He put his hands behind him, a recalcitrant child. I slapped him hard across the face. He put his palm to his cheek and I grabbed it, pushed it up behind him and lifted him onto his toes. I had the flat of my palm pressed against the first knuckle of his index finger, bending it into itself. I leaned into his ear and whispered.
“You know what I did during the war, Doc? I was a bombardier. I murdered hundreds of people. Maybe thousands. But that’s not all, Doc. I was shot down. I was a POW.”
I pressed a little harder on his finger. His face broke with beads of sweat.
“And I escaped. Another guy helped me. He was a real sweet number, Doc. A real monster, like you. He loved war. He loved death. I watched him kill dozens of men, some with his bare hands. We both were trained in it, Doc.”
I pressed my lips against his ear, almost like I was kissing him. In the barest whisper, I said “You know what, Doc? He liked killing. He needed it. I didn’t. But the strangest thing happened, Doc. It got so that I didn’t mind it. I got used to it, like a butcher does. It’s just business. So do what I tell you, Doc and I won’t have to hurt you. If you don’t do what I say, I’ll make you hurt and then I’ll kill you. And maybe I’ll go and kill your family, Doc. Maybe I’ll kill your wife and your kids.”
He spluttered, “I’m—I’m divorced.”
Awe…I thought in the end the Doc’d been knocked unconscious – Just kidding.
Good fill-in the blank!
Too bad though about war. To many soldiers in our family. We can only hope though, they too were trained that they didn’t learn to love or like it.
There’s a whole novel attached to that bit, too. It’s about LA in the late 40s, but it’s also about what happens after a war.
Gritty, dark and funny too. Great writing.
Aw, thanks.
Nicely done J!