grins. Yellow varnished teeth. Tobacco-stained circle inscribed on front teeth.
Crewcut points. A glow ahead. The radio louder. A backyard. House ahead. White siding florescent under moonlight. Yellow light from windows. Light and laughter spill out open back door, filtered by a screen door.
The men move forward. Wary of a dog. One bark and they will run. No dog. Walk past a child’s swing set. Red and yellow paint bright and new.
Crew cut stops short of puddle of light. Stays in the shadow. Holds Brylcreem back with big meaty hand. Peers through screen door. Can see open front door through house. Another screen. Cross ventilation on a hot night. Not much help tonight. No wind. Kitchen dark. Light coming from a side room. Bedroom? Source of the radio.
Both men wait. Both wear khakis, pants and shirts. Sweat stained. Dirty. Torn. No belts. Large “P” stenciled on the shirt back. They listen for a moment. Mario Lanza show, sponsored by Coca-Cola. Crewcut dreamed of cold Cokes in prison. Like in the ads. Dewed bottles, cold enough to make your teeth ache.
One story house. Tiny. Shotgun shack. No garage. ’50 Nash station wagon in gravel driveway. Two wheeled, red kids scooter dumped against back porch. Crew cut smiles. Twitches end of his mouth, then gone.
Brylcreem tests screen door. Locked. Crewcut laughs to himself. A locked screen door. Tits on a boar. Elbows Brylcreem aside. Reaches into back pocket. Stabs screen with sharpened screwdriver. Weeks of grinding tip on concrete floor. Blood on plastic handle. Brylcreem a look out.
Crewcut slices through the metal net. Screen rips. Loud. Too loud? He stops. Listens. Breath held. Crickets and frogs. Mario’s special guest Kay Starr on the radio. Breathe again. Slides hand into the cut. Feels for latch. A blind snake poking for food.
Clack. Door opens. Slight hinge squeak. Step into the kitchen. Clean. Four chairs and Formica table. Matching. Dishes still wet on the rack. Smells of fried food. Hot milk. Stirs Crewcut’s stomach juices. Brylcreem follows.
Crewcut pries open fridge. Slow. Spills light on to checkerboard linoleum floor. Grabs quart jug of milk. Gulps from the wide mouth. Presses cold bottle against face. Forehead. Cheeks. Blessed Jesus. Drinks more. Cool liquid spills down chin, neck. Not a Coke but sweet relief.
Brylcreem eases open drawers. Stealth sorts through utensils.
Shadow fills the doorway. Everybody frozen.
“Oh, sweet Lord.” A woman. Man’s shirt. Open. No panties. A real blonde.
Crewcut gets hard. Instant erection. Stainless steel. She’s a plain bitch. Not homely. Not ugly. Terrified. Carries a cat. Orange tabby. Yellow eyes. Drops it. Cat scurries away. Claws skitter on linoleum.
“Well, fuck me gently…” Brylcreem stares at snatch. Mesmerized.
Crewcut acts fast. Grabs the bitch by the neck. One hand. Sits her in a chair. Puts a grimy finger to his wet lips. Milk dribble on his chin. Same hand holds the screwdriver. Her eyes fix on the scratched steel.
She quivers with fear. Cold shivers. Sees Brylcreem. Frozen at the drawers. Her eyes flit from man to man. Back and forth. Like a bird tests its cage. Bounce about the wire.
Fridge still hangs open. Light casts big shadows on the walls.
Kay Starr moans, “While the wheel keeps spinning, spinning, spinning…”
“Damn, babe, can’t you even manage to put the damn cat…” The husband steps into the kitchen. Boxer shorts and slippers. White chest, few dark hairs. Tanned face and cuffs. Carries the damned cat. Freezes.
Crewcut flicks on the light switch. Motions husband to a chair. He looks at wife. She looks to him. Eyes begging.
The husband steps to the table. Doesn’t sit. Thinking. Dangerous that. Still holds the damned cat.
