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zackgardner · 6 years

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acts of man

acts of man - Zack Gardner - fiction - 4069 words - 2016

The Bastard weaved through the swaying crowd expertly avoiding eye contact from any parties unwanted. He was more handsome than he had the right to be and an assuredness that women found alluring and men found as arrogance. That being said, the Bastard had many friends, couldn’t help but attract people to him. Everything he said was funny or smart or biting or deep. Everything he did he succeeded in. And everything he wanted, he got. He was listening to that band before you’ve even heard of them. He could mix drinks, any drink, and new almost, if not all, of those quirky cool pub tricks. And you know that cute girl from the coffeeshop that you were thinking about asking out? Yeah, he had that too. He was at every party that you’ve ever been to, and every party that your friends have ever been to, too. Wherever he was, music and laughter filled the air and the wine flowed freely, blah blah blah. He was the guy that you wished you were in college.

The Bastard worked his way toward the kitchen, away from the crowd. And away from what he was pretty sure was Mastadon on vinyl. Who bought metal on records? The crowd was heavy, but he could slice his way through it, parting the crowd biblically. Everyone he brushed against had a better time, a better story, a longer kiss, a harder orgasm. He stepped into the small kitchen, a group of girls gathered around the table in the apartment's breakfast nook, making mixed drinks with a blender. They all glanced up as he stepped into their peripheral. They were laughing and carrying on. The Bastard pondered what he was hungry for, perusing the selection. Pigtails, hmm.

The Bastard dressed quietly as… Kim? Kate?... the Girl slept unaware. Her unconscious unabashedness was a distinct contradiction to how she had acted at the party last night, her fit body sprawled out twisted in the sweat-soaked sheets. He pulled out his cell phone (the one you were planning on getting when it went on sale) and took a picture. Slipping the phone back into his pocket and smoothing his wrinkled shirt, he turned to the door. He wanted a farmboy special with an extra side of bacon and a strong coffee. And maybe a nap. Swinging the front door wide, the Bastard disappeared in the glare of the morning sun. The Girl rolled over and blinked away the sleep, smiling with a contented sigh. She stretched a full-body stretch, the blankets sliding down her bare flesh. She sat up, noticing that he was gone. Hm. What a wonderful night. She wondered when and if she would see him again. What a perfect gentleman.

A man handed him a pair of aviator shades as they passed on the street. Sure, they were his recently deceased father's, but this fellow seemed like he needed them, squinting in the sun. The Bastard strolled the three city blocks to the diner, stepping into the interior as an elderly husband held the door for his tottering wife. He took off his new sunglasses, hung them on the 'please wait to be seated' sign stand and sat at the nearest empty booth. A petit waitress, fresh out of high school greeted him with fresh coffee before he could even pick up a menu (not that he needed one.) She bit her glossy lip and asked him if he was ready to order, wondering how it got so warm in the diner all of a sudden and what her boyfriend would say if he knew what she was thinking about doing to this complete stranger. The Bastard ordered what he wanted, taking pleasure in the way the girl's cheeks flushed when he made eye contact with her. A couple walked in behind him, waiting patiently in the vestibule for a waitress to seat them.

It started as a muscle twitch down the Bastard's back (hairless, mind you, and not from waxing.) and progressed to a nervousness that he had never experienced. Now, it wasn't a great nervousness, it's just that he'd never felt nervous before and it was new to him. He was halfway through his massive breakfast when it hit him, wiping his mouth with a napkin the waitress had furtively passed to him, her phone number smeared with bacon grease. The Bastard paused mid-sip, his coffee still piping hot, his head cocked like a dog hearing a car pull into his master's driveway. Something was wrong. And that, unto itself was wrong. Nothing was ever wrong. Not to him. He turned in his seat, toward the wrongness, toward the hiccup in his perfect world. He didn’t notice the man. The man was inconsequential. The woman that walked hand-in-hand alongside him as they followed the waitress was the nexus of this… wrongness. She had short hair, a bob, reminiscent of the flapper era, complete with a lacy black band holding it in place. She had a full bottom lip and a thin top, curved at the ends with a promise of dimples on her fair cheeks. A long neck led down to her perfect clavicle, creamy and pure. Her white shoulders were bare; a cardigan bunched up at her elbows like a shawl offset the thin spaghetti string tank top that showed just a glimpse of her midriff with each step. The straps intermingled, somehow sensuously, with the straps of her dark bra barely visible through the lighter shirt. Her curvy legs were caressed as she walked by a silky knee-length skirt, the pleats revealing nothing but her striking outline. Argyle socks encased in tiny leather boots of some new fashion finished her look, clopping with each step. She let out a small laugh at something the man beside her said into her ear, and a sharp pain lanced into the Bastard's chest bringing him back to himself. Then they were past him, sitting two booths up, and everything was right again. The span of those five seconds felt like an era, like time had slowed to an excruciating crawl.

