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Get the fuck outta Dodge

Short story By: Derwin Gonzalez
Mystery and crime



In the small, corrupt, upstate town of Dodgeton County; John Dough a young mid-level gangster thought he knew all the angles. But when he finds himself in the clutches of hired gunmen with an unknown agenda he realizes he don't know shit and it just might cost him his life. Welcome to Dodge City hope you survive the visit.


Submitted:Apr 28, 2014    Reads: 69    Comments: 7    Likes: 2   


Get the Fuck out of Dodge Part 1

Nobody thinks they belong in the trunk of a car trussed up like some dead deer with their knees kissing their lips. Nobody thinks they would ever wake up, bound and choking with some dude's stinking sock stuffed in his mouth. Certainly not me John Dough the golden child of Kickawee Avenue who never felt like a nobody a day in his life. But the funny thing is when you find yourself ducted taped so tight you can't move, speak or feel your toes it all starts to come back to you. I don't need to ask myself what the fuck I did to deserve this because when you've done as much dirt as I have you can taste it in your mouth even without the sock. Because any idiot on the street should respect the laws of Karma, what goes around comes around hard, especially on the streets of Dodgeton County AKA Dodge City.

Initially just a small residential community overlooking scenic Potawah Valley first developed after World War II, it expanded greatly in the 50's. Dodge must have seemed like the Promised Land for working class families fleeing the stinking tenements in the big cities. There were plenty of good union jobs there too with five of the biggest manufacturing plants in the state just a short commute away from Main Street. That all changed in the 70's when those jobs went overseas to countries whose names I can't even pronounce. Those who could fled to greener pastures those who couldn't were straight up fucked. With the jobs gone the only time you saw a smile on their desperate faces was on the first of the month as they stood by their mailboxes waiting for the welfare checks. For two long decades nothing but shuttered store fronts and soup kitchens lined Main Street. After dark Dodgeton County turned into a scene straight out of Night of the Living Dead with junkies shambling through it's alleys fiending for their next fix. Drugs and underage whores fueled the town's underground economy and gunfire lit up the night as drug dealers and pimps fought over street corners. Just like that this one-time oasis of suburbia turned as sour as any urban wasteland. Finally in the early 90's a bunch of local business men and politicians figured out how to solve the county's economic and social ills in one swift power move. Those five massive, concrete structures; the abandoned manufacturing plants that were once the area's economic heart would be turned over to the state. Five Points Penitentiary was born with Dodge City as the unlucky center of it's star. The county's economy became self-sufficient with nearly a third of the adult population employed by the prison and the unending army of Dodge's hookers, thieves, dope fiends and thugs filling it's cells. It was a regular thing to see family members at opposite sides of cell bars.

The story goes a couple years back there was a Captain called Mallory, he ran the prison's rapid response team. They say he enjoyed his position a little too much especially when it came to swinging a baton. He was breaking up a minor jail yard scrap when he brought his club down on a young inmate's head so savagely the kid's mental and physical capacity were reduced to a two year old's. To cover-up the excessive force the poor drooling slob was shipped to a looney bin where he was conveniently overmedicated. He went into cardiac arrest and died strapped to a gurney. Captain Mallory was surprised when he learned the kid's funeral was so extravagant R&B star R. Kelly sang in his memory. The young man turned out to be the little brother of a street-side drug lord with a reputation as brutal as the Captain's. A few weeks later Mallory was nearing the end of his shift when an alarm bell rang in D block. He and his squad rushed over to squash the ruckus. In the lower tier shower-room the Captain found his 22 year old son lying naked on his stomach with a sharpened plunger stick rammed so far up his asshole only two inches were visible. An anguished Mallory turned him over to find the bloody woodened point protruding from his son's upper abs. He was gurgling up blood because the two foot long stake had pierced most of his lower internal organs. His son had been brought in the night before on a cocaine possession charge. He had been waiting to be released while his father's bail payment was processed. Mallory had expected it to be done by the time his shift ended. He thought he'd be bringing his son home not the coroner's office. Mallory put a slug through his own head the next day. Father and son were buried side by side a week later.

Not all the stories were this dramatic but they sure were plentiful. At it's heart Dodge City had always been a small town, you know the kind where everybody knows everybody. It's a strange thing when your jailer is your best friend from grade school or your big sister's first boyfriend because all those ties a community spends generations building don't mean shit when you put on the orange jumpsuit and the cell door clangs shut behind you and the guy turning the key is someone you've known your whole life. It don't make your time go any easier it just makes the traditional beef between a jailer and a jailee cook that much hotter. Five Points Penitentiary may have saved Dodgeton County from financial ruin but it also killed whatever sense of community this shit hole ever had.

Enough with the history lesson that shit was already written; my future on the other hand wasn't as certain. It was black as pitch in that trunk and the only thing I could smell was my own flop sweat. We hit a big ass pothole and I bounced so hard I bit down on the gym sock; the sweat filling my mouth. I gagged and threw up hard enough to expel the sock out of my mouth. I sucked in the stale air like a man drowning. I strained against the plastic ties binding me with such force they cut into my skin. I strained so hard I was screaming with the effort. Suddenly the car came to an abrupt stop. Damn, I had just screamed like a bitch with armed gunmen sitting up front close enough to hear me. Nothing moved for a few long moments and I imagined them wondering if they really heard something; then the car peeled off. We drove for a few minutes, made a hard turn and came to a stop. I heard doors open and slam shut as the gunmen got out. I heard the loose gravel crunch as they stepped closer. I heard something heavy and metallic knock against the car.

"You hear that? That's the muzzle of a .357 pressed up against this trunk. It'll blow a hole right through it, through you and out the bottom side if we hear you scream like that again." An icy voiced thug warned me. I didn't make a peep. Someone's phone rang outside.

