Fresh Meat

Fresh Meat

         Burt sat on the cold tiles of the subway station, pretending to be drunk.  The strong smell of alcohol and urine emanating from his clothes enhanced the illusion.  A bottle of cheap whiskey made the perfect cologne.  A ratty jacket, torn up jeans, a dark ball cap, an old pair of tennis shoes, and some cheap sunglasses helped hide his true appearance.  Burt sat against the wall with a cardboard sign that said, “PLEASE HELP” written none too neatly and a Styrofoam cup with a small amount of change in it.  These completed the quintessential homeless drunk look.

         He checked his watch.  It was about a quarter till three.  He usually arrived around 2:30 for his afternoon “shift”, well before the commuters or tourists.  He still had some time.  He rubbed his eyes and sighed.  He was tired.  The morning shift felt like it was getting earlier and earlier.  Waking up at 3:00 in the morning to make it to the station before the first commuters was getting old, much like Burt.  But it had to be done.  It was no good if people saw you coming and going from a subway station and you were homeless.  Where would a homeless person be going anyway?  The illusion would be shattered and he would be noticed.  To be noticed was to be remembered.  To be remembered was to become a suspect.  To be a suspect, well, that would not do.  Burt needed to be a fixture.  Much like the ubiquitous graffiti on the subway walls.  Seen but ignored.  That was how he managed to be as successful as he had been.  Burt had never been identified by anyone as a suspect, much less the perpetrator.  That was the beauty of being homeless.  Nobody remembered them, because nobody looked at them.

         If he had made a decent score in the morning he would be in a bar right now, rested, showered, drinking, and celebrating.  Unfortunately, the morning shift had been futile, so he had to come back for the evening.  That sucked.  Burt hated working in the evenings.  The evening was the more uncertain time of day for him.  People were more aware, more aggressive in the evening.  Their day was done, they wanted to get home, and they did not let much get in their way.  In the morning, however, they were thinking of all the things they had to get done during the day or in the case of tourists, what places they were going to visit.  It was always better for Burt when they were preoccupied and unaware. 

         Since the station was still empty, he stood up and stretched to clear his mind.  People would be leaving work soon.  The beginning and end of rush hour was the best time for Burt.  Prime hunting time.  Before and after the main mass of humanity pushed through the subway in a lemming-like migration for home.  It was no good when it was too busy.  He could only watch the herd of people move by, protected by their sheer numbers.  Burt could only operate when there were a few people on the platform.  One was obviously best.  A solitary victim was easy.  However, he could be just as successful with up to five people.  It was interesting, when the station was crowded, people would press up against each other, waiting for the next train.  But the fewer people there were, the farther apart they stood.  They never stood near each other unless they had to.  The more space they could take, the more space they did take.  If there were five people on the platform, they would inevitably be spaced far apart.  Also, most people really wouldn’t risk anything for a stranger.  If Burt was pestering someone for some money, everyone else was just glad it wasn’t him or her.
 
         As people came down the stairs to the platform, he scanned for suitable targets.  He was a hunter and enjoyed the thrill of the hunt.  There was nothing quite like the search for fresh meat.  As any good hunter, he looked for the easy targets, those smaller, older, or weaker than he.  It was the natural order of things.  They called it survival of the fittest in high school.  He snorted a laugh.  It was one of the few things he remembered from high school.  But then, predators always interested him.  Even as a child, he would be fascinated by the nature shows on TV.  He loved to watch how they were able to make the kill, using both strength and stealth.  Burt used to think that wolves were the best.  They knew how to work together.
 
