The Shankshaw Remuneration

(C) Copyright 2002 by Krypto28, all rights reserved, except those described below. Permission is granted to download, archive, and repost provided that the contents are not altered, including the disclaimers, copyrights and limitations on use and provided that no fee is charged for access. This story is erotic fiction intended for adult entertainment. The author does not necessarily condone or endorse the behavior described in this story. All persons and events in this story are completely fictitious and ANY similarity to persons living or dead or to actual events is purely coincidental.

"It's over... kpt... It's over... kpt... It's over... kpt..."

That was all I could hear when the thumping and ringing in my right ear subsided enough... but I didn't know what the hell it was. A girl's voice... sounded kinda familiar. Sounded like someone took a sledgehammer to my answering machine.

At some point consciousness came home after a short jaunt, swinging its own sledge-straight into my temple.

My eyelids fluttered open with a little resistance (they felt sorta crusted shut). My hands leapt straight to my head... and then just as quickly away from my head. Panic began the first of his many reigns that night right about then. One-- I don't generally wake up sprawled on the floor. Two-- I don't generally take a nap with my bedroom in shambles. Looked like the fucking FBI tossed the place. And Three--(here's the kicker, folks) my hands generally--hell, NEVER-come away from my head looking like they'd just been raked through a week-old slice of cherry cheesecake.

I sort of sat there for a minute, or maybe ten, wide-eyed and half-hyperventilating... looking at my bloodied hands... crying... seeing another chunk of that macabre cheesecake dangling from the "5Ë" on my Pulp Fiction poster; spots of blood clinging to Uma Thurman's prone body... eyes moving to the stereo--glass front busted in, couple equalizer lights broken out... and my television... was gone.

The TV, or lack thereof, pretty much snapped me out of my funk. I'm missing bits of my gray matter, and the loss of a $650 dollar boobtube is what wakes me up. Go figure.

I had obviously been shot, and not in a good place, but I was breathing and all of that good, vital stuff, and was functioning quite well, considering. I helped myself up with the bedpost-arms worked-legs worked (little shaky)-and the crapper definitely still worked. Standing up elicited a mini-mudslide down the backs of my legs.

My first order of business was to quell the answering machine's "It's over" chant. I shambled over to the dresser and plucked it from its hangman's pose over the side. I bashed it off of the corner of its perch. One blow and all was silent, save the beat of the bass drum in my temple.

The thought never really occurred to me that the purveyor of all this chaos might still have been in the house, or if my parents and two younger brothers were safe. Don't ask me why. Shock, I guess. I was in pain, and highly disgusted. Numb to the world-- mentally, at least. My eyes were still darting all over the room, heart was pounding through my ribcage, and I was panting like a mutt, but getting to the bathroom and cleaning myself up was the great priority. I've always hated being messy more than just about anything.

The bedroom door was open, so I eased my sorry ass down the hall, careful to keep blood off the carpet. Mom would already have been pissed about my room and having to listen to my whining about the TV being stolen. Type-O flavored stains in the rug would just make more shit for the fan, you know?

The bathroom light was off, so I flicked up the switch on the way in. I think I forgot to wipe off the cherried smear I made in the process. Oh well. Still blows my mind (haha) that I just grabbed a clean washrag from the cabinet, wet it with handsoap and warm water, and just nonchalantly scrubbed the red coating from the side of my face and neck, kinda dabbed real gentle-like at my exploded head, then made sure to rinse the bits of my skull (my fucking skull) and clumps of hair down the drain. Like washing up for school or something. Crazy.

I remember switching off the light, then heading back to Disaster Zone One for a clean shirt to go to the emergency room in, when I heard the front door downstairs slam against the wall. The haze I had sunken into cleared yet again. Reality. Yippy-skippy. My room was trashed and robbed, I've got a gunshot wound to the head, it's pitch black in the house, and now I've got company. Or bad company's still there.

It felt like one of those stop-drop-and-roll drills like they teach you in elementary school. I hit the floor in absolute terror, jarred my head again, and started bleeding all over the fucking floor. So much for keeping the carpet clean, huh?

