Payment in Blood

Chapter Eight: Recollections of Pleasure and Pain

“Clear the battlefield and let me see
All the profit from our victory.
You talk of freedom, starving children fall.
Are you deaf when you hear the season's call?

Were you there to watch the earth be scorched?
Did you stand beside the spectral torch?
Know the leaves of sorrow turned their face,
Scattered on the ashes of disgrace. ”
--Emerson, Lake, and Palmer - Tarkus

Riptos' golden-yellow eyes took in the stark white lobby of the hospital where he was to receive a preliminary examination to help the doctors decide exactly how they would do the spinal implant that would cure his paralysis. Elena had reluctantly agreed to take him on the two hundred mile journey (to a hospital of Nack Cunningham's choosing), still suspicious of Nack Cunningham, a suspicion that Riptos did not entirely disagree with. Even if it was a deal with the devil, any deal that could save him from his plight was a good one. Riptos wondered if when he was Rex's commanding officer, some of the spirited, risk-taking young man's persona has rubbed off on him. Every time Rex had come to visit him, he felt at once happy to see his old friend and ashamed at letting Rex see him as a despairing, weak old cripple. He seemed to have aged more in the past few months than in the last five years. Fur that was formerly satin black and bright yellow was now charcoal gray and cream colored, with lighter streaks here and there.

A nurse came up to meet them in the lobby, pushing a gurney as she came up to them. “Hello, Mr. Calavera. I have been instructed to take you to the examination room. Your wife will be directed to the waiting room while the examination is conducted.” She moved to pick Riptos up out of his wheelchair.

“Do you want me to help you, ma'am?” said Elena.

“No, thank you.” She lifted Riptos out of the wheelchair, one hand under his back and one under his thighs, and laid him on the gurney. Riptos watched silently as ceiling tiles passed by overhead, a fluorescent lamp housing every three tiles in the middle of the corridor he was now being wheeled down. Small tremors passed through the body of the gurney as the wheels passed over the hairline gaps in the tiled floor. Everything was covered in white tiles, glossy, sterile, almost repellent in their unnatural cleanliness. All this cleanliness to protect mushy creatures of meat and fluids, with innumerable microorganisms both helpful, and, in some patients harmful, growing within.

The air had by now become very warm and dry, he guessed somewhere around eighty degrees, obviously for the comfort of patients who had to remove their clothes. The thin scrubs worn by doctors and nurses, which offered virtually no protection against cold temperatures, made perfect sense in this environment. The gurney turned and turned again as the nurse wheeled it down a warrenlike network of corridors. Riptos did not speak to the nurse, not even to ask her name, his thoughts currently elsewhere.

Even when he did manage to walk again, what would he do? His military career was finished, and he could only have a few years before reaching mandatory retirement age as a commercial pilot. Flying was a young man's job, and Riptos was certainly not getting younger. He had a bachelor's degree in aviation science, as a degree was needed to become an officer, but most of what he had gained in college was lost years ago, thrown out to make room for the arts of aerial combat. His degree was a twenty-year old slip of paper, and little else. Perhaps he could stay home and look after the children while Elena worked a day job, in a reversal of their former roles, but the idea somehow bothered Riptos, gnawed at his male pride. Thus was the classic soldier's quandary: after one survives the rigors of combat time and time again, savored victory, suffered defeat, saw foreign places and heard foreign tongues, what next?

“Mr. Calavera, are you all right?” The nurse's words knocked him out of his contemplation. The here and now came rushing back, the white tiles, the metal gurney, the open door to the exam room.

“I'm sorry, I must have dozed off.”

The nurse chuckled. “It's not a rare thing at all. This is a very large hospital after all, and it probably took us a good fifteen minutes to get here.” She brought the gurney to rest against the wall of the exam room and laid him on the nearby examination table. “Can you sit up?”

“Yes.” Riptos did as he was instructed. He waited passively as the nurse removed his clothes. He hated the experience of being undressed by a stranger, but he made no protest. She rolled him over on his side to finish removing his clothes, and patted him on the head. Riptos, not looking at her, grimaced in anger at the patronizing gesture.

