BLUE BLOOD CELL CONTEST
Second Place:

ASS BITE

by

Tim Matson

Frank reached his hands behind his head and laced his fingers together. He belched, and the smell of digesting fast food escaped into the interior of the car. His hand instinctively reached up to the breast pocket of his shirt and pulled out a pack of cigarettes. Nothing like a good smoke after a meal, even a greasy cheeseburger and wilted fries. He cupped the cigarette against an imaginary wind, and flicked the lighter, and drew the smoke deep into his lungs. The park by the river was a great place to sit and watch the river flow. And relax.

The shit had been delivered, the paranoia gone. Well, almost. Frank thought back over the last few hours, and reminded himself for the hundredth time that he had to get out of this business. The risks weren't that great, but still.

Frank got the call from Jax the night before. He had stopped wondering why he spelled his name with an x a long time ago. Drug fiends do crazy shit to begin with, and it wasn't smart to ask a lot of questions. Especially Jax.

“Frank?”

“Hey.”

“Shit will be ready to go tomorrow...uhhh...around noon or so.”

A noise drifted through the phone to Frank's ear. It sounded like a wet towel hitting the side of a brick building.

“Goddamit,” Jax yelled to someone in the background. “Will you shut the fuck up? I'm on the goddam phone! Hold on a sec...”

In the receiver, Frank heard a garbled cry, and something akin to an aluminum bat hitting a softball.

“I'm back,” Jax said, calm as a deep sleep.

“Still here,” Frank said.

“Noon okay?”

“Yep. They're waiting for it right now.”

“I'll see you tomorrow.”

Click. Not a lot of conversation on the phone with Jax. The paranoia kicked in pretty hard when he called Frank. Or anybody, for that matter.

Frank made a couple of calls, arranging times. They were easy to please as long as they could see light at the end of the tunnel. They went a little batshit waiting, though. Sometimes he felt a little guilty dealing this stuff, but when you got down to it, if he didn't do it, someone would. It was about money. And it was really no skin off his ass if these freaks wanted to smoke their lives away.

Frank left his place around 11:30, and headed out to the farm. Jax had inherited the place from his parents when they died in a car accident. The farming aspect died with Mom and Pop. Now it was a meth lab for Jax and his people. And people is a term that Frank used pretty loosely for the freaks that lived there.

The driveway was a dirt track about a quarter mile long, with tall weeds growing on each side. Come around a couple of curves through the big oaks, and you saw the farmhouse and a faded red barn. Rusting farm tractors and equipment were parked haphazardly around the buildings. None of them had moved in years.

Frank pulled up to the side of the house, and honked his horn twice while the dust settled around the car. He got out, turned around slowly with his hands in the air, and walked to the front door. He knocked twice, paused, and then knocked twice again. The curtains parted for a split second, and then parted again slowly.

“That you, Frank?”

“It's me, Jax.”

“Whadaya say?”

“Tomb Raider, Jax. The password is Tomb Raider.”

The sound of locks and chains preceded the door opening a crack.

“You alone, Frank?”

“Yep.”

“Cool.” The door opened, and Jax grabbed Frank by the arm and pulled him into the house. He quickly locked the deadbolts and put the chains back into place.

“Can't be too careful,” he said with a grin.

Frank was used to this strange behavior, and said nothing. Jax brewed up the best methamphetamine around, and sold it to Frank cheap, so it was best to put up with all this shit if he was going to make some money.

“You're gonna love this stuff, Frank, it's some of my best.”

Frank followed Jax into the living room, where a stereo was playing softly. The only illumination in the room was the sunlight escaping in around the heavy drapes on the windows. While Frank's eyes were adjusting to the gloom, Jax said:

“We had a little trouble earlier ‘cause someone was playing the stereo too loud, weren't they, Michelle?”

A skinny blonde woman was sitting on a ratty couch, her face turned away from them.

Jax voice went up a couple notches. “Weren't they?”

The blonde murmured something unintelligible. Jax covered the space between to the couch in two steps, grabbed Michelle by the hair, and wrenched her face to his. Her face was swollen and purple where it wasn't covered in dried blood. Frank stifled a gasp.

“Weren't they, you stupid bitch?!” he screamed at her, inches away.

“Yes, Jax. I was playing the stereo too loud. I'm so sorry,” she sobbed.

He let her hair go, and smiled down at her.

“There,” he cooed to her. “That wasn't too hard, was it? Just to admit that you were wrong. That's not very hard, is it?”

“No, Jax. I'll try to do better next time. I'm very sorry.” She paused, her swollen eyes pleading. “Can I have some now?”

“Yes, my sweetie pie, you can have some now.”

He was tender now, all smiles, as he handed her a glass pipe off the shelf beside the stereo, and grabbed a bluish rock from a sandwich baggie in his pocket. She held the pipe with shaking hands, and broke a small chunk off the rock and put it in the bowl. She flicked her lighter on, and torched the meth while she sucked on the end of the pipe. All of them watched the tendrils of smoke as they floated up the stem of the pipe like they were alive. She let off on the lighter, took a big hit into her lungs, and held it.

