WALKING HIS OWN PERSONAL GREEN MILE

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Status: In Progress  |  Genre: Mystery and Crime  |  House: Booksie Classic

A dying government undercover agent reflects on the last few days of his life.

Johnny Knoxville was dressed up in his Dirty Grandpa outfit and was getting tossed out of a bodega up on the wall mounted TV screen. He turns and shouts drunkenly at the shopkeeper, “I was Lon Chaney’s lover!” I’ve watched this DVD a hundred times and still break into hysterical laughter.

 

“What in the hell is so funny down here?” said the night nurse as she walked into my room.

 

“I was watching Jackass. That Lon Chaney line gets me every fucking time.”

 

“I think it’s more the dope talking than anything else. Dumbass white boys busting their asses up and drinking horse cum. Bunch of fucking retards if you ask me.” She handed me my morphine in a paper cup. Two pills instead of one. She was the best!  

 

“Ah, yes! Morphine! Sweet, sweet morphine. If you have to leave this mortal coil there is no better way to go out. Feeling like you’re floating on a cloud of poppies.”

 

To help fight the pain they had me on morphine along with with the daily pile of pills and injections used in my loosing battle to Agent Orange induced cancer. The shit had settled into my bones. I was allowed two alcoholic beverages an evening - a rule I broke every fucking night if possible - and all the government grown marijuana I could smoke. They came pre-rolled in a flip top generic white pack with absolutely no markings on it.

 

“This morphine isn’t quite cutting it…they should be using Absinthe to wash it down with. The real shit you can get in Europe, not that horseshit you buy on the Internet…along with some China White heroin.”

 

“Aren’t you a regular fucking Edgar Allen Poe this evening,” replied the nurse, Gretchen. She was a beautiful black woman with nice jugs and an ass that R. Crumb himself would fucking die for.

 

She went over to the window and opened it up, letting the sounds of the nighttime outside world through bars while letting the fresh air flow in and the smell of a dying man out, and then walked over and took a seat next to my bed. Gretchen had been my normal night nurse since I had checked myself into this government hospice care unit.  

 

The facility must have been in a seedy…and dangerous…part of L.A. since I was often kept awake by the sound of shouting, screams and shouts, sirens, and automatic weapons fire. One night some crackhead yahoo kept shouting “I’ve got a thirteen inch dick!” over and over and over for at least an hour straight. Then all of a sudden there was the single report of a 9mm and all was quiet. Thank you, Mr. Gangbanger!

 

There was a grow house nearby - probably legal now that California was in the weed business but maybe not - and when the wind was just right, I could smell the plants. Smelled like I imagine heaven would - if it existed.

 

I had only seen the outside of the building I was locked down in one time and that’s when I was brought over in the van. From what little I saw of it the joint looked like the insane asylum in the movie, Shutter Island.

 

The day nurse, Beulah, was the exact opposite of Gretchen. Retired Army nurse, divorced, overweight, bitter at the hand life had dealt her, smelled like Dollar General canned ham, and had breath like a Komodo dragon! The worst breath I had ever smelled in my life. It damn near could jump-start a vomit. It was like she dined on shit sandwiches!

 

The bitch always stuck to the morphine prescribed on the chart and then spent most of her shift in the nurse’s lounge watching Fox News while she pounded down two liter generic sodas and grazed on bologna sandwiches and bags of assorted generic candies and chips.

 

“You tell “em, President Trump!” I’d hear her shout out. “Ship those goddamn beaners back to Mexico! Those wetback bastards are stealing are jobs. Build that fucking wall!”

 

Hitting the sheets with Gretchen would be like making sweet love to Pam Grier. Nailing Beulah would be like fucking Roseanne Barr after she hadn’t showered for a week and she had a yeast infection.

 

It was just myself and one other patient who was in a coma - from which he would never awaken - after a suicide attempt where he had taken a free fall from the third tier in the military slammer in Leavenworth - on this small locked down unit.

 

Gretchen had confided in me that he was a Navy admiral who had been locked up after a cocaine fueled sex romp with a hot enlisted chick over in Pearl Harbor that had suddenly gotten out control and just as suddenly had turned into a major crime scene when someone…and it wasn’t the Admiral…quit taking in oxygen and wouldn’t ever again. Gretchen had also informed me that the Admiral hadn’t jumped…he had been thrown from the tier after he called a black inmate a “darkie” in an argument over the last Oh Henry bar at the prison canteen.