“Now, just wait there. The doctor will be here shortly.” The nurse walked out and closed the door behind her, leaving Riptos alone.

--

“Hello,” said the bartender at MacLean's Pub as Skitz Anderson, Daniel “Deathwish” Wishmaster, and Jeffrey “Pinky” Nilman entered the bar and took their seats. “What can I do for you boys today?”

“Two screwdrivers,” said Deathwish. Deathwish was a black hedgehog, with the spines on his head dyed neon green, clad in a black T-shirt with the words “THOUSANDS OF MY POTENTIAL CHILDREN DIED ON YOUR DAUGHTER'S FACE LAST NIGHT” and baggy jeans.

“Jagermeister, straight up,” said Pinky. Pinky was so named not just because of the ruddy skin of his muzzle, but because of his sexual preferences, advertised prominently by the rainbow flag on his shirt. Pinky and Deathwish were alike in many ways, but completely dissimilar in others. They both shared a brash, rude demeanor and an insatiable appetite for trouble, but Deathwish was a homophobe, and Pinky knew exactly how to exploit that and wind him up.

“Water,” said Skitz. “I'll have to drive these ninnies home after they pass out.” Skitz received an elbow in the side from Deathwish for that comment.

“Leave it to Stiff to order water,” Deathwish snorted. “Jesus freaks never have any fun.”

“I am not a 'Jesus freak', and if you have a problem with me being Catholic you can kindly shove it up your ass. You always are afraid of Pinky's cock being in it anyway. Maybe it will provide a barrier.” Skitz stuck a finger in his water bottle and used it to flick water in Deathwish's face.

“Fuck, it's cold!” Deathwish said as he turned his head away from the water droplets.

“Cold, Danny?” said Pinky. “I can make you warmer.”

“Don't even think about it.”

“But you're supposed to love, honor, and obey. You're my husband.”

“Not this shit again. I swear I'm going to rip your guts out.”

“You can disembowel me anytime, sweetie.”

“Fuck you!”

“Oh yes, fuck me real hard, fuck me in the--” Pinky's words were interrupted as Deathwish got up and punched him, knocking the yellow hedgehog off his bar stool.

“Hey, y'all!” yelled the bartender. “Cut that shit out! I ain't puttin' up with no barfights here.”

“Fine,” said Deathwish as he sat back down on the stool.

“You all right, son?” he said to Pinky, who was getting up, bracing him against the stool.

“Yeah. I've had S&M sessions rougher than that.” Pinky dusted his shirt off and sat back down on his stool.

“Do I want to know?”

“No. You don't.” Pinky downed his shot of Jagermeister in one gulp. “Hey, bartender! I'd like another, just like the first.”

“Comin' right up. By the way, I didn't catch your names.”

“Daniel,” said Deathwish.

“Skitz,” said Skitz. “Yeah, it's a dumb name, I know. Blame the parents.”

“Jeffrey,” said Pinky, “although people call me Jeff and I go by Pinky in the service.”

“You're a soldier, then?” said the bartender.

“We all are,” said Skitz. “We're in the 17h Green Dragons fighter squadron, best fighter jocks on Mobius.

“The Green Dragons, huh?” said the bartender. “Wasn't that the squadron that Calavera guy was in when he rammed the Earthers' flagship in the war?”

“Yes,” said Deathwish. “But we don't like to talk about it. It's a touchy subject.”

“Aww,” said Pinky. “You do have a heart after all, Danny!”

“Shut up, will you?”

“Awww, somebody needs a hug.”

“Somebody needs another punch in the face!” Deathwish slammed his glass against the counter and moved to stand up, but Skitz put a hand on his shoulder.

“Stop, Daniel. You're gonna get us thrown out if you attack him again,” said Skitz. “Sit down and have another drink.”

“You're right,” said Deathwish as he reached for his second screwdriver. “But sometimes, I really do want to kill him.”

--

Riptos looked up as he heard the door to the exam room open and the doctor walk in. Riptos wished he could've had the exam performed at the Liberty Gorge hospital so he could see Bookshire again, but Nack had insisted that he go to this one. Nack had several times told him to tell no one where he was going or any other details of the agreement that they had made, and it worried Riptos. Why all the secrecy? It seemed this Nack Cunningham was hiding a great deal more than anyone has a right to hide. Despite his misgivings, the irresistible force of desperation had led him here, to Dr. Miller's exam room.