         He even tried to imitate them in a gang he formed when he was a teenager, imaginatively called “The Pack”.  As the leader, Burt based “The Pack’s” techniques after the methods of wolves.  They picked out a target and tried to maneuver them into a position where they could be persuaded to surrender their money.  It actually worked a few times, thanks more to dumb luck than anything else.  Unfortunately, their luck gave out and it was not long before they were standing in front of a judge.  Burt was fingered as the leader and instigator by the rest of his gang.  His friends, having sold him out, got to go home.  Burt got to go to Juvee.  He learned an important lesson that day.  Trust no one.  When he got to Juvee, he was determined not to waste his time.  So, he read and studied and observed.  Burt realized that a wolf pack was not the proper model for him.  Wolves could always count on all other members of the pack.  And wolves would not turn on each other.  It was the solitary predators, like the leopard or tiger that Burt realized he should emulate.  They were the experts in their craft, just like Burt meant to be.  They knew the strengths, weaknesses, and habits of their prey, and so Burt tried to do the same.

         The sound of footsteps jolted him back into the present.  Burt sat down on the floor, looking toward the stairs.  In a few minutes, a woman, a little less than five foot tall, probably pushing sixty, walked past him and onto the platform.  She was nearly as wide as she was tall.  She had one of those black laptop bags on her shoulder in addition to her purse.  She also had the look of familiar resignation that said she had ridden the subway for years.  That was good.  Burt did not like tourists.  They made him nervous.  Tourists, curious about the city they were visiting, tended to be observant.  They almost always traveled in groups and were therefore hard to surprise.  Moreover, since they normally carried a lot of cash, they were inclined to resist Burt more than locals.  Also, some people from other parts of the country would fight at a drop of a hat, not realizing that Burt could kill them.  Moreover, they noticed things that regulars were numb to, when all Burt wanted to do was blend in.   
The woman went to the far end of the platform and stared down the tunnel.  He listened.  He could not hear any other footsteps.  He stared at her.  Fireplug.  That was her name.  Burt always made a name for his victim.  For whatever reason, he found it humorous to make up cartoon names for them.  Burt stood up and scouted out Fireplug.  Some years ago, Burt would have run across the station, knocked her down, grabbed the purse and run off.  After he was released from Juvee, Burt initially relied on his speed and strength.  He would prowl the streets, spot his victim, and at the opportune moment, knock them down for some easy money.  That worked pretty well for a while.  He was nearly six foot, lean, sinewy, and fast.  Unfortunately, Burt was not always the best judge of who might be an easy target.  He tried to mug some guy, who although smaller than Burt, ended up knowing some kind of martial arts.  This guy was able to toss Burt around the street with impunity.  Luckily he hadn’t called the cops, so all Burt got was a real nasty beating.  However, Burt learned his lesson.
 
         Being older and possibly wiser, he preferred to trap his victim.  People reacted differently if they felt trapped.  Out of the subway and in the open, they might fight, run, or scream for help.  People had options.  There always seemed to be other people around who might offer assistance. In the confines of the subway, however, people more easily succumbed to their fear.  Fear was the key.  The subway tunnels, which seemed open and spacious in normal circumstances, could create a claustrophobic feeling of helplessness in the intended victim.  They would feel as if they had no options.  They could not run.  The acoustics made screaming for help almost pointless.  Their only options were to submit to Burt or to fight back.  Burt did not want to have to fight.  That took time and energy.  Blood was extremely difficult to totally remove from clothing.  And there was nothing like blood on your clothes to flag you to the subway cops.  In order to prevent any fights, the intended victim had to believe that Burt would hurt them badly if they did not comply.  To emphasize that point, Burt kept some knives in the pockets of his ratty jacket.  Knives were very persuasive items.  Better than guns, Burt thought.

         Guns had an interesting effect on people.  Although a gun was obviously a more deadly weapon than a knife, the gun was not as convincing.  For whatever reason, some people did not believe that you would really use the gun.  They could not believe that someone would shoot them for what was in their wallet.  They were correct when it came to Burt.  Not that he had any trouble hurting people, it was just that state law added considerable time to the sentence if a handgun was used in a crime.  When Burt added that to the noise the gun made when used, it just made more sense to use a knife.  Knives are silent, never jam, do not require ammunition, and are very intimidating.  People never doubted that Burt would cut them.  The ability of the knife to make a non-fatal wound was a great asset to Burt.  Normally, all he had to do was let the victim see the knife.  Burt would wield the knife in his hand to let the blade glisten in the incandescent lights of the subway as he approached his victim.

