Pemberton Ch.1 and Ch. 2

-1-

         I like killing. The thrill of the chase as prey flees from my sights has always been a fantastic rush. I love the hunt almost as much as I enjoy my hands wrapping around a pencil thin neck and tightening their grip until the vain gasps for waning breath are silenced in salivating gurgles.

"Baby, come to bed, I can make you feel better than that shitty old typewriter."

Jack Pemberton's concentration on his memoires was broken by the aged, hoarse voice of a working gal aptly named Sunny. "Or at least I would if I had the balls," he muttered bitterly under his breath. He could do it, Jack mused to himself. The nightwalker wasn't wholly unattractive, but she was a little on the middle aged side and her demeanor was as far opposite of her namesake one could get. Jack was certain she had a good life and career, in regard to length that is, not fulfillment or status. He could be doing Sunny a favor by killing her. A piece of tail on the southern end of forty with obviously poorly dyed blonde hair and skin that has begun to wrinkle and tan like leather couldn't possibly generate the business it did twenty years prior. Putting "Sunny" out of her misery would benefit her too, he was sure. And if it didn't, who would miss her anyway?
         "Come on, hun, you know I want that-"
         "Jack," Jack interrupted bluntly, spinning around to meet the gaze of the woman lying on the hotel bed. Sunny was propped on her side, wearing frilly pink lingerie, legs crossed, gazing across the room at him and his post at the cheaply built hotel desk. Jack flashed his lady friend an onerous smile as he attempted to settle further into the "generously" provided complimentary desk chair.
         "Jack, not hun."
         "Well J..John," Sunny began, already forgetting the man's name.
         "Jack."
         "Ah, Jack." She feigned a mild look of embarrassment. Jack knew her gesture was bullshit, he could tell she was becoming impatient with him. "You paid for the hour, remember? And it's already 8:45," the prostitute's left hand motioned haphazardly at a circular clock above the desk. "Only 20 minutes left." Jack's rounded spectacles flashed as he removed them from his face and began cleaning the lenses on his shirt.
         "Earth to Unabomber." Sunny sat upright on the bed, bringing her legs around the edge of the mattress and planting themselves flat on the vomit green colored carpet.
         "Jack." He continued cleaning the glasses, periodically bringing the lenses to his mouth and huffing on them.
         "I don't give a shit what your name is, I came here to fuck."
         "I paid for the hour." Jack replaced the glasses on his face before looking upon the annoyed woman on the bed.
         "Yeah and I have been sitting here an hour."
         "Forty-seven minutes." Jack craned his head behind him and studied the clock, "And forty," he dragged the y sound at the end of forty for a time as the second hand made its arduous journey about the clock's face, ".... seven seconds."
         "Who cares about the time!" Sunny's fists slammed into the bedsheets and she stood with a flourish. She had draped her long black coat and a tiny black faux leather purse at the foot of the bed. In Jack's mind, killing her now when she was all riled up wouldn't be his smartest course of action. Someone would undoubtedly hear them and that would be unfortunate.
"Get out." Jack's tone was flat.
"You bring me here and sit on your stupid little typewriter for an hour, then tell me to get out? Do I look like a charity case to you? Think I can't work for my money?" Perpetual smoking had damaged her voice, for when Sunny spoke, Jack likened the sound to a deep groaning meat grinder. It seemed, to him, her voice was always followed by the subtle wheeze of her dying lungs.
"I can pay for another hour," Jack said and he turned back to his typewriter, released the carrier lever, pulled the freshly typed sheet from the feed, and placed it face down on the desk gently. Silence filled the dank hotel room as Sunny mulled the idea over. The monotone ticking of the clock above the desk droned on and Jack found himself daydreaming. If Sunny agreed to take the additional hourly pay, he certainly could do it this time. Maybe, when she let her guard down, he could crack her over the head with the base of a lamp and while she attempted to escape, he could sit on her back and strangle her from behind. He truly did relish the thought of strangulation.