“Hello, Riptos, I'm Dr. Miller. I'm here to look at your back.”

“Uh, hello,” said Riptos.

“Not feeling talkative today?” said the doctor as he placed his stethoscope against Riptos's chest.

“Not really.” Riptos recoiled slightly when the cold metal touched him. Bookshire would always warm up the stethoscope by rubbing it against his shirt before putting it on him. “Christ, that's cold!”

“Oh. Sorry about that.”

Riptos's mind again drifted away from the present, towards earlier, better days. Memories of marrying Elena, receiving his commission, holding his newborn son in his arms, drifted up, bittersweet and rueful recollections of days when he felt like he had everything he ever wanted—a family, a career, a secure future. Now he had the first of those, but neither the second nor the third. There were things a young man could take in stride, but could shatter an older person, who had more to lose and a much longer road back to the top if he fell. Riptos was certainly no young man, and the life he had spent twenty years building had now fallen away. People talked about the tragic death of young people, but in war, the middle-aged, the family men, the people who bore the weight of dependents and loved ones, the people who had built prosperity out of years of hard work, were the true tragic casualties.

Riptos's pension was currently allowing his family to scrape by, although they had to sell the car and replace it with a cheaper one, and they owed a substantial debt in medical bills and equipment. But mounting debts would soon swamp his disability pension, and Elena didn't have a college education. Riptos had already argued with Elena over money, and more specifically, not having enough of it, several times already. It seemed that he would come out of this crisis just to face another.

He drifted through the old memories again, of when he promoted Rex to lieutenant commander, of the first time he made love to Elena, of the gray steel corridors of Orbital Station 12 where he was posted during the war with Earth, of Crenshaw finding pictures Elena had taken of him naked and giving them out to his friends as a prank. Memories of a simpler life, of being a provider, of...

“Riptos, are you awake?”

“Yes. Sorry, I was just...I don't know.” The black hedgehog sighed in frustration with being yanked out of his reverie. Sometimes he wanted more than anything else to get away, but it was all in vain.

“All right, I need you to pay attention. I'm going to touch you, and if you feel it, squeeze my finger in your hand.”

Dr. Miller began to prod around Riptos's waist, checking for a reaction, turning the hedgehog several times to work his way all the way around. He began to go lower, testing the boundaries of where Riptos could still receive sensory input.

Riptos's initial apprehension at being palpated was escalating towards panic. This was too invasive, too close, too much. “I am getting very uncomfortable,” he said through gritted teeth.

“Don't freak out. This won't take very long.” Another inch lower, and the finger-squeezing stopped, and, accordingly, the doctor's poking. Dr. Miller jotted something down on the clipboard. “Judging from the palpation and Dr. Draftwood's X-rays, the terminus of the functional spinal cord is at the T-9 vertebra.”

“I have no idea what you just said, but does that mean you can fix me?”

Dr. Miller rolled his eyes. “Yes. Please don't be uncooperative.”

“I try not to be.” Riptos sighed again. “But...never mind. You wouldn't understand.”

“I understand you've been having difficulty coping, and that's perfectly normal, and...shit.” Dr. Miller ran to the counter at the corner of the room, grabbed a wad of paper towels, and pressed them against Riptos's crotch.

Riptos realized with a shock what was now happening. He could only be thankful that his bladder could not completely empty itself without a catheter inserted. “I hate myself,” he muttered.

--

Skitz tried to force down paroxysmal laughter as Deathwish slurred and stammered his way through a karaoke rendition of some sort of psychedelic song, sometimes sounding almost a full octave out of key, obviously completely drunk. There was always a delicious satisfaction in being sober and watching other people get drunk, even if he was denied the pleasure of knocking back a cold one himself due to the responsibility of having to ferry his inebriated charges home later.
“Shiiiiiiiiine oooooooonnnn ya 'raaaaaaazeh daaaaaaaaaaaaahhhhhhmun!” Deathwish howled, provoking several giggles from other patrons in the bar.

“What the hell is he singing?” said Pinky to the bartender.

“If you want to call what he's doing “singing”, he's currently ruining “Shine On You Crazy Diamond”. It's from the 20th century, by a group called Pink Floyd.”

“Didn't Riptos listen to that band all the time?” said Pinky.

"All the fuckin' time. He loves all that crappy old human music. I never could stand it myself, much less understand why it's still popular five hundred years later. I used to piss him off by replacing one of his albums with a Monkey Wrench or Red Velour one. Maybe if he listened to something interesting he would have actually learned to dance one day. I once saw him in a club with Elena. He tripped over his own feet and almost brought Elena down with him when he fell on his ass.”

Deathwish toppled back onto his stool after finishing his performance, appearing to be pleased with himself despite his chilly reception from the “audience”.

“My name is Daniel Lawrence Wishmaster and I smoke crack,” said Pinky.

“My name is Jeffrey Alan Nilman and I smoke cock,” Deathwish retorted.

“Crack, cock, no, they been smokin' roaches,” said the bartender. “Big ones, still alive 'n' everything.”

Skitz almost doubled over laughing when he realized that the bartender had not meant the ends of joints, but rather cockroaches. The image of Deathwish with a lit-up cockroach in his mouth, the poor insect wriggling and trashing between the Mobian's teeth, popped into his head.

“I quit those a long time ago,” said Pinky. “I say no to drugs.”

“Can you quit me too?” said Deathwish.

“I'll never quit you, baby.” Pinky moved to embrace Deathwish, only to be restrained by Skitz.

“All right, I think you've both had enough,” said Skitz as he handed some money to the bartender. “We're leaving.”

“Oh come on,” said Deathwish. “You're no fun.”

“We're coming on, all right, coming on out of here. Move it if you don't want to be left stranded.”

The three of them walked back to the car. Skitz had Pinky sit in the passenger-side front seat and Deathwish in the driver-side rear so they couldn't reach each other.

“That was fun,” said Pinky. “It would have been more fun if we could take Rex along.”

“Well,” said Skitz, “you can blame Rex himself for getting his dumb ass on probation.

“Did Rex get the candy?” said Deathwish, almost bouncing in his seat. “What did he think?”

“He was neither amused nor impressed, although I guess he probably wouldn't have much of a sense of humor in the situation he's in.”

“You gave Rexy candy?” said Pinky. “Daniel and Rex, sitting in a tree, K-I-S-S-I-N-G...”

“You sing the next line of that fucking song and I will rip your jaw out!” Deathwish bellowed, struggling against Skitz's attempts to hold him in his seat.

“Will you stop that, Shitwish?” said Skitz. “I can't look at the fucking road because you're acting like a...” Skitz felt Deathwish suddenly go limp in his grip, and realized that Deathwish had just passed out, and was slumped unconscious in his seat. Well, I guess that means I'll have a little peace and quiet now, Skitz thought to himself as he pressed the button to recline Deathwish's seat back.

--

Deathwish awoke slowly, consciousness returning little by little as his alcoholic sleep faded. It was several minutes before he could open his eyes. He lay in a bed in what appeared to be Skitz's house, clad in pajamas.

“Hey, Danny,” said Skitz. “Are you feeling all right?”

“Not really.” Deathwish covered his head with a pillow. “How long was I out?”

“It's Thursday morning right now, so you were asleep a good 18 hours.”

“Where did these pajamas come from?”

“They're mine. My girlfriend changed you into them, so no, you don't have to worry about me molesting you in your sleep or something. Of course, you're so paranoid about your own sexuality that you'll worry about it anyway..” Skitz rolled his eyes.

Deathwish felt his stomach churning and pulsing, attempting to empty its contents. “Oh, fuck. I'm about to puke, right now.”

“There's a bucket on the nightstand for you to be sick in.” He took the bucket and handed it to Deathwish, who immediately disgorged the remnants of yesterday's lunch and six drinks into it.

“Have you ever considered seeing a shrink about your homophobia complex?”

“No.”

“What's your big problem with Pinky anyway? I mean, you've never even shown any real reason for hatimg him. I'm sure you already know that he only does most of the shit he does to get you all worked up and mad so you make a fool of yourself.”