I held my breath, and could barely hear footsteps downstairs. Then, clanking from the kitchen. It took me a minute or two to muster up enough balls to move, but soon I was slithering down the hallway to the stairs, pausing occasionally after hearing more unusually loud bursts of noise from below. Upon reaching the top of the stairwell, a revelation: sitting pristine at the bottom of the stairs, framed in the moonlight that filtered in from the wide-open front door, was my television. The noisy intruder had yet to haul off his booty.

At this point, I had to make a decision. Which instinct to follow? Fight or flight? My initial thought was to just get the hell out of there. Bolt down the stairs, hurdle the TV, and straight out the front door I fly. Course, that night I was losing my head. I got the harebrained idea to try to ID the intruder, and then I could sneak to a phone and call the cops. I needed to catch just a glimpse.

Down the stairs I slowly crept, holding my breath yet again in a vain hope to render myself silent. I heard the creak of a turning faucet, then the burble and rush of running water. My intruder was at the sink. I moved the bottom step and craned my head to see around the kitchen doorframe... and there he was. Noisy bastard was washing his hands... of blood. My blood.

He stood nearly as tall as me, and was wearing torn blue jeans and a bloody sweatshirt. I swear-- you've never quite had the cold chills until you see someone actually wearing about two pints of your own blood. Creepy as hell. Oh, and Mr. Original was wearing a black ski mask to complete his criminal ensemble.

I watched him scrub with Mom's steel wool and some Dawn, then dry his hands on the paper towel roll. He went out of sight for a moment, then reentered the picture with a handful of candy from the big jack 'o' lantern bowl on the kitchen table. The guy was making himself right at home.

As soon as he left my view again, I eased myself over the banister and into the living room. Stupid move, because now I was cornered. The only way to the kitchen was through the living room... and vice versa-- the only way out of the kitchen for him was through the living room. My room! The guy in the kitchen was bound to come out sometime. I needed to prepare. I needed to protect myself. Cliché or no cliché, I grabbed the most handy weapon I could find. It just so happened to be the iron poker from the fireplace. What happened next has changed my life. You could say that I wouldn't be where I am today without the next blurry series of events.

I grabbed the poker, may or may not have whispered a small prayer, and then pressed myself flat against the wall next to the kitchen doorway. Waited. Listened. Footsteps. Sudden appearance. A scream. His eyes. I swung. I don't remember.

* * *

I woke up the next day. In a hospital bed. My head was wrapped enough to make Aladdin proud. A dull ache sounded through the million layers of gauze, but otherwise I felt fine. No worries from the previous night. Just a little bewilderment; confusion. It was all like a forgotten dream, or like reading a chapter of a novel just before falling asleep, and struggling to remember the action the next morning. I didn't notice it at first, but my room was totally empty. No "roommate." No visitors. No flowers. No cards. Sterile and white. The television in my room had even been removed from its swivel on the wall high above me. Something was seriously wrong with this picture.

My unease continued to grow with the advent of mealtimes and IV bag changing. The person attending to my "needs" wore a nondescript type of uniform, the likes of which I had never seen on a nurse. I would have chalked this up to my limited knowledge of the health care profession (which consisted of two seasons' worth of ER episodes), except that these nurse-people never made eye contact and didn't say a thing during their forays to my bedside. The only form of acknowledgement (if you could call it that) was the occasional nervous darting glances they shot me whenever I appeared to be looking the other way.

My questions were answered on my third full day of consciousness. I had just finished another profanity-laced, top-of-the-lungs conversation (one-sided as usual) with my nurse-person o' the day as to what the hell was going on and where my family was, when a tall, thin man walked through the door. He carried a clipboard and a pack of papers in his arms. My first thought was "doctor," but the stiff walk, the stiff demeanor, and stiff attire immediately changed that thought to "answers," and then "trouble."

"Mr. Harris," he began, "how are you feeling today?"

I could sense the forced small talk, so I forced out a little of my own, seasoned just a smidge. "I feeling just wonderful, despite the fact that there's a piece of my head missing and no one around here will tell me what the hell is going on... how are you?"

The man made not the slightest reaction to my politeness, and instead continued as if I had never said a word. He had rehearsed his speech.

