At Last, Revenge!

By Arturo Hernandez

 Watching reruns with a beer warming in his callused hand, Strom Hutcheson came to the conclusion that he'd rob the International Savings and Loans today. If he were lucky (the thought danced swimmingly in his mind), he'd maim someone in the attempt.

And so, Strom slowly got up. He found his holster and his trusty shooter, put on a rancid tank top, a pair of dark sunglasses, and started out the front door of his home. A wicked smile emerged on his face as he marched toward the rusting Impala in the street. Yes, he thought, this will be one special day.

The bank was quiet from the outside, Storm noticed. He quickly parked the Impala between two smaller cars, got out, and slammed the door. 

As Strom went to cross the  drive in front of the bank, a Ford pick-up truck, out of nowhere, came racing into the bank's parking lot, almost running Strom over. Startled, slightly,  he flipped the woman driving the truck his middle finger. She just stared blankly back at Strom, paying close attention to the gun and holster he had  hanging so blatantly around his waist. She let him pass, with a nervous smile on her face, and quickly left the bank through the other end of the parking lot. Strom watched as the woman sped down the street and he started to laugh.

Turning back around, he made his way to the glass doors marking the entrance to the bank. Abruptly the left door swung outward, and like the pickup truck, it almost decked him. Coming out of the bank, wearing a three-piece suit, pinstriped, was a tall, heavy-set black man. A cigar was hanging loosely from his lips. The big man gasped, noticing the gun strapped around Strom.  His eyes were wide open and brimming with panic. He quickly backed up.

Strom laughed, his face sporting a sick grin. "Tell me something, boy.  Tell me, now, do ya feel lucky today? Heh? Well do ya?"

The man proceeded to walk away slowly out of the bank again, keeping a close eye on the lunatic in front of him as he did. "Don't want any trouble mister," he told Strom.

Strom laughed at the retreating man.

The man gulped and his cigar fell from his lips. He did an about-face, and scurried away.

Strom chuckled, turned around, grabbed hold of the gold colored door handle and opened the door to the bank. The cool air from within the bank confronted him, a major relief from the blistering heat outside.

No one had noticed Strom come inside.

But how quickly that would change.

Strom noted, as he drew closer to the tellers, a younger than normal security guard paying more attention to a pretty bank teller than to his work. Bad mistake, he thought.

The teller, however, did notice Strom approaching, noticed the gun he had swaying causally from his waist. With terror in her eyes, she whispered softly to her young adorer. Her adorer turned quickly, reaching for his gun as he did.

However, the boy had reached too late, for Strom had already pulled his gun out with the swiftness of a wild west gunslinger. He aimed it at the boy's head and fired. The gun kicked back. A thick mass of blood and flesh exploded from behind the boy's head, splattering the pretty teller's face. She wailed, falling to the floor.

In a instant, pandemonium erupted. Women began screaming, and children yelping.

Strom fired again, this time up in the air. "Shut the Hell up! Now!"

And everybody, slowly though, did. There was the occasional whimper, but nothing more than that.

"I hate to bring up an old cliché, but it does fit this certain situation: Nobody moves and so nobody gets hurt! Are we all at an understanding here?" Strom asked, grinning wickedly.

Strom spotted from the corner of the his eye a second security officer, stealthily making his way towards him.   This one was much older than the one he had just stained the walls and the pretty teller with.

The old man fired first. However, fortunately for Strom, the killing bullet went whizzing closely by him.

Another bad mistake.

The miss kill gave Strom another chance. He responded quickly, firing back a barrage of bullets at the old man. The bullets struck swiftly and on target, shattering the old man's left shoulder. The old man howled painfully and buckled to the ground. 

Laughing at the buckling man, the gunslinger ambled up to the guard, took aim, and fired down at him. The bullet struck the old man in head, thus finally ending his long life on this planet. A pandemonium of screams rattled the innards of the bank once again.

And once again Strom fired into the air. "Shut up! Shut the fuck up!" And again the bank was promptly silenced. "Now, does anyone else wish to join the heroic ranks of the dead?" And as he said this, he pointed the gun at one of the male tellers standing straight ahead. "If so, please go right ahead."

No one made a sound. No one made a movement of the slightest.

"Good. Let's get down to business, and it must be done quickly because I only have another ten minutes before smokey gets here. If . . . and I stress IF, my little bag here," throwing it at the teller he had his gun pointed at, "is not full of hundred dollar bills in the next seven minutes, I am going to open fire on every living thing in this messed up money store. Am I understood? Must I make myself clearer?"