She applied more lipgloss in the stainless steel reflection of the kitchen's oven, blowing herself a kiss. She tightened her bra-straps, lifting and adjusting her meager breasts, and stepped back out into the serving area putting on her best smile. She frowned at the empty booth, her excitement gone. At least she had his sunglasses that he had forgotten. She would cherish those… Maybe she'd have her boyfriend wear them later that night. She smiled at the thought and moved on to her next table, a couple that had just sat down. The Bastard walked hurriedly down the street, glancing backwards and fingering his collar. What the hell was that?! He mopped the sweat from his brow with his sleeve, regaining his composure, his stride slowing to match. He finally stopped in front of a storefront, flowers and fresh fruit on a flat rack. He closed his eyes and let it out. It flowed from him invisibly, yet affected everything in a diminishing radius of the Bastard. Pedestrians smiled, knowing that where they were going was going to be fine, walking with renewed energy. The elderly shopkeeper in the store glanced at his wife of forty years and winked at her, nodding his head toward the back staircase. She shuffled to the door, locking it and turning the open sign. The flowers on the rack became fresher straightening and angling their now vibrant blooms toward him, the fruit losing any sort of imperfections, reverting to its ripest. The Bastard sighed and resumed walking. That's better. He passed a homeless man, crouched on the sidewalk, who handed him his begging cup with a smile. The bastard took it without question, jangled the coins and threw it in the next trashcan he passed, brushing his hand clean on his pant leg. A car pulled up beside him, the passenger door opening to reveal a man asking him if, hey buddy, did he need a ride? Sure, thought the Bastard. Why not.

Yes, he knew the band that was playing now. Intimately, I hear. They almost had to cancel last summer's tour, the bassist, she was bedridden. He also owns the LP they released under a different name when the lead singer went on hiatus. Yeah, he could introduce you, later at the merch table? The Bastard weaved through the crowd that thinned out the further he moved from the small stage at the back of the bar. His pilsner glass was perpetually three quarters full and never, never, spilled. Yes, he drank craft beer, and, yes, he could describe subtle nuances in the flavor. He felt more at home now, among his element, the morning's anomaly all but forgotten. The heavy base and the heavy alcohol content in his amber gave everything a fuzziness, and unclear edge. He pulled back and let the alcohol seep into his system, feeling the effects. It affected everyone near him as well; a circle within arm’s reach feeling more intoxicated than they had seconds prior. The Bastard had been here all evening, playing pool and darts, talking with the patrons, helping the band set up, exchanging tips with the bartenders (who he knew each by name) and drinking. He had even spotted this evening's conquest, a long-legged blonde that looked nothing at all like that girl from the diner. Nothing at all, he had made it a point.

They stepped out of the bar, and the blonde bent over to fix the clasp on her heel. The short dress she was barely wearing pulled up enough for the Bastard to know that it was going to be a fine evening indeed. She stood pressing out the wrinkles in her dress giving him a coy look that directly contradicted her panties. He put out his elbow and she took it. She whispered an urge to go back to her place, her free hand wandering down inside his suit jacket (the one you wouldn’t wear even if you owned it, out of lack of confidence). They began a stumbling stroll in the brisk evening, shadows waxing and waning with the passing of streetlamps. They passed an architectural firm, the smoked glass doors softly illuminated from inside. The doors banged open behind them, a man immersed in a phone call exiting, shouldering a messenger satchel and setting off at a brisk pace toward the Bastard and his consort. So familiar the man was… The Bastard watched him, brow furrowed, as he passed them unnoticing.

She smiled to herself assuredly, walking home alone. In the morning he would call, and maybe they would get breakfast… Maybe they could drive upstate and see her parents. It's been a while and they'd surely like to know that she'd finally found a good man to settle down with. The Bastard followed the man from the diner. The guy who had been with the girl. The girl he'd been forcing himself not to think about all night. Was he on the phone with her, talking to her?! Was he going home to her?!! It was infuriating. The Bastard's handsome features twisted in anger. How come this guy could be with her and he could not? He began walking faster, closing the distance. His hand was on the guy's shoulder before he knew what he was doing, spinning him around. The guy smiled at the Bastard and wished him a warm hello as the Bastard pulled back and punched him squarely on the nose. Now, the Bastard had never been in a fight, had never had to. His charisma was enough, more than enough to smooth over any altercation he had ever been in. And this didn’t count either. This was not a fight.