"Mr. Harris, I'm Detective Daniel Clark from the Connecticut State Police. We've been wondering... do you remember the circumstances surrounding your injury and subsequent stay here at St. John's Med-Cent?"

"Would I have asked if I did?"

"Maybe this will help," he said, producing a sheet of looseleaf from the packet in his hand.

I took from him a neatly printed note, transcribed in a familiar hand. It was addressed to "Whoever gives a shit" and outlined a quick a description of love lost and a life that can't go on. My name was signed at the bottom.

I can't remember my exact reaction. I would venture a guess at dumbfounded, because just remembering those words still sucks the breath out of me today. The detective gave me only a few seconds before delivering the knockout blow.

"We found you lying in the kitchen of your home, unconscious and facedown in a pool of blood. Earlier in the evening, some trick-or-treaters and their parents had come to the front door of a home, only to find it wide open. When they peeked through the doorway and into the living room, they saw two bloodied figures-- one sprawled across the living room floor and one lying in the kitchen doorway. The kids laughed and ran in ahead of the parents to ask for candy. When the bodies didn't respond after a minute or two of the kids' cajoling, one of the fathers stepped forward to admire the homeowners' apparent handiwork. The man thought that the real residents were hiding somewhere in the room with a bowl of candy, waiting to pounce, and that these bodies-- obviously mutilated dummies-- were left out to draw any visitors into the scare. It was then that one of the dummies began to hemorrhage, soaking the carpet under its face. The startled man searched the room, then the rest of the house, for its residents. When he could find no one, he rushed the children away from the house and called 911. We arrived in a matter of minutes. Mr. Harris, you were the "dummy" in the doorway. You were holding a bloodied iron rod in your right hand, and were barely breathing. The dummy in the living room was wearing a ski mask, and was quite dead. The ski-masked dummy, Mr. Harris, was your brother."

* * *

Six months later I went to trial for the murder of my seventeen-year-old brother, Matthew. The state's attorney could not reconstruct a concrete chain-of-events for that terrible Halloween night, but there was really no question as to who inflicted the fatal blows to Matt's skull, neck, arms and chest. The physical (and logical) evidence had overwhelmingly proven me the guilty party in this horrible event. However, my testimony, which was comprised of the story I have just related to you, coupled with the gunshot wound to my head and the gun and note found in my destroyed bedroom, created a conundrum for judge and jury. What damage would a bullet through the right frontal lobe of the brain do to a man? Could my disorientation and confusion have occurred as a result?

Countless doctors were called to the witness stand, either to attempt to prove or dispute the viability of my testimony. I agonized for days as I sat rigid beside my lawyer, first hearing rounds of tragic sympathy, then brandings of "fratricidal monster."

Ultimately, the facts won a guilty charge. Fifty-seven separate blows is a number that tends to stand out. Second-degree murder. The judge was not so certain, however. My sentence was considerably reduced from the norm to "just" thirty years.

* * *

I tell you this story on the 10,900th day of my imprisonment. Just two more months to go. No Shawshank Redemption-esque ending for me. No Rita Hayworth posters, no digging like Tim Robbins. But then, Robbins's character (I think his name was Dufresne) was falsely imprisoned for the murder of his wife and her lover. I, on the other hand, have had 29 odd years to make a damn good story even better. You were probably thinking that things seemed a little fishy here and there, or a couple things a tad too vague, but it made enough sense to damp the doubt. That's all I needed... just the hint of doubt. Just the hint of doubt hangs a jury, or in my case, sways the judge.

I hope the look on your face is how mine looked when that idiot of a detective showed me my note of salvation in that hospital room. "Dumbfounded" was the theme of my campaign. Your look (I think I see it now) almost brings a tear of nostalgia to my eye.

I honestly didn't intend for any of this to happen. I was very happy in my relationship with Ashley at the time. We had been dating throughout high school-- and marriage was the next step. I had just bought the diamond when she started acting strange.

It started with the phone calls. The silence from her end began to become more and more frequent. Then she started going out at night without mentioning that where she was going, or why. We had always discussed each other's plans before. Then there was the time I got home from class just as she was leaving the house. She said that she came over thinking that I was home and apologized for forgetting about me being in class. Thing was, she knew damn well that Fiction class was my favorite class (even though I was always late) and that I never missed if I could help it. Blinded by love and the diamond in my dresser drawer, I didn't think twice about the exchange.