The teller quickly nodded. After having stuffed all the bundles of money he had stored in his register into the bag Strom had thrown at him, he then expeditiously, with shaky hands, handed the bag to the teller beside him, an elderly woman, who snatched the money bag and, like her partner, stuff the bag with the money she had in her register. This operation continued down the line of terrified tellers till the bag was fully loaded.

Strom waited at the end of the line; when the bag finally got to him he gave a salute and proceeded to leave the bank as fast as his feet could carry him.

However, before he could make it out the door, he was tripped up by a toy, a doll. He stumbled, the bag swaying in his hand. "What the hell!" He kicked the doll, sending it sliding across the floor.

"Hey, don't hurt Mildred!" The little owner of the doll yelled at the robber, fearlessly.

Strom spun around to see the mother of the child desperately holding the little one back, her eyes pleading mercy on her and her little one.

He raised his thick hand and backhanded the mother, hard. "Teach that little brat manners, bitch!"

The eyes of the the child's mother changed from the pitiful to the ravenous in an instant.

Strom scowled and quickly turned for the exit.

As he stepped outside, into the hellish heat, the sudden far away sound of police sirens  stung his ears; and thus he quickened his step.

Hastily, Strom opened the door to the Impala and jumped in. He turned the key in the ignition and the engine roared to life.  He then quickly backed the Impala out of the small slot and peeled out of the parking lot like hell on fire. The spinning tires let loose an earsplitting squeal as thick, black smoke poured heavily from behind the car.

Strom sped away without a chase to contend with. What a perfect getaway, he mused, gripping the steering wheel tightly.

Strom was now resting, underneath a light rain, within the dry insides of the Impala, counting his money.

"Ten thousand dollars, unmarked," he said, talking to the bobble headed Virgin Mary on his dashboard.  "Praise be to God."

Tying the bag in a good, strong knot, he placed the bag under the seat on the passenger side.   He then got out, the rain dropping lightly on his head as he started for the tavern he had parked the Impala behind.

 "Time for this old man to celebrate," he said to himself.

Having knocked back the last of the liter of Wild Turkey he had purchased with the stolen money, Strom slowly set the empty bottle aside. Now utterly stoned, he stared lazily at the vacant bottle before him and at the darkened image of himself reflecting off it. He burped loudly, startling a patron at the bar, and thought: you sly old coon dog, you. Did it again, didn't sha.

"Sweet cheeks, babe," he whistled. "Bring your fine ass over here," he slurred loudly, motioning, with a twirl of his pointer finger, for the bar maid at the other end of the bar.

She noticed Strom, nodded with a forced smile, and sauntered over to where the drunk was sitting. As she made her way towards Strom, she couldn't help but notice how his eyes were glued to her bottom half with sinful interest. Strom's tongue was  hanging out shamefully.

"Here," he told her, placing a twenty on the bar, "bring me another bottle of that Wild Turkey."

"Don't you think you've had enough to drink, mister?"

"Never you mind that, Sweet cheeks. Now get your love some more of that Turkey," he said. He burped and smiled sickly at her.

She came back with the bottle that he had ordered her to bring him and set it on the bar in front of him. He smiled gratuitously at her and took the bottle. She smiled forcibly, again.

"Would ya be interested in a job?" He asked her, evil seemed to shine from his eyes.

"What type of job, mister?" She replied, sounding suspicious, her cute brown eyebrows rising.

Strom answered her by grabbing hold of her arm fiercely, pulling her closer to him. He then looked down at his crouch and back at her, and he smiled sinfully.

"You're a asshole. Now get your filthy hands off me or I'm going to mess you up real bad." She was bluffing of course. She was as scared as a cornered mouse.

"You're a funny bitch, you are," Strom told her, trying not to laugh at her as he held firmly to her scrawny arm.

She went to belt him one with her free hand, but was quickly parried by Strom's other hand. However drunk that he was, he was still fast on his feet.

Suddenly Strom was interrupted by a sleek, sharp-dressed patron to the right of him, "Hey, man, let Sally go. She's done you no harm." Unknowingly, the sharp-dressed patron had made the careless mistake of trying to reason with Strom, and for his misstep was threatened with a long, sharp hunting knife that Strom had so deftly pulled out from his black army boot. The patron gulped in what he thought would be his last fill of air and casually backed off.

"Relax there old man," he pleaded with Strom.

Still holding onto Sally, as she tried her best to wrench free, Strom shoved his hunting knife inches from the patron's face.

"Joey! Get the hell out of here!" Sally yelled at the patron as she continued to squirm in the drunkard's hold.

"Let the lady go, butthead," came another voice from behind Strom. He knew, instinctively, that a gun was pressing the back his head. Strom readily complied. "Now, put your little knife away, and get your ass the hell out of my tavern."

