09 The Last Breakfast

Fake Cop returns in the explosive first part of the third Fake Cop Trilogy. Will Bobby find information on the Toucan Man? Probably not. Will Fake Cop confront his role in the death of his son? Probably not. Most importantly, will he finally get rid of that body in the trunk? Same answer. This is the Last Breakfast.

Transcript

SPEAKER_04 0:28

Hey everybody, how you doing? It's Brad here. Thank you for joining me. Okay, what's up for episode 75 of the Sickman Talking Show? Well, today we have the return of a familiar character, the fake cop. Today we'll be starting a brand new fake cop trilogy. Now, at this point, if you've been listening to my show for long enough, you'll know who this fake cop guy is. And what kicked him off. More chaos is cooking, trust me there. But this'll be the last trilogy for a little while. If you want to go back and review, he was first introduced in episode 28. He was also in a bunch of cameo appearances in different episodes that are pointless to mention now. Then he had another standalone episode, that's number 45. Then the first official fake cop trilogy were episodes 49 to 51. To Love and Die in New Markets, Beverly Hills Fake Cop, and New Market Heat. I know this is a bit confusing. I'm working on a way to make it less a bit confusing, but more on that down the road. And then we had the second trilogy: Episodes 62, 63, and 64, Fake Cop Family Ties, The Fruit Loop Files, and Forensic Fake Cop, which is where we last left off, with the fake cop cutting a line to the dark streets of Newmarket, in search of revenge, in search of the Toucan Man. Fuck. A name I can barely say without breaking into laughter, but I promise to do my best during the next three episodes. He's been poisoning Newmarket's underground Fruit Loops Black Markets. A market I had been in total control of. Until my idiot son Johnny Kelly Jr. shoved a bunch of them up his ass and died. I mean he shoved a lot up his ass. I mean a lot. Pretty embarrassing for the paramedics, you could really see it in their faces. I was first on the scene, handled forensics. Yeah, it was pretty fucking wild, actually. I'd never seen anybody go out like that before. But now that I have, it was pretty gross, so I never want to see that again, you know? It's time for revenge. And fuck, it's time to tell his mother too. I mean, she's totally gonna blame me. I don't need that shit. Anyway, this is the last breakfast. Mr. Wellsman, fuck it engage, man.

SPEAKER_07 2:57

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

SPEAKER_04 3:19

I was in the parking lot behind Ricky's sports bar in the old New Market Plaza. Which is where all respectable commerce happens after 11:30 p.m. The snowbanks were gray, not white. Grey like old television static. Soaked with car exhaust. Punctuated with the stained yellow dots of cigarette butts. Fast Bobby, aka Fast Bobby Fruit Lupo. He had like seven fucking names, these scumbags always do. Was late. He's always late when he thinks he has leverage. I guess he heard about my situation. That's how he plays it. Makes the other guy sit in his car long enough to question his own authority. I don't question mine. I exert it. When he finally pulls in, it's slow, deliberate. He's fucking cocky. That lights off before the engine dies. He steps out of the car with a grin that looks like he invented sugar. Hey, you're early. Early? The fuck you know about early. Early's not the fucking problem here. I'm on time. I've been on time since birth. He laughs. He shouldn't. He opens a trunk, and there it is. A new shipment. Black market fruit loops. Seven boxes. Not the camping packs. Not that beige health nonsense. Full-size boxes. Family size. Bright. Loud. Indecent.

SPEAKER_05 4:52

Yeah, it's a clean batch.

SPEAKER_04 4:53

He says.

SPEAKER_05 4:54

No surprises.

SPEAKER_04 4:55

I look at him for a long second. The kind of look that makes men reconsider childhood decisions. Clean batch. You said that last time, Bobby.

SPEAKER_06 5:06

Hey, whoa, whoa, whoa, whoa. Now that wasn't me. Nah, that was upstream.

SPEAKER_04 5:09

Upstream? I don't like that word. I step closer to the trunk. The boxes are too perfect. The colors too confident. I press my thumb into one of them. Like I'm checking produce at the AP. The cardboard gives slightly. Compliant. Innocent. It's what's inside that's guilty. Behind me, Bobby's voice comes. Hesitant. Too small for the space he's in.

SPEAKER_05 5:36

Yeah, so I uh I heard about your uh yeah, your situation, you know.

SPEAKER_04 5:43

A turn, slowly, like a watch winding itself. Letting my eyes find him like a spotlight on a stage he did not dish in for. He flinches.

SPEAKER_06 5:54

Hey look, man, it wasn't my fault.

