The Repairman returns, but can he really fix the big boss?

Western Avenue had gone down badly. It had worn down even in the three years Hank Smallbone had lived there. It needed a bigger facelift than Arianna Huffington. Some of the old, rotting apartment buildings looked like they’d fall over if you pissed against the side of one of them.

Hank Smallbone lived on Western, near where it met Olympic and it did nothing to improve his pervasive and overriding pessimism. He liked it though. The place reeked of failure and ambition gone awry as badly as he did.

Smallbone stood on his bike like a ridiculous caricature of General Sherman on a cavalry horse. The caricature made worse by the jeans, scruffy shirt and a Seattle Mariners baseball cap that adorned Smallbone and served as his uniform as he rode off into battle. The bike didn’t inspire awe and fear either, especially when the Angelenos around him cruised past in SUVs that would outweigh an Indian Elephant.

Smallbone stood about 5’10” and kept a reasonable check on his weight. His lackluster finances helped him avoid eating and drinking to access. Raman noodles weren’t the ultimate source of nutrition, but they didn’t tend to put too many pounds on either when consumed in moderation.

The traffic lights changed and Smallbone took the opportunity to gain another block of sidewalk next to Western as he worked towards Pico. It was a reasonable morning for August and the wind kept him cool enough to avoid breaking too bad of a sweat. In two more blocks, Smallbone would reach the Law Offices of Grazzi, Turner and Truckout; where he gathered up subpoenas and ‘served’ people who definitely hadn’t called him up to order a pizza.

Smallbone perversely enjoyed the irony. It was one of life’s Mexican standoffs. They hated him, he hated them; the two parties were in equilibrium. Then Smallbone enjoyed a five minute stretch of power. There was that brief period of time when he could smile ever so nicely and announce pleasantly. “You are served.”

He arrived his customary ten minutes late, which surprised no one at the clerks’ desk. His inbox contained five subpoenas. The first four involved local jobs, stuff he’d knock cold by before lunch and be able to take a good, relaxing hour for chow.

His fastest route connecting the four addresses would put him in Echo Park, somewhere near Eat Well’s. This would allow him to stop in for an English muffin and a juice while his eyes indulged in fantasies over the short, plump Latina that waited on the lunch counter traffic while flirting with the customers she found most attractive.

It was his fifth destination that would involve a merry jaunt. He’d have to hit Santa Monica and hang a Louie on Vermont. Then he’d ride a long trail until he reached an address near Exposition. This was bothersome to him for two reasons.

The address was surrounded by the LA Coliseum on one side and on two others by a couple of neighborhoods where John Singleton filmed scenes from Boys In The Hood for the realism and authenticity. This worried him some, since he’d be the lone white man pedaling out that part of town after dark.

He felt greater regret at having to ride past his old school. The one he flunked out of after three semesters. His future, his career aspirations and any chance of being an integral part of his family had gone up in a haze of prolonged adolescence and the smoke of remarkably poor quality marijuana.

Going back past USC not only reminded him of how he blew a full scholarship, it rubbed his nose in a pile of dog crap that never seemed to dry up and blow away. On the one hand, he truly had no responsibility beyond next month’s rent and no expectations to live up to that reached above his knee.

On the other, he could always imagine how well off his sister was, and how she was still considered a part of the Smallbone family. She was considered a daughter and him a mistake of reckless marital passion. Going past the campus that abutted Vermont and cruising past a bar called The Trojan Barrel brought back the regrets that made him hurt like a case of the hung-over dry heaves.

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His morning provided him easy and fast money. He’d dropped his notices with keen dispatch. By some stroke of good fortune, all four targets had been present. Three of the four showed enough grace to accept the bad news with relative equanimity. The fourth one had only threatened Smallbone with his sidearm.

The man’s name was Cal Fulton and after he received the subpoena, he yelled after Smallbone. “The best part of you ran down yer’ mama’s leg!”

