Creative Differences
by Ronald Schulte
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Table of Contents parts: 1, 2, 3 |
part 2
My task was simple enough: I picked up Clyde early the next morning and, together, we waited until Karl/Kurt showed up in his SUV. I hated to blow my cover but, since Doug was paying, it was his call. I grabbed Clyde’s cage from the backseat, walked to the SUV’s driver-side window and knocked.
As Karl/Kurt lowered his window, I stifled a gasp. Most of the images I’d discovered of Kurt Johnston online were of the animated variety, so I couldn’t be completely sure, but I had to admit the resemblance was striking. Once the window was fully lowered, I cleared my throat. “Mr. Johnston?” I asked.
“How do you know my name?” I immediately noticed that he didn’t bother to correct me.
“Mr. Williams would like you to deliver this pooch to your boss.”
Kurt — for I was now more confident that that actually was his name — glanced at the cage, then back at me. “Anything else?”
“Nope, that’s it. Where do you want the dog?”
“I’m not taking that thing to...” Kurt broke off suddenly. A funny look appeared on his face. I had a pretty good idea what he was feeling.
“Put him in the back seat,” growled Kurt. I obliged.
“Tell your boss Mr. Williams sends his regards,” I said. I gave him a quick nod and walked back to my car. Within seconds, Kurt peeled away from the curb and sped away. I flopped into my driver’s seat and mopped the sheen of sweat from my forehead.
* * *
The next day, when Kurt showed up for his daily stakeout, there were three other people in the SUV. I handed the binoculars to Doug, who slowly nodded his head.
“Yep... there’s Gina Giles, his girl... Billy Johnston, his brother... I can’t see the other one’s face, but I’d bet good money it’s Paul ‘The Maul’ Childress, the other member of his inner circle. Those three died in the second to last book. Oh, look, there comes Biceps. This is going to be good!”
I peeked out the window. Biceps Braun was another one of Simmons’ characters. An enormous barrel-chested fellow in a prison jumpsuit was walking down the sidewalk toward Kurt’s SUV. He walked up to the driver’s side window and unceremoniously ripped the side mirror from the car.
I could hear first shouts of anger, then of fear. The engine roared to life as Biceps punched out the driver’s side window, then brought both hands down on top of the roof, leaving a large dent.
“I thought this Johnston guy was a hero. No one in his crew carries a firearm? Why don’t they fight back?”
“Kurt doesn’t believe in guns,” Doug said. “He finds other ways to win. He’s also smart enough to recognize when he’s outmatched.”
The SUV peeled away. Biceps glanced up toward Doug’s window, then turned and stomped off through somebody’s yard.
“Guess he isn’t coming back,” said Doug.
“Are you surprised?” I asked.
“Not really. He never answered to anybody. I think he agreed to spook them only because I brought him back to life.”
“Where is this going, Doug? What’s the end game? Simmons gooses you, you keep goosing him back. But what’s the point?”
“I’m not really sure yet.”
“Might want to figure it out soon,” I said. I could hear sirens going off in the distance. “Before one of these... characters... does something you or Simmons regrets.”
“He started it!” complained Doug.
I heard a small explosion, then some screams. I suspected our pal Biceps was wreaking havoc at the Stewart’s convenence store, around the corner.
“Yeah, well, I think someone needs to end it. Soon.”
* * *
Things settled down for a little while. Biceps was still on the lam, but he’d disappeared ever since his face had been added to the FBI’s most wanted list. Kurt’s daily stakeouts dwindled in frequency, first to every other day, then to barely once a week.
Doug, for his part, had refrained from sending out any further retaliatory provocations. No new characters had appeared, on either side, since Biceps. I wondered if, perhaps, Simmons had finally grown tired of the game.
This was merely the calm before the storm, of course.
My doorbell rang one Saturday morning as I sipped my black coffee and watched the morning news. I got up, grabbed my sidearm — just in case — and walked quietly to the front door. I took a quick glance through the peephole.
Kurt Johnston was standing on my doorstep, clipboard in hand, looking bored out of his mind. I could see his vehicle parked across the street. I didn’t see any of his cronies lurking about. He seemed to be alone.
I opened the door just as he pressed the doorbell a second time.
“How did you find me?” I asked.
“Same way you found Simmons,” said Kurt. I nodded. Trailing me would have been simple enough, but I was annoyed that I hadn’t noticed.
“My boss has a proposition for your boss. Can I come in?”
“Why not take this directly to Doug?”
“Mr. Simmons was worried that he might spaz out. Do something... rash. Besides, I tried approaching him directly weeks ago. It didn’t go very well.”
