The Red Mohawk Read online

  The Red Mohawk

  Anonymous

  Published by Black Shadow Press

  Copyright © The Bourbon Kid 2013

  The right of the author (under the accredited pseudonym The Bourbon Kid) to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him/her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means, without the prior permission in writing of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  Cover Design by BespokeBookCovers.com

  ISBN 978-0993257704

  Other books by Anonymous

  The Book With No Name

  The Eye of the Moon

  The Devil’s Graveyard

  The Book of Death

  Sanchez: A Christmas Carol (short story)

  “Every day I’m the hero in my own personal movie. Some days without realising, I show up in other people’s movies. And they almost always cast me as the villain.”

  Anonymous.

  Prologue

  Randall Buckwater had agreed to stop swearing when he got married over thirty years ago. But as he slammed his foot down on the accelerator and reversed back down the bridge as fast as he could, he came mighty close to screaming out a few F words. Instead of cursing he did the next best thing. He screamed out the lyrics of Jeffrey Osborne’s On The Wings of Love. It wasn’t a particularly logical thing to do and it wasn’t something he would ever admit to later when questioned about the incident, but he was in a state of shock. And panic. It was already clear to him that the horrific image he had just witnessed would replay vividly in his mind for the rest of his life. And On The Wings of Love would never sound the same again.

  Yet the evening had started off so slow, so mundane, so run of the mill.

  One

  Randall and his new partner Pete had been on bridge patrol for four hours when the sad news came through. Marjorie Buckingham had passed away. The sweet old lady had been ill for months and had finally lost her life after a vicious bout of pneumonia. Chief O’Grady had radioed it through to them just after two o’clock in the morning.

  ‘This is it then,’ said Randall to his young sidekick. ‘Your first chance to change the sign.’

  ‘Whoop dee-doo,’ Pete replied sarcastically.

  Their squad car was parked to the right of the bridge just inside the county line. It faced down the highway, waiting for any vehicle that might come their way hoping to cross the bridge. The sign Randall had referred to was the Population board that stood proudly on the state line. At present it read:

  B Movie Hell: Population 3672

  ‘Just switch the two around,’ said Randall. ‘There’s a one on the other side.’

  ‘I don’t give a shit what’s on the other side. I’m not going out there just yet.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because there’s a fucking big rodent out there,’ Pete moaned.

  ‘No there isn’t it. Come on, this is a big moment. Your first time changing the population. You should be proud. I was the first time I did it.’

  ‘What was the population of B Movie Hell back when you first did it?’ Pete asked.

  ‘Two thousand and forty four,’ Randall replied. ‘Of course, back then it was called Sherwood County, a much more sensible name for a town.’

  ‘B Movie Hell is much cooler though, ain’t it?’

  ‘I don’t think so.’

  ‘That’s because you’re an old fart.’

  Randall stared across at Pete who was sitting in the passenger seat looking totally disinterested in just about everything. Pete was a good kid by all accounts. He had a heart of gold, but he also had shit for brains. He was nineteen years old, but with all the emotional maturity of a ten year old.

  In his quieter moments Randall wondered if he had been the same at that age. He rationalised that it wasn’t possible. As a nineteen year old, Randall had already married his childhood sweetheart and was well on the way to becoming a father for the first time. Heaven forbid a moron like Pete became a father any time in the next five years.

  ‘There’s definitely something out there,’ Pete said, squinting hard through the windscreen.

  ‘It’s just a stick. It’s not moving.’

  ‘I reckon it’s a squirrel. Fucking huge one too. Are they carnivorous?’

  ‘They only eat nuts.’

  ‘In that case I’m definitely staying in the car,’ said Pete.

  ‘I’m telling you, it’s a stick,’ said Randall. He didn’t need to take a closer look at it like his partner. Instead he stared in fascination at his young apprentice. This idiot was convinced he could see a squirrel in the woodland. There were no squirrels in B Movie Hell. Never had been.