“While the wheel is turning, turning, turning…”
Crewcut taps husband with the shank.
“Be quiet. Be nice. We need things. Clothes. Food. Some cash. The keys to your car.”
Brylcreem oblivious to the men. Sidles over to the woman. Slides woman’s shirt aside. Exposes a breast. Large dark nipple. Silver dollar areola. Brylcreem rubs a knuckle across. Skin puckers. Nipple contracts.
Brylcreem leers. “Maybe some pussy. Know how long it’s been since I even seen some nookie?”
HOWL-SCREECH-YOWL. Husband hurls cat at Crewcut. Crewcut catches with his face. Crewcut howls. Much like the cat.
Husband spins. Snatches knife from open drawer. Thrusts blade into Brylcreem’s chest. At same second. Crewcut tears ball of teeth and claws from his face. Pitches beast through kitchen window.
Glass shatters.
Then quiet. Stillness. No one knows what to do next. Husband has no plan past this. Crewcut takes in scene. Looks to Brylcreem. At knife stuck in chest.
Brylcreem stares at same thing. Winces.
Husband and wife stare at Brylcreem. Transfixed.
Brylcreem goes through some changes. Dumb befuddlement. Some pain. Then the old fall back. Anger.
Brylcreem yanks blade from chest. Sucking sound. Brylcreem roars. Slashes across husband’s throat. Husband reacts. Too slow. Steps back too late. Dark red line across neck seeps blood. Then gushes. Pulses with heartbeat. Hands go to throat. Blood leaks between fingers. He falls on his ass. Sits there. Looks annoyed. Teeters over sideways. Eyes going blank.
Brylcreem looks from husband to Crewcut.
“Ain’t that a bitch?” Looks down at his chest. Gingerly touches cut. Pulsing with bloody froth.
“It’s not that deep.” Brylcreem muses.
And he lists a bit. One knee folds. Goes to both knees. Puzzled expression. The big question.
Crew cut steps toward Brylcreem. His only friend. Not really friend. Cell mate. Companion. Collaborator. Friend, maybe.
Brylcreem starts to fall. Forward. Crewcut doesn’t want him to hit face down. Takes step to catch the man. His friend.
The wife bolts. Breaks for the living room.
Crewcut dashes after. Grabs at her. Fist full of shirt. Rips. Tears. She falls. Scrambles. Desperate. Crawls across carpet. On all fours.
Crewcut tackles her. Climbs over her. Groin against butt. Naked pumping butt. Legs working. Crewcut’s hard-on back. Returns like a motherfucker. Rolls her on her butt.
Holds her down. Tiny arms in his big fists. She struggles. Writes against him. Tits roil. He eyes them. First real tit in twelve years. She makes sounds. With clenched teeth, lips together. Kitten mews.
He releases one arm. Rips open pants. Frees cock. Her free hand claws at his face. Pummels him. He recaptures. She tries to knee him. He dodges. They writhe. Battle. Coffee table goes over. Cascade of magazines. Wrapped hard candies.
Cock slips inside. Wet. Warm. Hot even. She stops fighting. Sags. Limp. Surrenders. He stops. Doesn’t move. Afraid to move. Will come instantly. Let’s loose one of her hands. Slowly. Her arm lies there. He wipes mouth with back of hand. Spit on his chin.
He looks down at her. Blue eyes. Unfocused. Looking into space. Past the ceiling. Above the roof. Beyond this place. This moment.
Crewcut places one hand over a breast. Soft. And firm. Squeezes. Fondles nipple. No response. Runs hand down to belly. Stretch marks. But firm. Blonde cunt hair. Thick.
He thrusts. She might as well be dead. Thrusts again. Her body buffeted. But still nothing.
He wants something. See me! Feel this! Goddammit, I’m here!
He kisses her. Tongue explores. Acknowledge me!
She wakes. Eyes widen. Eyes roll. All white. Staring at her own brain.
Screams. Wail erupts from her mouth. Wide and loud. Twists her neck. Head jerks back and forth.