I stood there, considering. If the guy had intended to harm me, he could easily have forced his way in by now. Besides, he had a point; Doug would most certainly flip out if Kurt approached him again. On the other hand, I didn’t feel entirely comfortable speaking with Kurt on Doug’s behalf without Doug’s knowledge.
“All right,” I finally decided. “Let me hear it. I’m not authorized to make any decisions, mind you. And I can’t promise anything.”
“Fair enough, Mr. Thompson.” Subtle. Letting me know he’d done his homework. Not only knew where I lived, but also my last name. He probably knew where my parents lived too.
I moved aside and let a fictional character walk into my living room.
* * *
“He proposed WHAT?”
“A duel, Doug. Sinclair proposes a duel. An old-fashioned duel at high noon. You pick a champion, he picks a champion, and they fight it out.”
“To the death?”
I shrugged. Kurt hadn’t used that term explicitly, but I found it hard to believe that he could mean anything else.
“For what stakes? What’s in it for Simmons and me?”
I opened my mouth to answer but was temporarily distracted by the sounds of a crying baby coming from Doug’s bedroom. I raised my eyebrows and glanced at Doug.
“Laser Baby. Another character Simmons killed off,” Doug explained.
Ah. Yet another resurrection from Sinclair’s catalogue. I shook my head. Sinclair certainly had a flair for the bizarre. I waited a moment for the noise to die down, then continued.
“The winner gets credit for both authors’ full catalogues of published works. And the loser is banned from publishing any new works.”
“Outrageous!” Doug pounded his fist on the table, stood up and walked away. Yet I could tell that Doug seemed genuinely intrigued by the offer. I could see the wheels spinning inside of his head as he paced around his kitchen.
“Let me see the contract,” he said finally.
I handed Doug the clipboard as he slipped back into his seat at the table. The contract was only about three pages long. I watched as Doug flipped back and forth between the pages.
“I accept. But only if Simmons chooses his champion first. You tell Kurt those are my terms.”
“Whatever you want, Doug. I’ll tell him.”
Whatever gets this business finished soonest.
* * *
I relayed Doug’s conditions to Kurt. I didn’t expect Simmons to go for it. Picking second was a clear advantage, allowing the selector to formulate the most favorable matchup possible. However, after a quick phone call, Kurt confirmed that Simmons accepted Doug’s conditions, provided Simmons was allowed to pick the location. I sighed. So much gamesmanship. But who was outmaneuvering whom? I didn’t really care anymore. I confirmed that Doug was okay with this stipulation, then handed over the signed contract and left.
* * *
“Where the hell are we?” asked Doug. We’d been driving for hours. Forests and cornfields had dominated the scenery for most of the past hour.
I need a piss.
Clyde was in the backseat; Kurt had delivered him to us the night before, as Clyde was part of our team. Laser Baby was also in the backseat, asleep in a rear-facing infant carrier.
“Almost there,” I responded. The GPS wasn’t working very well out here in the sticks. Luckily, I was an old-fashioned sort and had printed out the directions to the abandoned farm Simmons had chosen for the duel.
The land had belonged to the Simmons family for decades, but Sinclair’s sister and brother-in-law had finally closed down the operation for good and retired to Florida. The estate was for sale but, so far, no one had placed an offer. Simmons hadn’t shared any of this information, of course. But digging up information was my job, after all, and it hadn’t been very difficult.
Anyway, after cresting one final small hill, a dilapidated barn and silo structure came into view on the right. Just beyond that was a dirt road and a sign reading “Simmons Family Farm, est. 1922.” I turned onto this road and followed it for a half-mile or so, past the barn, past a small farmhouse, past unplanted fields, eventually reaching a dead end. Kurt’s SUV was parked here. I parked next to it, then glanced over.
All of the expected participants were present: Kurt, behind the wheel; Simmons, in the front passenger seat; and Gina Giles, Billy Johnston, and Paul Childress crammed into the rear. Kurt glanced over and nodded. Simmons stared forward stubbornly, refusing to look in our direction.
“Well, let’s get this over with,” said Doug cheerily.
For once, Doug and I were on the same page.
Both parties exited their vehicles. Doug and I approached Sinclair and Kurt; the rest of the respective entourages hung back a few steps.
“Simmons,” said Doug, extending a hand.
“Williams,” responded Sinclair, choosing to refuse Doug’s gesture. I noticed that Sinclair seemed to be missing his eyebrows, and his arm hairs appeared to be singed. I glanced back at Clyde, who tilted his head to the side, lifted his leg slightly and may possibly have attempted a wink.
“This is your entire team?” asked Sinclair, glancing over our party. I had to admit it was a pathetic group: Doug, myself, a dog — albeit a very dangerous one — and a baby in an infant carrier.
“We’re all here,” Doug confirmed.
Copyright © 2018 by Ronald Schulte