It wasn't many days after that episode that I returned from another Fiction class to find a rare message on my answering machine. I remembered a line from a classmate's story that day and laughed. "Well, I'll be dipped," I thought. Hell, Skipper's probably dead now. Anyhow, the message was Ashley's. The cliché was "It's over," and then it was almost over for me.

I was heartbroken. I was enraged. Eighteen-fucking-hundred dollars on a goddamn shiny rock and three years of your sow-your-wild-oats time flushed right down the crapper in two minutes worth of badly recorded words will do that to you. Can you tell I'm still bitter?

The answering machine's flight ended with a satisfying crunch against the wall, and I followed with the grand whirlwind of destruction through my room. Suicide was the next logical step, no matter how stupid it seems every time I get a migraine emanating from my right temple now. I loved her for three years and now she was just calling it quits, just like that.

I tromped into my parents' room, pulled Dad's pistol from its case on the top shelf in the closet, and carted it back to my room. I tore a sheet of paper from a notebook and wrote down some undoubtedly pathetic stuff. The only part I remember was the "to whoever gives a shit" salutation, which I'm still rather fond of. I then raised the gun to my head with full intentions of blowing my brains out. I even held a picture of Me and Ashley: Happy Smiling Couple to the other side of my head to catch the lovely splash from the exit wound.

When I woke up a few hours later all wet and in the worst of pain, I knew I'd fucked it up somehow. I'm not really sure, but I assume that I sort of chickened out at the instant I pulled the trigger, and must've angled the gun up just enough to save my life. At any rate, though, the bullet caught some skin and actually did take out a chunk of the old gray matter. Dear old Dad's .357 became a home lobotomy kit. Do-it-yourself!

Unconsciousness, a head wound, and a state of shock does wonders as a step-by-step head-clearing tool. I actually did re-mash the answering machine and go to the bathroom to clean up. I actually did hear a noise downstairs and go investigate (but none of that stop-drop-and-roll shit). And yes, believe it or not, my television was at the bottom of the staircase "framed by the moonlight..." waiting for the repairman to pick it up the next day. You gullible fucks.

The sight of dipshit Matt with his half-assed Halloween bank-robber costume (with "real fake" blood!) washing his "real fake" bloody hands in the kitchen sink gave me the most divine of inspirations. It's one of those things that I'd always kind of known, but never wanted to come to grips with, so I just buried it. Seeing him at the sink raised the dead for me right there. Ashley and Matt.

Showing up at the house at odd times, going out without telling me. She was with him. Kissing him, fucking him. My bride. Matt's dick in my bride. No more denial.

I grabbed the poker and waited. He strolled through the doorway a minute or so later, pushing a baby Snickers through the little mouth hole in his mask. Impaired judgement... another side effect of hunger.

So thus I became a vengeful cherry tree for Halloween, my reddened hair flapping as I chopped little the little lying George Washington down in retribution. The first shot probably killed him, 'cause hell if it didn't cave his skull right in. Then I just spent the rest of my leftover frustration (the room whirlwind didn't take care of all of it) clubbing on poor little Matty until he started to squish instead of crack. Fifty-seven was the number they came up with, though hell if I know how they can count something like that. I like it though, the 57. Like the ketchup... thick, squishy, and red.

All in all, prison hasn't been bad. My roomie and I cover each other's asses (literally) and life is rather tame. They've allowed me a job with the prison library-- there's my Shawshank Redemption-- so I get to keep up with my reading. I found a fascinating thing during my stint as librarian. A book on neurology, chapter on lobotomy. Here's what I found: "Following severe injuries there may be periods of gross disinhibition which may consist of loud, boisterous, and grandiose speech, singing, yelling, and beating on trays. The destruction of furniture and the tearing of clothes is not uncommon. Some patients may impulsively strike doctors, nurses, or relatives and thus behave in a thoroughly labile, aggressive, callous and irresponsible manner." Is that not the funniest thing you ever heard? Maybe my inspiration wasn't divine after all.