'Effugere Non Potest Daemones Innitatur' or 'The Lean Man' by Tom Ashton (Prose)

Effugere Non Potest Daemones Innitatur
(Cannot escape the demons lean)
 

(Illustration by Jodie Wynne Jodiewynne.tumblr.com)

The Lean Man’s roughed down a gravel path by three guards, towards the exit of Fairway Psychiatric Hospital, and pushed into the road. His suitcase is thrown into a muddy puddle, destroying the whites inside.

Nonetheless, he’s laughing, ‘well, thank you Gentlemen, but I won’t be leaving a tip as, upon arrival, I discovered no little mint on my pillow.’

Wallace, the largest guard, advances upon him, ‘I knew you hadn’t changed, you son of a bitch, as soon as you started jumping through their hoops. I knew…’

‘All I know, Wally, is that I haven’t had consensual sex for nine years. Are you gonna give me your mother’s address or should I just browse the small ads…’

Wallace, wheezing, punches him flat before his colleagues can intervene, ‘go find your own Mother! I see she’s not here to meet you. It’s because you’re the fucking devil!’

The Lean Man giggles and blows Wallace a bloody kiss before retrieving his case and slouching off into the rain.

*****

Barry chokes, as Carlo’s vice-grip tightens around his oesophagus.

He’d been alone with Carlo Sargatelli and his brothers, Frankie and Jimmy, but a bum’s just snuck in and started helping himself to slops. Frankie and Jimmy are eyeing him suspiciously, but Carlo’s still preoccupied with Barry.

 ‘Now you listen to me, wise guy, you get your booze from us now! Not Capone! Got that?’

‘Please,’ Barry’s gasping, ‘I buy from you and then I just get trouble from Capone’s family.’

‘Are you getting cute with me?’ yells the burly Italian, slamming Barry’s face onto the bar and whipping out a flick knife, ‘how about I cut your fucking tongue out and then we’ll see how well you crack wise?’

‘No, please, I’ll pay! Just…what about Capone?’

‘Capone’s inside now and his family’s in disarray. We’ll take care of them, ok?’

Carlo releases the bartender, steps back around the bar and points his knife across the room towards the slop-drinking bum, ‘forget my face, you hear, because I won’t forget yours!’

Barry watches the three brothers exit and picks himself up from amongst broken glass. Who’d run a speakeasy? Given the choice he wouldn’t, but no company wanted the father of the “Goldilocks Butcher” on their books. The money had to come from somewhere.

He remembers the slop drinking bum and slopes irritably towards the sodden wretch, to start a fight he can win.

‘Whatcha still doing here, Mister? Scram!’

His fist is caught in uncut fingernails that dig deeper than the broken glass had. A glistening smile’s shining up at Barry from beneath a mess of dirty blonde hair, ‘hello, Daddy!’

 ‘They certified me sane,’ The Lean Man’s laughing, still holding Barry’s fist, ‘I always knew what they wanted, but the effort involved, the restraint, you wouldn’t believe -’  

He’s interrupted by Barry’s wife who’s coming downstairs to berate him about the gangsters.

‘Barry, did you tell them this time? Jeez, you know, sometimes I think I married a–’

She recognises the fruit of her loins sitting there, grinning, shark-like, across the darkened room and becomes instantly hysterical. Barry can’t calm her and has to belt her out of the room.

‘Why are you doing this to us, son,’ Barry sighs, returning to his chair, ‘why did you hoodwink those doctors and screws at Fairway? Just to prove you could?’

The smile never leaves The Lean Man’s face, ‘I’m a fisherman and like all fisherman I’m pained by the one that got away. My hunger will never be sated until I catch it, Daddy.’

‘What are you talking about?’

‘Janey Walker.’  

The fat man’s glass hangs by his mouth, his eyes wide with dread.

‘No, son.’

‘Daddy, you were the only one who tried to help her. Poor little Janey at the bottom of the bottle but she was just too wild for you, wasn’t she? Although, I bet you keep in touch…I bet you know where she is?’

 ‘Why? That poor girl -’

‘They locked me in a cage with needles and pills because of her, Daddy. Tell me where she is and I’ll leave you in peace and so will those Italians who hassle you.’