         Most of the time, all Burt needed to say was “wallet” and the victim would throw their wallet at him and back away.  However, some would put up a fight.  That made Burt angry.  All he wanted was the cash and credit cards and he would be gone.  He did not want to have to fight over it.  But if he did, he would win.  If the victim tried to fight, Burt would slash with the knife to back them up against a wall.  That was usually enough.  Sometimes he would cut them just for resisting his initial demand.  If the victim was unyielding, he cut them.  Sometimes, he cut them bad.  The more they stood up to him, the more he cut.  He rarely followed the news, so he never knew if anyone died.  It wouldn’t have been his fault anyway.  They shouldn’t have fought back.

         Burt picked up his cup and began slowly walking towards Fireplug.  Burt had a few different approaches, depending on the situation.  For most people, he pretended to panhandle, coughing all the while.  The coughing made his victim believe Burt was sick and therefore weak and harmless.  Also most women would naturally back away from someone who looked so ill.  So, Burt could easily maneuver them into a corner, away from prying eyes. As he approached Fireplug, he began shaking his cup.  He was counting on her guard being down, since he was not trying to be stealthy.  The woman tried to ignore him, hoping he would go away.  This was the most common reaction to the homeless.  People without anything usually got discouraged easily.  However, Burt did not.  He had the cup in his left hand and put his right hand in his pocket and grabbed his switchblade just in case she needed some convincing.  He started coughing and sniffing when he was about twenty feet away from her.  She turned to look at him and then quickly looked at her watch.  Burt knew the next train was about ten minutes away.

         “Spare change, ma’am?” he asked in a gruff voice.
 
         “No”, the woman answered too quickly in a near whisper.

         Burt knew she was lying.  People always spoke quieter when they were lying.  He moved closer.  “Spare change, ma’am?” he asked and then coughed enough to make her move backwards towards the wall.  Burt’s adrenaline began to surge.  His prey acknowledged her fear of him by moving away.  It didn’t matter if it was due to his cough or stink or whatever.  It was psychological.  Her revulsion of him was enough to make her move and that initiated the fear.  He moved closer and held hiss cup to her face.  “Spare change, ma’am?  I’ll take anything,” Burt added with a menacing tone.  He put his finger on the button of his switchblade as she backed up against the wall.

         “Hey buddy, she said she didn’t have any.”  Burt stopped dead and swallowed hard.  He dropped the knife in his pocket and slowly turned to see two men, both at least as big as he, standing on the platform.  Burt immediately backed off.
 
         “I didn’t mean nothing.  Sorry lady, I didn’t mean to scare you.  I just wanted to eat today.”  He held out his cup as he walked toward the two men, but their faces told Burt he’d better go sit down.  He began to walk slowly back over to his spot, all the time talking to himself.  Burt heard the woman walk over to the men and thank them.  He exhaled and tried to calm down.  Another few seconds and he would have drawn his knife.  Once that happened, he was committed.  Panhandlers did not use knives.  He would’ve had to take on the two men and that probably would’ve ended up badly.

         Burt took a drink from a bottle in a brown paper bag.  It was a whiskey bottle, but Burt filled it with Pepsi.  Like everything else, it was for effect.  The people were looking over at him and nodding.  Then the woman pulled out her cell phone.  Burt tensed.  He may have to make a run for it.  If the police came, they’d search him and find more than a few knives in his possession.  That would mean jail time.  Crap.  No lady, do not call the police.  Yup, I’m just a harmless drunk.  She screwed her face up as she thought about it.  Then, she dropped the cell phone back in her purse.  Burt exhaled in relief.  He had very nearly made a foolish mistake.  He must have missed the footsteps when he was coughing.  That was stupid.  He could not afford to make a mistake like that again.  He would have to be more careful.  He sat back against the wall and closed his eyes.  Those people will be gone soon.  You’ll be invisible again.