  The woodland that Pete was staring into was on the other side of the county line, thirty yards outside of B Movie Hell, in Lewisville County. But even so, Randall was damn sure there were no goddamn squirrels there either.

  It was an indication of how slow and quiet the night had been that they were debating whether something in the distance was a squirrel or a stick. But Randall had long ago given up the idea that the role of a local cop would ever have anything in common with the cops on TV or in books. The most excitement he had was negotiating ‘donations’ to his retirement fund from hapless motorists stopped for broken tail lights and tyres that looked a bit low in air pressure.

  ‘It’s definitely a squirrel,’ Pete insisted. ‘See that fuzzy tail? That’s a squirrel.’

  The older cop caught himself shaking his head in disbelief and bewilderment as he looked at his gormless buddy. Talking was Pete’s downfall. But he didn’t do himself any favours in what he looked like, either. He had a typically ridiculous young person’s haircut. It was one of those stupid birds nest styles that looked like it should have a pair of antlers sticking out of the top of it. It covered half of his face and was probably to blame for his greasy skin and spots. The gormless look was capped off by the fact that Pete never seemed to be able to close his mouth. His bottom lip was always hanging down, giving the impression he was about to say something, but coupled with his constant squinting (the kid clearly needed glasses) it just added to the “brain dead” look.

  ‘Shoot. I think it’s gone,’ Pete declared, squinting some more and pressing his face closer to the windscreen.

  ‘It was never there. So, you want to go change the population on the board now?’

  Pete shrugged. ‘Not yet,’ he said while fiddling with his crotch. ‘That squirrel might come back in a minute. With reinforcements.’

  Randall looked away and stared out of the window on his side of the car. He had one hand still rested on the steering wheel even though they were parked. He had no idea why he did it but he always kept a hand on the steering wheel whether the engine was on or not.

  ‘Okay, let’s just say for arguments sake that there is a squirrel out there,’ he said. ‘It’s got to be less dangerous than dealing with drunken fights in town.’

  ‘At least a drunken fight would provide a release from the boredom of sitting here all night,’ Pete complained.

  ‘You’re missing the bigger picture,’ said Randall. ‘There’s money to be made out here on the bridge.’

  There was a pause before Pete asked, ‘How so?’

  ‘If you’re a diffic
ult enough sort like me, people will slip you a few dollars to let ‘em through quicker.’

  ‘You take bribes?’

  Randall turned back to face Pete. ‘Donations,’ he said. ‘I like to think of them as donations to my retirement fund.’

  ‘When are you retiring?’ Pete asked.

  ‘Five more years. I’m getting out at fifty-five. Thirty-six years on the force is long enough, I think.’

  Pete frowned. He was clearly trying to do the math.

  Randall shook his head and returned to staring back out of his driver side window. There wasn’t much to see. One solitary streetlight lit up the end of the bridge that led into B Movie Hell.

  On night patrol they were lucky if one car a week came their way. That’s what drove officers crazy. The boredom, the waiting and the pointlessness of it. Randall had gotten used to it over the years. The only time it was tough was when he was breaking in a new partner like Pete. The banal conversation was often more soul destroying than the silences.

  ‘How much do you charge people to cross?’ Pete asked.

  ‘As much as I think they can afford.’

  ‘What’s the most you ever got?’

  ‘Fifty bucks.’

  ‘Shit, really?’ Pete sounded impressed. ‘I bet I can get a hundred.’

  Randall turned back to face him and caught sight of him scratching his groin area for the hundredth time that night.

  ‘Whadda you need the money for?’ Randall asked. ‘Buy some cream for that itch you got?’

  ‘What itch?’

  ‘You’ve been scratching your junk all night. You’re starting to creep me out.’

  Pete grimaced and stopped scratching himself for a moment. ‘Think I might have picked up something at The Beaver Palace last week.’

  Randall raised a quizzical eyebrow. ‘You’ve been going to Mellencamp’s?’

