06 - Fake Cop Family Ties

Fake Cop returns in Part 1 of the explosive second Fake Cop Trilogy. He learns he has a long lost son - and for the first time in his life feels rattled. How does a corrupt, immoral, anti-social man built on lies, intimidation, and bad decisions handle the unexpected responsibilities of a child? Not very well. This is Fake Cop Family Ties.

Transcript

SPEAKER_04 0:18

These episodes are presented as part of the Sick Man Talking Archive. What follows is one of those episodes.

SPEAKER_00 0:25

Hey everybody, how are you doing? It's Brad here. Thank you for joining me. Okay, what's up for episode 62 of the Sickman Talking Show? Well, today we return to my altar ego. To my mother's chagrin, the fake cop. I took a break from him for a bit because I was frightening my mother. Not unlike Daniel Day Lewis, uh, only better. I'm a method actor. So I use a lot of methods, I guess. It's a very it's a very method-oriented approach to acting. Method acting. It's very, very methody. Methodic, you might say. I don't know. Anyway, I was walking around talking like the fake cop. I was acting like him too, that was a bit of a problem. But it was so much fun I decided to give in. Let the fake cop consume me. So I've come up with another fake cop trilogy, involving family, entrepreneurial spirit, and fruit loops, of course. Alright, so where did we last leave off? Well, first, if you've never heard this character before, that probably means you haven't heard much of my show. At least the past 35 episodes or so. Normally I'd give a big long spiel explaining the backstory, but I don't need to do that this time. If you know, you know. And if you don't, no problem. Go back to episode 49. That was the first installment of the last fake cop trilogy. Episode 49, To Love and Die in New Market. I do a film noir version of New Market, similar to what you're about to hear. Episode 50 was Beverly Hills Fake Cop, where the fake cop goes to Beverly Hills to solve a murder. And then episode 51, New Market Heat. It's back to New Market to take on a rising challenger. And now I've got a new fake cop trilogy for you. I love my trilogies. And there will be more, I just can't stay away from this guy. Or he can't stay away from me, I don't know. It's getting kinda weird. So the first installment, what you're about to hear, it's called Fake Cop Family Ties. As you may remember, episode 51 ended on a cliffhanger. The fake cop discovers he has a son. Yes, Johnny Kelly Jr. And in a couple of seconds, we're gonna play that cliffhanger scene from episode 51. And then we're gonna roll straight into the new episode and pick up exactly where we left off. Okay? Okay. Alright, I need Derek for this. Uh Derek, can you hear me? Of course you can. Derek is always listening. Have you got that cliffhanger lined up from episode 51? I think it's around 40 minutes, 40 seconds. And then we'll take that to the end. And then begin the new fake cop trilogy. Fake cop family ties. Alright, Derek's got that. He knows what he's doing by now. Alright, excellent. So what else here? Um I guess just uh Mr. Wellsman. Fucking engage. I finished the last slice of my pizza and washed it down with the last mouthful of my room temperature water. I love pizza and room temperature water, but they tasted flatter than my emotional affect. A father had lost his son. Uh, two sons, actually, but only one of them he knew about. Two sons lost a father, but only one of them knew he was his father. A cousin lost two cousins, but only two cousins knew each other existed. So there were three cousins in total. Uh, let me see. The uh he had the two Mendoza kids, and then Ramirez, right, right, that's right. And a young fake cop was dead, one with dreams of becoming the best personal trainer in Newmarket. He had it coming. They all did. We all do. Just then, Endo, the bartender, came up to me wiping his hands with a white towel. Said someone is here to see me. A young fella, he said. You know, as a matter of fact, he looked a lot like me, but only from one side at a particular angle. It was pretty weird, he said. The resemblance was just uncanny. Curious, I asked Endo if the young fella had a name. Endo replied, Yeah, I think he said his name is uh Johnny. Uh Johnny Kelly. Johnny Kelly uh Jr. Yeah, that's right. Just then, the large frame of Johnny Kelly Jr. came into view. The fuck?

SPEAKER_01 4:41

Yeah, hey Pops, how you doing?

SPEAKER_00 4:43

My god, Johnny Kelly Jr. The fuck, Pops. Did he just call me Pops? Hey, whoa, whoa, whoa, whoa. What the fuck, man? What the fuck?

SPEAKER_05 4:59

Sick man talking. We got a sick man talking here. Sick man talking.

SPEAKER_00 5:17

Pops. The fucker. Well, there's no way. I can't be his father. It's fucking impossible. Although he does look like me, but only from one side at a very particular angle. On the other side from a different angle. He looked exactly like. Oh my god. Angel Face Dubois. Ah, fucking shit. The young man calling himself Johnny Kelly Jr. and me his father sat down in my private booth at Fitzy's. Uninvited. Daisy the waitress approached the table. He looked a little young. The look on her face said, Should he even be here? I shrugged my shoulders.