         How did it come to this?  How did his life degenerate to the point where he purposely stank of alcohol and piss?  Burt had been a good student in elementary school.  His report cards always had nothing but A’s and B’s.  That all changed in Junior High.  His new friends, George, Juan, Brian, and Larry, were a lot more fun than his friends in elementary school. His grades dropped to B’s and C’s but his parents just assumed he was adjusting to the new school.  Then, Burt and his friends started skipping school.  Since both of his parents worked, he was able to intercept any mail from the school, so his parents were kept in the dark.  Eventually the B’s and C’s plunged to D’s and E’s as Burt spent most of his school days smoking weed or drinking with his buddies.
 
         Just for kicks, every now and then, they would go to school totally stoned.  That was always fun.  Except for the time the principal called the cops.  He and his buddies were taken to the police station to wait for their parents to pick them up.  They were all grounded for weeks.  Burt’s mom ended up driving him to school for the next month to make sure he went.  For a few weeks, Burt kept out of trouble, but soon they were skipping out of school after homeroom.  They were expelled a few weeks later.  No high school diploma left two options, fast food or fast cash.  Burt started “The Pack” soon afterward in his first attempt at fast cash.  That fiasco led to his time in Juvee, which left him even more unemployable.  The only job he could get was fast food and that lasted less than a month.  The manager was a jerk and Burt simply did not care.  Hard work and the stink of grease never had much appeal for Burt, and he soon quit.  Fast cash was his only real option.  But this time he would do it right.

         Most people carried very little cash on them.  They used debit and credit cards to pay for most things.  Those credit cards had cash advance limits of thousands of dollars.  A majority of people, incapable of remembering their PIN, had it written down somewhere in their wallet.  All Burt needed to do was score one or two of those a week.  He would get to the nearest ATM and withdraw some cash.  If he couldn’t get any cash, he would use the credit card for a stereo, television, or something else that could easily be sold. 

         Burt checked his watch, with a sigh.  It was well past rush house, almost 7:00 pm.  All of the rush hour commuters were finally gone.  He rolled around on the floor, and was able to scan the entire platform.  Empty.  He’d thought somebody would be working overtime.  He decided to wait a bit longer before calling it a night, when he heard someone walking down the steps.  Slow, halting steps.  Sounded like somebody old.  Great, he thought, as he sat down next to the trashcan.  In a few minutes a man walked onto the platform.  As he did, he turned to look at Burt.  Burt, pretending to be drunk, checked out his victim.  He was tall, maybe two inches taller than Burt, but thinner.  He had a cane in his right hand and a duffel bag in the other.  As Burt stared into his face, he saw his sunken eyes.  Burt cracked a smile.  He had looked like that more times than he cared to remember, but Burt realized this guy looked like that all the time.  He was balding, with only a few wisps of black hair on the top of his head.  He skin was pale, almost grayish.  Okay so the poor guy’s sick and he needs a cane.  That means he’ll be easy.

         Burt coughed and moaned as he lay down.  The guy moved on toward the platform.  He moved slowly, as if he were afraid of tripping.  Good, Burt thought, he won’t put up much of a struggle.  Burt grunted and rolled over, as if in pain.  He used this maneuver to check his watch.  There was nearly fifteen minutes before the next train was due and nobody else in the station.  Tall, lanky, and weird looking.  Lurch.  This guy was Lurch.  Time to make his move.  He looked for his victim.  He was standing at the far end of the platform, farthest from the stairs.  Burt stood up quietly.  None of the cat and mouse crap this time.  I’m taking the direct approach, he thought.  Burt’s patience had been stretched thin today.  The near catastrophe with the woman earlier in the evening made him want to get this over with as soon as possible.  He was not going to take the chance of anybody interrupting him again.  Anyway, it looked like it was going to be easy.  Lurch was staring down the track.  There was no need to pretend. 