  ‘Not regularly or nothin’ but you know, every once in a while.’

  ‘You wear a hat though, right?’

  ‘A hat?’

  ‘You know what I mean.’

  Pete looked confused for a few moments, before he suddenly cottoned on to what Randall meant. ‘Oh yeah, but not the whole time. I mean, this one chick last week she had some sores on her face. Think maybe I caught something from her.’

  Randall shook his head. ‘Jesus, Pete. Don’t you get to choose which girl you go with?’

  ‘Yeah,’ Pete blushed ever so slightly. ‘I hadn’t been with this girl before though, so I thought it would be rude not to.’

  ‘I thought you said you didn’t go there often?’

  ‘I don’t, but I think I’ve done all the girls there at least once now.’

  ‘How many girls are there?’

  ‘About thirty or so. They haven’t had a new one in for a while. Think they need to freshen things up a bit.’

  ‘Don’t let Mellencamp hear you say that.’

  ‘He’s not as bad as you think y’know. He’s always been really friendly when I’ve met him.’

  Randall scoffed. ‘Of course he has. You’re one of his customers. And that means you’re in his debt.’

  ‘I don’t owe him anything. I pay up front. That’s one of the rules.’

  ‘Sure. And what happens when you pull him over for a broken tail light, huh?’

  ‘He’s got a broken tail light?’

  ‘No. But if he ever does you won’t be able to bust him for it.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because he’ll tell the whole town that you like having your balls tickled with a feather duster.’

  Pete looked surprised. ‘Who told you about that?’

  ‘No one, I was just speculating.’ He looked closer at his young partner’s face. ‘You like having your balls tickled with a feather duster?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Well, anyway,’ said Randall, not wishing to dwell on the thought of his partner in a compromising position with a cleaning utensil. ‘My point is, stuff like that can come back to haunt you. If Mellencamp gets you in his back pocket, one day he’ll come calling on you for a favour you won’t like, and you’ll feel obliged to say yes when you know you shouldn’t.’

  Pete laughed and then scratched his nether regions again. ‘Yeah, right.’ He suddenly sat up straighter as if he’d been jabbed in the stomach with a hot poker. ‘I’m gonna have to take a piss,’ he said.

  ‘What about the squirrel?’

  ‘What squirrel?’

  Randall let out a deep sigh and reached for a button on the car stereo. He turned it on, and recognising the tune that was playing, he turned it up loud. It was The Greatest Love of All by Sexual Chocolate. ‘Just change the number on the population board before you go will ya?’ he said.

  ‘I’ll do it on the way back. I’m busting.’

  ‘Fine. But hurry up before someone else dies.’

  Pete opened his car door, but before climbing out he looked back at Randall. ‘When I come back, you think maybe we could listen to a station other than EMM for once?’

  ‘What’s wrong with EMM?’

  ‘Eighties Movie Music? There’s only so much of that shit I can take!’

  ‘But it’s the local station. Gotta support the locals.’

  ‘Don’t you want to listen to something different for once?’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘How about a bit of rap?’

  ‘What the hell is rap?’ Randall actually knew full well what rap was, but he enjoyed pretending not to know about such things, just to see how much it wound Pete up.

  ‘Christ, Randall. When I get back I’m gonna introduce you to some serious gangsta rap.’

  Randall turned the radio up another notch and watched his young sidekick hurry off across a stretch of grass towards the dark woodland up ahead. Pete soon disappeared out of sight behind some tall trees. It was a safe bet he wasn’t just going for a piss. He probably needed to scratch or inspect the rash he seemed to have picked up at The Beaver Palace. The thought of it made Randall shudder. He wondered whether he and Pete’s hands had touched at any point in the night. Satisfied that they hadn’t, he indulged himself in a good sing-along to The Greatest Love of All and a less than memorable Wild Stallyns song that followed it. By the time it finished and the airwaves had been replaced by adverts, at least five minutes had passed. There was still no sign of Pete returning from the woodland, so Randall decided to try and surprise him by finding some rap on the radio. He flicked through several stations before he finally found some rap music. Ten seconds of it was all he could stomach before he twisted the dial on the stereo again. That was when he found Jeffrey Osborn singing On The Wings of Love.