The guy looked up from the sidewalk, confused and smiling through the twin trails of blood pouring down from his nose into his mouth. This must be some kind of mistake, he was horrified that he had offended this fellow, his mind racing to think of what he had done, of a way to make it up to this nice man he had just met. A kick to the ribs (designer slip-on boots, elegantly stitched yet ruggedly fashionable) repeated and repeated again put that thought on the back burner, yet the man still tried to voice apologies for whatever he had done. The Bastard came to an awareness, his hands flat against a brick wall, the man from the diner curled in a fetal position below him, spitting blood onto the ground, trying to say something. The Bastard wiped a line of spittle from his mouth stepping back, aghast. He let it all out then, poured it out from the bottomless pitcher inside of him. The crumpled man leaned his head back against the brick, smiling contentedly, but the Bastard felt no different. Just numb, numb and disgusted with himself. He stumbled backwards from his fallacy, turned and ran without thinking.

The Bastard found himself in a nondescript alleyway, hands on knees and panting. What was wrong with him? He was not like this. He curbed the flow from within, holding it all in, trying to use it to make him feel better and knowing it would not. He stoppered it from the world looking at his shaking and bloody hands. He made a fist, clenching, trying to push out the adrenaline and regain his composure. The Bastard closed his eyes at took a few breaths, straightened himself and wiped his hands clean with a monogrammed handkerchief he had borrowed from someone who really thought he could use it. He ran his fingers through his disheveled hair and fixed his jacket as shadows fell across him from the mouth of the alley. A handful of jostling figures had been watching the Bastard's actions, drunken fraternity brothers out for a night, like every other night, on the town. An aura of cheap beer, chewing tobacco, homophobia and crass sexist remarks wafted to the now calm and collected Bastard. They came toward him menacingly, one of them actually cracking his knuckles stereotypically.

He finished brushing himself off, tossing the handkerchief onto the dirty alley and glanced up at the approaching crowd. He still held it all inside of him. The Bastard spread his hands wide, to the seven or eight husky college boys advancing on him. He smiled kindly and let it all out. It flowed from him like a dam bursting, having built up from bottling it in. The demeanor of the gang instantly changed, from an ass-whuppin' party to the home-coming of an old friend. They greeted the Bastard warmly and exited the alley with him at the center of their cluster, arms draped over shoulders. They were the best; the future held nothing but prosperity and luck for them. Tonight they would conquer all. They headed jovially on to the next pub, ready to take on the world.

Morning found the crew groggily waking up on the fifty-yard line of a high school football field, surrounded by empty bottles, pools of chunky vomit, and assorted souvenirs from the night before. The Bastard woke refreshed, six hours later and twenty-five miles away in a presidential suite of a luxury hotel. (Not the nicest one he's ever been comped, but much nicer than that one you've been to.) He showered until the hot water ran out, which coincided at almost the exact same time he decided to get out. He dressed and went down to the hotel's restaurant for breakfast, leaving his keycard and dirty clothes in a pile on the floor. After a nourishing breakfast, the best, the waiter confessed he's seen come out of the kitchen in years; the Bastard left the hotel and wandered back toward the city, getting picked up by the first car that passed him.

The wrongness started shortly after he was dropped off, the driver giving him the contents of his wallet and wishing him well. The Bastard knew it for what it was instantly and began turning circles in the semi-crowded street, craning his neck to find her. He pushed it from within, a torrent emanating outward, his thoughts a pinpoint focus on his recollection of her from those few seconds the morning before. A timid touch on his shoulder snapped him back to reality, reigning in the flow. The Bastard turned, and there she was. She took his breath away, staring into his eyes. She wore a light flowered sundress and clunky flip-flops. She wore a kerchief in her hair, tied back like a pirate, a small scoop of bangs tucked behind an ear. The nervousness was there tenfold, his neck sweating and his hands shaking. But she was looking at him. Gods, she was smiling at him. No, of course she had time to stop and get a bite to eat. She was only going to visit her fiancé at work. He had been mugged the night before, and she thought she'd surprise him and take him out to lunch. You know, make him feel better, show him support. But no, she could do that any day really.

They had a wonderful time. She laughed at all of his jokes; he said all the right things. The Bastard was enthralled. He'd never felt this… this need. The nervousness made him giddy and excited. Lunch turned to drinks, and drinks turned to dinner. They played a few rounds of trivia on the pub tabletop kiosk passing the little screen back and forth, fingers lingering for the touch. The sun had started to set, and they had moved to the open air dining area, as there had been a table cleared just before they had requested seats. The Bastard draped his jacket over her shoulders when he noticed her shiver, his hands giving a gentle squeeze before returning to his seat. She had turned her head, caressing her cheek against his hand when it lifted. She had made the request, not him, to go back to her place. She had, not him. He had made sure of it. The door fell open with them groping at each other, kissing the hard kiss that bruises lips and clacks teeth. Passion kept the key from turning the deadbolt until the third try, the Bastard's shirt all but unbuttoned, the straps of the girl's dress and bra hanging dangerously low on her arms. He pressed her against the wall, kissing her neck from jaw to shoulder, and lower yet. She kicked the door shut and pulled him into the darkened apartment, with the assuredness of one who knows where everything is.