SPEAKER_02 6:02

What'll it be, hon?

SPEAKER_00 6:03

Daisy said to Johnny Kelly Jr.

SPEAKER_01 6:07

Say, uh, you got any room temperature water? Ah, that sure would be schwell. Yeah, get these kidney stones, see? Yeah, and I gotta drink a lot of room temperature water.

SPEAKER_00 6:17

Then he reached into his pocket, where he always kept loose fruit loops, grabbed a handful, and started munching.

SPEAKER_01 6:24

Ah boy, these fruit loops sure are schwell.

SPEAKER_00 6:27

Again, oh my god. Room temperature water, kidney stones, fucking fruit loops, that's the clincher right there. Johnny Kelly Jr. Satsa son. Son.

SPEAKER_01 6:50

Yeah, that should recognize me, Paps. Yeah, mom told me I'd find you here. Yeah, everybody keeps telling me I look just like you, but only from one side at a very particular angle. I don't get it.

SPEAKER_00 7:00

Hang on, woo-boo-boo-boo. Cool your jets, kid. I don't know who you think you are.

SPEAKER_01 7:06

I'm your son, Pops.

SPEAKER_00 7:07

Yeah, yeah, whatever. Fuck was I saying. I actually feel rattled. I never feel rattled. Oh yeah, right. I don't know who you think you are.

SPEAKER_01 7:15

Yeah, I said I'm your son. The fuck's going on here?

SPEAKER_00 7:18

Yeah, yeah, yeah. I fucking heard you. Stop fucking interrupting me, man. Trying to play a role here. Now listen, kid. I don't know who you are, but you don't walk in and sit in this booth without an invitation and start telling me who you are and who I am.

SPEAKER_01 7:34

Yeah, said I'm Johnny Kelly Jr. The fuck's going on around here?

SPEAKER_00 7:38

Yeah, yeah, yeah. Shut the fuck up. I get it to know. My god. Was this kid as dumb as he appeared? I'm no Mensa member myself, but I'm a cunning son of a bitch. This kid just seemed, uh, well, slow, you know, and a little fucking old too. That didn't slip by me. And he said his mom told him to find me here, and judging by one particular angle of his face, his mom would be Sally Jenkins, aka Angel Dubois. My god, Angel Dubois. I'd forgotten about her, which is pretty common actually. I'm always front and center in the theater of my own consciousness. But now, the memories were coming back like a flood in the cellar. Old images pooled in the basement of my mind, rising past the threshold while I stood helpless, watching it swarm around my ankles and collection of classic rock albums. It began beneath the doorframe, and by the time I moved, it was already reflecting what I'd hoped to bury. Angel faced Dubois, doing a life stretch up in Kingston at the prison for women, the P4W. She'd put the blast on three men and stole fifty lards from Footlocker in the Upper Canada Mall. Now I may have had something to do with that. The uh the whole idea was mine. The murder weapon. That was mine. It's been used in uh subsequent murders. I uh I still have it. Yeah, but fuck it, whatever. I only cared about one thing right now. How the fuck was this idiot my son? I mean, seriously, let's do the math on that. I was with Angel L just over a year ago. A couple of weeks after that, she got sent up to Kingston to the prison for women, the P4W. And a year later, this dumb son of a bitch named Johnny Kelly Jr. And by the way, what the fuck is up with that name, man? Johnny Kelly Jr. Did she actually name this big dumb fucking ape after the man she murdered? Man, I thought I was fucked up. I sometimes still think about Johnny Kelly, his bum knee, his good heart, that fucking sad sack. He wasn't supposed to die. He was just supposed to be the fall guy for a $50,000 caper. But my mistake was