SPEAKER_04 5:57

Yeah, the pro the problem is upstream. His eyes dart. The grin is gone. He's counting angles he doesn't control. Measuring moves he can't take back. Every step he thought he owned just evaporated. Upstream. There's that fucking word again. It hangs in the air like exhaust. And something snaps inside me. I move like a wolf before he can register the motion. My hands on him, dragging him across the parking lot. The pavement chews on his shoes. He fights harder now. Panic blooming too late. His body folding and twisting against my grip. Every struggle increases. It's mechanical, reflex, no strategy. I don't break stride. Whatever happens next, he carried us here. The 2002 Pontiac Sunfire that I appropriated from Cornelius the Uber driver weights like a coffin on wheels. It has eight dents in it. I use Bobby's head to give it another nine. I rip off the bungee cord holding the trunk down, and then I grab fast Bobby and force his upper torso into the trunk. His face is now four inches away from Cornelius, who's starting to not really look like Cornelius anymore, which does remind me I really need to get rid of that body. But it's covered in super handy right now. Bobby's voice shakes.

SPEAKER_05 7:19

What the fuck, man? What are you doing?

SPEAKER_04 7:21

I tilt my head slowly, letting the silence stretch. Meet Cornelius, the last guy who fucked with me. Cornelius sits there, still and rigid, his head tilted too, a warning carved in a cold flesh. I lean close. Cornelius, meet fast Bobby, or Bobby Fruit Loop or whatever his f- What is your fucking it doesn't matter, fuck off. I force his face even closer. Go on, Bobby. Get a closer look. He won't bite. I guess if he does, we're all fucked, but whatever. I wrapped his jacket collar around his throat and fed my fist deep into the fabric. Knuckles into the back of his neck. Now you don't squeeze the wimp pipe, just listen up, goes like this. You you fold the cloth into the sides of the neck, and you pull your elbows down like you're reving a fucking bike, you know? Shuts the lights off without breaking anything. Sometimes you want to break it, sometimes you don't, it depends. In the dojo, it's called a collar choke. But on the streets, the new market streets, my streets, I'd call it the jacket tax. Most guys knew not to piss me off when they're wearing wide lapels. I guess Bobby didn't get the memo. He was losing air and hope as he stared into the eternal eyes of Cornelius. I loosened my grip just slightly to hear what he has to say for himself.

SPEAKER_05 8:42

Uh I didn't know, Brad. It wasn't my fault. The problem is upstream.

SPEAKER_04 8:48

It wasn't my fault. The two can't man. You didn't what? Upstream? What are you a fucking fly fisherman now? My eyes burn into his, unblinking. Cornelius doesn't move. Doesn't have to. The silence around him says everything. Now you see, Bobby? He gets it. Maybe you should too. I then let him go as violently as I grabbed him. He smashed into the ground, then started crawling backward, trying to put distance between us. But the pavement was too short and shrinking, his rabid eyes darting between me and the trunk.

SPEAKER_06 9:21

Jesus, I didn't!

SPEAKER_04 9:22

You think that fucking matters? Upstream again, huh? Always upstream. That's your comfort, your excuse, your little fucking lifeboat. Let's see how it floats here.

SPEAKER_06 9:33

Please, please, I'll do anything, please, just don't Anything.

SPEAKER_04 9:37

He nods too fast. Like a dashboard bobblehead. I look past him, past the gray snowbanks, past Ricky's, past the plaza, past Persicini's gym, past Pizzaville, which reminded me I needed some pizza. Past Piccapita, past the porn shop, which I'd never been into, not even one time, I swear to god, not even one time. Well, except for that one time. You know, for a buddy, the cashier didn't believe me, I could tell. It's all over her face. Past my line of vision, somewhere out there, upstream, is a river I can't see. A river that carried something bright and stupid and sugared and deadly straight into my house. Or my basement apartment. Tough economy. Johnny Kelly Jr. I don't say the name out loud, but every level of my consciousness is screaming his name. Upstream. Upstream. You like that word upstream, Bobby?

SPEAKER_06 10:35

Well that's just how it works. There's layers. I don't touch a mix, I just move product.

SPEAKER_04 10:40

Move product. Like furniture. Like it's boxes of cereal. Like it's not seven technicolor coffins sitting ten feet away. I crouch down, so are I level. You like that word. Upstream. You uh you ever fish? He blinks. Doesn't understand the question. Good. You throw the line out. You don't blame the river when something bites. You set the hook. I glance back at the open trunk. Cornelius stares in a nothing. Patient as the horizon. I look around. Yeah, I could do it. Right here, just stack him aside, Cornelius. You know, make it symmetrical. Close the trunk. Let the night handle the rest. The image sits there, fully formed. Easy. Too easy. And easy. Doesn't get you upstream. I grab Bobby by the collar again. Not choking this time, just steering him. And I pull him to his feet. He sways, half conscious, half praying. You're not the river, you're the worm. I shove him toward his own car. Hard enough to make the point. But not hard enough to break the tool I'm about to use. You're gonna call upstream, Bobby. You're gonna tell them everything's fine. You're gonna set a meet. And you're gonna smile while you do it. His lips tremble.

SPEAKER_06 12:07

And if I don't, hey, listen, man, you don't hear fucking with here. These are serious people here, man.