A dry popping sound transported Jack back to the moldy hotel room with its sickly "pinkish" walls, wet stains, and rotted smell.
"Hey, faggot." Sunny was standing in front of him snapping her fingers to get his attention. The long black coat she had placed on the bed now adorned her shoulders and was scarcely buttoned enough he could glimpse the pink lingerie underneath. Sunny clutched her cheap faux leather purse in her off hand. Jack simply stared at the woman blankly. Her facade of cruel judgment, while awfully good, belied the fear in her voice. The 'f' in faggot was a little too drawn out and shaky for it to be the voice of someone with composure. If he tried anything, she would scream for sure and someone in one of the adjacent rooms would hear and call the cops.
"I said my name is Jack."
"And I told you, I didn't give a shit about your name. Pay me."
Jack, reached into the back pocket of his slacks and produced an old brown leather wallet. The fold protested with a dry creaking as he opened the billfold and forked over two one hundred dollar bills. Almost an entire week of work, Jack thought to himself as sunny snatched the money from his hand and stuffed the crisp bills eagerly into her jacket pocket.
"You were hardly worth the price, Sunny."
"Didn't have anything dangling between my legs, huh? You closeted little shit." Sunny's hand unclasped her purse and procured a lighter and pack of Marlboro Light 100 cigarettes. She pushed the purse strap up and over her shoulder, let the bag dangle, and lit a single cigarette. Lackadaisically, she buried the cigarettes and lighter into a separate coat pocket and took a long drag before blowing a cloud of smoke into Jack's face. Jack waved his arms in front of the pollutant filled cloud of smoke as if swatting at flies. The acrid fumes caused his eyes to water and he coughed meekly. With a flick of her finger, Sunny ashed the cigarette embers onto the floor at Jack's feet.
Jack cleared his throat, attempting to expel the smog from his own lungs before he spoke, "For someone named Sunny, you're a real bitch."
"And you're a creepy little worm, Jim," she sneered.
A sudden rage bubbled over Jack Pemberton and he leapt from his seated position, "I told you, my fucking name is Jack!" Sunny, startled at his sudden display, slinked from Jack's presence with a high pitched squeak and hurried for the door. The door handle, rusted over and matching the overall unkempt aesthetic of the hotel room, creaked as Sunny turned the knob and flung the door open.
"If I ever see you on Main again, Eddie will fuck you up, you little freak!" The door slammed behind her abruptly and Jack was left alone. The room seemed smaller when he was on his own, cozy even. Heck, Jack thought, the mold stains in the ceiling almost look like stars if you look at them right. Jack reached into his left side pocket and produced his phone. Six missed calls, five labelled mom and another labelled Eric (denoting one voicemail). Holding the receiver to his ear, Jack hit play.
"Ey, Jack buddy, it's uh...Eric." people chanting chug in the background, "I'm uh-" a loudly exaggerated cough, "Sick tonight man...I can't make it in tomorrow. You'll cover me, right buddy?"
Jack frowned at his phone and tossed it on the hotel bed, he was defeated. Nothing seemed to be going well for him and now, instead of opting for another hooker to off the next night, he has to cover Eric's shift at the shop so he could go butt chugging, or whatever.
         After sitting on the lumpy bed for what seemed like hours, Jack finally picked up the old television remote placed by the maintenance staff on his pillow. From the looks of it, the thing hadn't been used in quite some time. The device was covered in a thin layer of dust and its batteries were held in place by old, peeling electrical tape.
"To heck with it," Jack breathed and clicked the old Panasonic at the far end of the room on. Buzzing protest greeted the room as the twenty-some-odd year old television set hummed to life. Animal Planet, some program about the African Safari, roared into existence. Jack reached over a clicked the lamp on the nightstand off, leaving the unnatural blue glow of the television to illuminate the room. One thing about television, Jack reflected, is it sure can numb your senses. After a while, the T.V. anesthetized Jack's anger and he began to feel more complacent. Maybe, he thought, he should stay in the hotel. After all, he paid for the entire night and sure as hell wanted to get his money's worth.