use an Angel for the job. She was just too unstable. The dame was screwy. She also put the blast on Mickey Two Shots and Blackjack Blackadar. And she probably would have tried it on me if I hadn't called in a favor to Captain McCluskey and got a tossed and a clink. The look on her face when she realized I'd flipped the script on her. It was. It was. Well, I can't really fucking remember to be honest, but I'm sure she was pretty pissed off, you know. Pissed off enough to give birth to a 20-year-old man without telling me he was my son. The kid's 20 years old. Trouble is, he was born last year. I keep turning it over my head like a bat coin. And every side comes up counterfeits. Maybe it's sitcom rules, you know? You ever notice how on a sitcom, the fucking baby is a bundle of blankets in season one, then by season two, he's a wise-cracking eight-year-old with a catchphrase. Well, I guess that's Johnny Kelly Jr. He grew up between scenes. I've definitely got budget issues on this show. It could be the government's hand in it, too. Some desk jockey hit the wrong stamp, and now Junior's got two decades under his belt, a shadow on his jaw, and the CRA breathing down his neck. But maybe, maybe it isn't TV, or some clerical fuck-up at Service Canada. Maybe, it's fate. Some kids are born with tomorrow in their eyes. Johnny Kelly Jr., he came out carrying 20 years in his back, like a hitchhiker lugging a suitcase full of lead. And me, I just watch him walk past. Way in the years he never earned, and the trouble he'll inherit. That's the way this city. Or hang on. Excuse me. Town. Is this a town? I still don't know what fuck city or town. Fuck this shit, hang on. I'm going to the googler. I'm going to the googler. Hang on. Ah, fuck. Shit. Hang on. I gotta find this out for real. New market. I gotta back up. Not of all time, that's very all you're just currently in the world. It's a town. I don't know. A thousand people in a town city. Hard to tell these days. Anyway, that's great. I guess it's just on the cusp of being a city. So anyway, nothing makes sense in this town. It's definitely a town now, I have confirmed that. Especially me. Especially this. I was with Angel a year ago. A little bit later, she got sent up to the prison for women, the P4W. And a year later, this dumb son of a bitch named Johnny Kelly Jr. And again, what the fuck is up with that name? Johnny Kelly Jr. She actually named this dumb ass after the man she murdered. What the fuck? I look back at Johnny Kelly Jr. He sure was as dumb as his namesake, talked exactly like him, said all the same stupid shit. Johnny Kelly, Sr. Fuck, this is confusing. Well he was with Angel, for a little while anyway, at the same time as me. Well, maybe this kid isn't my son. And why does he talk exactly like the real Johnny Kelly? I was starting to get suspicious. Then he stuck his big paw into his pocket again, pulled out a fistful of loose fruit loops, and started shoving them into his mouth. Most of them weren't even making it into his mouth. He was fucking eating them too fast, you know what I mean? I mean, at one point he was uh he was just kind of pressing them up against his mouth, you know? Because he couldn't swallow him fast enough without choking to death. This dumb fuck was definitely my boy. I motioned over to Daisy, told her I had some business to take care of. Yeah, Daisy, listen, uh, keep up distracted with room temperature water and a bowl of fruit loops. Um put something fucking stupid on the TV. Then I told my henchman Endo to keep an eye on him until I got back.