"Whats up." Ice greeted his caller. "I had to pull over, he started screaming and shit. Ok." He explained.

"What'd he say?" A slow sounding thug asked him.

"He said he's right behind us. He should be rolling up any second." I didn't like the sound of that. I figured he was talking about the mystery caller.

I could hear another car approach and stop right beside us. It's door opened and slammed shut. The gravel shifted louder than before; the footsteps of a very big man.

"Where's he at?" A deep booming voice barked.

"In the trunk." Ice informed him.

"Why the fuck he in there?" The boomer demanded.

"He was being… difficult." The dumb thug explained.

"Yeah well he better be in one piece."

The trunk was flung open. I squinted into the moonlight and when my eyes cleared four ugly faces were looking down at me.

"What the fuck is this, why you got him tied up in a fetal position?" said Boomer, the big muscular black guy who seemed to be in charge.

"Sorry, when I got there they already had him in the trunk." Ice was tall and lean, the bones on his face so sharp if he smiled they'd probably cut through his cheeks.

"I didn't want him getting loose." Clueless shrugged. He was a huge neckless Irish looking dude with a small round head resting on massive shoulders. "What do I care how comfy his bitchass is."

"Yo dumbass you know when we get to where we going, the spot is a couple hundred yards from the parking lot, don't you? You gonna carry this nigga?" Boomer asked.

"Fuck that I'll cut him loose when we get there and he can walk."

"It's a ninety minute drive over there! You got him tied up so tight by the time we get there he won't be able to stand up on his own, fool!" Boomer blasted him.

Ice pulled out a box cutter and popped out the razor. I flinched when he reached into the trunk. He pulled at me roughly and began cutting at the ropes and duct tape binding me. He stopped when he noticed my head wound.

"He got a bloody knot on his head." Ice said.

Boomer stooped close and stared at the gash on my head. He turned to glare at Clueless.

"He… he was being… y-you know…" Clueless stuttered.

"Difficult? Go on say that shit again, I dare you." Boomer said as he got in Clueless' face.

"Yo he did the right thing. We told dude to get in the back seat and he tried to resist. So he pistol whipped him." The fourth thug finally spoke up. The kid had an acne riddled face and looked barely out of his teens.

"Fucking amateurs. You wanna call yourself a gunman you better be able to hold one with authority. There aint no way two gat packing motherfuckas can't get one unarmed man to comply. Ya niggas need to work on ya thug game. Get him out of there." Boomer scolded them. Ice went back to work on cutting me free. Boomer peered into the trunk again. "There's blood and vomit in there. You're gonna have to torch this car."

"Hell no, this is my whip. I just got it a month ago." Clueless said of the late model luxury sedan.

"You use your own whip to commit a kidnapping? You tossed a nigga leaking in the trunk without laying out any plastic lining or nothing? You got blood, puke, hairs everywhere and what's this thing here?" Boomer said pointing at the sock.

"That's a sock. He stuffed it in dude's mouth to shut him up." Young Pizza-face told him.

Boomer glared at Clueless, shaking his head with disgust. Clueless could only look down with shame.

"And saliva too. What the fuck is wrong with you? You ever heard of DNA? Dawg you torching the car or I'm torching the car with you in it." Boomer ordered him and Clueless nodded yes, getting the message. It didn't bode well for me that they were so concerned about not leaving behind any forensic evidence. Ice and Pizza-face helped me out of the trunk. Clueless got in his car and took off without saying goodbye, on his way to do what he was told. I rubbed my arms and legs to get the blood flowing again.

We were by a loading dock behind a warehouse I recognized on the far side of town. I was fifteen when I popped Lucy Cord's cherry in her mom's hatchback maybe ten feet from where we were standing. I made her cum so many times she didn't want me to take her back home. She wanted us to make a run for the border to elope. Then her folks would have to accept my half Iroquois Indian ass as her man. Unfortunately we had a nearly empty gas tank and only seventy five cents between us. Lucy wanted to pawn the gold locket she inherited from her grandmother for traveling money; I wouldn't hear of it. Not while I had my own family heirloom in the glove box; a .25 caliber automatic I boosted from a drunk uncle when I was just nine. Even though the piece was small enough to fit in the palm of my hand it made me feel a foot taller as I approached the convenience store. I was barely through the door when I pulled out and pointed it at the store clerk. He didn't flinch much for an old guy with a gun in his face. I realized why when I saw the Semper Fi tattoo on his forearm. My voice cracked as I demanded a carton of Newports, a case of beer and all the cash in the register. But the clerk didn't reach for the register, her reached for something under it. He came up smiling, holding a much bigger gun than mine. My hand was shaking so bad my shot went way wide. His didn't, hitting me in the shoulder. I flew back knocking over a magazine rack. I remember lying on that cold floor bleeding out on a pile of titty mags. The next thing I remembered was waking up handcuffed to a hospital bed on my way to doing two years in juvie followed by three years in the Five Points.

That was fifteen years ago. I used to wonder where I'd be if I had drove past that convenience store and stopped at the pawnshop like Lucy wanted. Maybe we would have crossed the border and gone all the way to Quebec without ever looking back. We could be speaking French right now, sipping coffee in some outdoor café waiting for our boys to finish hockey practice or doing some other happy shit like that. Because there aint no Goddamn way if I had ran off with Lucy back then would I be standing in that loading dock looking down the barrel of Ice's .357 magnum. The thugs stared at me for a few long moments. Pizza-face grinned at some private joke with his hand on the 9mm in his waist band. Big Boomer didn't need a gun with hands big enough to snap my neck with just his thumb and a forefinger. They all took a step forward; Boomer crossed his thick arms right in front of me for effect.

"So what now?" I heard myself ask.

End of Part 1

To be concluded.





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