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 The Last Resort

Gayle F. Arrowood

Jim leaned on his elbows and tapped his fingers on his shiny oak desk, daydreaming about the billions, which he'd zigzagged around the earth countless times.  Finally, he deposited the dough into untraceable foreign accounts.  The last of the zigging and erasing of paths had been completed this very afternoon.  One last thread to cut—no trail behind him—free and set for life—and all during Christmas week.

"Stop that tapping!  It sounds like a time bomb a few seconds short of exploding."  Chris, Jim's boss, said.

Sounds pissed off, Jim thought.  But it takes him a while to connect his gut and head.  I don’t think he’ll realize how serious it is.  If he did, he’d be checking the accounts already.  Probably just knows something's different.  

Chris kept glancing at the two doors, one to the rest room decorated handsomely in black with dabs of white; the other led to a dilapidated hall.

Out there, trash rested here and everywhere, the remains of the building's street-people days.  As Chris told it over and over to Jim, before this operation set up business, Chris and a couple off-duty, uniformed police officers had driven everyone out.  Workmen had barricaded all the openings, so only authorized personnel could get in, which was simply Chris.  One of thousands, he sat at the bottom of a secret operation supposedly set up to fund mental health all over the world.  But in reality, it funded terrorist operations across the globe.  This collection of single-celled networks left very few paths through their jungles.  And this set-up was bound to cause a bloody backlash at the bottom, maybe higher. 

And Jim was just waiting for this chance to mess up one of their central sources for money and make himself rich in the process.

He came on board later—secretly— and Chris paid him in cash out of his own pocket, so  Chris could establish himself as a super-type, who answered the calls, handled the bookwork and a lot of foreign accounts, all by himself.  To create this image, Chris had to hire the smooth-talking Jim.  This much Chris had told Jim a few weeks into the job.  

As Jim knew, supposedly, such things made their way up the gossip ladder.  But not in this case because Chris trusted no one.  Still, to enhance his image he had to let Jim in on codes and teach him how to handle money and accounts electronically.

Edgy because of his plan, Jim ran his hand through his naturally blond hair, ignored bitchy Chris, and spun his leather executive chair in circles.  Each time around, he scowled at the table with coffee and a large open box that contained donuts when he had arrived.  But not now.  Chris had eaten them all. 

Fat slob, Jim thought, almost too big for his chair, like a demonic Santa. 

"Shit, sit still!  What's your problem?”  Chris demanded.  “You must be up to something, come on, cough it up.”

"Just need a broad.  Relax," Jim urged, then jumped out of the seat to get a cup of coffee. 

The micro-second Jim moved, Chris shoved his chair away from his pecan desk, then muttered loud enough for Jim to hear, what the hell'd I do this for?  Jerky's just getting coffee.  Chris looked perplexed and embarrassed as he quickly pulled himself back to his desk.

Jim took the last cup.  “No more coffee.”

“Make some!”

“Can’t.  No more beans.”

"Shit!  Everything’s spooky tonight.  Hasn't that Moron guy called yet?" 

"It's Mor-aaaaaan," Jim emphasized as his back fell against the chair.  "Not moron, they're all morons."  Chris' move had not been lost on Jim.  Fuck!  He thought, I need to calm down, too damn excited about my climax to this operation.   He hoped his little plan would expose the whole front.

So he grabbed the list of five abused men that other hotlines had referred to them.  One looked especially promising and could work into his scheme perfectly.  Jim had a hunch about this guy.

Buzzzzzzzzz Buzzzzzzzzzzzzzz!

Chris jerked out of his chair.  He grabbed the phone at his waist, then muttered, it’s one of the victims’ lines ringing.  He plopped back down in his chair. 

Each man had a cell phone connected to the same number.  If Chris was ever in trouble for something that he or Jim did or didn't do, they'd hear about it on this phone.  Chris ‘s eyes shot rage at Jim, who thought, that ass must be wracking his brain waves, wondering what I’m up to. 

Chris stared at Jim and the monitor as if he were listening carefully while Jim talked to this Moran guy.

Before answering, Jim waited for a name, address, SSN, assets, net worth, hotlines history, etc. to appear on his computer screen.  Unknown to those who called into hotlines, this one had caller ID and illegal access to the government’s data bank on everyone.

Buzzzzzzzzz Buzzzzzz!

"Terrorism Hotline."  Jim spoke gently as if he were a heavenly helping hand.  "How can I be of service tonight, Mr. Moran?"

A full minute of silence.

Like 99% of the callers, the victim must have been upset enough not to notice that he hadn’t said his name yet; he started right in talking.  "Somebody gave me your number.  Fuck!  This has been going on too long.  I’ve gotta be dead, but can’t be, hurt too much."  The caller stopped for a labored breath. 