SPEAKER_01 15:39

Yeah, Shay, where you going, Pops?

SPEAKER_00 15:41

Johnny asked me with the curiosity of a fucking child. I'm going to see your mother, Sally Jenkins.

SPEAKER_01 15:47

Hey, who the fuck is Sally Jenkins? Yeah, mom's name's Angel Dubois. That's a swell name, too.

SPEAKER_00 15:53

My god, I thought. The woman didn't even tell her son a real name. What else did he not know about her? And what did he know about me? I, uh uh, I uh shit. I uh I used to call her Sally, yeah. I used to call her Sally. It was a uh role-playing thing, uh, a sex thing. You're uh you're too young to understand.

SPEAKER_01 16:14

Oh, okay, Schwell. Say hi for me, will you? Yeah, but be careful though. Yeah, I don't think mom likes you a whole lot, Pops. I don't know why, but uh, she's real sore at you. Yeah, she told me it was your fault.

SPEAKER_00 16:26

Yeah, yeah, yeah, I get it. Shut the fuck up, man. Jesus, fuck. God damn it, Daisy. Get this kid some room temperature water. And then though. Make sure he doesn't choke on those fruit loops and wander in the fucking street. Fucking idiot wouldn't surprise me. It was time to go for a night ride. Actually, it was uh it was time to call an Uber. Once again, I had no means of transportation. I lost my first fake cop car. A 2002 Chevrolet Impala Ontario Provincial Police Pursuit Car. 2002, man, that was a hell of a year. The Foo Fighters put out a great one. Anyway, I lost that car for driving with a load not properly tied down. Serious offense. Apparently more serious than murder, extortion, narcotics, and arms trafficking, grand larceny, most forms of assault, stock fraud, got into that for a bit, and a lot of other shit I pulled. Got some weird ass laws in this town, but uh, I'm not complaining. Then I lost my 2023 Ford Explorer fake op car because my previous fake partner Ramirez got his fucking head blown off inside of it out front of the warehouse down by the docks. That was likely my fault, but uh still, god damn it, Ramirez. Why? You said you were gonna be the next Peter North. Whoever that is, I still don't know who he is and never will. Well, at least you went out the same way as your daddy. My first fake partner, Mendoza. God damn it, Mendoza. Why? I guess they had it coming. I mean, uh, I guess it's I don't really fucking know anymore, you know. It's it's getting hard to tell. Now I don't know if I exactly lost my 2023 Ford Explorer fake cop car. I just had to kind of leave it there and uh not come back for it, you know. It's evidence now. It was seized after Ramirez and College Boy got shot in the head. A sniper hit Ramirez. I had nothing to do with that. But College Boy, that was all me. Yeah, I totally shot him in the head. Then I took his mirrored sunglasses. They didn't deserve him. They were too big for him anyway. For Christ's sakes, they got him killed. Not only was there no room for another fake cop in town, he was also muscling in in my true dream. To become a personal trainer. You don't fuck with a man's dreams. You know, I would deny killing him, but it's no use. I probably shouldn't have shot him on my show. Bad move, that's permanent proof. Episode 51, check it out. I shot him right in the head. I should take the episode down, but then I'd lose all the downloads for my stats. Can't have that. Still haven't been arrested, though. It's kinda weird, right? I even used the same gun that Angel used to kill Johnny Kelly and Mickey Two Shots and Blackjack Blackadar. I probably should get rid of it, but the real cops just won't fucking take it away from me. I figured I might as well go with the flow, you know. So, it was back to Uber, which was a real pain in the balls. My Uber rating was sitting at a cool 1.2, the lowest accumulative Uber rating on record. And I was having a hell of a time getting picked up. It could take hours sometimes, and when I did get picked up, the driver has a rating as bad as mine, sometimes worse. Which makes for an interesting social dynamic. I don't know what those high-rated Uber guys are like, but the ones I get aren't exactly chauffeurs, you know? They're fugitives who've accidentally downloaded the wrong app. That's how we'd find each other. Two outcasts in Uber's basement, clinging to each other like shipwreck survivors. Each ride felt like a blind date arranged by Satan. I'd slide into the back seat, trying to look polite and sane, while the drivers sized me up like I might puke, rob 'em, or start freestyle rapping. I can do that, you know, I'm pretty good. Yeah, I'm full of surprises. And the truth was, all three were possible. These aren't rides, they're abductions you agree to in advance. The windows don't roll down, the GPS voice sounds drunk, and the drivers keep looking back at me like they're memorizing my dental records. And me, well, I'm nodding politely. Five stars ready in hand, because I can't afford to piss off the last lunatic on earth willing to pick me up. Like I said, a real pain of the balls. I'm standing on the corner of Main Street in Davis Drive, phone in hand, watching my 1.2 rating hover like a bad joke. 1.2. You know, I'm almost impressed it's above zero. According to the app, there are exactly 26 Ubers within a two-block radius of me. I'm surrounded by them. Fuck, I can even see them. Look at that guy right there. Driving by like I'm not even standing here. Yet nothing. It's all very awkward. Then my phone makes a noise. Eureka. Some goddamn fool has decided against their better judgment to pick me up and take me to a federal prison 222 kilometers away in the middle of the night. Me with a 1.2 rating. That'll fucking serve him right if I do anything to him. People are fucking stupid today, man. I looked down. It was a guy named Cornelius. Now I know why he picked me up. His rating was only 1.4. Barely less of an asshole than I am. Barely. His picture was fucking ridiculous, too. We were the bottom of the barrel. No decent human would ride with him or pick me up. I slid into the back of the Uber, the upholstery sticking to me like a confession I didn't want to make. The streetlights smeared like wet paint across the windshield. Cornelius, the driver, had hair that was slicked back with something flammable, a mustache twitching like he was trying to escape, and a neck that starts where his ears should have ended. His eyes dart around the corner with a marsupial quality. He grins when I get in, all gums and menace. Like we're about to go halfsies on a crime neither of us have thought through. He pats the passenger seat like it's a trapdoor. I stay in the back and politely smile. It's a 2002 Pontiac Sunfire. The dashboard is a Frankenstein's creature of missing buttons, tape, and glued right in the middle of everything. Is an Atari? He somehow MacGyvered into a GPS system. Space Invaders, by the looks of it. There's a half-busted Nokia cell phone taped to the steering wheel. How the fuck did he even find me using this shit? What did he just randomly pick me up off the street? I look back down at my phone, and he matched the description. This was Cornelius. This was my Uber driver. His personality was baked into every detail. A bobblehead of Richard Nixon nods in the dash. A string of multicolored Christmas lights hangs limp across the ceiling, and a small stuffed raccoon with one eye missing leans against the gear shift like a silent accomplice. Every squeak and lurch feels intentional. Like the car itself is fucking judging me.

SPEAKER_03 23:40

I hope you don't mind the music back there, pal.