SPEAKER_04 12:11

Serious? What do you think I'm pulling a practical joke? I tilt my head toward the trunk. Cornelius answers for me. The wind cuts across the parking lot, lifting a swirl of gray snow and cigarette ash. Ricky's back door slams somewhere behind us. Laughter spills out, then dies when nobody comes outside. Bobby nods. Good. I step back. Authority restored. Not the kind you get from a badge. The kind you take. Upstream. Yeah. We're going fishing. Or whatever the fuck you call bird hunting. Because that's who I was really after. I wasn't chasing a shipment. I was chasing a name. Fast Bobby or Bobby Fruit Loopo, whatever his fucking name is. He almost said it. He caught himself halfway through, like it burned his tongue. The Toucan Man. Black Market Fruit Loops. I've been moving these boxes since I've been small enough to hide behind them. I'd been in the game since 85. Episode 32, check it out. I want a war. It was pretty badass. I had every spot New Market locked down. Libraries, Little League games, PTA meetings, bingo nights at the retirement home, the bus stop at 8 a.m., Hollingsworth Arena during a public skate. I knew which cashiers would keep their mouths shut. The stockboys in the serial aisle who never asked questions. And every cop who preferred a free breakfast to paperwork. And then there was Johnny Kelly Jr. moving through my world like a shadow I'd gotten used to. Gone. Dead. And as I said, I'd gotten used to them. Now I can't actually love someone for a shit. Like, not at all. My brain, uh, how do I say this? Doesn't have the right chemistry, kid, you know? But I can, uh, I can get used to someone. And I'd gotten used to Johnny Kelly Jr., my boy, my bloodline. Fucking with my bloodline, that part really pissed me off. But even gone, he left traces. Fake fingerprints pressed into the edges of my routines. A vibration in the space I thought was empty. You know, I really can't say I feel anything more than anger or disgust. But you might be able to say I feel the echo of emotion. And Johnny Kelly Jr. was echoing like a shotgun blast. Speaking of which, I gotta get a shotgun. Driving back to the basement apartment to clean out his stuff, I could feel it again. The faint pulse of absence. Something that might have been uh grief. If I was the uh sort of person who could feel something like that, New Market doesn't do grief anyway. New Market does denial, New Market does coupons, New Market does Saturday morning smiles, and Monday morning secrets. There's a Fruit Loops problem in this town, not the kind you pour into a bowl. That shit's for kids in commercials. The real problem happens behind locked bathroom doors in basements that smell like dead drywall. In park cars, with the seats pushed too far back, most of them don't even chew anymore. They call it the rainbow roots or rainbow ramming, or whatever the fuck it's called, they say it hits different, cleaner, faster, more direct. As with all loopers, Johnny Kelly Jr.'s tolerance went through the roof. He said bowls were for civilians, so he made a decision, a bold one, a uh a rear-facing one, so he went the rainbow route. So he went the rainbow route, and that's how my boy, my bloodline, went out. Booty buppin' fruit loops, he was hooping the loops, rainbow ramming, an ass overdose. This section is really hard to get through without laughing. Anyway, the autopsy report, uh well it was uh it was pretty fucked, actually. To be honest, fuck. It wasn't a snack anymore, it wasn't a delicious breakfast cereal packed with a delicious fruity taste, fruity aroma and fun colors, bursting with natural fruit flavors and no artificial colors. Nah, it isn't Saturday morning cartoons and fluorescent milk. It's a market, it's a racket, it's a dependency, it's a plague, it's a quiet little rainbow economy working under the strip malls and hockey arenas. I built this distribution, I shook hands, I greased palms, I broke bones. I did some other stuff too, to be perfectly frank. I probably should admit to it anyway. I made sure every cashier and every cop and every stockboy understood that breakfast could be quiet if everybody kept it simple. Now, it isn't simple. There's a contamination in the shipments, there's a dead kid with my last name, there's a bird-headed ghost who almost got named out loud, and there's a town full of people chasing color through a door that was never meant to be opened. I keep telling myself I'm hunting him, the two can man. But the longer I drive, the more it feels like I'm circling something bigger than a mascot. Something I helped hatch. It was just past midnight when I got back to my basement apartment. Johnny Kelly Jr. had moved in just before I found him with five boxes worth of Fruit Loop shoved up his ass. Now the place was empty again. Which was a good thing, actually. I uh I love my me time, you know. Yeah, it's true. I had really gotten used to Johnny Kelly Jr., but sharing a space, man, that's a tough thing to do, even with your son. You know, basement apartment, especially when he's a looper. Fucking hard to live with, man. I put the new shipping down on the counter. It was possibly lace with fentanyl. Ah, but fuck that, I'll worry about that later. First, I had to finally clean out Johnny Kelly Jr.'s stuff. I've been putting it off since he died. Not at a grief. Let's not get fucking dramatic here. I just don't respond well to chores, you know. Death, now that's tragic, sure. But so is folding laundry. And I've avoided both with equal consistency. Cleaning out Johnny's stuff, now that would require organization. Probably boxes, I don't know. Possibly a garbage bag with structural integrity. That's a lot to ask of a man who just hauled a fresh shipment of contraband cereal across town. Besides, as long as it's sat there, technically I was still uh getting to it. And once it's fucking gone, well you uh you can't be getting to it anymore now, can you? No, you can't. Then it's just done. And I don't rush closure. I pace myself. But I was running out of room to store all these new shipments of food loops. So I was gonna have to clean out his ship regardless. No time like the present. Let me see uh the closet. Alright, Johnny, what you got in your boy? Jesus. Fucking God damn it. Well, of course that just fucking happened. God damn it, Johnny. I thought I'd taught you better than that. Well, I didn't really teach you much of anything now, didn't I? Especially how to keep a closet clean, but still, god damn it, boy. This makes some sense of this shit out of the fucking old trick knee phone down, hang on. Let's see what we got here. We got a box of some kind. Hang on, we got a box, we got a box, hang on here. A box. Oh. My knees felt like two popcans cracking there. Jesus fuck. Anyway, okay. Alright, this one-handed bullshit may not work. I may have to put this phone down, but we'll see. Okay. Some papers fucking everywhere. Okay, um. The box says important stuff. I think it says important stuff. It's written like a fucking child, but you know, so is my son, basically. Um all right, um first thing I see it's an envelope. It says top secret written on it. Top secret. Fucking We got a um looks like a carefully drawn map of the backyard where he had apparently buried a plastic dinosaur by the fucking looks of it. That's pretty cool, you know. Not bad. Good thinking, Johnny. Let's see if this map works out later. I could be a uh paleontologist or a fucking dinosaur doctor, whatever you're called. Anyway, moving on here. We got a uh a rock? It's a rock with the word fossil taped to it. It's definitely not a fossil that he thought it was. Don't still believe in Johnny. Anyway, uh what else we got here? We got a uh moving on a piggy bag. You never know when you're gonna be seventy cents short of a three top and large for 1599, you know what I mean? Alright, what else we got here? Uh we got a sealed zip-lock bag.