 

Recently there had been a high ranking Navy SEAL (that I had nicknamed Colonel Kurtz from Apocalypse Now) on the ward that had gone rogue over in Iraq and took it upon himself to desert his unit for several months and had gone on a one man killing spree with a crew of equally insane Iraqi hopheads…randomly doing search and destroy missions and killing literally hundreds of innocent men, women, kids, dogs, goats, whatever the hell got in their way. The motherfucker was crazy as a bedbug and had lost a leg at the knee in the firefight that had ensued when the military had finally caught up to him and captured him.

 

The government decided to secretly lock him and declare him MIA rather than deal with all the bad press. He had been captured right after another SEAL had murdered an ISIS member in cold blood but was found innocent at his court martial and the Navy wasn’t anxious for the additional publicity. Within a month, he had hung himself on the day shift in the shower while Beulah was tied up with the talking heads on Fox.

 

She got a two day suspension.

 

The SEAL was shipped over to a crematorium fifteen minutes after he was found swinging, and was in ashes within the hour.

 

To get on to the unit you first came through a locked barred gate which led you into an alcove with a solid steel door and a sliding peep hole. When that door was opened you walked into a larger alcove with a small guard station on the left and the nurse’s station/lounge on the right. Another barred gate let you on to the unit itself which was shaped liked a T. On each side was a low security room which were occupied by the Admiral and myself. There were four locked down rooms, two on each side of the T, and a shower room.

 

Believe it or not, I admitted myself to this joint. I had worked for a variety of government agencies almost my whole life and most of the missions that I had participated in are still highly classified. Even though I had long ago technically “retired” I still slept with a piece on my nightstand and had kept a small arsenal in a compartment in the back of my closet at my house.

 

A 9mm, locked and loaded, was sitting on the end table next to my bed. Even though I was in a secure locked down facility, I wasn’t taking any fucking chances.

 

After the cancer diagnosis, my health started going down the shitter quickly. For the first time in my life I feared for my own safety - that if someone came to settle an old score I couldn’t handle the situation myself. Even though I still wore the silver bullet charm around my neck which contained a cyanide pill that was issued to me decades ago, I didn’t have the balls to take the pill or to blow my brains out to end the constant pain. Which was weird since I had never had problems blowing some poor bastard’s brains all over their carpet when I was working and never gave it a single thought afterwards.

 

Finally, I made the call to one of my old connections. I had only two requests: Keep me pain free and lock me down somewhere so no one could get at me. I wasn’t afraid of dying, I just didn’t want want to go out with a Colombian necktie or my dick cut off and shoved down my throat.

 

Even though I could tell I was in some sort of federal prison hospital with the standard green tiled floors, white floors, and bars everywhere - they had fixed it up nice for me. I had a a TV, DVD player, Bose sound system, and all the books and music I wanted to order from Amazon. With the weed and the painkillers, it was damn near just like home.

 

I had been here about a year and had seen them come and go. Some I had never seen before. Some were infamous. Whitey Bulger after he got busted, the Unabomber - Ted Kaczynski, and Sirhan Sirhan - all who had been experimental subjects in the government sanctioned mind control project: MKultra.

 

Manson (though he was a California State inmate) even made an appearance before he died. When they brought him onto the unit in shackles he was doing his usual crazy motherfucker routine when he glanced into my room and stopped it short. “Hey, asshole! Long time no see!”

 

I couldn’t believe he recognized me after almost fifty years. “You can let him come in.” I said to his escorts.

 

“How ya doing, Charlie?” He looked like worse than I did if that was possible.

 

“Good, man, good. I see they finally busted you.”

 

I grinned at him. “What can I say? I guess this is where it’s going to end.”

 

He glanced around my room, taking in everything. Manson always took in everything including the pistol on the bedside table. He looked over at me with those evil black eyes with the matching grin. “I always knew you were playing both sides of the fence. Tex wanted me to put you six feet down but I said no. I always liked having you around. You were always good for a laugh. You don’t have anymore of that acid handy, do you? That government shit. Help out an old pal?”

 

“Those days are over, my man.”

 

He shot that infamous evil grin. “Worth a fucking try.”

 

“Take care, Charlie.”

 

“You too, Chuckles.” Chuckles being the Family name which had been bestowed upon me by Manson because - like he said - I could always make him laugh. I was lucky to have lived through that assignment.

 

But Charlie didn’t make Beulah laugh when he destroyed her Roomba. Since the unit had a classified maximum security status, the nurses and guards had to take care of the the minimal unit household duties: sweeping, light dusting, run a mop over the floor if it needed it, that kind of shit. Well, Beulah was so lazy that she’d bring in her robot vacuum cleaner and let it run up and down the hallways and do the sweeping for her.

 

Until Manson threw a handful of his shit out of his meal slot in the door and the robotic vacuum proceeded to whitewash the floors and walls with Charlie Manson's shit.

 

The next morning was he was gone.

 

And he never said goodbye.