Won’t stop screaming. Hand over her mouth. Scream muffled. Other hand on neck. Curls around her throat. She struggles. Moves under him.
Better. Much better. He plunges. Cock deep. Pelvis to pelvis. Again. Again. Harder. Harder. Beyond stopping. Pleasure like a hot wave. Engulfed.
He arches neck. Breathes through clenched teeth.
Eyes closed. Concentrating. Dwelling in the pure, perfect pleasure. The sweet feeling swells. A crimson bubble grows from groin to brain. Bursts. Relief. His whole body spasms.
He opens his eyes. Sees the woman’s face. Purple. Eyes bloodshot. Staring at nothing. Dead. Body limp.
Crewcut pulls away. Hand from her mouth. Hand from her throat. Impressions of his fingers on her skin. Her head flops. Dead eyes stare at the floor. Mouth slack.
Crewcut on his knees. Tucks in. Dick wet. Sticky. Buttons pants.
“Mama?”
Crewcut turns. A child. Four, five maybe. Pajama bottoms. In the bedroom doorway. Looking at the dead woman.
“Mama?”
CHAPTER TWO
Driving. South. Headlights carve out a path in the dark. Steering with one hand. The other buttons a shirt. Too small. Gives up. Turns on the radio. Dash lights glow. Radio warms up. Hank Williams. Hank always fits.
“No matter how I struggle and strive, I’ll never get out of this world alive.”
Looks across the seat. The kid. Huddled against the door. Eyes the man. Hand on the door handle.
“Get away from the fucking door.”
Kid doesn’t move.
“Dangerous.”
Kid just watches. White-blond hair over eyes. Needs a haircut. Crewcut leans over. Grabs fistful of hair. Drags kid across the seat. Kid fights. Pounds with tiny fists.
Crewcut releases. Drapes arm over kid’s neck. Holds the boy in place. Pressed against side. Kid sinks teeth into his arm. Hurts.
The man backhands the brat.
Kid doesn’t cry. Just sits. Stares at Crewcut. Man looks at bite marks. Grins.
“Regular Billy Badass. Ain’tcha”
1956. From glaring sunlight to dim tavern. Barflies shrink from the glare. Vampires. Just another bar. Smell of stale beer, acid wine. Jukebox crooning. Gogi Grant.
Louisville.
Dusty photos of Kentucky Derby on walls. The boy likes horses. Pass them on the road. In buses. Stolen cars.
Crewcut and boy at bar. Crewcut sports sideburns. Boy with identical hair. Surgical crewcut and sideburns. Crewcut in brown leather bomber jacket. Stolen in Chicago. Passed out wino. Wino woke up. Crewcut beat him back to unconsciousness.
Kid’s clothes too small. All wrists and ankles. Grows too fast.
Crewcut lifts boy onto bar. Kid stands tall. Fists on hips. Scans bar with bad intent. Little Rascals tough.
“Who’s the meanest motherfucker in this joint?!” Little voice gone loud. Big balls. Bulldog jaw juts.
Barfly nudges buddy. Snarks. Plays along. “I am!”
Kid fixes him with pugnacious sneer.
“Then you best scram. ‘Cause I’m taking over.” Barflies chuckle. Crewcut loves it. Prods the boy. “Who are you?”
“I’m Billy Badass!”
“How mean are you?”
“There’s three things you don’t do; Piss against the wind, French kiss a rattle snake, and fuck with me!”
More laughter.
Crewcut lowers Billy to a stool.
Bartender steps to face them. Crewcut takes his cue. “Pabst. And a Coke. Put a cherry in it.”
“Kid’s a tough little snot.”
“Ain’t he though.”
Bartender pours the beer. Adds some cherry juice to the Coke. Crewcut elbows Billy.
“How tough are you?”
“Tougher than woodpecker lips. Eat the boogers outa a dead man’s nose.” Billy fishes in the Coke with dirty fingers. Forages for the cherry.
Bartender winks at a patron. Pours a shot of whiskey. Sets it next to the Coke.