SPEAKER_03 24:02

Ridden in the same fucked up hand. Which declares this to be, I guess, his emergency supplies.

SPEAKER_04 24:11

Okay, uh inside we got two fruit snacks, a band-aid, and one single double-A battery. There's a few more things here too. Hang on here. Uh oh yeah. Oh yeah, I thought they were missing. Must have got into my hockey bag full of VHS porn. I thought it felt a little light the last time I moved it. Let me see here, Johnny. Uh, you read the classics, eh? Yep. Just like your old man. Crocodile Dun Me? Yeah. Uh let me see what else here. Uh Saving Ryan's Privates. Indiana Bones. The Raiders of the Lost Ours. That's a good one. Called Friction. Oh my favorite, yeah. My favorite. My childhood. Star Wars. That's a classic, that one right there. What else we got here? Um book. Fucking book. Deconstruction in context. Literature and philosophy. Uh the fuck jelly. Zorin uh. Zorin Kira. Kick a guard. Kick a guard, yeah. Kick a guard, sure. It sounds good to me. Kick a fucking guard. Fride rich. Friday rich, uh. Fride. It's gotta be fried rich. Friday. Friend rich. Nietzsche. Nietzsche. Nietzsche. Needs ja. Spanish Albanian. It's gotta be. Anyway. Put this fucking thing in my face. There's more, there's way more. What the fuck is going on here? Where is he storing all this shit? False walls? Crawl space? Some kind of idiot narnia behind the winter coats? I've never seen any of this shit in my life. He's got uh two cans, a box, a string. What the fuck? Is he trying to make some kind of cardboard switchboard? Got a stamp oh hang on. Hey, whoa, there's that fucking gun. I was Oh, look at that. I was looking for that fucking thing. How about that? Only used three times. I hope the landlord didn't hear that. It's been used four times now. Hope the cops don't come forward. Fuck am I kidding? Of course they're not. Alright, anyway, where the fuck was uh a stamp collection? He's got a a stamp collection of stamps, uh they're actually banana and apple stickers. That's pretty original, if you ask me. Banana apple stickers, that's that's art, Johnny. That's what I call art.

SPEAKER_03 27:06

I got uh uh I got some kind of half-finished invention. It says invention made of popsicle sticks.

