Playing the Part: A Dark Humored Story of Crime
by Frank Bill

He says his blood pressure’s a loaded needle of adrenaline. Says his wife is out of town.

I tell myself he’s having a stroke. Picking him up, rushing him to the local ER, he gets out of the car walking as if trying to hide something. I tell myself it’s too late the stroke already affected his ability to walk upright.

The charge nurse checks him in. Asks what the emergency is. This aging exhibitionist, my father’s father, my grandpa, what he tells the nurse differs from what he told me. Says his morning-wood has become several days of wood. That urination has become a masochistic experience.

When the ER doctor checks on him, Stew, my grandfather, he says that he could split chunks of limestone with his penis. What the doctor discovers, old Stews eating Viagra like a cheating Weight Watchers dieter at the local Big Boys all you can eat breakfast buffet.

The doctor tells him to watch the dosage with his heart condition.

That was the last time my aging exhibitionist for a grandfather called needing a favor. Now at eight a.m. he calls needing another favor. Into the phone I ask, “What, got morning wood again?”

“No Frank, need you over here to help move some stuff. My backs not what it used to be.”

He’s a retired Real Estate agent whose running for mayor in our smalltown of Corydon, Indiana. He’s on his third marriage to a woman whose twenty years younger. Keeping her satisfied, somehow you don’t buy his bad back bullshit. Being my first day off in over a month, bad back gramps or not, I don’t want to be bothered.

“What about Cynthia?” Marriage number three.

“She’s at work. That’s why I need you over here.”

Working as an airline stewardess means Cynthia is rarely home.

“How about tomorrow? This is my first day off .”

“That’d be your problem. Mine can’t wait. I got appearances to make for my campaign. Plus I need it done before Cynthia gets home tomorrow.”

His tone goes through me like a laxative and he says, “Well, what time can I expect you?”

“Can you give me about ten or fifteen minutes?” There’s no Thank You or Goodbye. The prick just tells me to hurry up followed by one big click.

*   *    *

In the kitchen lacing my Doc Martens, the toilet flushes in the bathroom behind me. Preparing to leave, the bathroom door opens. And exiting with my roommate Ross there’s no single file. Turning my head, the smell could be mistaken for a decomposing rodent on one-hundred-degree blacktop.

Windmilling my hand in front of my face, this is the worst part about two males sharing a two bedroom single bath apartment. One supports the courtesy flush while the other does not.

Wrinkling his nose and upper lip this Carmel skinned Indian with boulder shoulders and a barrel chest walks past me and says, “Whew, too much Tabasco sauce on those chicken breast last night.” When you’re a wanna-be body builder, aside from eating, lifting weights and sleeping, the rest of your time is a by-product. Digging in the cabinets above the sink his diet of the week isn’t agreeing with him and he says, “I need a Tums.”

I say, “You need an Odor Eater in your butt crack.”

Turning to me with a bottle of Tums he says, “So Frank, who’s calling this early?”

“Stew needs help moving something.”

Shaking several Tums into his palm, his jaws crunch the Tums up like a dog crunches Kibbles-N-Bits and I grab my keys.

Ross asks, “You don’t have to deliver furniture today?”

Working for a rent-to-own company in a small town I deliver furniture and appliances to the backwoods of America. Where family has a duel role. Your cousin might be your wife or your grandpa might be your father. In my line of work the fruit doesn’t fall far from the tree. But with Ross every question has a hidden motivation and sarcastically I say, “No, are you working today?”

“Yeah,” he says, “still training that new girl. She’s got this thing, you know, for reptiles?” The way he describes his job, his employees, you’d think he was managing an exotic strip club instead of a Sports Supplement store in our smalltown where having sexual intercourse with the female employees and customers is part of the job. And giving two shits I say, “No I don’t know. You mean like Beastiality?”

“No way dude, I mean a fetish. But since you’re off today, think I can get a ride to work? Mom forgot to pick me up again?”

*   *    *

We’re standing on the front porch of Stew’s two story Victorian home with a doorbell that doesn’t work. Rattling the large wooden drawbridge of a door with my fist, I also rattle the two Panasonic sized windows it divides. Twenty minutes of this and I’m no longer patient. I’m pissed.

