Heir To a Past LIfe

Heir to a Past Life

The FIRE flickered in a gleefully hellish manor.  The smoke from his pipe formed a hazy cloud around his old, kind face, completely shrouding his deeply bloodshot eyes.  As he cashed the bowl, the absolute truth of his life seemed a complete enigma to him. 
         Accompanied by his eight year old grandson, this was the last night of their annual pilgrimage to the dark timber of Jones Peak, an old family stomping ground.  This almost magical place held secrets only the sickest of minds could guess.  Under the very log they were sitting upon, even directly under the fire pit, lied what were once human beings, human beings that had happened to piss off the wrong people.  Not all of these so called secrets were as dark as this.  When 45 steps were taken perpendicularly to the North side of the fire pit, one would come across an old pine tree. Three people on the face of this earth knew the significance of this pine tree, two of them are presently gathered around a warm fire, the third, well it takes nothing more then common sense to know that.  The closest guarded of these secrets is yet to be told.
         “Grandpa, can we stay one more day?”
         “As much as I’d like to, and believe me I would, your mother would put a hole in my head, you’ve missed 2 days of school as it is” as he searched for a lighter in which to ignite a joint he had been feverishly working on. 
         “Could you go into my tent and reach under my pillow? You’ll find a bottle of whiskey and a blue lighter”. 
         “Here you go Grandpa”
         “Thanks, I was wondering what I did with that”
         “Will you tell me a story Grandpa?”
Knowing that his grandson was very found of his stories from long ago, he began to spindle a tale.  The young boys favorites included war stories, tales of hits he had performed for the Chicago Mafia in the 60’s, most of all were the stories of acid trips he had experienced in the early 70’s.  There was one story that had not been told, one story that he had been saving for an occasion such as this. 
         “I’m sure this one will be his favorite” thought the tired old man, as he took another hit. 
         “It was 1967, and I had just turned 19 several days prior to that night.  I was the greatest hit man in the mid-western area, I was murdering for the mob left and right, for vast sums of money I might add. Born of Irish, German and Italian decent, I could never be made, that didn’t stop me for being the best hit man to be found for thousands of miles.”
         Before continuing his story, he lit up a fine cigar, a Dominican I believe it was. 
“I was having several drinks with the notorious mobster, Nicky Sorrello. It was nothing special, just a casual night on the town.  We had planned to pick up some broads we’d been planning to bang for weeks.  Things never went the way you planned when you ran with the mob though.”
         “We exited the bar, most likely to drunk to drive, but what the hell, we were young, drunk, and highly respected by the mob.  We were invincible.  On the way to our destination, and our bitches, we saw an old friend of Nicky’s.  He offered to buy us a drink at a bar we had never heard of before.  Being already completely trashed, I would have gladly declined the offer, but Nicky and this shady fellow had some catching up to do I guess, so off to the bar we drove.”
         “What happened next Grandpa?”
         “I’ll get to that soon enough, could you run and get my shot glass?” “Thanks, I don’t know what I’d do with out you”
         “Now on with the story; you can imagine working in the profession that I was currently in, trust was a difficult thing for someone to gain, so I was pretty edgy about going with him.  Nicky told me that this was an old friend of his, and to trust him, he’s a good guy.  I was sitting at the bar, keeping to myself and enjoying a screwdriver when Nicky and this so called “old friend” went in the back to do some sort of drug deal, normally I would have insisted on going with him, ya know, just incase.  Lucky for me, I was completely shit faced and all of Nicky’s praise of this suspicious fuck had taken effect.  I distinctly remember the last words Nicky ever said to me, “Go start the car I’ll be there in a minute, this guy says he got some blow straight from Colombia, and he’s gonna front us an 8ball of the stuff.  Nicky seemed to be in good enough spirits about it, so I went out and started the car.  Not a minute after words I heard Nicky shout and gunshots ring out.  It didn’t take long for me to realize what had just happened, and I sped off, not knowing what to do.  After a little while I came to a conclusion, they were going to pay for that.  I parked around the corner from that shithole bar and waited.  Finally I saw Nicky’s old friend come out and get into his car.  Nothing was stopping me from avenging this, I was the best killer around.  Following this scumbag back to his house, several things raced through my mind. Towels, I’d need to take some towels out of his house to clean myself up, this was going to get really messy. 
         “What’d you do to him Grandpa? Did you cut his throat?”
         “Just wait and see, he got what he deserved”
         “I knew this wasn’t ordered by a stutterin mumblin fuck like this guy, so I know I had to get some kind of info on who wanted Nicky dead from this guy.  I waited a little while for him to pass out drunk, and when he finally did, the first thing I did was lock all the doors.  I tied him up and taped his mouth.  Down to the basement we went, with that scumbag fully conscious and completely aware of what was gonna happen.  The first thing I heard when the tape was removed from his mouth was “Fuck You, Nicky cried like a bitch”.  An outburst of this was to be expected, but I was ready for that.  The first thing I did was break his ankles with a 10 lb. sledge hammer.  He really didn’t seem to enjoy that, but still wouldn’t talk.  I then proceeded to remove each of his fingers with hedge clippers.  Still didn’t talk, I was impressed.  After breaking most of his ribs, and both kneecaps with a bat and still no answers, I knew there was only one way.  I hoisted him up on a table and secured his head in a vice.  I’d give it a quarter of a turn and ask him some questions.  After several turns and an eyeball popping out, he finally broke.”
         “Did he cry Grandpa?”
         “He sure did, he ended up being the one who cried like a bitch”
         “What’d you do with his body?”
         “You’ll see, you’ll see”
         “Now, where was I? Ah yes, being lucky enough that this fucker lived in a pretty remote area, I just put what was left of him on my back and threw him in the trunk.. I felt like I had forgotten something though” 