SPEAKER_00 23:43

He said to me, flipping a switch. My ears, my senses are immediately attacked by what can only be described as bulking bagpipe tachno remixes. Something like that. I don't know what it was. It was fucking awful. My hand instinctively reached for my gun. Then my mind went back to my shitty Uber rating. Don't fuck this up. Transportation for the rest of your life depends on it. I gave a big approving grin and said, I fucking love bulking bagpipe techno remixes, dude. Turn that shit up, let's rock. He smiled and reached for the knob to turn it up. That's when I reached for the knob in my mind. Where I kept my own internal playlist, no one can hear. I turned it on real loud because nobody fucks with my music on a night ride. It was time for a night ride to clear what was left of my mind. Night rides. That's what I call these trips. Riding the outlaw wind. Not that anyone cared. Not that anyone would understand. A night ride cleans up the leftover sludge in my brain. The parts that remember Mendoza, Mendoza Jr., Mendoza Jr. Jr., that fucking kid. Spadino, Johnny Kelly, College Boy, and Ramirez. God damn it, Ramirez. We turned back around on Davis and headed to the Upper East Side. My old neighborhood. Bound for the 404 South. New Market was still rebuilding after there was a massive high-speed chase involving 27 cop cars and one tractor trailer full of black market fruit loops. That one was uh probably my fault. Episode 50, you can make up your own mind. Prospect, Roxboro, Huron Heights, Carlson, Ashton, Leslie. The same streets, the same sins. Johnny Kelly Jr. had just dropped a bomb on me. I'm his father, and he's fine with it. Fuck, I'm not. Far as I knew, I was childless, 52 years old. I must have slipped at least one past the goalie over the years. Hmm. But I'm sure the mothers have the proper sense enough not to include me. Never even thought about being a parent before. Seems like a fucking pain in the ass, judging by my own daddy's experiences. A good man who did his best to raise a bad one. What about my son? Fuck, that felt weird to say. What about Johnny Kelly Jr.? Is he a batman? Well, he certainly is a fucking dumb one, that's for sure. But he didn't appear to have my uh my uh my condition. There is an actual clinical definition for it, but whatever. It's not like they could fucking treat it. Even if they could, I wouldn't let them. No way. I like who I am. So Johnny Kelly Jr. says he's my son. Johnny Kelly Jr. Fuck. And Dangel is his mother. Devil fuck. I mean, uh, didn't we use uh protection or something? I don't know. I uh I can't fucking remember. The whole thing was over pretty fast, uh, I must confess. Uh what are you gonna do? A 20-year-old son with kidney stones, and a fruit loops addiction, apparently. And Angel. Oh, god help me. Prison. Kingston, the P4W. Time to face the woman who turned my life into a crime scene and a sitcom. Or maybe I did that myself, but uh, whatever. I've always preferred to externalize blame.

SPEAKER_03 27:37

Everything okay back there, pal.

