Mercenary

There was no twilight in the streets of Bangkok by the time I arrived home. Cleaned up about ten thousand Baht in a card game and bought myself a fresh pack of cheap smokes. They don’t taste like kind back home, but I’ve never been a choosing beggar. When I sat down on the edge of the bed, I stripped down to an old cotton tank and ignored the hole in the stomach as I lit the first one out of the pack. I also cracked a cold beer and took a long sip before I picked up the tape recorder I’d bought from a little hole-in-the-wall electronics shop down by the tourist strip. The rest of the money? That could be saved for a rainy day.

I kept the room dark so I could keep my eyes out on the glow of the street lights a few stories down. A couple of cats were having a fight, and a drunk teenager knocked over a garbage can in his stumble. Otherwise, there wasn’t much action this time of night. That could be saved for tomorrow.

I pressed the recording button down with my thumb and brought it up to my mouth.

“Hello, Luke.”

Then I paused for a moment. It’s not every day you get to talk to a big, fancy Champion. I had to be my best.

“Dunno if I can call ya that ‘er not. ‘Scuse any boundaries or informalities. But we’re abouta dance soon, so I figure we’d best get acquainted. Some folks think ya tell a story out there – the drama, the emotion, all that jazz. And maybe some of ‘em do. But for me…?”

I took another drag. It hit harsh, but it hit good, just like I liked them.

“That ain’t my bag, man. I’m not interested in findin’ some sorta ‘meaning’ or ‘beauty’ out there. Dunno bout you, but I don’t think there’s mucha either in pain or violence. I don’t get a rush when I’m snappin’ a limb or breakin’ a tooth. Don’t think there’s much point ta tryin’ to find art in such negative spaces. Childish mentality, if ya ask me – thinkin’ there is…”

I took a long cold sip before a laid back on the thin pillow at the head of the bed. Didn’t even pay much mind to the ash falling on my chest or the sting of a hot ember giving my shirt another hole.

“We’re men, Luke. We know what this is: a job. You learned that out in the jungles ‘er on the steppes ‘er desert. I learned it surrounded by a groupa drunks screamin’ like wolves as I smacked some poor bum’s head down on the concrete and didn’t stop ‘til the kickin’ in his legs did. All that matters, end of the day? That couple hundred bucks ya make. The scratch for room and board and maybe a little somethin’ to take the edge off. Ain’t no shame in it, neither – I know ya got good an’ drunk out in that jungle – did what ya needed ta steel yourself and do the job ‘gainst Church. An’ all the kudos in the world ta ya.

But tell, me, Luke… what now?”

I paused and let out a little laugh. Didn’t know what tickled me in the moment, but I made sure to keep it low so it wouldn’t be picked up by the mic.

“See, I’ve followed ya. Not literally – I ain’t stupid ‘nuff ta try that. I know you got that second eye of yours prob’ly moved to the backa yer head. But I keep my ear low to the streets and eyes to the shadows. When you live a scavenger life, that’s how ya gotta. But I’m sure you know all ‘bout that from yer time out in the bush – ya know what it’s like to crawl on yer belly fer a couple days, stayin’ unseen and scoutin’ for a scrap ta tide you over as ya move. Waitin’ to get in that perfect place where ya prey ain’t noticin’ – where ya prey got his guard down. And then ya creep in… real close and real quiet-like… and when yer juuust close enough…”

I drew the thumb of my hand holding the smoke across my throat, not that Luke would be able to see it, and made a noise like a slice.

“…Ya feast.”

I paused again. There was a commotion. A woman was a few floors down, and I could hear her yelling in a language I didn’t know but wasn’t local. Maybe German or Polish. Definitely drunk. I could see the dark outline of a man silhouetted by the streetlight at the front door of the building. He seemed to be talking back to her, but he wasn’t yelling. A woman’s shoe flew out the door and hit him in the chest. I kept talking.

“But I wonder bout where you are now, Luke. I wonder if yer scoutin’ days are still fresh in yer mind ‘er if ya been getting’ docile. Don’t get me an sorta wrong, bud, I envy ya. Big ol’ belt, new found friendship. Pretty gal. April, yeah? Ya miss her? Hell, I’d miss a woman like that, too. But… love’s a tricky thing, ain’t it? Does things to a man – drives him all sorta ways he didn’t expect.”

The woman outside was yelling again. The man wasn’t responding – he was looking down at his phone as he smoked a cigarette of his own, seemingly ignoring her. The broad walked out into the street, and I could see she was in a bathrobe and not wearing shoes. Her voice was angry – and sad. The fella didn’t pay any mind as she got in his face.

“Love can make ya go on. It can push ya ta do some big things – incredible things. You’re the strongest goddamn man in the world when you’re in love – you can lift a car, climb a mountain, tame a bull, beat a champion, carry The Weight. But when that love goes…”

The woman gave the man a shove. His fist recoiled back, and his struck her across the face, knocking her down to the street. It was quiet again, except for her soft sobbing. He yelled angrily and accusingly down at her. I still had no idea what it was all about.

“Well. Then ya got nothing.”

She was an older bird, mid-to-late-forties. I could see her betterin the light. Her hair was pulled up in a bun, but she had too much make-up on for a woman just relaxing in her robe. The skin on her face sagged – her neck hung like a turkey in spite (or maybe because) of how thin she was, and the bags under her eyes showed a tired life of amphetamine highs and chainsmoking lows. She lay there in the street sobbing.

“Lemme ask ya, Luke – when’s the last time you felt hungry? An’ I mean real hungry. It ain’t in yer gut. It’s in your heart and your throat – it eats at ya like a mad dog ready ta break free and tear tha throat outta the first fresh piece’a meat ya get yer hands on. It makes ya weak an’ exhausted an’ desperate ta slake it, by any means necessary. When ya real hungry? Ya take that bum ta the concrete and don’t stop beatin’ ‘im ‘til the man puffin’ a cigar hands ya $500 for that next meal and cheap room fer the night. Ya pull that gun an’ point it at the man who’s big, fat wallet ya can see bulgin’ out his back pocket. Ya kick that dumb, dopey kid while he’s down an’ don’t think about his screamin’ fer answers or that big look in his eyes when ya draw the blade…”

A car had pulled up. The man opened the door and turned back to yell something at the woman, still crying on the ground, before he spit at her feet. Then he closed the door behind him and left into the night.

“Maybe there is somethin’ to learn in all this. But maybe it’s all in the losin’…”

She continued to sob, her head curled into her arms and legs like a newborn babe.

“But I ain’t got much left ta lose. But we ain’t so different, you and me: we’re mercenaries. We do what we gotta in a cold world. Only difference between us…?”

I watched the woman as her head lifted from her body and up from the sidewalk. She looked up, and I almost think she saw me. I didn’t say anything – neither did she. We just stared at each other in silence.

“...You’re beginning to feel the Weight. And I feel nothing.”

And then I turned off the tape recorder, closed the blinds, and put the cigarette out.