 

The Admiral didn’t require much maintenance and Gretchen and I would often spend the night chatting, sipping screwdrivers, and smoking joints of world class Thai Stick that her husband sold to an exclusive and elite clientele in Hollywood. One night she wheeled me into his room to keep her company while she changed out his piss bag and diaper and gave him a sponge bath. Rolling over I looked into his vacant eyes, clearly nobody was at home. They could have just shut off the ventilator, shoved a sock down his throat, and saved themselves a shitpot of dough. The bastard could still lay down a fart even though he was on a total liquid diet. They could rattle the windows and actually woke me up a few times from a industrial drug induced sleep. The comatose old fucker would then give a loud chuckle…the only times I ever heard a peep out of him…and fall back into his abyss.

 

There was a “Make America Great Again” bumper sticker on the Admiral’s headboard and since he was already walking the Green Mile mentally…Beulah obviously had been the one who had stuck it there.

 

“Did Brutus stop by today?” Brutus was a big-ass sea gull that just out of the blue one afternoon, swung by and jumped down onto the floor and walked around the room and then just as quickly left. I didn’t see him for about another month but now he started visiting several times a week. He’d land on the window sill and squeeze through the bars and hop on to my bed where I fed him sunflower seeds and leftover Thai stick roaches. Sort of like a nautical Shawshank Redemption.

 

“He landed on the sill but saw Beulah in here taking my vitals and took off. Probably got a whiff of her breath.”  

 

Gretchen gave a low chuckle as she lit a joint, took a hit, and then moved my oxygen mask over and placed the reefer gently between my lips. “Bitch does have nasty ass breath.” The sweet smoke filled my lungs, Uncle Sam’s homegrown was an OK buzz but the Thai stick her husband sold was out of this fucking world. I exhaled and suddenly a wave of depression fell over me like a black blanket.

 

“I’m going soon, Gretchen. I can feel my body shutting down. I’m dying.” I croaked out.

 

She held my hand tightly with both of hers. It was so quiet in there at that moment all you could hear was the beeping and hissing of the machines that were keeping the admiral occupying bed space.

 

She squeezed my hand tighter. “Well you’re sure as shit not dead right fucking now! There isn’t a past and there isn’t a future. It’s just now. This very fucking second. It’s just you and me…and that drunk old fool passed out on the gate.”

 

Michael was a career government security guard long overdue for retirement - he just couldn’t give up sucking on the government tit - the money was too easy. If he wasn’t drunk when he got to work he sure as hell was when it came time to clock out. It was a rare occasion when he actually stepped onto the actual unit. He was of Mexican descent and for some reason ignored Beulah’s racial slurs whenever they were scheduled together…I wished he’d draw his ancient .38 revolver and blow her goddamn brains all over the wall.

 

I liked Michael though…once you got past the permanently ingrained smell of really cheap tequila and hand rolled cigarettes. Every once in a while he’d come back and share his wife’s excellent burritos that she made in their kitchen and sold to lunch truck vendors.

 

She dug into her purse and pulled out a vial that contained several blue pills. “I’ve got a surprise for you. Take one of these and let’s see if Mr. Johnson can still get up and perform. My husband says nothing puts a spring in his step more than a coconut oil handjob.”

 

Well, that’s a nice surprise for a dying man, I thought, as quickly I washed down the Viagra with a freshly made screwdriver.

 

“Gretchen! You’re fucking with me, aren’t you? I don’t know if I can get it up even with the Viagra.”

 

“Well, we have all night to see,” she said as she topped off my screwdriver and walked over to my CD player and popped in Steve Earle’s new album Guy.

 

“Since your husband used to play for the Raiders I’m glad this fucking place is locked down tight.”

 

We sipped our drinks and toked on the Thai as we listened to Earle pay homage to his mentor, Guy Clark. By the twelve track, Earle and The Dukes were rocking on In the Parking Lot, and my crank was diamond cutter hard!

 

Gretchen walked out of the room and did a quick round and then checked on Micheal.

 

"His old ass is stone cold passed out!"

 

She pulled off her scrubs revealing white see-through panties and bra. When she stripped those off I suddenly felt like I was going to have one of those four erections that they always warn you about on TV if you take dick stiffening medication.

 

Jesus Christ! She even looked like Pam Grier naked. Reaching under the sheet she gently wrapped her hand around my cock. I'm lucky I didn't have an dishonorable discharge in her hand I was so keyed up.

 

"Oh baby! We're gonna have some fun tonight!" 

 

I guess dying could be worse.

 

Shit! I know it can be. Ask the guy that I threw out of a helicopter down in Colombia. 

 


Submitted: June 06, 2020

© Copyright 2021 Scott.Anderson. All rights reserved.

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