“Yeah, there's a reason.” said Deathwish. “But I'm not telling you. It's a long story and I don't want to talk about it.”

“Why not?” Skitz knew he could probably extract something out of Deathwish in this situation. Daniel was exhausted, hungover, and vulnerable. He never talked about his family, his home life, or his childhood, but Skitz now felt confident he could poke the first hole in Deathwish's shell.

“You're not going to leave me alone about this, are you?”

“Daniel, we've known each other since elementary school. I'm your friend, and I'll always be your friend. Why do you never talk about your life? Why do you never invite me over to your house? Why are you so fucking scared of the showers when we're on active duty?. Come on, talk to me. Just between you and me, and the shrink if you ever decide to see one. I don't want to talk to Deathwish the ace fighter pilot. I want to talk to Daniel Wishmaster. So be Daniel, not Deathwish, and talk to me. Don't pretend you don't have any problems, because you do, and everyone knows it. We haven't had a real conversation in years, Daniel.”

Deathwish nodded. “All right...you want to hear about the real me. I think I can tell you.”

“Please go on.”

“Would you think less of me if I told you if I was an ex-gangster who lives with his single mother and joined the navy just to get off the streets? If I...”

“Easy there, Daniel. One thing at a time.”

“The reason why I never invited you to my home is because home is in the ghetto. My mother lived on welfare and boyfriends until I got a real job. Let me show you something.” Daniel removed the shirt of his pajamas and showed Skitz a scar on his chest. “This was where I once had a gang tattoo. I was a member of Section 76, one of their people they called up when they needed muscle. Skitz, if they had ever caught me, we wouldn't be having this conversation, because I would be in prison and I'd never get out. I went to a back-alley clinic to get a skin graft before signing up so I could get into the navy without them seeing my tattoo and blackballing me.”

“Are you saying you killed someone? I won't tell anyone if you say yes.”

“I did kill people. I got so disgusted with myself that I bailed, and my mother and I skipped town. I sometimes have nightmares of some of my former gangmates finding me. I'm clean now, but the temptation to go out and break the law is still there.”

“Whatever you do, Danny, stay clean. Do it for me.”

“I'll try.” Daniel looked in Skitz's eyes, then away, then back again. “I've been trying for a long time.”

“By the way, you still haven't talked about what the deal is with Pinky.”

“Shit. This is the one I really didn't want to tell, but I have to give it to you straight. It started when I was a kid...”

16 Years Ago

Eleven-year-old Daniel Wishmaster shivered as he climbed the stairs to his mother's boyfriend's room. He had told his mother that he liked to go upstairs to play with him. A half-truth. The other half being “stepdad's little secret”.

His mother loved Shane Pitman. She loved his personality, his appearance, and especially his money. Shane was never out of money, it seemed. He bought her a car, a whole new wardrobe, jewelry. It almost made up for the fact that he never seemed interested in sleeping with her, she had said.

Daniel knew where he got his money from, and why he never slept with her. He first had his suspicions when he snooped through Shane's belongings and found a used condom and baby oil, and a stack of twenties. They were soon confirmed when he invited Daniel up to his room for the first time. Shane Pitman was a gay prostitute. Daniel had heard of “tambourine players” and people who dressed in women's clothing at school, but Shane didn't match any of the stereotypes. Only Daniel knew, and it was one of many “little secrets” he had with him.

Deathwish's bare feet made hardly a sound as he entered the room, just as he did every night. Shane was sitting on the couch, naked. Pornography was playing on the TV, but the sound was muted. Shane always said that it was more about the sights than the sounds. Sometimes Daniel would look at it out of curiosity and disbelief at some of the things the actors did.

“Yo, Danny-boy,” said Shane. “Come here. You're looking cute tonight.”

Daniel did as he was told, sitting down on the couch. He hated these “sessions”, but Shane said doing this kept him with Daniel's mother. If it made his mother happy, whatever it was, Daniel would do it. His mother was the only person he truly loved, loved enough to lie to her just to make her happy, even when he cried himself to sleep at night.

