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Ultraviolet
By De Veer Chappell
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The Rebel Yell, a red neck dive off of route 42, located in the small town of Willow Springs, North of the Carolinas. A pickup pulled into its tiny lot and sat momentarily. Seeing what it sought, it parked, and ejected a man of slight but rugged build. The man, whose stride was quick, if not sure, suddenly turned and leaned into the driverīs side window seeming to whisper assurances to the vehicle. Seconds later he was off once more leaving the pickup to the night, patiently guzzling fuel.
As he entered the establishment she was the first thing he saw. Their eyes met
for what seemed an eternity but was only a split second, as that was all she
could afford. She was in her usual spot, the very back of the bar tucked away
into the shadows, a flower that grew in the dark but never bloomed.
The man turned his attention to one of two pool tables that crowded the joint -
both had seen better days. There were three rowdy men heckling two women at the
table across from their own. The men in question by order of rank, were Buford
Brennon, folks around here called him Buba, and he was reputed to be the meanest
son of a bitch in Wake County. A contractor, Buba employed a crew that a quarter
of the men now in the bar currently worked for, or had at one point in time. The
next man was Bubaīs superintendent, Zeke Brown; Zeke was fabled to be able to
build a house with his bare hands. As big as he was black, folks around here
called him Zulu to his face, and boss nigger behind his back. Lastly there was
Henry Veech, a stone cold alcoholic and general all-purpose fuck up. Henry was
Bubaīs nephew and if not for this fact he would have been out on his ass long
ago. Folks around here called him leech to his face as well as behind his back.
"What can I do you for, Pete?" The man turned.
"Hey Carla, let me get a double shot and a bud."
She reached about grabbing items without taking her eyes off him.
"You never drink hard Pete, whatīs the occasion?" She was eyeing him with her
creased-leathered face, worn by a hard life and cruel sun. She was a tough old
broad and instinctively perceptive. Pete smiled to allay her suspicions. "I got
a raise today." he lied, "celebratin."
"You mean them tight ass slavers over at Gutter World finally done right by you,
well hell boy..." Pete had downed both shots and was in the middle of forcing
the beer to catch up and subdue them before Carla had finished speaking. She was
still talking when he slammed down the bottle but he didnīt hear her. Pete
pointed at the empty as he walked away.
As he approached the woman she looked around nervously desperate not to
acknowledge his presence. Her fear appeared to grow in bounds as he got closer
and she seemed on the verge of fleeing but they both knew she had nowhere to
run. Her name was Violet and aside from this fact all he really knew about her
was her pain, the type of pain only extreme loneliness can bring, a pain he was
tired of living with. It was this bond real or imagined that dictated his
present course of action. When Pete was directly in front her table, Violet
attempted to look through him as though he did not exist. Though slightly
discouraged by this it was too late to turn back. He could not now anyway, even
if he wanted to.
"Come with me" His outstretched hand beckoned, his eyes pleaded. Violet began to
hyper-ventilate and shrink away, impossibly farther into the dark corner.
"Please" He begged. "You donīt have to live like this, neither of us do." Violet
was shaking her head back and forth so forcefully an onlooker could easily deem
she was having a seizure.
"Hey asshole!" It was Bubaīs voice, this was expected, he was her husband after
all.
Pete shot a last glance at Violet and said "He canīt see you, none of them can"
Something about the words, perhaps the tone, or the determined resignation on
Peterīs face made Violet stop. She looked up into his eyes and there was what
Pete thought, a perfect instance of clarity, a communication between two souls
whom had come to a quiet understanding. Or maybe his mind was just playing
tricks on him.
In a deft motion he reached into his jacket pocket. Later accounts of this night
would never reveal that he had produced brass knuckles, the element of surprise
was on his side.
Buba, being a man of few words had come swinging, this too was expected. Pete
stepped to the side but not fast enough, the pool stick broke over his left
shoulder, smashing his collarbone. Using his fist like a club he in turn broke
Bubaīs nose, the sensation was at once gratifying and sickening as he felt and
heard the crunch of bone and cartilage give way. Buba went down.
Pete immediately searched for Zulu, he found him. The tackle was fierce slamming
Peterīs back into a concrete wall on whose entirety was painted the confederate
flag. They both grunted on impact, Pete out of pain, Zulu for effect. Zulu
followed up with a hard right cross, Peterīs jaw held but his knees buckled. He
clutched on to the giantīs shirt for balance, knowing that if he hit the floor
it was over. With all the strength he could muster he rammed his forearm up into
Zuluīs crouch. It did the trick. The big man retreated in anguish and now Pete
did hit the floor. Landing on his hands and knees, he struggled to rise in spite
of his pounding and spinning head. Also something was very wrong with his left
side, which was now beginning to register a blinding pain. He had begun to erect
himself when his body went on alert.
