The Man Comes Around

The second name on the list was David Armistice. His own name.

-

There was nothing remarkable about David Armistice.

Except a gash beneath his left eye—a parting gift from some bar owner he brawled with.

Sam or Al, maybe. Or something Old Jewish like Bartholomew.

He dragged himself out of bed late, nursing a hangover.

A well-earned hangover.

What else was good in his life but drinking himself stupid on a 30-year Speyside malt?

That’s where he’d retire if he bothered crossing the Atlantic.

His phone buzzed—three messages from his boss.

Three names. Three people.

Destined to lose their lives.

That’s what happened when David came knocking—the Grim Reaper of Ohio.

He’d guided many along the Road to Perdition or Gehenna, or whatever you believed.

When the call came, their time was up.

David was good at his job because he cared about nothing.

Not the money. He could take it or leave it.

But he believed in finishing contracts.

-

Sitting in his busted Buick, he noticed something he should have seen before.

The second name on the list was David Armistice.

A joke?

A warning?

His date with death had been set.

Whoever takes a hit on David Armistice better bring a priest.

He reread the name, choking on the thought.

His line of work meant one day, the hit might come for him.

He’d worry about that later.

First, Maggie Phillips in Rendville.

Twenty-eight people, give or take, would feel his absence when he left town.

Whatever Maggie did, it was bad enough for a contract.

Besides, no one puts out a contract on someone for nothing—except wifebeaters and narcissists.

-

David rolled into Rendville; the town was a ghost of itself.

A post office, a convenience store, a tired old tavern.

Work could wait.

Time to lubricate his throat with whatever piss passed for beer here.

The tavern was dingy, its best years behind it.

A woman with a name tag reading “Mags” gave him a look.

Not a hooker’s look. A wholesome smile.

This was his mark.

A quick pain shot through him—the message, his name.

He shook it off.

“Something strong. Something with a crap-ton of barley in it. Or hydrochloric acid. Please, Mags.”

“Certainly, stranger!” she said, cheeks flushed.

David knew she was into him.

Wouldn’t be the first time he turned down sex with someone he was about to kill.

He watched her with something like intrigue as she poured the beer.

Small-town girl, made to be chewed up by big cities.

A choked noise escaped the ancient pump, then amber liquid filled the glass.

She pushed the beer toward him, smiling and winking.

“There you go, stranger. Hope you enjoy my… our beer.”

David snarled, complaining about the beer being warm.

It still hit right, only cheap lager in forgotten towns could.

Mags twirled her hair, leaning over the bar, showing too much.

It tempted him—if only to imagine where to put the bullets.

One in the throat—his signature.

One just above her chest, for kicks.

He sniffed desperation like perfume.

“I know who you are,” she said, like welcoming him home.

Like he was already dead and didn’t know it yet.

He barely nodded.

“Meet me out back, Mags,” he said.

-

Mags thought he came to settle debts.

She waited, then skipped out back, checking for watchers.

“Couldn’t wait till later, huh?” she grinned.

Cold steel pressed to her throat.

Bang.

She fell.

“Your time’s almost up. Ever think someone watches you as you watch them?” she muttered, struggling.

A second shot punched below her collarbone.

“Pretty corpse. Real shame.”

David smirked, knelt, made sure her eyes stayed open.

No remorse.

He walked to his car.

-

David wasn’t used to echoes.

You shoot, you don’t expect the sound to repeat.

But today, everything echoed—

Did she say he knew him?

-

When you kill for a living, a target on your back comes with the job.

All it takes is someone rich and vengeful, finding another willing to take you down.

David knew that meant most of his kind.

If his time was up. He was sure he'd face down that bastard of fate.

-

Next on the list: Simon B.

“B? What kind of name is that?”

Half a name. Half a warning.

When did we get so shorthand?

David laughed, then stopped.

If it was a joke, it wasn’t funny.

If it wasn’t… he needed another drink.

-

Obetz, Ohio.

Another wasted town.

Blasting “The Man Comes Around” by Johnny Cash.

If the downtrodden had a hero, it was either Jesus or Johnny.

He parked near Simon B’s hair salon—“Simon B Cutting, But Not For Free.”

David hated puns.

As his hand gripped his .44 Magnum, he walked in.

Simon was all smiles and local charm.

David thought his skeletons must be grim.

“Just a trim around the ears and neck. Then business.”

“No light chit-chat,” David said flat.

Simon snipped.

“He’ll get you in the end.”

“What?”

“David, I was once like you.

Teetering between insanity and a sense of right and wrong.

I’ve felt lifeblood drain at my hands.

Scrubbed blood and guts.”

“Just ’cause you couldn’t hack it doesn’t mean I will…”

Simon leaned in, voice low.

David stared, bile rising.

Simon knew something.

Mags knew something.

What?

Insanity?

A puppet master calling time?

“Where’d you get that tat?” David asked, eyeing the tentacled creature on Simon’s arm.

“Same place as you,” Simon snarled, dropping the barber act.

Electricity cracked through David’s head.

Memories flooded or something darker.

A vision—him holding a gun to some bastard.

He closed his eyes tight, and gripped at his hair.

A stale scent of sweat and fear filled his nostrils.

“The tat’s not important,” Simon laughed.

Instinctively, David fired—two shots, neck and collarbone.

Simon choked on blood, coughing.

“The Road… The Road to Perdition is harder when you can’t make peace with yourself.”

Cryptic, but it stuck with David.

-

David was not one to admit to his fears. But fears he had.

You don't do what he did without a healthy dose of fear.

Tho' the tat did not mean anything directly — it was no coincidence. Neither was Simon's claims.

David closed his eyes again and thought back. No, couldn't place Simon's face. Whiskey muddied his memory.

With Mags and Simon dead, only one name left—his own.

Was he afraid? No. He was pissed off and paranoid.

With a .44 Magnum in his holster.

Fate should expect a fight.

-

David checked the address for himself.

Not his.

Another Ohio street. Defiance.

He started the Buick, leaving another trail of misery.

“The Man Comes Around” played again.

“There’s a man goin’ ’round takin’ names,

And he decides who to free and who to blame…”

Replaying the past days, David felt unsure.

Unsure of his place.

Unsure of his purpose.

Had his blood-soaked career been worth it?

He pulled up to the address.

Not his.

He clapped.

A dark, hairy beast appeared.

“So, not dead then?”

“You can’t kill an idea,” it growled.

“I stopped believing in you.”

“Is that your edge? Comfort?

Remember—I am you.”

David looked in the rearview mirror.

Ravaged by time and accountability.

He pulled his .44 Magnum and fired.

Dead air.

Was the beast ever there? David was not sure.

But heard laughter from the passenger seat

and the familiar click-click-bang.

Dead Air.

*

Thanks for reading!

Author's Notes: This came to me, an attempt at gritty realism, with something a bit more. Nods to When The Man Comes Around by Johnny Cash.

Here are some other things: