I, Death

Brecht: 1

The kid’s journal just ended.

The way he’d gone on and on for so long, writing almost every single thing he did, jotting down every thought that had occurred to him, it was shocking the way it just ended.

And if Bryan Brecht didn’t know any better, didn’t know the actual truth, he would have believed the kid had actually succeeded in killing himself during the face-off with the mirror.

But he’d seen the kid once since that last blog entry — about a week later. And one of his street soldiers — that’s what Brecht liked to call the goons who worked for him — had spotted him hitch-hiking on Highway 69. Heading south.

At that point, Brecht had put out the word through his contacts in the Greater Toronto area that he wanted to be called immediately if anybody spotted Peter O’Mallick. He’d even faxed a picture of and emailed a link to the single online photo the kid had placed online — his profile picture for his blog.

So the word was out. And though it had been well over a year since Brecht had received any update on his whereabouts — the last update placed O’Mallick living on the streets in Toronto — it was just a matter of time before someone found him again and Brecht would be able to catch up with the kid.

Of course, the trick still remained on how he would survive a face-to-face meeting with the kid.

And based on some things he’d picked up in the journal, as well as his own two encounters with the kid, Brecht had a theory.

The only issue, of course, had been that if the theory didn’t hold out, it could be fatal.

Though he’d only seen the kid twice in person, Brecht had crossed paths with the kid indirectly prior to that. Of course he didn’t realize there had been a connection to him back then, through either the teacher or that young slut he’d been with that one night and whom Brecht had fucked six ways from last Thursday.

His pecker started to get hard just thinking about that night.

§         §         §

That night Brecht had been sitting in the passenger seat of the car. He'd been the one to discover Robinson’s vehicle on the side of the road in the little parking nook near the slag dump site. Fitz had been driving. Dillon had been in the back seat.

Brecht respected Dillon tremendously — always had, and not just because while Dillon was the leader of Sudbury’s most powerful gang he still did a lot of the face time and dirty work that he sent his men to take care of. No, it was mostly because Dillon also could look deep into the heart of the men he kept close to him. People like Brecht and Fitz. Brecht, a tall gangly albino wore thick pop bottle glasses and looked more like a bookworm or college nerd than a henchman. But Dillon knew that Brecht was right for the role, that he was a loyal and reliable right hand man. He also knew Brecht was a black belt in Tae Kwan Do and not only had the ability to kill a man in a heartbeat, but would do so whenever necessary and that his deceptively innocent looks and lethal skill made for a powerfully deadly combination.

Fitz, Dillon’s driver, possessed similar abilities.

If Brecht was Dillon’s right hand man, then Fitz would be his left hand man.

Fitz was a tall black man who looked like a linebacker. He had a perpetually stupid look on his face at all times. Looking at him, you’d believe the only thing he was capable of giving any deep thought to would be his next meal or most recent bowel movement. But that’s where people went wrong with him. Fitz was a fucking genius. Sure, he looked like a bargain basement goon, like so much dumb muscle, but he had a Ph.D. in physics, read a dozen books a week, spoke four languages fluently and was simultaneously teaching himself a fifth and sixth. Several of the gang members referred to him as ‘MacGyver’ because of his keen ability to make anything work that he put his mind to. But nobody dared call him that to his face, because he had the patience of a gnat and tolerated nobody except for Dillon.