SPEAKER_00 27:39

Fuck. It was the driver, Cornelius. Totally forgot I was in an Uber and not driving. I usually do these night rides alone, and this guy was pissing me off. I almost took off my belt and moved over to the seat right behind him and said, Hey, Cornelius, buddy, you ever seen that show, Dexter? But I didn't. Instead, I just smiled again. I mean, I only got a 1.2 rating. I cannot afford to have that go down any further. Don't fuck this up, Brad. Uh yeah, yeah, yeah. Just uh just thinking about old friends, you know, I said, my voice like gravel in a tin can. I kept running it through my head. Something didn't make sense. The kid is 20. Angel Dubois has been doing time for a year, and somehow managed to have a kid in prison. A uh an adult kid. And whoa woo woo, hang on here. Well, who the fuck raised him? I'd find out soon enough. And the kicker, she named him Johnny Kelly Jr. After a man she manipulated and murdered. The fuck was up with that? I'd find that out soon enough, too. The Uber rolled along the highway. I thought about Mendoza, Johnny Kelly, Ramirez, and the fucking rest of them. I can't keep a tab anymore. I mean, really, can you blame me? Just as we were approaching the bottleneck, we split off onto the 401 eastbound. We stayed on that bastard of a highway for 222 kilometers. We took the Sir John A. McDonald exit, cruised for about five and a half kilometers, and there it was. The Kingston Prison for Women. The P4W, the home of Angel Face Dubois, murderer of three men, and the mother of my dumbass son, 20 years old, born one year ago, who I didn't know until two hours ago. I know it's all fucked up. I uh I really don't get it myself either. What are you gonna do? The P4W rises in front of me like a box drop from the sky. White concrete, flat, joyless, the kind of white that looks more like old bone and paint. No towers of romance, no barbed wire poetry, just straight walls, square windows, and the heavy silence of women doing time. The heavy silence of women doing the heavy silence of women doing time. I push through the steel doors. The air changes right away, colder, drier, humming with fluorescent lights. A guard waits by the checkpoint. He looks like a fridge that walks, shoulders like stacked bricks, a gut pushing against his uniform, his face looks carved out of dough and left too long in the sun. Sagging eyes, busted nose, and a permanent scowl fused on his face. He pats my pockets with hands like raw meat, then leans back and squints at me. Alright, arms out, shoes off, your belt too. He grunts, his breath sour with coffee and cigarettes. Then he hooks a thumb towards a side room, a smirk creeping across his cracked lips. It's time for the stripseutch, not squad and cough. He said it like it was the highlight of his day. I met his stare, and then I said, Oh come on now, that won't be necessary, officer. Why I was just at the urologist. His name is Dr. Vega. He's a very thorough man. I think you'd like his work. Anyway, he gave me a real good going over. Well, the only thing you're gonna find is a prostate the size of a bagel. Yeah, trust me. I'm sure you can relate, right? Think I just saw you come out of the bathroom again. Are you awake a lot during the night? Got a piss every hour? Yeah, I know it sucks, man. Anyway, there's not enough room to hide anything up there. It's all prostate. I then changed my tone. And my eyes. I gave a slow blink and said, But then again, if you uh you want to check for yourself, officer, well, I uh I guess I can't stop you now, can I? I don't want to stand in the way between a man and his job. I hate it when a man can't do his job, you know? And you look like a goddamn professional. Now what color are those eyes? Don't be shy. I'm not sure I've seen a color like that before. That's like looking at a cottage country sunset. Then I winked again and held his gaze in a tractor beam for an uncomfortably long time. All power dynamics had been reversed. Something I'm pretty good at. The guard didn't like where this was going and buzzed me through without the strip surge, which was good because I did in fact have a gun shoved up my ass. I got the enlarged prostate too, but you can do both. And there she is, Angel Face Dubois, sitting there, waiting. Not the blonde knockout I remember, not even close. Her hair used to shine like it was spun from platinum, now it's gone dull. The bleach grown out, yanked back tight with a part down the middle. She's swallowed up in a gray prison uniform, boxy and stiff. No shape, no life. The kind of thing you put on her corpse to keep it decent. She looks like everything she swore she wasn't. Plain, colorless, institutional. It's not just the walls that trapped her. They're wearing her, same as the uniform. She looks tired, hard, like the prison walls have started to press in from the outside and carve her down into something smaller, meaner, but her eyes, those are the same, sharp, restless, dangerous, watching me through the glass like a pair of knives. A pane of scratch plexiglass separates us, but the glass, it's just air now. It might as well not even be there. The real barrier is the spite and contempt between us. She looked at me with a grin that refused to touch her eyes. And then she spoke.

SPEAKER_03 34:37

I thought I smelled something rotten.

SPEAKER_00 34:40

Careful, angel. Rocks don't rot. People do. For fuck's sakes, woman, smell yourself. You look awful. And what the fuck did they do to your hair? It's pinned back so tight your eyebrows are on the back of your head. And that part you got, right in the middle, a little severe, isn't it? Looks like it was split down the middle with a hatchet. Don't you worry about my hair, Brad.

SPEAKER_03 35:04

Why I still know how to split a man right down the middle if I have to.

SPEAKER_00 35:08

Yeah, I uh I bet you do. Let's cut to the chase. You know why I'm here. Why didn't you tell me about Johnny? Johnny Kelly Jr. He said he's our son. And ruin the surprise?

SPEAKER_03 35:23

Where's the poetry in that? No sugar. This way is better. Of the past sneaks up. Socks you in the gut. Leaves you gasping. And makes for a better story. You like telling stories, don't you, Brad?

SPEAKER_00 35:38

I'm not in the mood for stories.

SPEAKER_03 35:41

Well then you picked the wrong woman to visit.

SPEAKER_00 35:44

So explain it to me, Angel. Use small words. This big fucking lug named Johnny Kelly Jr. comes into Fitzsies. Scraping his knuckles on the ground. Talking like some moron from 1948. I mean, what the fuck? Tell me I'm his daddy. And that you're his mama. The last time we met, I could have sworn we were careful that night. Didn't we use uh what's it called? Uh fuck uh shit. What's it called? Uh protection. And now you're telling me there's a 20-year-old walking around with my genetics stuck to him like a bad tattoo.

SPEAKER_03 36:24

Careful, sugar? Why you're the most reckless man I've ever seen. You thought little latex could hold back fate.

SPEAKER_00 36:32

Fate? Don't you give me that shit? Condoms don't break 20 years in the future. And weren't you on that uh fucking whatchama call it? Uh uh, I don't know what the fucking thing's called. Supposed to stop this kind of thing.

SPEAKER_03 36:49

Maybe I poked a hole. But maybe he's not even yours.

SPEAKER_00 36:54

You've only been here a year. One year, angel. Do the math. How is he fucking 20 years old?