Parked in the driveway is Stew’s hate tank. One of those cars you pass on the interstate that resembles an unmarked pig cruiser. A gray bug splattered Crown Vic. Behind me Ross is guzzling the blue bottle of Phillips like a wino guzzles booze. Exhaling a deep chalky belch over my shoulder Ross says, “How much longer this gonna take dude?”

I tell him, “Hopefully not much.”

With one hand rubbing his stomach the other is L-Shaped at his temple, pressed against one of the Panasonic windows and he says, “I don’t see Stew anywhere.”

“What are you a voyeur for the elderly?”

“No, but I’m late for work.”

“Maybe you should buy your own transportation!”

“Can’t, got an Automobile Transportation Disorder.”

“An Automobile what?”

“A transportation disorder, I can’t be transported in an automobile unless you or my parents are the driver.”

“Unless you’re helping the situation shut the fuck up!”

“Don’t you have a spare key?”

“Don’t you think I’d use a spare key if I had one?”

But then it hits me, in the flower bed next to the garage, inside of a plastic rock, on the bottom where it says Slide Forward And Place Key, I slide it forward and there’s a spare key.

“Dude, that key been there the whole time?”

Pressing the key into the lock, it fits and I say, “No, the invisible Key Fairy just put it there.”

Turning the key, the lock doesn’t turn, only the key. “Shit!” I yell, “Cheap as metal.” The key broke.

Then the lock clicks. The door opens. Standing in the doorway with a gray flat top, a white wife beater tank top hanging over paisley boxers with a hand pushed against his lower back Stew puffs a cigar between latex gloves. Holding part of his spare key I tell him, “Broke your key off in the door. I’ll get a locksmith over here to fix the lock.”

Puffing his cigar he says, “That’s the least of our worries.”

*   *    *

Ross goes to use the bathroom while Stew leads me around a black leather couch that’s located near the center of the basement floor. He steps over something in front of the couch. Something that I couldn’t see from the stairs that lead down into the basement.
What the couch was hiding.

Standing across from me on the other side of the ‘something’ Stew pulls his cigar from his mouth and says, “This ain’t how it appears.”

Standing here studying the pail pigment. The loss of elasticity. The skins like a pair of underwear ready to be tossed out because they’re too worn by age. Arms bent at the elbows. Behind the back. The muscles of the back are whipped pudding. Leading into a lumpy spine. Going down into a dented tin can of an ass. I glance at the veins bulging from the neck. Night crawlers in moist soil that lead to an unfamiliar face.

“Good, that’s not a naked elderly female with her hands cuffed behind her back passed  out on the floor. Didn’t want to get the wrong impression.”

He doesn’t answer and I yell, “What is this some type of sick ass Stand By Me bullshit?!”

Coming down the stairs behind me Ross says, “Dude what are yelling about, I could hear you up stairs?”

Not answering, we must look like two campers standing around a campfire. Ross walks around the couch. Stands beside me, says, “What’s up with the naked senior citizen on the floor, this a circle jerk or something?”

And to Stew I say, “Yeah what’s up with the elderly nudist passed out on the floor?”

Stew says, “We been having an affair.”

Putting some pieces together I say, “You’re married to a woman whose twenty years younger than you.”

Puffing his cigar he says, “You know, at my age you get what you can get. Cynthia’s always out of town.”

“No,” I say, “I don’t know. What the hell’s she doing passed out with her hands cuffed behind her back?”

He says, “She likes to be cuffed when we’re spooning.  Only this time she quits cooing and moaning. She’s limp. I pull out. Smack her face a few times cause she likes that. But she don’t respond.”

Ross says, “Dude your gramps is an elderly freak.”

Yeah he’s a regular Marquis de Sade and kneeling down, glancing at her with hands cuffed behind her she’s an aging exhibitionist in a display case window.

Stew says, “I panicked. She had no pulse. Tried to pick her up. Hurt my damn back. Didn’t know who else to call.”

Putting my hand inches from her mouth, her nose, she’s a homicide investigation outlined in chalk. Kneeling down beside me Ross says he’s never seen a dead body up close before. His eyes are two pendulums studying her arms cuffed behind her back and on my day off what I want to do is walk out. Leave. Pretend I never saw this. Snapping back I realize what Stew said and I snap, “Pick her up? Who else to call, how about 911?”

Stew says, “Can’t, town paper gets a whiff of this my campaign to become Corydon’s next mayor is caput. Got a public image to uphold. Then Cynthia finds out she’d divorce me. Take everything I’ve worked for. My investments. Social security. No way.”