SPEAKER_04 27:15

Got a rubber band, spoon, got a plastic shit on it, and written on a popsicle stick says automatic serial pour. Didn't go too well for you, did it, Johnny? Let me see what else here. Got a survival kit for a sleepover survival kit. What the fuck is going on around this house? We got a survival kit for a sleepover. Yeah, survival kit. Got a flashlight. Some gummy bears here. And a handwritten map of his own house. Fucking idiot. And it looks like a uh tiny award certificate he made for himself here. Best entrepreneur, age twenty. I see he was excited about our father-son startup called Mobile Muscle or Mobile Muscle, whatever the fuck. Yeah, it was gonna be a father-son personal training team that would take you in an Uber to the studio and then take you back home, honestly. We were both very excited about it. Best entrepreneur, age 20. Age 20, age goddamn it, Johnny Kelly Jr. 20. I mean, that's when it hit me. Holy shit. Twenty, twenty years old. This wasn't nostalgia. This isn't some memory box from grade four. This is fucking current inventory. I should be furious or embarrassed or something, I don't know, but standing here in this fucking god damn it. Avalanche are half-built worlds in imaginary promotions. Uh, he didn't have a bad molecule in his body. Bloody useless ones, it's not a bad one. I push deeper on the back of the closet. Pass a serial pouring device, pass a taxis jar. Expecting balloon animals, maybe a fucking night helmet made from tin foil. Then it wasn't his closet anymore.

SPEAKER_03 29:13

It was something older.

SPEAKER_04 29:15

Something familiar. And before I even knew. Those weren't his. They were mine. It was my childhood stuff. In his closet. And I don't even remember putting this shit here. What the fuck is going on here? I don't know what he saw when he opened this stuff up. I don't know what he learned about me. Maybe he was measuring. Maybe he was comparing. Maybe I'm about to do the same thing. Let me see here. There's a big cardboard box with a word written on top of it. Secrets. Yeah, I recognize that handwriting. It was my handwriting from when I was a boy. Hasn't changed much, so very easy to recognize, you know. Secrets. Yeah, I'm sure I had a few. Let's see what qualified. Box here, hang on. Gonna put the phone down again, goddammit. I flipped the lid open. Try to anyway. Must have a lot of secrets. Oh yeah. Secrets. Now the memories came flooding back like the power coming back on after an outage. Every light at once. Yeah, this was definitely my shit. Or maybe it wasn't. Maybe it belonged to half the houses on the street. Back when I was a kid. I didn't collect things. I relocated them. Alrighty, here we get uh a single mismatch sock from every house. That's not weird. That's uh all the left shoes from a family shoe rack. It's not weird at all. It's like fuck. God damn it. Single darts, each from different sets. But I fucked up somebody's Tuesday night. How about that? What else here now? Every remote control from the street. Yeah. But I left all the TVs and stereos behind. How about that? Uh TV power cords, but never the TVs either. I did some weird shit. I know uh that's not weird at all. What am I talking about? Frame family photos, but only ones that look really, really awkward. Also not weird. Okay. Got uh one page from every cookbook. Got a pancake recipe from one. Got a meatloaf recipe from the other. That's not weird. Uh what else here? Instruction manuals for appliances. Not mine though, that's not weird. Fake fruit from decorative bowls. Yeah, those are pretty big back in the day. That's not weird. Let me see what else here. Uh got uh what's it be like? Yeah, a bunch of kitchen. kitchen cabinet knobs. It's not weird. What else we got here? Oh, look at that. It's a Jesse Barfield baseball card. Man, I fucking love Jesse Barfield. Best time in the majors. What else here? We got uh one specific Lego piece, it looks like, from a huge set, making, I guess, the model impossible to complete. Little bastard prick I was. Let me see what else here we got a uh appears to be a alright, yeah. This was the final piece of the puzzle that was never meant to be finished. Satisfaction denied, let's see here. Looks like I'd like to inconvenience people now, didn't I? But there was more. There was a lot more. It's just we got here. Got a uh Got a stack of spare house keys. Each each key is Yeah, it's tagged with masking tape and a last name. That's not weird at all, no. Got a uh sandwich bag filled with uh cutout signatures. Not weird. Okay. Three social insurance cards, not weird. Pages torn from the middle of family photo albums. Not the pictures, just the uh appears to be the handwritten captions. No, not weird at all. I don't know why. This