Daniel felt cold inside and out as Shane removed his pajamas. It was the same every night. Shane called what he did “petting”. Daniel had some other, more negative words for it, but he dared not utter any of them. Now they were lying together, Shane stroking his back. He closed his eyes, trying to imagine himself somewhere else, but to no avail.

“You know what, D?” said Shane, reaching in between Daniel's legs. “You know all that stuff you see on those videos?”

“Yeah, I guess.” Daniel fought back the urge to attempt to crush Shane's hand between his legs, not that he was strong enough to do it anyway.

“Ever wanted to try any of it?” Shane ran a finger down his tail.

“Not really.” Deathwish started sweating. He had a pretty clear idea of what Shane wanted to do with him. He couldn't. He wouldn't. There were things he was willing to do to keep the money flowing to his mother, but this wasn't one of them.

“I was thinkin' we could try it, right now.”

“Stepdad, I really don't think this is a good idea.”

“Your mama needs the money, D. She would be disappointed if I walked away.”

“No! I can't!”

“Come on, D, it doesn't hurt.”

“No!” Daniel screamed, kicking Shane as hard as he could in the face, managing to send blood trickling down Shane's lower lip. The look in Shane's eyes was a sure sign that Daniel had made a terrible mistake.

“I can't believe...no you didn't, you little bitch!”

“I'm sorry, I didn't mean to--”

“Shut your face!” Shane grabbed him by the ears and dragged him to the bathtub, turning the hot water faucet all the way on.

“No, stepdad! It was an accident! Don't hurt me! Don't hurt me!” His pleading went unheeded when Shane submerged him-face down in the water, holding his head under the surface.

“How do you like that, bitch? Kick this!”

Daniel thrashed violently under the water, fruitlessly trying to break Shane's grip. After a minute or so, he could feel his hold on consciousness weakening. In a few more seconds he would lose consciouness, inhale water, and die. Tears streamed down his face.

“Get your fucking paws off my boy, you motherfucker!” Arlene Wishmaster screamed as she barged into the room, a kitchen knife in her hand. “Motherfucker! Motherfucker! Die! Die! Die!” Daniel could hear Shane screaming as the blade pierced his head over and over. The vise-grip on his neck was released as Shane died, and Daniel leapt out of the tub, coughing and sputtering, his skin scalded red from the hot water.

Daniel lay on the floor, crying, not knowing of anything else to do. Shane's glassy, dead eyes bored into him, the hedgehog's head flopped over in a manner that would be comical in any other situation. He felt arms enveloping him as his mother picked him up.

“It's OK, mama's here,” said Arlene. “He's not going to hurt you anymore.”

“Mama, I should have told you. He kept making me go to his room and, he touched me! He touched my private parts!” Daniel bawled into her shoulder, a whirlwind of emotions carrying his mind away.

“Shush, baby, you're safe now.”

Daniel fell silent, his eyes still dripping tears, his face still planted in his mother's shoulder. He briefly pulled his head away to see Shane slumped over on the blood-soaked floor.

Present Day

“Fucking hell,” muttered Skitz. “I'm sorry, man.”

The now 27-year-old Daniel Wishmaster's eyes were edged with tears again, as they were on that fateful night, but this time he held them back, willed himself not to cry. “So there you have it,” he said. “I act tough and talk shit around Pinky because it's a defense mechanism. It keeps me from being intimidated.”

“But then he takes advantage of you and you get angry,” said Skitz. “So I don' t think it's working.”

“Maybe. I don't know.” Daniel sniffled. “I feel pathetic.”

“It's all right,” said Skitz. “Would you like a hug?”

“No. That will just make me feel more pathetic. You aren't going to go blabbing about this, are you?”

“Of course not. But I think you should make peace with Pinky one day. He can be manipulative and obnoxious, but he's not a bad person.”

“I guess I can try.”

“Want to shake on it?” Skitz extended his hand.

“Why not?” Daniel shook Skitz's hand.

“Do you need a few more hours to get over your hangover or are you ready to go home?”

“I think I need to stay a few more hours.” Daniel pulled the blanket up over his chest.

“All right. How about I wake you up at three in the afternoon?”

“Sounds fine.”

“All right, see you later. Get some sleep.” Skitz closed the curtains and left Daniel in the room to rest for a while longer.