REUNION
It was around this time that the scene started to fall apart. Marlene and Strum got further into drugs and Tracks was closed. The Oven hadn't put on a decent show in about a year. Rusty was finishing high school and Six had dropped out to go live with Karl in Cork Town, this neighborhood downtown. The skinheads were running the scene and most people weren't hanging out anymore because there were too many fights. Gacey kept the house open, though. He tried to schedule a few gigs for Zodiac here and there, but nothing really ever came of it. One night, Church decided to have a reunion and Spooky got jumped in the parking lot. That's when it all ended, really. No one knew why, but no one really asked.
Tim sat outside the peepshow watching the fags go in and out and cruise each other. His car was warm and the bottle of whiskey in his crotch kept him even warmer. He drank and listened to the Dead Boys on the cassette deck. He watched, and he waited. It was new for him, but he was into it, and it was a kind of guilty pleasure.
A kid of about twenty came out of the peepshow. This is the one he'd been waiting for. To Tim, the kid was about fourteen. The kid wore tight jeans ripped at both knees and a black leather jacket. Black boots tromped through the frozen remains of yesterday's snow. Tim followed him with his eyes. The kid got into a car and started it up. He pulled out; Tim followed. The Dead Boys belted out of the stereo: There ain't nothin' to do; Gonna beat up the next hippie I see; Maybe I'll be beatin' up you; Look out, baby here I come; Yeah, Punch out. The kid turned onto 8 Mile and headed east, then made the first right to circle around the peepshow. This meant that he was cruising. Tim followed. They drove across the main street and headed back east just north of 8 Mile. After a couple of blocks the kid stopped his car. Tim sat behind him, idling. No one was moving. Tim turned off the cassette deck and reached under him. He set the bottle of whiskey next to him on the passenger seat. He got out of his car and walked up to the kid's. The kid rolled down his window. Tim noticed instantly that the kid had a scar under his left eye. "Where'd you get that?" Tim blurted.
"What?" the kid asked.
"The scar," Tim replied, annoyed.
"Oh," the kid said, "I fell out of a tree when I was a kid."
"But you are a kid," Tim insisted.
"I'm twenty-three," the kid replied.
"You are?" Tim asked
"Yeah," the kid said, looking up into Tim from his car window. "How old are you?"
"Old enough to know better," Tim mocked as he brought his right had out from behind his back. Tim drove the ice-pick into the kids left eye and swirled it around as much as he could. The kid let out a scream. Tim looked nervously in either direction. There was no one. He pushed back on the ice-pick, forcing the kid to fall into the car. Tim opened the door and jumped on top of the kid. He removed the ice-pick from the kid's eye and quickly jabbed it into the other eye a few times. This time, Tim held his hand over the kid's mouth. The kid kicked and screamed, but Tim had him muffled.
Tim pulled the ice-pick out of the kid's face and kicked at the kid's crotch. Scrambling for a rag that Tim had tucked in his back pocket, Tim shoved it into the kid's mouth and back down into his throat. The kid began to gag and scratch at the seat to reach his face. Tim had locked the kid's hands with his weight, but the kid was able to wiggle them free. He clawed blindly at his face and at Tim. The faggot was thrashing freely and uncontrollably. Tim began to panic. He was having a hard time controlling the situation. In his drunk, he thought he'd just stab the kid a few times and he'd be limp. But the kid kept jerking and groping spasmodically. Then, from down the block, Tim spotted some headlights. He had to finish this job and get the door to the car shut before the oncoming vehicle reached them. If they were the police, Tim was fucked.
Tim began to punch the kid in the face repeatedly with all his might. The soft squish of the kid's flesh ripped open under Tim's pummeling. Tim cut his fist badly on some teeth. Both he and the kid were bleeding. Tim reached behind him and grabbed at the door shut, sitting as upright as possible in the driver's seat. The oncoming car rolled past without a glitch. It wasn't a cop. Tim turned to the kid, red and unrecognizable, and frowned. The face was mangled. Tim took the ice-pick and spread the kid's legs.
"I'm not even going to bother to look at you," Tim said darkly. He raised the pick and let it puncture the kid's groin. The kid was pushed back and what was left of his head hit the passenger door of the car. The ice-pick jabbed at the kid's groin until his jeans were crimson. Tim dropped the weapon, turned off the car engine, and opened the driver's side door. He got out and slammed the door shut, making sure to lock the car up tight.
Back in his own car, Tim turned the cassette deck back on. The Dead Boys whined: Big city, ain't too pretty; Big city, nice and loud; Big city, don't want no pity; Big city, It's one big crowd. Tim took off his gloves and threw them into the glove box. He grabbed the whiskey next to him and took a swig. He was going to leave this one as it was. "This is what I feel like," he thought as he threw the car into drive, capped the whiskey, and headed to the Church reunion.