box is so secretive anyway. Uh bunch of membership cards from National Video. Got uh emergency contact. Oh yeah, the emergency contact list when the the confirm that used to put them inside the the kitchen cupboard. I don't know if they still do that or not anyway. Lint from every dryer stored and labeled baggies. That's not weird at all. Nope. I got a appear to have a tiny vial. A tiny vial labeled Dust from Neighbors Vacuum. Not weird, not weird at all. Prescription labels, but uh not the prescriptions. Probably would have done that differently today, but whatever, I was just a kid. I was experimenting. And that's not weird either. Not a weird thing to do. Let's see what else we got here. Um Answering machine tapes. No, not weird. A burner from a stove. Alright, that's that's fucking weird, I will admit to that. That is pretty fucking weird. What the tease? Oh yeah. A book. That's right, a book. A book called Michelle Remembers that I stole from my babysitter in 1981. Pretty fucked up book, too. Pretty cool too. I read it about six times. And then my fingers lingered on one in particular. Warden scuffed. The last thing the boy down the street had owned before he vanished. And I was twelve. And they blamed a stranger, an adult for what had happened. And I'd only ever been a child, and yet looking at it now, decades later, every line, every label, every acquisition whispered a single, terrible possibility. A quiet, patient knowledge that I had already begun learning the rules no one ever teaches. I closed the lid. Hang on, this is taking longer than I thought it would. I slid the box back into the dark. Hang on, gotta put the phone down to do that. My back hurts today. There are only so many ghosts you can inventory in one night. I think it was time to notify the deceased mother. I think it was time for a night ride. Then scattered like metal scars, ugly, stubborn, and ready to take me somewhere I probably shouldn't fucking go, but uh whatever it. The deceased mother, Angel Dubois. My god. This was totally gonna suck it. I mean, even more than normal. She's a handful on a good day, let alone on the one I tell her her only son died Rambo Reming Fenton on lace fruit loose. Uh, I'm totally gonna hear about it too. She's gonna blame it all on me. Call me a shitty father. Tell me I should have watched out for more blah blah blah. Like I don't feel enough guilt. Actually, I don't feel enough guilt. Uh, she would be right there. I don't feel guilt. My prefrontal cortex won't let me. Especially the uh the ventral medial part, it's called. That sucker doesn't fire at all. Seriously, though, I really can't feel remorse or consequences for any of my actions. That's kind of fascinating, really. Uh it is an actual condition, so it's not my fault. I have a disease. Actually, they call it a disorder, but uh either way, it ain't my fucking fault. Nothing is. Besides, the dead don't blame. Or maybe they do. I don't really know. Historically, this area has caused me a lot of confusion. Uh, you know what the dead can and cannot do. Uh now I have heard that dead people can still grow hair and fingernails. That's what I heard anyway. I've got no idea if it's true when I was a kid. I heard you could lose a nut when you're hopping a fence, so uh I never really bothered to find out. Uh fuck it. Fuck this shit. I'm going to the googler. Ah, fuck. God damn it. Shit. Hang on, fuck. Alright, alright, let me see here. I'm at the old googler. The fucking the rat's not working. The rat? Is it the rat or the fucking or the mouse? Fucking shit. Fucking shit. You weren't supposed to hear that. Okay, okay. I mean, do the dead ooh. Some fucked up people out there, man. No, I don't wanna know that. I don't wanna wanna know that at all. For Christ's sake, Jesus, fuck. Do the dead still grow hair and finger nails after the dead have been dead for if well if they're dead. If they're dead, alright. Let me hit the rat here and see what happens. And um no. How about that? No, fuck, I've been lied to. According to the Googler, hair and fingernails do not continue to grow after death. Uh this is a common belief. This common belief is a this common belief is a myth based on an optical illusion caused by postmortem dehydration, huh? Yeah. As the body loses moisture, the skin dries out and shred okay, yeah, alright. Pulling back from the nails and hair, which makes them appear longer or more prominent. Okay, that makes fucking sense, right? Still kind of disappointed, you know that son of a bitch. I thought it was true the whole time. I thought it was pretty cool. What about their teeth? What the f yeah, they got teeth, don't they? They lose their teeth. Do the dead people lose their teeth when they're dead. After they're dead, uh Okay.