“You have a nice day, Sir!” Smallbone called over his shoulder.

Fulton then brandished the shooting iron and Smallbone bent forward and made the bicycle work. He cleared two blocks in a few seconds flat and then his life was changed as his bike went over a rail, flipped a 180 and went fifteen feet down a concrete stairwell. Smallbone never cared enough about details to bother wearing a helmet.

The pain went through Smallbone like a jolt of high voltage current. It didn’t last long though, and he’d be granted a reprieve of two days before he felt or remembered another thing.

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It was two days later, and Repairman Jack stared at the elderly attorney the way a fastidious homemaker would stare down a despicable, slimy silverfish that had audaciously oozed across a freshly mopped floor. He wanted to annihilate this pathetic excuse for a man. Repairman Jack had felt this man’s corruption like the oppressive humidity during a hot Georgia August. The man disgusted him on a basic, primal level.

Repairman Jack was broke. He would endure the humiliation of working for this man or he would endure the elements while he lived on the streets of Los Angeles. The rent payment was a higher imperative than Repairman Jack’s manly pride. It would drain him; he could feel the mojo leaving through his pores.

“If I understand you correctly, Mr. Glammen, I am to recover a sealed legal document.” Repairman Jack stated in a level voice. Talking through the assignment helped him quell the distaste for his employer.

“That is correct.” The elderly lawyer replied. He addressed one of the most dangerous men in East Hollywood the way a frustrated teacher would slag down a not so promising 7th grader who couldn’t pronounce a word with more three syllables. Glammen seemed to condescend and insult people with the instinctive nonchalance with which most people sucked down oxygen.

“This document was a subpoena with a General District Court Judge’s signature on it and it is missing somewhere between Downtown, East Hollywood or maybe, if I’m really lucky, the same neighborhood that the ’91 riots started in.” Repairman Jack replied. “It was carried by bicycle currier named Hank Smallbone.”

“Yes, Mr. Uh….Repairman.” Mr. Glammen replied. It took a harder man than this perfumed prince to withstand the silent, almost menacing contempt that Repairman Jack pinged him with. Repairman lased him with that contemptuous stare; the way an Air Force fighter pilot would paint the enemy with his radar. Glammen no longer wanted to hire Jack at all, but he was unsure he would live to tell about not offering him the job. He figured it would be better to have a hard case like this one with the firm, not against it.

“The document was intended to go to a Hernan Angusto over by Exposition and Vermont, but you can’t tell me why he was getting served.” Repairman Jack stated with distaste. He hated a client that sent him into the fray with only minimal information.

This Hernan Angusto could be anything from a bad credit card debt to a kingpin leader of a Methamphetamine Lab or any level in between. On an axis from Candy-Ass to Bad-Ass, Angusto was at an undefined point. Repairman Jack wanted the Zip Code at least, if Glammen wouldn’t show him a nice set of directions to the ballpark.

“Ah, yes.” Glammen replied. “We lost our, uh, currier after he delivered to a Mr. Cal Fulton over on Santa Monica. They had words, Mr. Fulton has his differences with the IRS. He says he got the subpoena, and Smallbone went his way. That’s the last we know of our currier.”

“Are the cops involved?”

“Well, ah, no. We hoped this would be handled more discreetly.”

“If Smallbone turned up in some Jeffrey Dahmer wannabe’s refrigerator, would that be indiscreet?”

Glammen seemed taken aback. “I was, ah, worried about the publicity that would result if a document with a Judge’s signature was loose on the street.”

The selfish SOB was repugnant; he actually thought Jack was dumb enough to buy that. One phone call solved this problem. Woe betide the notary public that helped a forger fake the signature.

“So I’m to recover this document or verify its destruction?” Repairman asked.

“That’s the job. Are you my man?” Glammen asked. He was attempting to reassert himself, and Repairman really did need the scratch. He knew something was wrong with this entire set-up and just hoped he could take this man’s money and duck the resulting lousy karma that would fly his way along with every stinking dollar.