“Oddly enough, this was one of the easier mob bosses I’d killed in my day.  He was taking a stroll and smoking a doob on a nature preserve a few miles out of town.  I broke both he knee caps, again with the same bat.  You can’t beat a classic.  Anyways, after that, when he was just about to pass out from the pain, I hit him in the balls with a hatchet and waited a few minutes then blew his fucking head off.  After I finally decided on a place to bury the bodies, I remembered “SHIT I forgot the towels”, but that was no big deal, I just showered at the dipshit bosses house the next morning”
         “Where did you put the bodies Grandpa?”
         “Do you really want to know”?
         “YES YES”
         “Are you sure?”
         “YES YES YES”
         “You and I are sitting on that pathetic excuse of a hit man and over there, under that fire pit is what was once a powerful mob boss”
         “That was a great story Grandpa, can you tell me one more before we go to bed? Even if it’s a short one?”
         “Ok, I think I have one you may not have heard that I think you’ll enjoy, first let me get in the mood to tell this type of story”
         After quite a few hits from his trusty hookah, the old man was completely ripped out and ready to tell the last story of their camping trip. 
         “This one is one of the oldest stories I have, even before I was involved with the mob.  I think I was about 15 or so when I found a pot plant growing in my mom’s garden.  This quickly became an obsession, getting this plant to bud.  After a brutal transplant from the ground into a flower pot, I expected her to die.  She made it through it, to everyone’s surprise and began to grow profusely.  Day in and day out she grew more and more and came ever closer to budding.  I administered fertilizer every week to promote optimum growth.  I began to truly love this plant, I loved everything about it.  As it was first staring to grow big, beautiful buds, the weather was getting far to cold for a pot plant to survive in. 
                   “What did you do with it Grandpa? Did you let it die?”
                   “Just wait and see, you have to learn to be more patient”
         “Anyways, since the weather outside was far too bitter for this delicate plant to survive in, I brought her inside, where she grew even faster and better.  Then one day it happened”
                   “What happened? What happened?”
                   “Something terrible happened”
         “Before I set off to school for the day, I sent it in the window sill for it to receive the maximum amount of sunlight.  There was no one home at all that day; both of my parents were at work.  I locked the door so my dog couldn’t disturb the beautiful plant in the window, but somehow it got flipped over.  I came home that night and cried, and cried.  Late that night the plant was cremated and the small buds were smoked.”
                   “Why are you standing up Grandpa?”
                   “We’re going for a walk; there is something you need to see, I’ll continue my story on the way”
         “When I was stoned off of those tiny, yet potent buds I was told by the plant that it was ok, and it would come back”
                   “Did it ever come back Grandpa?”
                   “Yes it did, your standing right in front of her, isn’t she beautiful?”
                   “I don’t see anything but trees”
                   “Ah, but one tree is different, do you see that one?”
                   “Is that your plant Grandpa?!”
                   “Not just mine, one day it will be your dad’s plant, and one day….”
                   “IT WILL BE MY PLANT????”
                   “That’s right, one day, a long time from now this will be your plant, her name is BUD-ha, and I’m sure you will take care of her”
         The walk back to camp for the two could be written down as one of the happiest walks in the history of mankind.  The grandson was beaming with joy all the way back; he was even smiling in his sleep that night, and the night after that.  He smiled every night, until one night, 2 weeks to the day he had seen the plant his Grandpa passed away in his sleep, due to heart failure of sorts.  The night after his Grandfathers funeral, he visited his grandson one last time in a dream.  He showed him the plant, told him all the stories he had to tell, and most importantly reminded him of all the things he had taught him and that he loved him.