         Burt put his hand in his pocket and pulled out his switchblade as he moved forward.  The switchblade was the perfect attention getter.  Nothing said “hey you” like the sound of a switchblade opening.  Burt began moving quicker now as the adrenaline began to pump in his veins.  Then, the wonderful click of the switchblade as he said, “Okay buddy, let’s have the wallet”.  Lurch turned and stared at Burt, as if he did not understand what was happening.  “I said gimme the wallet”, Burt said as he held the switchblade in front of him for emphasis.  The man eyes widened.  He began to back away. 

         “I don’t have anything”, he said as his voice cracked.

         “Everybody has something”, Burt said, as he moved forward, “and I want it.”

         Lurch set his duffel bag down and pulled out his wallet from his jacket pocket.  “I don’t have much money.  Only a few dollars.”  His hands shaking, he threw his wallet over to Burt.

         Still holding his knife in front of him, Burt quickly picked up the wallet.  He opened it. “Ten dollars”, he said with disgust.  “No credit cards, nothing.”  Burt looked at the duffel bag and frowned.  “Okay, buddy, let me see the bag.”

         “There’s nothing in there of any value to you.” Lurch said as he picked up the bag.  “Just take my wallet and go,” the man said as his face hardened.  Burt exhaled in an attempt to calm himself, but it was not working.
 
         “Look, jerk, I’ve got the stinking knife.  I am not going to debate this.  You have two options.  Give me the bag or I will cut you and take it.  Either way, I get your damn bag.”

         “The only thing in there is my dinner,” Lurch said.

         “Yeah.  Everybody carries dinner home in a duffel bag.  Bad decision, ace”, Burt said as he whipped the knife around, forcing Lurch back until he was against the wall. Burt, as angry as he had been in a long time, knew that he had to cut this guy.  Burt had to see his blood.  This guy needed to see his blood.  That might bring him to his senses.  He let the knife dance around the guy until he sliced the duffel bag open.  Burt stared as a lump of fur fell out.  His face turned white when he realized it was a dog.  A dead dog.  Fueled by a growing uneasiness, Burt slashed with his knife until he finally sliced Lurch’s forearm.  He stopped, waiting for the look on the man’s face.  Burt enjoyed the feel of the knife cutting his flesh.  Burt would enjoy cutting it some more.

         The man turned his arm toward Burt.  His sleeve was torn and a large gash was in his arm, but there was no blood.  Burt gaped at the cut in Lurch’s arm.  He could see a deep wound.  A wound that should be bleeding all over the tile. But wasn’t.  He stared at the arm.  “What kinda freak are you?” Burt said as he began to back up.

         “You should have left me alone,” Lurch said as he dropped his cane.  He stood up straight and began to move toward Burt.  Burt suddenly felt very alone, but then he remembered his switchblade.

         “Back off, freak,” he said slicing the air with his knife.  “I’ll cut you deep enough to make you bleed this time.”  The man followed Burt as he backed up, spreading his arms out until he looked like a gigantic spider.  Suddenly, his left arm shot out and grabbed Burt by the wrist.  He twisted Burt’s wrist until he was forced to drop the knife with a scream.  Lurch immediately let go of Burt and picked up the switchblade.  Burt moved backwards, rubbing his wrist as he tried to keep keeping Lurch in front of him.  He could not believe that this was the same guy who could hardly walk a few minutes ago.  He seemed agile, quick, and aggressive.  Lurch threw the knife onto the subway tracks.  Burt continued to back up.  His right wrist was throbbing.  Using his left hand, he pulled out his knuckle knife.  He opened it with some difficulty and grabbed it in his left hand.  He would not drop this knife.  Lurch stared at Burt.  “C’mon, freak,” Burt said, waving him on with both hands.  “I’ll slice your damn arm off this time.”