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Cal Fulton was a man with a few redeeming traits. He loved Chihuahuas and had about sixteen of them which he bred and allowed to run loose on his lawn. On a good day, Fulton could recognize all sixteen of them individually and had even thought of sixteen different names which he could keep straight while sober. That, in and of itself, took a certain degree of mental prestidigitation. When Fulton actually cared about something, he got to be good at it.

Fulton’s problem was that he really didn’t care about much. He wanted two things: a house full of yapping Chihuahuas and to be left completely alone. Los Angeles surrounded him with people who could totally care less if he had a coronary on the street. This gave him a level of seclusion that he hadn’t even found when he had lived in trailer, twenty-five miles to the West of Yuma, Arizona.

Fulton could just sit on his porch, drink a 64 oz malt liquor from the corner store and yell at his herd of Chihuahuas every time they ran from one end of his small lot to the other yelling “Yip! Yip! Yip!” at the various and sundry passers by. This was precisely what Fulton was doing when Repairman Jack strolled down the avenue to pay Fulton a visit.

Fulton had just fed his hoard of canines. Most of them were out back fighting over the sizeable pile of Alpo he had left in an old, stained wash basin on the back porch. Henri’, Alejandro and Max were lying around the front stoop with Fulton. The three Chihuahuas noticed Repairman first and greeted him with a cacophony of excited “Yips!”

Fulton looked up from his alcohol poisoning and had a firm enough sense of propriety to feel slightly chagrined. It was before ten am in the morning, he was already on his front step getting sauced and here was some guy he’d never seen before in his life strolling all causal-like up to his front gate. “Can I hep you with sumpin?” He asked Repairman; as he reassured himself by feeling the back pocket of his dungarees for his .38 caliber buddy.

Repairman looked at Fulton, looked at the dilapidated property and looked at the obnoxious, yipping Chihuahuas. “I’m not real sure.” He responded in an emotionless voice. “My name is Jack, you can call me Repairman, and I have been asked to sound you out on something.”

Fulton was in no mood to be sounded out on a darn thing. “I don’t like no stranger sounding me out on nothing. I ain’t got nothing you know how to fix, Repairman. So we ain’t talking ‘cause you need to mind yer own damn bidness!” He snarled.

The dogs were in hyper mode and the reinforcements around back were waddling forward and yelling “Yip!” as they came. Repairman found the scene almost as ridiculous as it was annoying. “You haven’t received a parcel from a loser punk on a bicycle, have you?” He asked Fulton in a conversational voice. The same way he’d ask how the Dodgers were doing in the standings.

“You’re already Jack, I don’t have to tell it to ya’” Fulton sneered. He was very much in favor of getting this creepy man away from his gate. Visitors invariably led to headaches and it would be at least an hour before the dogs calmed down ad went back to their typical routine of eating, shitting and sleeping.

“Funny man. Too bad you don’t stay on the right side of the law.” Repairman replied in a voice that appeared friendly, but accorded Fulton no respect whatsoever. It told Cal Fulton that he couldn’t even hurt Repairman’s mood, much less kick his ass.

“Leave or I’ll drill you.” Fulton yelled as his face turned red and his revolver came out of his back pocket. He was infuriated now and almost meant what he said.

Repairman stared now at Fulton. His eyes held exasperation; not fear. “Put that stupid thing away. You lose if you shoot me with it, you lose if you can’t.” Jack explained. “That was the most asinine thing you could have done.”

“Yeah. The punk hung paper on me.” Fulton groused, seeing that his hand gun wasn’t going to make Repairman subside. “Thought he was the King Shit of Wilshire Boulevard while he did it to.”

“I hate it when that happens.” Jack wasn’t able to resist adding. “Where did he go after he served you?”

“I hope he went straight to flaming hell.” Fulton responded. “Little snot-nosed punk.”