-2-

         The engine of his mother's candy red 1980 Ford Pinto roared to life, or rather, sputtered before quivering and dying. A line of cars, at least ten deep, were blaring their horns from the time the light turned green until it settled on red again. The man trapped directly behind the comatose Pinto had stuck his balding head out of his driver side window to yell obscenities at the vehicle. Jack Pemberton, the unfortunate driver directly ahead on the irate man, adjusted the rearview mirror to get a better look behind him. "O-Oh gee, p-please work," he stuttered, attempting to turn the engine over to no avail.
         To Jack, it seemed as though hours passed while he attempted get his mother's Pinto running. "Ah heck," he breathed as the man situated behind him stepped out of his vehicle and began sauntering toward him. Towering at over six feet with a massive beer gut, grease stained wife beater, and a red face man trudged toward the Pinto carrying a large metallic object. Reflexively, Jack glanced at an old digital alarm clock he had jerry rigged to the dashboard with a few drops of Gorilla Glue. 8:30 a.m. At this rate, Jack thought, I am bound to be late for work.  
"Get outta the car, jackass!" the man's voice sounded distant despite his proximity. If I had a gun, Jack thought, I could shoot him dead and no one would question a thing. That could be how his reign of terror begins. Self-defense would be an easy case for any lawyer to argue. "I was afraid for my life," Jack mumbled quietly. A low, metallic rapping on the driver side window interrupted the thought and pulled Jack back to his present situation
The red faced man tapped slowly on the Pinto's window with one end of a rusted lug wrench. "Get out here so I can kick your ass," he was furious and every word was followed by a faint speckling of saliva on Jack's car window. Jack stared ahead of him, only glancing at the enraged man out of the corner of his eye. "I-I don't want any trouble," Jack muttered, sure that the man beyond the window could not hear him and if he did, he surely did not care. There were no items lying around his car he could use as weapons. And in all likelihood, the burly fellow outside would snap him like a toothpick. Another dull rapping made Jack's body tense up and he gripped the steering wheel so hard, his knuckles began to turn white.
Hollering unintelligibly, the man rounded the back of Jack's Pinto and began slamming his lug wrench into the tailgate. Jack closed his eyes tightly, hoping to imagine away the man, "Go away, go away, go away." Worldly conscious left Jack and he found himself daydreaming. Furious wheels spun violently as the Ford Pinto rolled backward over Jack's fellow commuter. Brains splattered the pavement as the man's skull cracked open under the weight of the vehicle. A wide grin spread over Jack's face as he imagined turning his death machine toward screaming pedestrians and laughing as it rolled over their helpless children.
The shatter of the passenger side tail light jarred Jack from his dream. He glanced at the clock, 8:45 a.m. Fifteen minutes, he was definitely going to be late. "That's my mom's car, asshat! She'll kill me!" Jack's voice cracked.
"Listen here, you little fuck!" The man clearly heard Jack this time and this time, walked around to the driver's side and took a swing at the mirror. With a loud crack, the mirror came loose and dangled against the door. Another swing hit the door as Jack attempted to turn the engine over once more.

