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The Work of Wolves Bradley Mason Hamlin |
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Devin blew a thick smoke ring from his Cuban, briefly capturing the full moon inside the ring before dissipating in front of the face of the man sitting across from him. He motioned to the moon across the table on the concrete terrace. “Good backdrop for the work of wolves, no?” The man did not answer. A holy man. Preacher man. A quiet man. Devin thought about the confessional booth, must have been about six then, first time the good father reached inside his trousers. “You know,” he said, “I once asked a nun how the servants of the Lord could be so evil. She said, ‘Little boy, we are all servants of God. You must have faith. Blind faith,’ she said. Sure, a blind mind when the cleric says close the door.” He smiled at his dinner companion. “Ain’t that right, amigo?” The man did not answer. “But the question is,” said Devin, “how do they sleep at night? Eh, how goes the sleep when the wolves howl?” As if in answer the hungry dogs below growled. “Me, I did not sleep so well. I thought when I got to Mexico City College, or as they call it now, Universidad de las Américas, I would be in paradise, away from the familia, away from the church, just good minds and good people.” Devin blew his smoke straight into the face of the man on the other side of the table, but still no response. “I woke up screaming,” he said. Devin cut a hunk of panela with a cleaver and ate. “But I tried to worry away the terror with knowledge, knowledge of psychology, the philosophy of logic, and a whole lot of mescal, eh? Si, I studied wickedness. I wanted to know why men are so goddamned evil.” He thought the man across gave a look with his eyes. “What’s a matter, don’t like my language? I always wanted to walk into church and scream: Cock! Cock! Cocksucker! That’s all you faggots want!” Devin laughed. “Yeah, I studied evil as if it were a math problem. I knew all the angles; knew all the angels. I wanted to unravel every myth until I could …” He took a drink of the vino rojo in front him and smiled. “Am I boring you?” The man didn’t answer. “Well,” said Devin, “no matter.” He laughed again. “You have the right to remain silent. “In the university, I read the crime novels; Cain, Chester Himes, and Hammett. Even read Mickey Spillane. Even though, most people don’t care for Mickey anymore. Imagine that, millions once read the man, but now turn their backs on him, because he isn’t ‘literary.’ You,” said Devin, “won’t turn your back on me, eh?” Devin drank more wine. “The readers prefer the lie. The window dressing. Prefer to pretend they’re reading high art when all they want is the blood, the fucking, and the noise of the gun. At least Mickey told it true. Pulp is better than pretty paper. At times, I couldn’t even take Chandler anymore. You could sense Chandler’s fear, sense Chandler’s fear of the cunt and the curves underneath the trench coat.” Devin stared at the preacher man. The man’s expression did not change. “I decided to write my own stories. At least then the bad guys could really get fed to the wolves, no? Yes. Didn’t have to dream up horrible crimes, either, did I? No.” Devin drank and considered that big fat moon hanging in the sky as his vision started to blur. “In college,” he said, “I drank tequila until I heard the skeletons laughing at my breakfast.” Devin reached over and put out his cigar on the forehead of the cleric. “Everywhere I went I heard the bells of the church ringing like I was some kind of fucking monster, Quasimodo, no? The man with the invisible hunchback, carrying that weight around with me — listening to the laughter that comes from the first layer of skin and not the heart.” The cries of the dogs below rose with the moon climbing into the black night. Devin brushed aside the wine with his right arm, the glass and bottle smashing on the concrete. He grabbed the “holy man” up out of his seat and pulled him close. He could smell the fear, sweat, and the charred skin and blood from the cigar burn. The gag was wet and smelled like a puppy’s chew rag. He dragged the kicking man over to the balcony. “Good thing I tied your hands, no? Yes, your hands are bad. Very very bad.” He lifted the man’s arms from behind and forced the bound wrists up onto the balcony railing. You could hear a stifled scream of pain through the gag. The man shook like a fish on a hook as Devin raised the meat cleaver. His arm chopped down fast, two times, and the hands fell to the barking dogs below. This time you really could hear the scream. Devin picked the man up and looked into his eyes. The blood was everywhere and the dogs made an incredible sound below, the sound of absolute hunger and desire. Devin wanted to smile but couldn’t. “To the dogs you go,” he said. Animals, he thought, listening to the dogs fight over the meat, they don’t have free will. They just react to their environment or how people treat them. Free will, he thought. How people treat them, he thought. Blind faith, he thought. He pulled the pistol he had used to capture his prey and placed the weapon against his own temple. Thought about it. Mistake, he guessed. Thinking … Free will then, he thought. Simple. Like a detective story, the answer always there. Free will; not blind faith. Devin put the pistol down. God was tough, a real hardboiled egg. He again considered that moon hanging up there in the sky. He considered the hot breeze against his skin. He could smell the Mexican palm trees. There was life, out there, somewhere. He could hear the dogs barking, growling, chewing, and eating. If nothing else, the dogs seemed pleased.
The End
Copyright(c) 2006 by Bradley Mason Hamlin
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