“That’s one thing I’m here to find out about, Mr. Fulton.” Jack replied.

“Are you a cop, mister?” Fulton asked in a suspicious tone as his eyes narrowed to vapid, little reptilian slits.

Jack was now thoroughly tired of playing games with the likes of Cal Fulton. He stooped over, picked up Henri’ in mid “yip!” and held him by the scruff of the neck between himself and Fulton. “Would an officer of the law threaten to kill this ugly, fucking Chihuahua if you didn’t give him what he wanted?” Repairman asked in a mild and friendly tone of voice.

“You bastard!” Fulton exclaimed. He now had a look in his eyes that Repairman no longer liked. “The little shit-bird stepped on it when I showed him the gun. He rode off going that way, Mister. I’m recommending you do the same.”

“Well maybe I will.” Repairman replied with a smile.

“Nice doggy!” Repairman said to Henri’, as he set him back down on the ground. He walked away from Fulton without a further thought of the man. If Fulton were aware of what happened to people Repairman Jack had to think to hard on, he’d have felt lucky just then, not exasperated.

*******************************************************************

Jack had no trouble finding where the bike came a cropper with the railing and flipped over. Pieces of cheap plastic and composite lay shattered near the railing and the Angelenos didn’t even care enough to bother sweeping it up. The bike had gone end over and had planted its rider head first onto a set of concrete steps.

Blood marked first where the body made impact and then left a spatter trail after the rider took a short roll down five or six steps. The sorry bastard could have been Ms. Gennovise for all the attention his horrible demise had attracted. No one had even reported Smallbone missing until Glammen had reluctantly briefed Jack in on who the poor man was.

Repairman had then done his research on Smallbone and had heard a tale of wasted potential and woe. Smallbone had blown a big wad of money and a full scholarship to Trojan Land to support the poor family farmers who brought America Oaxacan Ditch-Weed. The kid was a loser, but even a loser deserved way better than this.

The scene was missing a body, which suggested two possibilities. Smallbone could have gone to work without ID, got clobbered, scrapped up and taken to a hospital and was stashed in a hurt locker somewhere under the surname Mr. Doe. This would be worth checking later. Smallbone seemed like a big enough ass to forget his wallet on the way to work in the morning.

The second possibility was less pleasant. Smallbone died, got moved, the stiff went unreported, and was now feeding worms and guppies in the basin of the LA River. That would involve more unpleasantness. It would also offer a measure of the value of the document he was supposed to recover.

**********************************************************************

“Thiiissp isss schweeet!” Said the torturer, as he deliberately honed the blade of a scalpel on the grease and blood stained leg of his Buddy Lees. “Thutch eh nizzze boy! Yesssss!”

Smallbone awakened to this soliloquy and it was the only thing his senses were able to accurately take in. The first part of his non-autonomous brain to dial back in was instantly convinced that he died and gone to Hell. This was partially correct. Smallbone had never been medically dead.

This filthy basement was, however, a possible Hell from an alternative universe. It was lit by two light bulbs that hung suspended by their wires. They swung in a fetid, humid breeze which caused them to gutter as a candle in the wind when the electricity temporarily failed to reached the filaments.

The room smelled of mold, it smelled of brackish water and it smelled of something really bad things being done to other human beings. Smallbone’s nose fell under assault from these odors and his stomach sullenly considered the idea of regurgitating what little still remained their after two days of unplanned fasting.

Smallbone’s eyes refused to comprehend what they took in. The person bent over him wore a stained, aged leather mask. The mask looked like a cheesy prop from a low-budget movie about sadomasochism or The Spanish Inquisition. It covered what may have been an utterly ruined face, leaving small holes for his mouth and nose and two little slits for the eyes.

The torturer bent over Hank Smallbone and said. “Tell meeeee, tell meeee whooo the wedder is fooor.”