“Enough of that shit, Frank. Let's get you set up and on your way.” He began whistling a nameless tune as he led him down into the basement. Frank didn't say a word.

***

Three kitchen stoves of various makes and models were lined up against one wall, and a commercial exhaust vent overhung all of them. Jax led Frank over to a table in the middle of the basement that was littered with digital scales, plastic baggies, and tablespoons. Jax grabbed one of the large sized freezer bags, and handed it to Frank.

“Check out the color, Frank.”

Frank held the bag at the top, and pulled open the zip lock. Inside were smaller plastic bags with printing on them. He pulled one out and read the words.

“Blue Blood Cell?”

“Funny, huh?”

“What does that mean?” Frank asked, instantly regretting the question.

Jax had a twisted grin on his face. “I found this ink printing kit I played with when I was a kid. So I printed those words as my brand on my shit. This batch I made a little blue, so it looks pretty cool.”

Frank nodded, not wanting to know what kind of shit he added to the mix to give the meth its light blue color.

“Each one of the eight balls is a cell, right? The meth is blue, right? The shit makes you feel like royalty, right? Get it? Blue Blood Cell!”

Jax went off on a giggle streak, and Frank smiled politely.

“My...subjects...will love it! I'm the king! Get it? Get it?”

Jax eyes were glowing with intensity. Frank just wanted to get the fuck out of there.

“Sure, Jax. That's pretty funny.”

Jax face instantly went cold. “You got the money?”

“Sure, Jax. Like always.”

***

The Blue Blood delivered, the burger and fries making gurgling noises, and now Frank could relax. He gazed out the window as he smoked his cigarette, and watched the turkey buzzards and hawks flying in circles and catching thermals over the river. The money was collected, and for once, nobody wanted a front with the usual “I'm good for it. You know me, Frank.” Frank thought about the amount of money he had stashed. Maybe one more run, and then get out of this. Maybe go out to California and visit his sister, get a real job.

His thoughts were cut off when the back window of the car shattered into a million pieces. Frank ducked instinctively, and fell sideways over the center console, as a voice shrieked:

“Blue Blood Cell! BLUE BLOOD CELL!”

Another shot boomed, and buckshot peppered the side of the car. Frank realized someone was shooting at him, and had to get away from the car now. He sat up, pulled the handle of the door, and dove out, knocking the wind out of himself. He pulled himself up, gasping for air, and made a run for the trees. Another boom and buckshot whizzed over his head. He got behind a big elm, and forced air into his lungs. As he crouched there, he heard muttering and crazy laughter. And then a click as the shotgun was chambered again.

“Blue Blood! Gotta get Blue Blood!”

The voice trailed off into more muttering, and Frank peeked out from behind the tree. A man was standing there, naked, with a shotgun in his hands. He was streaked with dirt and sweat from head to toe. He wasn't even looking towards Frank, but rather staring up into the sky, talking to himself.

“He's flipped,” thought Frank.

Frank began to look for a way out, when a park ranger truck roared into view, spitting dust and gravel. The truck slammed on his brakes twenty yards from the deranged man, and Frank could see the ranger's startled face through the windshield. As the Ranger started to open his door, the naked man fired a shot at him, shattering the headlights of the truck. Steam began to billow out of the radiator. The ranger ducked behind the door, and screamed for the guy to stop.

The naked man just smiled and brought the shotgun up, pulled the trigger, and got a small click. He looked at the shotgun, shook his head, tossed it aside, and began to walk towards the river.

The ranger went after him at a trot, and tackled him as he was almost to the rivers edge.

The naked man struggled against him and shouted, “Blue Blood Cell! Blue Blood!”

“Help! Somebody help me with this guy!” the park ranger bellowed.

Without thinking, Frank ran over to them, and helped the ranger hold him down on the ground.

“Thank God you were here,” the ranger said to Frank. “I don't think I could have done this myself.”

The naked man was muttering and swearing, but began to lie still. The ranger grabbed the radio that was at his belt, and called for the cops.

“This guy's nuts. Must be some more of that bad meth that's going around,” the ranger said.

“What? What bad meth?” Frank asked.

“New batch someone cooked up, it's making people crazy. The emergency room already has a bunch of people there with the same thing.”

The color in Frank's face drained, and his jaw dropped.

The ranger looked at Frank. “You okay? Was that your car up there he shot up?”

Frank didn't answer; he just looked down at the naked man.

“Hey! Are you shot or something? You don't look good.”

Frank looked at the ranger, and said. “I'm okay. Something just came around and bit me in the ass.”

The cops and an ambulance arrived at that point, and Frank gladly let them take control of the naked man. He walked back to his car, and looked at the buckshot holes in it. He opened the door, and grabbed a T-shirt from the back to brush away all of the broken glass that was on the front seat. The naked man screamed once as they loaded him into the ambulance, and Frank shook his head and got in and sat there, looking at the river.

And wondered how long it took to drive to California.

END