SPEAKER_03 37:03

Sitcom time, sweetheart. Wow, things grow faster when nobody's watching. Characters age rapidly in between seasons. Things just well, they grow in the dark, don't they? You don't see it. But it happens anyway. Or maybe I was pregnant before I met you.

SPEAKER_00 37:20

20 years pregnant? I buy the sitcom logic that uh that makes perfect sense actually, but not 20 years pregnant.

SPEAKER_03 37:33

Oh baby. Well, you always were good with numbers, but lousy with feelings. Why maybe you should just accept it. He's ours. Doesn't that make your cold little heart twitch? Even for a second.

SPEAKER_00 37:47

My heart doesn't twitch. It fucking calculates. And right now, the numbers are screaming liar.

SPEAKER_03 37:56

Why you're cruel? You like being cruel. That's why I love you, Brad. And that's why I hate you.

SPEAKER_00 38:02

And that's why you'll never win. Speaking of the boy's namesake, Johnny Kelly, the man you manipulated, the man you fucking murdered, a dumbass, broken down hockey player with a bad knee and a good heart. Why the fuck would you name your son after a man you murdered? I mean, seriously, woman, what the fuck is wrong with you? For Christ's sake, I mean Jesus, that's fucked up even for me.

SPEAKER_03 38:24

Well now, maybe I like the way it sounded. Maybe I wanted to honor the poor dumb kid who loved me. Or maybe. I just thought it'd be fun watching you choke on it later. Or maybe I gave him that name. Because his real daddy is Johnny Kelly.

SPEAKER_00 38:40

Yeah, that tracks. You bury him, and you wear his name like perfume. That's your style, ain't it, Angel? Make every death a fashion choice.

SPEAKER_03 38:49

Why you think you're in control? Why you're confused. You don't know what's true. Maybe he's yours. And maybe he isn't. Maybe I made the whole damn thing up.

SPEAKER_00 39:03

Nah. He's mine. I know when something's mine when I see it.

SPEAKER_03 39:08

Why is that so? After all the doubt, the math, the smart remarks. You finally confess. So the mighty fake cop cracked a case. What gave me away, Brad? A divine whisper in the night.

SPEAKER_00 39:21

Kidney stones. He's got him same as me. Family curse. Passed out like a cracked heirloom, nobody wants. And the way he drinks his water. Room temp. Not cold. Never cold. Not even cool. Room temp. Like me. Like his daddy. Oh, and the fruit loops, yeah, the fruit loops. The kids all hopped up on Fruit Loops. Just like his daddy.

SPEAKER_03 39:50

That's your evidence. Tap water, kidney stones, and a breakfast cereal packed with delicious fruity taste, fruity aroma, and fun colors, bursting with natural fruit flavors and no artificial colors.

SPEAKER_00 40:03

And no brains. Absolutely none. The kids got uh my kinda empty upstairs, except like uh way worse, you know? What kind of fucking education does this kid have anyway? I mean, who the fuck even raised him? Well, my parents on the farm.

SPEAKER_03 40:21

He's country strong. Ma and pa homeschooled him using ton of classic movies. The boy can't add fractions without a common denominator, but he can quote Casablanca line for line. It's my favorite movie.

SPEAKER_00 40:34

Uh no wonder he talks like that. It'd actually be kind of cool if he wasn't so fucking stupid. His face tells me the rest. From the left side, he's me. Dead ringer, right to the bone. But turn him the other way, and it's you, that fucking smile of yours. The one that feels like love until it puts a bullet in your back.

SPEAKER_03 40:54

So you admit it, Brad. He's ours. Proof we were meant to be.

SPEAKER_00 40:59

Proof we were a mistake. A bad choice. With good aim.

SPEAKER_03 41:04

But you don't mean that, Brad. You you can't. You care. You came here because you care why you came all this way.

SPEAKER_00 41:12

I came to see the factory where he was made. To see the liar who thought she could hide him from me. He's mine now, Angel, not yours. You rotted away your chance. He's out there walking, breathing, carrying our filth in his veins. And I'm the one who gets to decide what to do with him. Why, a boy like that, he could be a tool, could be a weapon. Doesn't appear to have inherited any personality disorders from us. Especially yours, thank god. Fuck. But he's gigantic, dumb as a rock, and he finally met the daddy he's been looking for. A daddy. He's gonna wanna please. Angel, I could turn your baby into a fucking beast.

SPEAKER_03 41:59

No, you wouldn't. Well you can't, but he's yours.

SPEAKER_00 42:04

Well, that's exactly why I can, isn't it? You know, I really need a new partner anyway. They all keep getting fucking shot multiple times. In the head, right in the head. I don't know why, it's weird. Elsewhere, too, but uh but mostly right in the fucking head. But I'm sure that won't happen to Johnny Jr. though. Not my boy, no way. He'll be fine. Or maybe I'll leave him be. Either way, you'll never know. You'll rot in here picturing it. Over and over, drowning in your fucked up imagination. And that's better than any sentence.