         “How’s your right hand?” Lurch asked in mock concern as he moved toward Burt.  Burt continued to back up toward the staircase as he sliced with his knife to keep Lurch back.  The pain in Burt’s wrist was making him sick to his stomach.  He knew he needed to get away, but he could not put enough distance between Lurch and himself.  Burt knew Lurch was not going to just let him go.  He was trapped and quickly running out of options.  Lurch swung with his long arms at Burt’s hand, trying to grab his wrist, but the knuckle knife was proving it’s worth.  It was then that he noticed that Lurch wasn’t breathing hard, while Burt was getting winded.  As a matter of fact, Burt couldn’t tell if Lurch was breathing at all.  Calm down, he thought, focus.  A guy with legs that long probably can’t run that fast.  I’ve got to get to the stairs and get out of here.  Burt was able to slowly backup toward the stairs, but Lurch’s long arms always kept Burt in reach.  By this time his right wrist was feeling a little better.  He had to take a gamble.  He pulled out one of his throwing knives, ones he kept for emergencies.  Burt thrust with the knuckle knife to move Lurch back and then he threw the other knife at Lurch’s chest.  Lurch moved sideways, but it hit him in the shoulder.  Burt started to run backwards.  Then he saw Lurch reach up with his right hand and pull it out.  The blade was clean.  Lurch grunted.  Burt shook his head in disbelief and bolted for the steps.  He made it to the stairs and started to run up.  Then he felt his left ankle jerk and he fell face down on the stairs.
 
         Dazed but conscious, Burt felt himself pulled down the steps by his ankle.  Burt was still stunned from the fall and could only groan.  He felt himself turned over, and then picked up by his lapels.  Burt senses started to work again.  As he breathed, he detected a terrible pungent odor that reminded him of nothing less than raw sewage.  He opened his eyes and found himself staring directly into Lurch’s.  He felt lifeless and weak and made no attempt to struggle.  He knew it would be pointless until he had recovered from the shock of the fall.  “Look, man, I’m sorry.  I don’t want any trouble.  I’ll give you your wallet back.  I’ll give you all my money.  I won’t say anything about the dog.  I’ll do anything.  Just name it,” Burt said.

         Silently Lurch walked to the subway platform, dragging Burt by the lapels of his jacket as if he were weightless.  He slammed Burt up against a pillar and held him up with his left hand.  “You’ll give me my money back?  How nice of you.  Let’s shake on it,” Lurch said, reaching for Burt’s right hand.  Lurch grabbed it and twisted it hard.  Burt screamed as he fell to the floor, barely suppressing his urge to vomit.  Then as he clenched his left fist, he felt his knuckle knife.  He still had it.  One last chance, Burt thought.  He looked at his right hand.  Swollen, very swollen.  His wrist was broken.  Burt stood up slowly, all the while eyeing Lurch.
 
         “Look man, what do you want?” Burt said, backing up slightly.  Got to make this one count, he thought, I’ve only got one shot.

         “I wanted to be left alone, but you couldn’t,” Lurch said.  With that, Burt turned as if to run, and Lurch moved after him.  But Burt stopped suddenly and dropped to his knees, while thrusting with the knuckle knife, which dug into Lurch’s side, right at kidney level.  Lurch stopped dead.  “That’s starting to annoy me,” Lurch bellowed as he grabbed Burt’s left hand and twisted the knuckled knife away from him.  Burt just stayed there on his knees.  Then Lurch shot out his hand and struck Burt in the throat.  Burt gurgled and fell face down, barely conscious.  Then he felt something on his arm.  Lurch put his left arm on Burt’s right shoulder and grabbed Burt’s right arm with his right hand.  Then he bent Burt’s arm back.  Burt screamed, but Lurch did not stop.  He kept up the pressure until Burt’s shoulder was broken, but he still didn’t stop.  Finally with both hands, he tore Burt’s arm out of the socket.  He grabbed Burt and threw him on his back.  In shock, Burt could neither move nor speak.  Lurch smiled as he chewed on Burt’s arm, slurping up the blood with gusto. “Nothing like fresh meat” was the last thing Burt heard.