unknown 41:45

Uh oops. Woo.

SPEAKER_04 41:50

Well, wrong website. Woo, anyway. Okay, oh, there's the one, okay. Dead people do not typically lose their teeth immediately after death, okay? As teeth are the are the hardest substance in the human body and are generally resistant to the decomposition process. Process process process Fuck it. Well the the soft tissues of the gums and cheeks decay. It's kinda teeth often remain attached to the jawbone, which is why they are frequently found in skeletons. Alright, so what, they fucking eventually lose them? They don't lose them immediately after death, but maybe later on. Huh? Ah, fuck this shit, man. Back to my nut ride. Not ride's clear what's left of my mind. This is when I do all of my thinking. Whatever the fuck you want to call it. I basically just drive around listening to cool music, naming streets as they pass me by. Like Patterson, Alexander, Carlson, Ashton, Leslie, thinking random superficial thoughts that are often really fucking weird. You know, like what dead people can and cannot do. Then I start naming a bunch of names off. Dead people mostly. All of them, actually. People whose deaths I may or may not have been responsible for, but anyway. People like Mendoza, Mendoza Jr., Mendoza Jr. Jr., whatever the fuck is name. Look, I never really did find out. Spadino, College Boy, Ramirez, Johnny Kelly, and Johnny Kelly Jr. God damn it, Johnny Kelly Jr. Why? I mean, I know why you were booty bupping fruit loops laced with fentanyl. Fuck. Yeah, that'll do the trick on anybody. But still, why? Why indeed? That's the first thing I'm gonna be asked when I get. To Kingston, the Kingston Prison for Women, the P4W Angel Dubois, the mother of my late son, is locked up in there doing a life stretch for putting a blast on three men. It might be my fault. Uh, don't really know. You heard what I was saying earlier about my prefrontal cortex. I do have a disease, you know. Anyway, the whole thing was my idea. She did use my gun, which I do have on me right now. The uh the new market cops still haven't taken it from me. Or even mention it. So, uh, whatever I guess, uh Johnny Kelly Jr. The name rolls past like a car without headlights. I don't feel what they think I should, no ache, no tremble, just a shadow brushing the edge of something I can't name. I feel the sway of the car more than anything else. The engine breathing under me, the tires whispering secrets in Moore's code. I peeled off onto the eastbound 401 and pointed toward Kingston. 222 kilometers of weird, random, superficial thoughts you probably don't ever want to hear later. I took the Sir John A. McDonald exit and rolled through the quiet streets for another five and a half kilometers, and then it appeared. The Kingston Prison for Women. The P-4W, home of Angel Face Dubois, murderer of three men, and the mother of Johnny Kelly Jr., my dumbass dead son. The P-4W rose out of the dark like a concrete box that had been set down and never questioned. Blank walls, blunt corners, a drained, tired white that looked like the dust off someone's bones in a coat of paint. No drama, no grandeur, just straight walls, square windows, and the heavy silence of women doing time. I can never make it through this line without laughing. And the heavy silence of women doing time. I got out of the car and stepped into the night air. The place didn't make a sound. No shouting, no movement. Just a building sitting there holding everything in like a fat man at the beach. The front door was thick glass and steel. I pulled it open and stepped inside. A long hallway stretched out under tired fluorescent lights. The color was institution gray. My footsteps echoed ahead of me, like the place was warning someone I was coming. The guard was the same as last time. He gave me a uh bit of a hassle the first time around, but not this time. He let me walk right by without making eye contact. Episode 62, near the end, check it out. You'll understand why. She's there the instant I round the corner. The glass between us catches the light at the wrong angle, but I don't need to see her fully to know. Her eyes are sharp, bright, wild. The kind of look that could slice steel. Not just anger. Something colder, meaner. The fury of a mother who's lost a son, all focused into a single jagged edge. Her jaws tight, lips pressed thin, corners pulled down in a line that doesn't allow for mercy. Shoulders squared, hands clenched on the table like she's ready to punch to the glass if it wasn't in the way. Her eyes locked on me. They didn't widen, they didn't blink, and they didn't ask. They already held the answer. The news had beaten me here. Prisons have their own telegraph system. No wires, no phones, just whispers, crawling through the walls like insects. One woman hears something in the yard, another hears it in the laundry room, another picks it up through the food slot during count. By the time it reaches the visiting room, it isn't a rumor anymore. It's a verdict. I check her expression again. It's not uh grief, whatever the fuck that looks like, not exactly. It's something sharper, a hard, raw intensity that pins you where you stand. I can feel it across the empty space, heavy as concrete. The kind of fury that waits for you to speak, but already has the answer. Time slows. The glass vibrates with her fury. Her eyes don't move, but they cut, tracing every inch of me, measuring, judging, ready to strike. I know she already knows. The P4W grapevine doesn't lie. And then she breaks it.

SPEAKER_00 48:41

Well, look at you. You think you get to stolen here and carry the news like a gift?

SPEAKER_04 48:46

I'm not carrying anything. You already know. I see it in your face. Which, by the way, looks a hell of a lot different without makeup on. I mean, what the fuck, lady? I had a kid with you. Did you look like this when we met? Good god. I thought people at least worked out in here or something.

SPEAKER_00 49:02

Oh, that's rich. You swagger into a prison looking like a deflected balloon animal. And you're cracking wires on me.

SPEAKER_04 49:10

Her eyes rake over me slowly, deliberately, like a butcher deciding when it starts.

SPEAKER_00 49:17

What happened to you? Well, you look like a guy who just lost a fight with a coward.

SPEAKER_04 49:21

I leaned forward against the glass, still prettier than you.

SPEAKER_00 49:28

Uber right.

SPEAKER_04 49:32

Her eyes narrow with satisfaction.

SPEAKER_00 49:37

But if you asking strangers if they want people, taken for a five-star rating.

SPEAKER_04 49:42

At least I'm on the outside.

SPEAKER_00 49:44

Yeah. Look how well that's going for you. Long letters, pages, and pages. Even though the boy could barely write, I mean it was really hard to read. But he was real proud of you, too.

SPEAKER_04 49:58

I think back to all the fucked up shit he had in his closet and the childlike diagrams he drew for our father's son's startup business.

SPEAKER_00 50:05

He told me all about the big plan, you know. Are you two geniuses? We're gonna start a gym.

SPEAKER_04 50:10

Wasn't it gym? It was a training studio. Personal training combined with ride sharing. It was called mobile muscle or mobile muscle or whatever the fuck. We drive you to the studio in my Uber, give you a workout, and then take you home. It was perfect. We had a fucking business plan and everything. Even at some foreign investment lounge up.

SPEAKER_00 50:30

But excuse me. Ooh, a training studio. Personal training, right? You yelling at sucker moms while Johnny counts reps.