I say, “It’s an accidental homicide. Infidelity? We’re talking about a human life.”

Talking crazy he says, “Yeah a human life don’t you watch CNN? People die every day! Besides, you see how they tried to railroad old Clinton when he had his oral affiliation in the oval office.”

Interrupting us Ross says, “Dude, she died from being Hobbled.”

“Hobbled?”

“Old timers called it Hobbling before it went underground. Exhibitionist used it during 60‘s and 70‘s bondage orgies when shit was too taboo.”

“Old timers? What are we talking about here the Waltons?”

“No. S&M freaks. Saw it on a Forensic Files special about S&M. Bondage Gone Bad. Anyway, it’s become a rare Paraphilia.”

He says, “The person with their arms cuffed behind them gets off on the bondage part but also the body positioning. The person coming up the rear, from behind can put pressure on the neck. Force it downward. Blocks the windpipe. Cuts air off to the lungs. Causing asphyxiation. A hybrid of Autoerotic Asphyxiation. You know hanging yourself while poking the pud.”

“No,” I say, “I don’t know. And I don’t want to try it.” And looking at Stew I say, “I’m calling 911.”

Acting insane Stew says, “Fuck 911. Told you anyone finds out I‘m finished.”

“Should’ve thought about that before you decided to push the limits of hiding the bologna pony.”

“Look I called you to do me a favor. You’re the one with all of the experience.”

“Favor? Experience? I deliver furniture for a living.”

“That’s why I called you to help carry her upstairs to the garage. Put her in the freezer.”

“I deliver furniture not post mortem females.”

“A couch, a body, you pick it up you put it down, what’s the difference?”

“The difference is giving rim jobs, you know buggery to some guy named Aryan White in the state pokey.”

“You can deliver furniture to those in-bred-bottom-feeders who might as well be dead. But you can’t help your grandpa carry a body to the garage?”

Butting in Ross says, “Come on dude, you don’t want your gramps to lose his chance at becoming mayor? Of losing everything he’s worked for?” And to Stew, Ross says, “Look I work with this Goth chick named Digit, she’s got these two Anacondas. I’m thinking we can cut up...”  And cutting him off Stew says, “We ain’t cutting nobody up. Carry her upstairs to the freezer. Disguise the time of death. You two come back tonight and we dump her someplace.”

To Stew I say, “You had intercourse that’s DNA.” He says he used a condom. My grandfather, future mayor of Corydon but also an elderly S&M freak who practices safe sex. I ask how she got here and he says he picked her up on her morning jog. Says nobody knows about the affair. What about finger prints on the cuffs? He holds up two hands covered with latex gloves. Just like a politician he’s got an answer for every query.

Ross’ bending down, trading his morals for a cadaver. He’s trying to roll the limp elderly perp from her side onto her back. And he says, “So you ready to do this? I mean some of us have to work today.”

Wanting to embed my keys into his larynx I say, “Sorry to inconvenience you but no I’m not ready to do this.”

Grabbing my arm Stew barks, “You ungrateful shit, I helped raise you. Took you to ball practice.” He’s digging deep and I tell him, “I never asked you to dispose of a teammate.”

“No but I would’ve. Even convinced your parents not to send you to that shrink for your anger problem. And this is the thanks you give me?”

Jerking  my arm from Stew’s grip, Ross lifts up the cadaver and a loud gush of air releases from her body and he says, “Dude! She just queefed.” Standing between Ross and Stew I shake my head and say, “What, now you’re an expert in deciphering the air released from an elderly females corpse?”

“Trust me,” he says, “it was a queefe.”

“Oh,” I say, “see that on Forensic Files too?”

Holding her up under the armpits at his crotch he says, “Dude why you always screwin’ with me?”

Stepping backwards, Stews jabbing his cigar into my face.

“Help him carry her to the garage before she starts to stink or else!”

Breathing out, clenching my fist tight, that anger problem from adolescents just keeps festering up. My hearts no longer pumping blood. Only adrenaline. I position my right hip to take his head clean off of his shoulders. My knuckles pressing white marrow through the skin. Gritting my teeth. Closing my eyes. Picturing my fist meeting his skull. Opening my eyes. Ross screams, “Get this bitch off of me!”