“All the tough guys in here drink Four Roses.”
Crewcut rolls himself a Bull Durham. Just watches. Billy looks to him.
“Thank the man.”
“Thanks mister.”
Billy picks up the shot glass. Raises it to his lips. Wrinkles his nose at the smell. Smells like Crewcut does. Boy takes a tiny sip. Twists up face. Puts the glass down. Tries to spit. Awful.
“Drink it like a man.” Crewcut says it soft. Dangerous when he’s quiet.
“Tastes like shit.” Kid juts out jaw again.
“Don’t embarrass me in front of all these folks.”
“Fuck you.” That usually gets a laugh. Not tonight.
“Put up your dukes.”
Fear in the boy’s eyes. Raises fists. Up in front of face. Little knuckles white. Crewcut squats. Face-to-face.
Everybody in the bar watches.
“You get first punch.”
Billy taps Crewcut on the jaw.
“C’mon. Like a man. Not a fucking pussy.”
Billy swings. Lands a good one. Right below the man’s eye. Crewcut blinks. Startled. Grins. The kid is learning. Fuck the mouth. Teeth hurt your hands. Go for the eyes.
Smacks the boy right off the stool. Upside the kid’s head. Boy sprawled on floor. Amid spit and peanut shells.
“Hey, mister.” Bartender leans over. Checks out the kid. “Folks round here we don’t cotton to…”
Crewcut whirls. Stares the man quiet.
Billy’s eyes fill with water. Nose trickles blood. Crewcut kneels down. Shoves face at boy.
“C’mon. Get up ya little pussy. Ya never quit a fight.”
Billy rises. Painfully. Trying to trump the fear.
Suddenly charges Crewcut. Fists flail. Some connect. Crewcut takes the blows. In the face.
“Okay. Okay. I give. Uncle goddammit.”
Billy stops. Snorting blood and snot. Sleeve wipe. Crewcut lifts boy back onto stool.
The kid eyes the shot glass.
“You ain’t gotta drink it. You won.”
Crewcut downs the shot. Chases it with beer. Eyes the bartender.
“Ain’t he somethin’? Kid don’t take shit. No how. No way. From nobody.”
Shabby room. Shabby hotel. Billy contemplates the wallpaper. Imagining monsters in the water stains. A bear, reared up, roaring. A porcupine. Saw one in the mountains, sleeping on a picnic bench. A stagecoach. A cat after a butterfly. Saw that too. Cat ripped the wings, ate the bug.
Window open. Faded curtain dances. A woman snores. Sprawled on bed. Hard face. Cheeks pitted. Yellow hair. Black roots. Eyebrows two black pencil slashes. Lipstick smear on chin. Mouth open. Breasts slack puddles of white flesh. Purple concave nipples. Bite mark on tit. Dirty gray sheet across swollen gut.
Toilet flushes. Crewcut yanking up boxer shorts. Buttons shirt. Slides on pants. Shoes. Buckles belt. Jacket next. .45 automatic from side table. Into jacket pocket.
Kid watches with squinted eyes. Slept in two chairs pushed together. Seat to seat. Curled around blanket. Fully dressed.
Crewcut backhands boy’s butt.
“Wake up and piss, the world’s on fire.”
Billy untangles from blanket. Rises. Rubs eyes. Shoves chairs apart. Puts on shoes. Looks at the woman.
“Learn anything last night?”
Kid rolls back memory. Crewcut and woman rutting. Boy watched. Woman protested. Crewcut slapped her quiet.
Billy coughs up loogie. Spits it onto magazine on the floor. True Detective. Woman was reading it. Her place. Other magazines. True Romance, Secret.
Crewcut whacks him. Back of the head. Teeth click. Bites tongue.
“Told ya, No spittin’ indoors.”
Billy pisses. Crewcut rifles woman’s purse. Pockets her keys. Couple of wrinkled bills.
“C’mon.”
Billy follows to door. Grabs handful of Cheetos. Chugs last of RC Cola.