SPEAKER_03 42:40

Bread! Bread! What you can still love me, you know, but we can pee something again.

SPEAKER_00 42:46

Love, angel, love isn't on my menu. My brain doesn't make it, doesn't have the ingredients, never has, never will. Nothing personal, of course. You know, now that I think about it, in particular, you specifically, should take it personally because you're a fucking nightmare, lady. You want love, Angel? Try the classifieds. Angel froze when I said that, her mouth opening and closing like a fish, horrified, unable to form words. I rose from the chair, put on the fake cop mirrored sunglasses that I stole from College Boy after shooting them, and without looking back, I walked to the exit. The guard was nervously waiting for me. The one that tried to assault me on the way in. He awkwardly handed back my belt and my other belongings. As I offered him a slow, knowing wink, he looked away as I slipped back out through the heavy front doors of the Kingston Prison for Women. The P4W. Fucking love saying that, man. I guess because I like saying W. Outside, the streets of Kingston are quiet, scattered streets. Streetlights throwing long, broken shadows across the wet pavement. Overhead, the night sky stretches black and infinite, holding in the hush of possibility and danger. As if the city itself is waiting to see what I'll do next. I looked down at Colin Uber. That's what I did next. I was stuck here in goddamn Kingston and had to get back to Newmarket to Johnny Kelly Jr. After my perfect ride with Cornelius, my rating must have jumped up. Gotta be at least a 1.7. What the fuck? My rating had dropped from 1.2 to 1.1. That goddamn Cornelius. Well, I was a perfect gentleman. The whole fucking ride. All 222 kilometers. I didn't make one wrong move. I didn't eat in the car. Impeccable manners. Impeccable personal hygiene. I mean take a look at me. I didn't slam the fucking door, though I wanted to. I didn't grab him from behind around the neck with my belt like Dexter. Even though I really, really wanted to. I mean the fucking difficulty in controlling that impulse. Now that is true discipline. And he still low-rated me. Fucking son of a bitch, man. I even complimented his goddamn bulk and bankpipe techno remixes. Fuck. And I tipped the bastard generously. And the fuckers still gave me a one-star. I mean, what is a guy gotta do to get a decent Uber rating in this world? All I knew was that Cornelius better not pick me up again if he knew I was good for him. Yeah, bad security move having their names on there. Fuck man. I may never get back to New Market. Looking down at the Uber app, there were exactly 37 Ubers within a three-block radius of me, and not one would pick me up. I put my phone back in my pocket and planned my next move. Then I heard that old familiar ping. It was my phone. I checked the app again, and there it was. Kingston to Newmarket. 222 kilometers. Driver, Cornelius. Rating, 1.4, up from 1.2 from the 5 stars I stupidly gave him after my first trip. Fuck that was stupid of me. Two minutes away. The gods of irony just don't laugh. They drive a 2002 Pontiac Sunfire. Turns out my buddy Cornelius didn't know what was good for him, and didn't wander too far after dropping me off at the prison. He went for a beer, wings, and probably something else who's kid knew here. At the Plaza Gentlemen's Club. It's a uh gentlemen's club in Kingston. One time they discovered a dead body upstairs above the club. Pretty cool story. Don't worry, I had nothing to do with it. Anyway, not only would I have arrived back to Newmarket, I can have what I usually care about the most. Why vengeance, of course. I could see it before it even happened. Opening the door and sliding into the backseat in one seamless move. Like Elvis getting up from his table to dance at a wedding. Smooth like that. The car was already bumping with bulk and bagpipe techno, thumping so loud, it almost disguised the danger Cornelius was in. Almost. This time, I wouldn't say a word. Oh, I'd be the perfect passenger. Still, silent. But this time, I'd be behind the driver's seat. My belt coiled loosely in my lap. The same belt. The prison guard made me take off. The same belt I never put back on. Hey, Cornelius. Good to see you again. I was hoping it'd be you. Hope you like them five stars I gave you. Nah nah, don't worry, buddy. Don't worry, buddy, relax. Hey, by the way, uh, you ever see that show, uh Dexter? You know with a guy? Does that stuff, kills bad people? Uh, don't worry, buddy, relax. You're gonna get your five stars. And I'm gonna get a new car. Well, kinda, not new, but reliable. I've always trusted a Pontiac Sunfire to give me where I'm going. I've always had a soft spot for it. Especially a 2002. I was a hell of a year. Ain't that right, Cornelius?

SPEAKER_02 48:33

Where are you driving to clear your mind? Rebuking the street signs. What night time piece will you find? Sometimes it's more than you can take up holding the love, though your feelings and wheels are both fed. One day coming one day, don't do much.