Stew spits orange coals into the air in front of me. Ross’ arms went from cupping the wrinkled females pits to down behind her back. In front of his crotch. With her feet on he floor she’s wobbling at the knees. Standing. Stumbling. Her butt pushing into his crotch. He’s pulling away. Her head jerking from side to side. Her eyes open with bloodshot. A hideous gasping sound exits her mouth as if coughing a hairball. They’re co-joinedtwins back peddling. Losing their footing. Their balance. They stumble onto the floor and Ross screams, “Get this reclining cadaver off of me!”

They’re lying sideways on the floor. Ross’ hands buried into her dented tin can of an ass as her head bounces off of the floor. A white custard oozes from the corners of her mouth. With my heart pumping I say, “Stew hold her down. Restrict her jerking. I’ll help Ross get loose!”

Stew doesn’t answer. The son of a bitch is lying spread eagle on the floor. He feinted.

Straddling Ross, I reach into her Hobble-tied-grip, her sweaty hands are wrapped around his crotch. This is a bit out of my comfort zone. Her whole body is convulsing as I dig and pull on her fingers. She just keeps gripping tighter and tighter. Not helping the situation Ross keeps screaming for me to get her off of him.

Wanting to stand up. To stomp Ross’ face in for picking her ass up I tell him, “I’ll pry and you pull!” He just nods quickly. Prying her fingers. One by one. Her knuckles pop. Walnuts in a vice. She sounds as if she’s gargling salt water and Ross is still pulling. I’m still prying until one by one, finger by finger he’s free. Pulling him away, her body jerks as if in a tub of water that someone dropped a blow dyer into.

Bent over rubbing his crotch Ross’ face is a red balloon filling with helium and he says, “Thought you said she was dead?”

“I’m not a medical examiner. You picked her up.”

Taking a wild guess I tell Ross to help me hold her upright. She must’ve swallowed her tongue during the spooning. Shaking his head he tells me not unless I chop off her hands. And without warning he pushes me down on the floor. Out of his way as he steps into her and yells, “Like it rough? Wanna grab my balls? Take this you elderly freak!” And he’s a Thai Boxer practicing low kicks on a downed opponent. Slamming his foot
into her gut. Once. Twice. Loud hands clapping. Before I can stop him her dry heaving becomes a carbonated belch. Followed by what looks like un-cooked egg yolks all over Ross’ shoes. Stepping back he says, “Nasty ass.”  She barfed.

Bending down he says, “What the hell’s this?”  Picking something up he says, “She was choking on a small set of keys.”

*   *    *

Ross is taking up a new career as dispatch. Talking to the 911 operator. Giving her the information. Telling her that one person appears dead. Another person was dead but came back to life.

Not trading my morals I found a blanket to cover the elderly S&M senior citizen. Holding her, she’s trembling. Twitching like a Turrets Syndrome patient on speed. She’s mumbling in broken phrases, “Got rough....shove keys in mouth.....cup hand over mouth....swallowed....go black....” Her eyes rolling into her skull. Cue ball whites. Her morose code mumbles stop.

Pausing, into the phone Ross says, “ No this isn’t a joke. No, I’m not on drugs or psychiatric medication.”

Staring at me Ross pushes his eyebrows down into his eyes, shaking his head as his voice consumes the basement air, asking the operator how long this is going to take. Tells her he’s late for work. That he’s missed his third meal of the day. That he’s in a catabolic state of muscle wasting. He says, “Stopping by to check on my roommate’s gramps has ruined my entire day.”

Checking the senior citizen’s pulse, she’s breathing. And Ross is pushing my buttons. I can only handle so much. A roommate without morals. A possible deviant gramps running for mayor. With a taste for premarital affairs that turns into disposing of a life to save his own. Another wanna-be politician leaving someone else to take the blame for their bad decision.

Here I am playing the part in everyone else’s problems. And into the phone Ross tells the operator she has a sexy voice.

Through the open basement door leading upstairs I can hear the sirens getting closer. Coming down the street. Glancing at my gramp’s motionless outline, someone’s got a lot of explaining to do. But it won’t be the aging exhibitionist I call grandpa.

BIO: Frank Bill is a Southern Indiana writer of regional/gritty short stories. He has publications in or forthcoming from Thuglit, Plots With Guns, Pulp Pusher, Talking River Review, Darkest Before the Dawn and Hardboiled. An untitled novel is currently in the works. Check out Frank's blog: http://frankbillshouseofgrit.blogspot.com/.