Strom did as he was told, slowly placing the knife back in his army boot. Curiously he turned around. Standing before Strom, with an expression on his face that would melt steel, pointing a shiny shotgun at Strom face, was a heavy man, balding slightly, with a thick brown beard that reached way below his chin. Gold sparkled from one of his teeth.

"Another hero, hey? Well, not much I can do now, is there, pop? Just be grabbing my liter and heading out." Strom went to take the bottle but was stopped short by the large owner.

"Leave that there, butthead. I think you've had enough for tonight."

"I paid for it," Strom replied angrily.

"Sally, give butthead back his money," the owner asked her politely.

"Sure thing, Harry," and she placed the money on the table, avoiding any contact with the slime.

"Thank you, Harry, Sally," Strom paused to think, then said, "I remember a movie about a Harry and Sally. Didn't enjoy it much though."

"Get your money and get out," the owner growled at Strom.

Strom saluted, took his money, and left the tavern.

The rain was falling heavily now, making it much harder to see through the darkness of night. Lighting struck close by, startling Strom a bit as he steered the Impala through the heavy downpour and over a cliff like hill. He composed himself, squinted, and pressed forward through the downpour.

Through the hazy downpour, Strom spied something ahead on the side of the road, a lone figure; and as he got closer to it he could see now that it was the indubitable figure of a woman; she was wearing a long, blue nightgown, which thrashed wildly about in the blustery rain, like some azure demon that had gotten itself entangled and now wanted badly to be set free of its host. She had her thumb up, wanting to hitch a ride.

Strom, however, was too late to stop, and he sped quickly pass her. In his frustration, he suddenly put on the brakes, and the Impala, not used to sudden stops on wet pavement, began to spin out of control. The car then bounced violently upwards and began to tumble up the hill; after tumbling for a good twenty yards, the Impala finally came to a frightening totter on the edge of the hill. Strom, exhausted by the terrible ordeal, glanced to his left, rain and mud rushing in through his window as he did, to see the tops of the forest trees below. A great bolt of lighting struck the forest, giving Strom a sudden feeling of panic. Blood was trickling down his face, into his eyes. He thought to pray, and he did.

His prayers had been answered, for coming straight for him, he saw through the window on the passenger side, was the woman he had so idiotically left behind. Her blue gown was frantic still, her lush blonde hair flagellating behind her. She was utterly beautiful, Strom thought as she came closer to the car.

"Help me," he cried miserably; a bit of blood spurted from his mouth.

She refrained from replying, but did not stop. She drew closer to the busted car and its driver.

And as she got closer, the woman's features gradually became clearer. She was with out a doubt beautiful, except for the mars and bruises on her face that seem to tarnish her natural beauty. She had been punched and kicked in that lovely face. Made to suffer, perhaps, endlessly. By whom, Strom could only ponder. Who could be so monstrous. He thought about this, for only a few seconds, and then came to the conclusion that he was truly capable of such an atrocity.

"You look very familiar," Strom told her as she put a hand on the car near the still spinning tire.

"Do you not remember me?" She asked coldly. A light, as familiar as Strom's own light, beamed from her eyes.

"Not really babe." The car began to slide in the direction of the forest below; Strom gasped, then said: "I don't have much time, you'll need to free me as fast as you can, Ms. ?"

"Hutcheson," the woman answered.

A cold chill ran up Strom's spine. He began to squirm.

"That's my last name," he grinned at her.

"Jacy Hutcheson," she purred. "Do you remember me now, daddy? Do you remember this very hill?"

He did recall her, his daughter. The one he had beat every day to a pulp. The same one he had, on her tenth birthday, tied to the Chevy and dumped over this hill, so many years ago. The one who now was standing before him, with ghostly eyes, with vengeful eyes, with her hand pushing on the car. Strom let lose a whimper.

"Forgive me, Jacy. Please," he pleaded.

But pleading did nothing to stop her anger; her hatred was immense. And so with a strong shove of her hand sent the Impala tumbling down the steep hill. It exploded in a horrific display of fire and smoke.

The woman sadly looked away. Ghost tears seemed to fall from her face; a face, now clear and smooth, the scars removed.

Strom awoke, he thought, from a nightmare. However, he was still tottering on the edge of the hill. The storm was still pounding the ground and the car. He was still bleeding. Mud was still coming in through the window. But he was alive. There had been no woman. The car had not fallen down the hill as he thought had occurred. And somehow he smiled because of this.

But this feeling of new life was swiftly taken away from him, because coming towards his busted car through the downpour of rain, Strom saw, his eyes beginning to tear, was that same woman from his nightmare, again. He knew, then, as a nauseating feeling was emerging in his stomach, that he would dream this nightmare for the rest of eternity.

Copyright © 1997 by Arturo Hernandez