***

"Look, I don't really care if you had a bad day, you just can't show up thirty minutes late and berate customers!" Jack's head was firmly planted on the break room table at Wally's Discount Hardware as Walter Randolph jotted notes on his clipboard. "You know; this is the third time this month you have been late to work. You should try to be more like Jennifer. She opened the store by herself. And here you come in at 9:30 dripping wet." It had begun raining rather heavily on his way and when the Pinto broke down two blocks from Wally's, Jack had to trudge the rest of the way through the downpour.
"Mr. Randolph, I was having some car troubles this morning. I had to walk." Jack's voice echoed against the table.
"And you did not think to bring an umbrella? It's not professional to come in looking like a ragamuffin. How do you expect to get that $8.25 if you cannot show that you are management material?" Walter Randolph's fat face wiggled as he spoke. The short, rather overweight man was covered in sweat, to the point stains were manifesting over his striped button up - particularly around the man breast region and armpits.
Jack lifted his head laboriously from the table, "I won't be a manager, I just wan-" The influx of the other man's overwhelming body odor made Jack feel nauseous.
"Not with that attitude you won't. Just try to be more like Jennifer. You know she came in when she had the flu? The flu, Jack. That shows dedication." Walter Randolph clicked the butt end of his pen to retract the tip. "I am giving you a written warning this time. But don't you let it happen again." Again, his jowls wiggled back and forth.
"I didn't let -"
         "Bu-bu-bu-bu-but. No excuses. I want to see you do better. Now, we need you on the floor. Some kid broke some lightbulbs in aisle 3. We need you to get out there right away." Walter Randolph paused for a moment, sucking in a massive gut to catch his breath. Jack found he was a was so often out of breath when he talked or, frankly, did anything for long periods of time. "And don't forget to straighten your nametag this time, you are representing a company...show some professionalism for Pete's sake."
         "I am covering for Eric today, he uh," Mr. Randolph waved a chubby hand, extending the sausage like appendages to shush Jack.
         "Don't you bring Eric into this. He is a good boy with a bad immune system. He has been sick for two weeks now. You should pray for him. Now grab a broom. Don't want some dumb kid rolling around in glass." Walter gestured to a broom in the corner of the break room and waddled toward the back office. "Oh, one more thing," he called, "No lunch breaks today. Should have thought about that before turning up late."
         Just as Randolph had indicated, a child smashed lightbulbs in aisle 3. Someone had piled the shards of glass into the middle of the aisle with a push broom, but had not bothered to finish the job. Jack spat on the floor, probably Mr. Randolph trying to prove a point. He was passive aggressive like that. Asshole, Jack leaned on the broom handle and spat again.
"That's a really nasty habit, spitting."
A short, freckle faced girl poked Jack from behind, "Ey, I said you're gross." Fresh from high school graduation and on the later end of eighteen, Alex Malone had taken a job at Wally's to supposedly save for university. From what Jack could tell, she didn't seem all that enthused about higher education, or anything for that matter. During a typical work week, she probably called in half the time at least. She still had a job because Walter Randolph was infatuated with her. But then again, he was that way with every female employee, Jack thought, creepy bastard.
"Look, Alex. I don't have time for you to bother me," he turned to greet the pale brunette girl that was now peering up at him, "Mr. Randolph said I need to,"
"Clean up the glass, yeah. Not stupid," Alex pushed a strand of wayward hair out of her face, "Just say you were helping me and Wally will do it." She looked around before leaning closer to Jack, "He's real fat."
"What does that have to do with anything?"
"It'd be funny to watch?" Alex smirked, "Ain't it obvious?"
"I have work to finish."
"Alrighty John."
"It's Jack!"  Jack lifted the edge of the broom and brought it down into the heap of glass, sending shards hurtling under the end caps on either side of the aisle. Though the glass missed her, Alex flinched.
"The hell are you tryin' to do, Nerd Rage?" She was furious, reasonably frightened.
"I'm sorry, I'm sorry!" Jack dropped the broom. Was she going to tell Mr. Randolph? Did he need to keep her quiet? His mind was alight. Fear and adrenaline made him hyperventilate. He had to kill her. Strangle her. Stick her in a garbage bin and haul her out to the dumpster. There are no cameras, it is not out of the realm of possibility that Alex would skip work entirely.
"What are you lookin' at, dweeb? Get this shit cleaned up before Wally finds out."
         "What?"
"Clean it up. Now. I'm going to smoke."
Jack was astonished, albeit a little relieved. Alex was really pretty, it would be a shame if he had to put her in the dumpster. It would be a good story for his memoires. Maybe he could do it to that damned hooker, Sunny. She deserved it.
"If you ever yell at me like that again," Alex made a scissoring motion with her index and middle fingers, "I will chop your balls off."
Alex was cackling madly, waving her arms in cutting motions as she walked away. Every now and again, Jack caught her laugh and an occasional, "Balls," or "Chop." He didn't mind. Alex knew how to keep her mouth shut. He liked that. It really would be a damn shame if he ever had to kill her. A damn shame indeed.