Through the cam phones, Jim saw him droop over his “wall-nut” dining room table where he kept his computer system; he fingered the 14K gold watch in his hand, totally fascinated by it.

Jim spread two fingers in a victory sign to Chris, winked, and quickly cut into the conversation, just like he'd been dipping into the accounts during the last few weeks.  The victim couldn’t see this because the computer ran a program, making the victim see a pre-recorded session of Jim’s actions. 

"Let's see here.  Practical matters first.  Is that OK, Phil?  You are Phil Moran, aren't you?"

"I guess so."

“I see you bought the web cam phone, like the other hotlines suggested.  It’s important I see you; we need to be as close as we possibly can get for me to help you.”

Jim went over some details, reviewing the caller's extensive case history with every hotline in the county.  "Now you started with Crisis Hotline, I believe.  Do you recall what advice they gave you?"

"Leave immediately and get a divorce."  The victim's shoulders sagged even further over the table as if he knew the next question and dreaded it.

"Did you try it?" Jim asked.

Jim could hear the ticking of the watch Phil held and had been told to buy—the very best one he could afford because it would be a priceless memento for the rest of his life.

"Is that ticking I hear from the watch 'I Can't Stand It Anymore' Hotline told you to buy two nights ago?”  Jim asked without needing a breath.

"Yeah!  Yeah!  Fabulous, my first gold one.  I'll be dead if the bitch ever finds it."

Jim responded instantaneously, "Excellent.  You did a good job, Buddy.  That's what your mother called you, isn't it?  May I call you Buddy?  After all we’re going to become fast friends before this call is over.  How long has it been since somebody called you ‘Buddy?’  Too long I bet.  Well, it's time for a change.  A step up and out of prison.  This is the Hotline of Last Resort.  We always get results; one way or another you're gonna stop hurting this very night."

Buddy had no reaction to Jim’s threat as if he didn’t even hear it.  He appeared anxiety-ridden, like the other victims who failed to catch Jim’s meaning.

"Now Buddy, just keep staring at the watch.  The way the gold shines right into your eyes.  And the way the second hand winds around the watch so evenly, so exactly."  Now Jim was nearly whispering.  "Do you see shine and precision?"

Silence.

"Buddy?"

"I hear ya."  The victim sighed, hunched his elbows and muscular shoulders even further over the table as if he and this “wall-nut” were one.

"Let it put you to sleep for a moment.  Trust me.  I won't let you down.  You'll wake up when I count to five.   And you won't remember anything about this call or the visitors you will have tonight, the ones who will make your darkest fantasy about Mary Jane come true."  And Jim did not lie about this.

"OK, OK!  That bitch."  He scrunched up his forehead and closed his eyes tightly while waves of rage seemed to pass through him.  Moran trembled slightly; then he opened his eyes.

"Look!  You’ve gone crazy with hate as much as she has," Jim suddenly shouted to see how much control he had over the victim.

Buddy jolted in the chair.  Wide open now, his eyes gazed around the dining room and parlor, all decorated in pastel to medium blues, colors he could only choose because Mary Jane gave him permission.  But first, he’d had to get on his knees, put his head on the floor and beg her for so long his legs and back had cramped.  At least, that’s what his hotline record said.

When he didn't answer right away, Jim knew Buddy would be difficult to hypnotize.   And Jim believed this man was his best chance.  He had to make the decision spontaneously and immediately.  One time in a hundred, did this type call in.  He was supposed to get him off the line as quickly as possible, but not tonight.

Going ahead, Jim asked, "Are you feeling all right?  Your breathing sounds like broken ribs.  Maybe you need an ambulance?"

Buddy's body jerked; he suddenly remembered the phone resting on his “wall-nut” and his watch in his hand.  He stared into the receiver and a calm comforting voice wound through the air to his ear. 

"Who am I talking to?"  He whispered.

"It's me, Jim, the Terrorism Hotline.  You called about your wife beating you black and blue with your own belt.  That's what you told the other hotlines.  Was it the same tonight, buddy?  I'm Jim, just like an old friend, think of me as your friend please.  I want to help you out of your painful rut, and it can happen this very night.  Wouldn't that fulfill all your fantasies?

"Yeah!" Phil’s shout suggested he’d forgotten his wife was asleep in the bedroom, a woman he didn't dare awaken once she fell into her "re-fuel" line, as she called it.

"Shhhhhh...you'll wake Mary Jane!" Jim cautioned Buddy.

"Oh, sure..."

Speaking so softly, Jim urged, "Go back to admiring your watch, the blinding shine of the gold, the precise movement of the second hand.  It'll make you forget about those broken ribs.  Now blank out the pain by imagining yourself beating up Mary Jane."