  He hadn’t heard the song in years but he remembered instantly how much he had enjoyed singing it at the top of his voice as a young man. Secure in the knowledge that Pete was the only person within hearing distance he wound down both windows on the car and turned the stereo up to the max before bursting into song, dueting with Jeffrey Osborn on the chorus.

  He half expected to see Pete come rushing out of the woods to see what all the noise was about. So while singing for all he was worth, he peered over the steering wheel into the darkness of the trees for any sight of his partner.

  But there was no sign of Pete. Or any movement at all in the woods for that matter.

  The song was going into the final verse, so he decided to flick the headlights on in the hope of catching Pete’s attention. The lights were only on for a couple of seconds before he finally saw some movement. A tall, broad shouldered man walked out of the woods and into the bright white light that was emanating from the car’s headlamps.

  But this wasn’t Pete.

  It was a much larger man. As this man strode into the centre of the light Randall got a real good look at him. And it caused him to stop singing On The Wings of Love. His face froze in mid song as he stared at the sight before him.

  The man who had come from the woods stopped in the centre of the light as if he wanted Randall to get a
good look at him. He was wearing black jeans and a shiny red leather jacket over a black vest. His face was ghastly, or at least it appeared that way at first, until Randall eventually processed the image correctly in his mind. That was when he realised he wasn’t looking upon a face made from skin and bone. He was looking at a rubber mask. A dirty yellow mask designed to look like a human skull. It had an evil grin and several of its teeth were blacked out. Protruding up on the top of the mask was a two inch high strip of red hair that ran back from the front of the forehead like a Mohican or Mohawk. And through two eyeholes in the mask, a pair of vivid black eyes stared right back at Randall.

  Two more things caught Randall’s eye before he started up the engine and slammed the car into reverse.

  The man in the yellow mask was holding a long sharp silver blade in his left hand. And the blade was covered in blood, a stream of which was dribbling onto the ground.

  In his other hand he was carrying a human head, holding it by a fistful of its thick brown hair. Randall’s eyes opened wide as the image took up a place in his memory bank forever.

  It was Pete’s head.

  Two

  ‘Nobody puts Baby in the corner.’

  Baby had heard Patrick Swayze utter that line a thousand times. Even now it still gave her goose-bumps. It represented so much more than just her favourite line in Dirty Dancing. Deep down she believed that one day a real man just like Johnny Castle would come and sweep her off her feet, make her feel like she mattered, and take her away from The Beaver Palace. She dreamed of being whisked off to a happier, friendlier place. Somewhere like the holiday resort in the movie would do just fine.

  She had picked up the nickname Baby not long after arriving at The Beaver Palace. It had been an appropriate nickname too because up until recently she had been the youngest girl there. She was nineteen now and her crown as the youngest girl in the Palace had been inherited by her friend Chardonnay, who was only seventeen. But the name Baby was a keeper, not least of all because no one had ever called her anything else. And it made watching Dirty Dancing just that tiny bit more special for her. She tried to model herself on Jennifer Grey, the actress in the movie. She was a similar build and she owned a pair of white jeans that she wore most days. The major difference between the two of them was that Jennifer Grey didn’t have a bright blue birthmark on her left cheek. Baby had one and it stood out a mile. She remembered how as a ten year old she had once spent half a day and two bars of soap trying to wash it off. Birthmarks don’t go that easy though and as the years passed she had grown used to it and accepted it. Clarisse, the madam at The Beaver Palace always referred to it as a beauty spot. Baby had learnt to think of it that way too. Anyway, birthmark or not, she suspected that most of the other girls at The Beaver Palace were envious of her. Everyone wanted to be Baby, the one in Dirty Dancing that is, not the one currently watching it in her room. On her own.