SPEAKER_04 50:38

Yeah, something like that. Look, you ever try building a clientless lady in this economy? It's a tough record. I even shot someone over it. Episode 51, check it out. The other girls tell you about that. Who the fuck are these girls anyway? Let these run-down sad sacks rotten away with you in here?

SPEAKER_00 50:57

The girls? But those are my girls. My crew. The pink beepers.

SPEAKER_04 51:03

Huh? Well, the fucking what? The the pink sneakers? But the pink sweepers? Hang on, you say the pink beepers? The pink beepers? What is this? A fucking death squad or the geek squad? What's going on around here?

SPEAKER_00 51:15

Reapers.

SPEAKER_04 51:18

Oh, Reapers. The Pink Reapers. Decade is this? What is this? Fucking Greece or something? Where's Laverne and Shirley?

SPEAKER_00 51:27

Yeah, the Pink Reapers. Kitty LaRue, Daddy Duval, Rosie Malone, Lola Lamont, Goldie Gellows, and me, Angel Dubois. Lethal brand. All business. Don't let the colors fool you.

SPEAKER_04 51:43

Lethal? Colors? What fucking colors? Ah, hang on, is that why you got that pink bandana wrapped around your wrist? I thought it was one of those fucking hair scrunchy things. Never understood what they did. But it looks like you could use one right now.

SPEAKER_00 51:59

Those are my colors. You watch it, Brad.

SPEAKER_04 52:02

Yeah, I am. I'm watching you unravel.

SPEAKER_00 52:04

We don't dress for anyone but ourselves. Kitty and Rosie handle muscle. Daddy handles accounting. Lola keeps things precise. And Goldie manages logistics. And I run the whole operation. Everyone knows their place.

SPEAKER_04 52:19

Yeah, you forgot Pinky Tuscadero, but good to know who I'm dealing with here. Now I can figure out which one I'm supposed to charm and which one I'm supposed to not. Sounds like Dottie to be honest.

SPEAKER_00 52:32

But you won't charm anyone in here. All you do is I say. And you remember the name. The pink sneaker. Reaper, reaper, pink, reaper teachers. Brad.

SPEAKER_04 52:42

She says, changing the topic. I would too if I was her. This conversation really wasn't going well for Fast Bobby or Fast Bobby for Blue Poe.

SPEAKER_00 52:52

Well, it's fucking an easier fate. You use them right. And the two-can man walks straight into the trap. Follow my lead. Play my game. Well, you get everything you need from the inside. But one misstep.

SPEAKER_04 53:05

Alright, stop you right there. Misstep. I don't do missteps. Bobby's walking right where I want. And he bites where I planned. Just like you said. Her eyes soften just a fraction. The tidiest crack in the steel.

SPEAKER_00 53:20

Fanny. Hey he believed in your brand. He thought you were one of the good guys.

SPEAKER_04 53:25

Yeah, he was a fucking idiot now, wasn't he? He thought the world worked like his backyard. Like it was all rules and fairness and fucking serial. He didn't know a thing about this side of it. Didn't have to.

SPEAKER_00 53:38

Body's your bait. You move him right, you get the two-can man. The two-can man. But it's just such a funny name. It's just so ridiculous.

SPEAKER_04 53:51

Fuck, I know. Tell me about it, right? I can barely save myself without doing a spit take. But I'm gonna kill the fucker anyway.

SPEAKER_00 53:58

You kill that fucker anyway, Brad.

SPEAKER_04 54:01

Uh yeah, I just said that. Fuck. Jesus lady. Yeah, I'm sure the pig sweepers and their pastel post-it notes will have you have to speed before I even leave the room. Speaking of which, look at the time, you look at that. Actually, I wouldn't do that if I were you, Angel. You got way too much of that in here. I'll talk to you later, baby. I got a bird to catch. The door opens, and the Kingston night hits me like a wet sheet. Cold and sharp. My lungs fill with the kind of air that makes you wear your live, but not necessarily happy about it. Cornelius's 2002 Pontiac Sunfire waits out front. Its unfortunate owner, still in the trunk. Fuck. Good thing it's February and he's frozen stiff. I got no idea when I'm gonna be able to get rid of him. Or where, that's probably more important. Anyway, Cornelius doesn't mind. He stopped complaining the last time he picked me up here. And right now he's not too picky about who's behind the wheel. I slide into the driver's seat. The engine cops awake. The streets are empty, quiet, too quiet. The city yawns around me, indifferent to the body tucked into my trunk and the plan crawling through my head. Fast Bobby Food Lupo. The Toucan Man. Sorry. The pink sweepers, or whatever they were fucking called. Plans, traps, stratagems, and spoils, bait. All of it folded together like some horrible origami. I'm supposed to finish. I shift the car on the drive, headlights sliced through the darkness, tracing the snow slit pavement back to Newmarket. Somewhere upstream, the river runs. I follow.