Take Away the Saints

Smoke 'Em Up: PIN Codes || Ian R. Cooper

I don't know how long I'm just sitting there, looking into my own dead, glassy eyes as they stare back at me from my own dead, dumb-fuck face. If anyone ever thought it would be impossible to look smug after choking on their own swollen esophagus, they'd never met Jase.

The panic sets in. It's the moment I realize what a son-of-a-bitch I am. There's no remorse or crisis of faith, just the terror of being caught. As if killing a man were the same offense as breaking a neighbor's window with a line drive when you were five.

The dumpster in the corner of the fenced-in patio will hide the body for a while. Of course, I have a convenience seldom afford your average murderer.

I start by stripping Jase's clothes off, followed by my own. Then we switch, just like the fairy tale. The smooth cotton twill of his fabric feels amazing against my nervous skin. Much better than the poly-blend bullshit I'm trying to manhandle his dead-weight into. When I'm done, I do a double check on the contents of my new clothes. The pocket inside the liner of my blazer holds a couple gram baggies of coke. The chinos now carry two wallets, two cell phones, and best of all, a key emblazoned with a Ferrari logo.

Thinking ahead, I slip my wallet into the jeans I put on the dead man. If the cops are looking for an easy ID, they'll find it. Just some idiot with an allergic reaction and drugs in his system. Ho-fucking-hum.

The bartender with the crazy story about twins will be a little harder to dismiss. Her being the only witness may make her a person of interest. Might even go as far as getting charges hung on her. But she's destroyed her own video evidence to the contrary, so fuck her.

I grunt as I heft the snuffed bastard up onto my shoulders. Damn, I should have remembered to open the dumpster before I hauled him up here. It's a clumsy dance as I manage to lift the lid and slide him into the container. The task is made even harder by the fact that I'm trying to keep one eagle-eye on the door, ready to bolt at the slightest motion. Jase makes a muffled thud as his body hits the remaining garbage. Empty bottles clink as they are shifted by his weight. Every noise sends a shudder through my frayed nerves. It takes a moment to realize that my teeth are chattering.

In slow motion, I close the lid as soundlessly as I can. The temporary tomb of one Carl Bixly. Rest in peace, buddy.

I wonder if I should chuck my phone, the last physical lifeline to the man I was. My anchor to Lisa, our shitty apartment, and our unborn child. I'm in no state of mind to make decisions this big, back-to-back. Get out first, worry about details later.

Sitting around thinking over options seems like the best way to get caught. Tam could still walk through that door at any second. I stop thinking, grab the top of the fence, and hop over. Even in mid-flight, I notice the sun glinting off the hood of a cherry red 488GTB. The car gives a cheery chirp when I hit the button to unlock it, and greets me with the clean smell of leather as I slip into the driver's seat.

The sound as the engine turns over is something closer to the roar of a jungle cat, warning any other vehicles on the road that the king has arrived. I don't even have to adjust the rear or side view mirrors. They've been tailored to my height and posture. A few glances back at the bar show no signs of life. No crazed bartender screaming for the cops. No firetrucks coming to break down the doors, or posse being rounded up.

Before I've even blinked, I'm sitting at a red light a block away. The Ferrari in idle sings a symphony of combustion. Rachmaninoff in aluminum pistons, marked by staccato and precision.

Green light.

Shit, I never checked to see if there were any cameras on the inside of the bar. It would make the crazy waitress' doppelganger story believable.