The victim's eyes descended to the watch, and his expression of glee suggested that fantasies easily popped into mind; the same ones he'd been having for over eleven years, since the moment he met a face so similar to his mother's, who died when he was ten, at least that’s what he’d told the “I can’t stand it anymore” hotline  That night, he had grinned into the darkness, before falling into forgetfulness.  For one second, he grinned; the same way he’d probably grinned the night his mother died, but that expression quickly closed up again.

"Now keep watching the second hand and shine; keep the fantasies.  Your rage is totally justified.  Tonight years of fantasies will come true.  It’s payback time!  Is that what you want?  To be a man again?  Be the boss in your own castle?"  Jim's voice and the watch appeared to calm the victim because he relaxed against the back of the dining room chair.

"Yeah!  Fuck!  Would that feel great?"

"Good thinking.  Now don't talk unless I ask you a question.  Can you hear me?"

"Yes," the victim could barely be heard; and appeared to be devoured by his fantasies.

"You'll have some visitors tonight.  When they come, you give them everything: checkbooks, savings accounts, stocks, all your assets, sign over the house and let the movers take everything, whatever they want.  Understand?"

"Yeah..." he muttered.

"In return you can do anything to your wife you want; your visitors will protect you.  At the end, you can kill her, just like you dream of everyday.  Understand?"

"OK!"  Buddy muttered again.

"Now I'll put on music, and when it ends I will return and count down from five, on one you will wake up, and forget this phone call.  Your visitors will be at the door and you'll let them in.  They'll take over.  Just do what you're told, everything you're told, OK?"

"Yeah..."

Jim pressed the "H" on the keyboard—Phil was now hypnotized.

Part II

Soft elevator music began.  Gradually over the next half hour the music progressed to a wild abandon; the victim's fantasies rose higher and higher until his mouth grinned, eyes glistened, nostrils flared and vibrated.  He trembled with excitement, even madness.  The same expression he had as he lay in bed staring into the darkness the night his mother was butchered by an unknown intruder--exactly the frame of mind he needed to act out his beloved fantasies, plaguing him since fifth grade.

Eventually, Jim's recorded voice counted down from five.

On one, Phil stood up planning to kill his wife.  Before he could move, he heard a slight tapping at the front door. 

Without hesitating, Buddy marched to the door, opened it and let his new terrorists inside the house.  But when they tried to grab and tie him up, he yanked the rope out of their hands with the strength only the mad possess.  Though short, he yanked a neck to him and cranked it all the way around.  He slammed two other skulls together, brains splashed all over the wall and floor. 

By that time, the two remaining invaders were already in the sedan, burning rubber to get away.

The victim grinned at the blood, brains, and bodies in his foyer, glared out the door to see who was next.  Hed forgotten all about Mary Jane. 

Unfortunately, when she heard the commotion, she raced to the living room with his belt in hand, but halted, horrified, and paralyzed as she stared at him and the remains.  She went comatose.

Finally facing her, he easily whipped the rope around her stunned neck, yanked her within the reach of his fist and...

Part III

Buzzzzzzzzz.  Buzzz, two cell phones rang simultaneously, one for the boss, the other for Jim who was ecstatic over the call.

They grabbed them fast.  These had never rung before.  Jim and Chris had so perfect a performance.

"Get the hell outta there!  Moran killed three of our men, cut off his wife's tits and clitoris with his pocket knife, grinned while she screamed and bled to death.  We sneaked in the back door, and I shot him in the head, crazy as a wounded cougar. 

“Then our backup tried to kill us, but we got all four of them.  A block later, some black car started after us.  Gotta be our own.  Fatso, you messed-up so big we're all dead!  Hear the bullets pinging around ..."

 Vaaaaaaaabooooooom. 

Simultaneously, both men dropped their phones, went for guns: Jim had successfully destroyed this leg of the operation. 

He rolled behind his chair and shot the boss once in the forehead, then emptied the revolver into his heart.  Finally out came his lighter; he set the boss' pant legs and a whole lot of papers on fire.  Flames rose quickly, even before Jim made it to the door. 

Once in the hall just to make sure, he lit paper trash every few steps.  The building had been designated for urban renewal, nearly sawdust, so before Jim reached the stairs, a fire wall raged swiftly behind him.  He flew down the steps, touching wood only once between landings.

“Fuck!”  He screamed when he heard the third floor give way, then the second, or was it the roof and the third, he hoped.  Testosterone surged, he shrieked, "Fuck!  Not now!  Billions!  Nooooooo—Outside I go!"

So panicked, he leapt the last flight of stairs higher than ever as if to dive through the door to freedom.  While he sailed up in the air, the wall beside him exploded from decay and heat; a billion specks shot him outside the fiery structure, just like he’d planned.  One difference: he’d become a lot of single-celled parts, just like this operation.  And the back wall of the building smacked right down on top of his pieces.