He smelled him before he saw him; it was Leech, pissy drunk and attempting to
kick Pete in the face. He missed, falling and busting his ass on the floor. Pete
rose, trying not to make evident that he was nursing his left arm. He heard Buba
shout.
"You fuckin this joker!"
Pete screamed, "No! Iīm over here, its me you want!" His speech was slurred and
he noticed there were objects floating around in his mouth, it took a second to
sink in, he quickly spit out teeth and blood. Buba was in a full on rage,
spittle hung in the corners of his mouth, his breathing was ragged and his eyes
were bloodshot. He backhanded Violet so hard, her head bounced off the wall and
she fell from her chair. Pete was on him in an instant. Buba braced for the
attack but it came too swiftly. Pete was throwing hay-makers with his good arm,
the knuckles cutting into Bubaīs face and arms as he tried to ward off the
blows.
Then the world went black.
Pete was starring up at the ceiling; there was broken wood all around him and
something dark and menacing standing over him, it spit in his face. He felt
himself being lifted. There were harmful things happening to him but they seemed
far removed from where he was. He realized he may die here tonight and although
the possibility had been considered, it was not expected.
He thought of Violet then and knew he could not fail her, he began to fight his
way to the surface. As he emerged back to the realm of pain he heard screams and
smelled a wet pungent odor. He was being held in a choke-hold, which gratefully
he felt loosening by the second, allowing his eyes to adjust and focus. The
first thing they saw caused him blink several times to be sure pain, fatigue,
and delirium had not overcome him. Buba was thrashing about on the floor holding
his throat, which was spouting blood. There were others around him administering
aid and comfort and someone was shouting "Call 911" As this sight faded from the
background, in the foreground Violet appeared, she was different, for the first
time since Pete had laid eyes upon her, she did not look afraid.
"Let him go, now."
There was no anger in her voice, only authority. Zulu tossed Pete aside like a
rag doll.
"You fucked up bitch." He warned. " You fucked up real bad."
She was holding him at bay with a broken and bloody bottleneck. As she took a
step toward Pete she chanced a glance down in his direction, a mistake. Zulu
smacked the crude weapon from her hand and in the same motion snatched her by
her hair. Pete tried to get up but his body protested racking him with fresh
waves of agony to drive the point home.
Instead of bowing to the pain Violet stepped inside, she clawed at Zuluīs face
and was trying to position her head to bite the hand entwined in her hair
loosing clumps of it in the process. Pete crawled the few feet toward the
violent encounter and rapped himself around one of the black man's legs. Zulu
began to stomp him with his free one. Pete bit. Zulu bellowed a roar of pure
rage and pushed Violet away from him so he could concentrate on the nuisance
below. Momentarily free of the double onslaught he dealt a devastating kick to
Peterīs rib cage, which robbed Pete of his already labored breath but did not
dislodge him. Before he could ready another blow, Violet returned to continue
her assault tooth and nail. Zulu anticipated her and enclosed a considerable
hand around her throat as she rushed in, with little effort he lifted her off
the floor. She beat and raked at the massive arm, eyes bulging, and panicked,
feet dangling, and kicking, as unconsciousness, the cousin of death rapidly
approached. During the melee Pete had extracted his pocketknife from its sheath
in his belt and now used it to cut Zuluīs Achilles tendon. The formidable man
hit the floor screaming profanities, all the fight gone from him.
Violet helped Pete gather himself and they hurriedly began to leave. Behind them
Zulu was shouting something over the already tumultuous throng. Instead of
making a bee-line for the exit Pete was steering them toward the bar much to
Violetīs confusion. He grabbed a full beer that was sitting there and spun in
time to smash it over Leechīs head. Leech dropped, as did the large bowie knife
he carried for protection. Pete, having used the last of his reserves, slumped
against the bar where he and Violet found themselves staring down the double
barrel of a sawed off shotgun. After a few moments silent debate Carla lowered
the beast.
" Hell boy, I knew you was lookin for trouble, which way ya headin?" There was
no answer, Carla gave an exasperated look and said, " I just want to know so I
can tell the local boys different, is all" Pete told her and they were out the
door.
Outside the pickup was panting obediently, Pete put Violet in the driverīs seat
after he removed his Winchester.
" I canīt drive." She said.
" Youīre going to have to learn quick." He replied and began to shoot out tires.
On the road with at least an hourīs head start thanks to Carla, and a
heartbreaking but necessary vehicle exchange with a young man who was all to
eager to give up his 87 Escort Pony for Peterīs Ford F-1 series Super Duty, Pete
and Violet discussed their plans. Pete told Violet about a cabin that he owned
in Durham that no one knew about where he would hunt and she could tend garden.
Violet expressed her desire to contact and eventually see her family whom Buba
had not allowed her to speak to in six years. Pete assured her that once they
were settled it would be so. They were going to be all right. He smiled now as
he watched her though a haze of pain.
The flower that grew in the dark was blooming.
