The ACG Short Story Collection

Damn this all, sitting in the dark, maybe the train will never move again, and I will be stuck in this city's concrete bowels for all eternity. What would become of my family? Who would be there to keep the little woman, Sharon, in line? Who would discipline our children, Ester and Lester, who has a hand as firm as mine? Who will show them the path of righteousness and the price for sinning? Sharon would never remarry, she learnt her lesson from the last time she tried to live without me, I'm sure of it. No, she'd keep the home fires burning, candle in the window, until the lord returns to the manor.

I hear something close by, a sickening sound. I cannot pinpoint it yet, it is certainly nearby. Wheezing, gurgling, laughing, singing all from the same source. I can smell him from here, and I know his species. A drunken, homeless old bum, wallowing in his own filth, which is conveniently located on everything he is wearing. His beard is one entity, one thing, hanging solid from the underside of his head. The smell is...interesting, to say the most, he reeks of the gutter, the street, the garbage can, the latrine, a truly vile stench. How I hate them! Vermin that try to make my city ugly with their presence, with their apathy, their laziness, their lack of moral fibre, their inability to conform and be productive members of society. If only the government would do something about them now, rather than later, as I know they will have to. One day a wise Conservative government will realise that we the people, the true citizens of this state, are sick of it, sick of them, and will finally listen to us regarding that what needs to be done. Those that don't contribute, should be made to contribute, in any way possible. It is amazing how valuable one person, more importantly, one body can be to science.

Is it righteous indignation I feel, or some sense of superiority? How else can we acknowledge what the difference is between us? If I see myself as having anything in common with these people, these beggars and lazy thieves, am I not then opening the door to being seen as being no better? The moment I allow the words, "There but for the grace of God go I" into my head, I become less in my own eyes, and the eyes of God. No, it is they who are wrong.

It is not even sitting in a seat, sprawled between two benches on the floor, laughing, clapping its hands, singing and talking to itself in gibberish. He sits quietly, smiling, staring heavenwards as if at God, twenty seconds elapse and then he gets the cosmic joke and starts clapping his hands in a rhythm known only by him or Him. Repeat ad infinitum. Madness, I feel something even stronger than righteous indignation. It is this growing horror that reminds me of the divine purpose before me.

I stand up, the 3 iron clutched so tightly in my left hand that my hand strains white, the knuckles crack, I slowly stride towards him.

"Got a smoke?" He sees me, he is not blind. A voice destroyed by decades of the vilest booze. His clothes are older than I am, with stains and dirt dating back to the Depression. Closer, he reeks of something dead a long time. One of his eyes is milky white from cataracts, the other bleary yet blue. What teeth he has left are broken and blackened, covered in a grainy, grey slime. It is all I can do to keep down the McDonald's meal I had for lunch.

"No, old man, I have something better. Divine retribution. So sayeth the Lord." His glance shifts from my stern face to the golf club held aloft in my hand, like the sword of a vengeful angel. He knows what is coming, and its inevitability, he cannot escape.

"But I haven't done anything wrong!" The fresh reek of sulphur, in fear or out of habit, he has pissed himself. As his urine creeps towards me, I know that if I had any doubts before, they are long gone, as is this wreck's mind.

"It's too late for that now."

"Don't hit me, you can't hit me! I'm old enough to be your father." There is a light in those eyes, fairly dim but still present. This is no reason to stop, of course.

"Probably old enough to be my grandad, actually, but if my pops was as repulsive as you are, I'd have to do the same thing. For the family's sake, of course." I take a few swings to loosen up my arm, wouldn't want to tear anything in my shoulder over a waste of space like this. I know the golf club in my hand will be ruined, that's $648 down the gurgler, but it will be worth it, and we have to make sacrifices for the good of the community, don't we?

I stare at him, square into that grimy thing he calls a face. You need adrenalin to do something like this properly, the longer I look at him and allow his stench to assault me like this, the more the fury builds, cold though it is. Nothing can stay my hand from this course of action.

"Have you no shame, making a fool of yourself like this in public? Scaring the children, making the ladies blush?" I feel something akin to compassion, almost merciful in the meting out of justice, a teacher punishing his wayward pupil for his own good and the good of the other children.

"Why do you drink so much, old man?" At least I am giving him the chance to explain himself before I start. The graciousness and fairness of Solomon, certainly more than he deserves.

"Too many bad memories. The drink blanks me head so I can forget. Now I can't remember what memories I was trying to get away from." He laughs as only old drunks can, more of a gurgle and a gasp than human laughter. A horrible sound. I begin, the club swings back over my left shoulder, I hold it there, feeling my body twisted in this way, and I like the feeling of power. I swing, ever downwards, telling myself to remember the follow-through.

"This is going to hurt you far more than it's going to hurt me, old man."

Musical quality as it flies. Connecting solidly with flesh, he whimpers, cries, tears pouring down his dirty cheeks, leaving paler skin with their passing. It makes a strange sound, like dropping a soft peach onto concrete from a height. Fear rises within me, of what I have no idea, I swing again, and again before the fear takes over and stays my hand. I get a good rhythm going, ignoring all sounds except my heartbeat and the swing of the club. Around me there is absolute silence, a vacuum created by the collective intake of breath. I can't breathe, so I stop. The only sound I can hear now is vague echoes through the tunnels, the homeless wreck is wrecked at my feet, unmoving and quiet, finally. My work here is done.

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