He dropped his shirt and started on his belt (leather, adorned with silver workings), looking up at the view of the girl silhouetted against a window, the lights of the city detailing her dress sliding to the floor. They fell on the bed, the girl straining to flick on a side lamp. She moaned and arched her back as he unclasped the front of her bra, the Bastard leaning down on her. They moved together, flesh on flesh, the salty taste of sweat and synchronized heavy breathing punctuated by gasping and two sets of groping hands. The sound of the apartment door swinging open and the sudden light from another room cast over them froze them both in the act. They were nose to nose, and the girl giggled nervously, mischief in her eyes. The man, her fiancé, stepped into the light of the doorframe and dropped his bag. The Bastard wasted no time, hopping up from the rumpled bedsheets and striding over to the man he had beaten to a pulp the night prior and shaking his hand heartily. The man smiled back through a bruised face, taking the extended hand and allowing the Bastard to lead him out of the room. He cast one confused glance back into the room at the writhing girl on the bed, his thoughts muddy. The Bastard led the man back out to the front door, letting it flow out, soothingly assuring him that he could come back later, no problem. The man thanked him and wished him a good evening.

The Bastard returned, the girl sitting up on the bed, coaxing him with one curled finger. Initially she had a look on her face like she was trying to remember something, something important. But that faded as he came closer, letting her guide him on top of her. He felt wetness on his neck and pulled himself up to look at her in the stark reading light. She tried to pull him back down on top of her, but he could see it. She was crying. She embraced him, raking her nails down his back and moving her hips with his. Joy and arousal and lust and… and a forlorn sadness. The Bastard sat back in the bed, that nervousness, that wrongness, returning in a crushing wave. She sat up, perfectly nude, glistening sweat and leaned forward to touch his knee, asking what was wrong. She looked at him lovingly, understandingly, yet eyes still glistening with tears. He stumbled backwards out of bed, avoiding her touch, appalled at their tableau. He apologized profusely, gathering his discarded clothing hurriedly, doing his best to avoid eye contact. He fled the apartment, ignoring the heart-wrenching pain.

The Bastard ran and ran, unsuccessfully trying to flee from himself, slowing finally at the mouth of a familiar alleyway. He turned down it, much like he had the night before, hands shaking and out of breath. This was new to him too. Damn her, what did she do to him?! He drew a ragged breath and held it in, trying to slow his breathing, his hammering heart. The pain was still there, the pain of what he did mingled with the pain of being away from her. Tears brimmed over his eyelids and tracked down his cheeks. This was new for him too. He let it flow from him, head in his hands like a child. He pushed it out trying to get rid of it, knowing it would never comfort him, trying to empty out the endless pitcher inside of him. He peered through blurred eyes as footsteps from the street brought another familiarity from the night before. The college boys rounded the corner, almost drawn to the torrent he had released, shouting greetings to the Bastard and clapping him on the back. They put their arms around him, hoisting him out of the alley with promises of the epic evening yet to come. The Bastard was dragged along for half a block before he realized what was happening, and when he did, a sudden realization came over him.

The Bastard pulled it all back into himself. He drew it in like he had let it out so many times before. He drew it in and he stoppered it again, sealing the endless pitcher. It took a few paces for the crew to realize the change in the atmosphere… and to wonder who this stranger was amidst their band of brothers. All it took was a salacious wink directed at one of the larger fellows to spark the fire. He was down before he knew it, his former friends surrounding him and throwing punches and kicks and anything that would connect. The Bastard shielded his head with his hands, curled up prone in the fetal position gritting his teeth, immersed in pain. He could feel ribs breaking, and knew like he knew anything else, that he was bleeding on the inside, somewhere near his liver. His cheekbone may have been cracked, but he wasn’t sure as the swelling from that eye was commanding all of the pain in that area. He bled from his nose, mouth and oddly his left ear, multiple cuts and gashes on this face, back and hands, and a pretty nasty gash on the back of his head where one of the good ol' boys smashed a discarded vodka bottle.

He lay there long after they lost interest and wandered off in his pooling blood. The Bastard whimpered, tears still streaming from the one eye that wasn’t swelled shut. The greatest pain was still her.

#acts of man #zack gardner #writing #fiction story #short fiction #bastard #supernatural #frightened rabbit #slice of life #gods among us #bacchus

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