The old man’s feeling desperate. If he refuses the Sargatellis they’ll kill and replace him. If Capone’s Mob regroups and they discover that he’s betrayed them, they’ll kill and replace him. If he assists his son, it’d solve his problem but another, one he once considered family, would inevitably serve as collateral.  

Should he sacrifice that girl to the sick molestations of this beast to save himself and his wife?

Yes…he had to protect the family he had left.

‘You do this,’ he says, ‘then you go back to that place and you don’t ever crawl out again, you hear?’

‘Oh, of course silly, the Devil must eventually go back to Hell!’ The Lean Man laughs, ‘so, tell me, where I can find these nasty men who torment my daddy so?’

*****

Carlo instantly recognises the ‘bum’ from Barry’s, crossing his club and entering the toilets. Without pausing to alert his friends, he’s right after the fool, pulling out his gun.

The Lean Man’s laughing inside.

‘What are you going to do? Are you going to shoot me with all those people just outside the door? You aren’t powerful enough to stop them all talking. You’re not Al Capone.’

Carlo’s gun arm shudders. The skinny fuck’s right. He needs to be dragged out the back and executed like the dog he is. He’s lowering his gun.   

‘The fear of incarceration,’ The Lean Man smiles and quickly plunges a razor blade into Carlo’s throat, forcing him backwards into one of the stalls, ‘I do not fear inevitabilities.’

After a few minutes, somebody informs the Frankie and Jimmy that their brother followed some guy into the toilets and they stumble in guffawing loudly.

‘Hey Carlo, you better have some pants on you finocchio, son of a bitch.’

‘Hey, is that–’ Jimmy notices his brother’s blood, pooling out from under the locked door of the stall.

‘Jesus Christ, Carlo, hold on!’

The Lean Man quickly rushes out from behind the stalls and jabs a syringe into each of their necks. It’s a mere dribble of street morphine; not enough to knock them out but good enough to disorientate them for a couple of minutes.

He quickly moves to the toilet door and uses a padlock and chain to fasten it to the plumbing. Nobody’s spoiling this party.

Frankie’s managed to stay of his feet, blundering drunkenly about the room. The Lean Man’s laughing.

He throws Frankie onto a toilet and seats his brother on his knees, so they’re facing nose to nose, then takes a hammer and nails their hands to the stall walls.

They’re starting to regain their senses; The Lean Man has some difficulty securing their eyelids to their eyebrows, with the diaper pins. Diaper pins for little babies.

Finally, he secures a sliver of tape across Frankie’s mouth and rips a paper towel from the dispenser.

‘What are you doing you fucking son of a bitch? Who are you?’

‘Shush, sillies,’ The Lean Man’s whispering, ‘you all want to be the boss, yes? Well, what better way to prove yourselves? Whoever wins the race to stay alive, can have the top job. No need to thank me, just buy me a drink sometime.’

The Lean Man kisses both the brothers on the forehead, shoves two little balls of toilet paper up Frankie’s nose and slits Jimmy’s wrists; the two men stare at each other in horror, as one suffocates and the other bleeds out.

As The Lean Man giggles his way out of the window, he enjoys Jimmy’s screams and the sound of his associates trying to bust the industrial chain.

*****

The Lean Man’s exhausted and pleased to be at the end of his weekend retreat. He has just one more attraction to visit. He’s grinning, fingering the number sixty-nine and then rapping his knuckles upon it. There’s a little squeal and the sound of swift footsteps. She’s so eager for some company. How surprised she will be. The door’s flung open. He’s enjoying the recoil of those pretty Bambi-eyes as she recognises him, his features souring those dark places in her brain that her therapist’s been trying to fill with rainbows and sunlight.  

 ‘Poor little Janey.’

-

Tom Ashton (Originally published under the pseudonym 'Jack Sloane' in the fourth edition of The Writer's Quibble http://writersquibble.blogspot.co.uk/2013/08/the-writers-quibble-4.html)

 

(Illustration by Heavy Duty Illustration - Helen Kelly https://www.facebook.com/HeavyDutyIllustration?ref=hl)