Hank Smallbone had never been accused of courage and would not believe it about himself if you called him a hero. However, in this situation, Smallbone felt too far gone to care, and therefore did what was courageous, not what was fair. “Why don’t you take that frikken’ mask off and use it to wipe the fungus off your dick?”

“B-Baddd widdle boyyy” The Torturer crooned with glee. The voice was far too high-pitched to sound normal. The unnatural, castrated laugh at the end of this statement could have woken the neighbor’s pet dog. “Tell meeee whooo the wedder is fooor. I von’t fugging asssskkk yooo pleeesssee.”

Smallbone had a few scruples that he fiercely laid claim to. His back was now up and he was either too proud or too stupid to care what this freak-show of a human being was going to do to him if he didn’t tell who the summons was for. If Leatherface couldn’t read, that could just be added to his long list of other problems. “Blow it out your ass, Fetish Boy!”

Smallbone could have sworn the scalpel made the same noise as Nike did when they advertised their swoosh logo. It was the sound of metal slicing the humid air between the blade and Smallbone’s face. Then the pain rose up like a wall.

“Baaaddd Boy.” The sicko crooned in a voice too gay to sing soprano in 98 Degrees. “You veeed to fuggin shlave.” Smallbone felt the spittle and a piece of stray, rotting food spray through the slit of the leather mask and onto his face where it mingled with the blood. “Yooo look sooo fugging ugwee!” He laughed in the pitch that called dogs.

***********************************************************************

“He’s talking with Shermy, Sir.” The voice replied at the other end of Eponymous’ cell phone. “That’s usually a short conversation.”

“Just make sure he’s not turned into sushi, like the last poor bastard was.” Eponymous answered. “Shermy doesn’t always think things through too good.”

“He tends to slobber more than he thinks, but I’ll keep him from getting too frisky.” The voice answered.

“You’d better.” Eponymous replied. “If this wasn’t on the boss’ Blackberry, I would not be calling you.”

“I’ll take care of it, you can count on me.” The voice replied with a hint of fear that Eponymous liked.

“I don’t have to count on you. If this doesn’t go the way the boss wants, he’ll just have me feed you to Shermy the way a fallen branch gets put through a wood chipper.” Eponymous replied. “I don’t enjoy doing that sort of thing, but it does cash a nice, fat paycheck.” He continued. “The only one who needs to worry is you.” Eponymous finished as he terminated the call, and closed his Black Razor.

*********************************************************************

“Awwwgghhhh!!! You evil bastard!!!! Awgggooddd please help meeee.” Smallbone wailed.

“Bbad widdle bbbooyy!” The Torturer drooled. “Soooo bbaddaadd…” He slobbered through the leather mask.

Smallbone strained against the restraining straps of his gurney and continued screaming. The torturer had long since stopped asking him anything and was now breathing like a teenager having his first sexual experience and indiscriminately slicing pieces of Smallbone’s arms, cheeks and legs.

Blood drops flew off the sides and end of the scalpel. “Bladdd Boooyyy” The sicko drooled. “Mlake me havth to change glovfths.” He crooned in an excited, high-pitched voice.

“Shermy!” A voice yelled from the top of the stairs. “Shermy, No!”

“Heth eh baladd boyy!!!” The Torturer yelled. Shermy then arched his back and thrust his pelvis against the gurney. Smallbone could tell, even with the mask, that his facial expression would resemble that of a man in a state of orgasm. The gurney rolled back and Shermy stumbled forward and fell across Smallbone.

Fortunately, he dropped his scalpel and it fell clinking through the bars of the gurney to the floor. Unfortunately, he passed out across Smallbone’s body and the tortured bicycle messenger could feel a sticky, warm wetness spread through the crotch of the obscene man’s jeans. This overwhelmed Smallbone and forced him into a merciful state of unconsciousness.

“Oh no!” Darnel Bacon exclaimed as he rushed down the stairs into the dungeon. He grabbed Shermy by the collar of his grubby tee-shirt and through the masked torturer backwards with way too much adrenaline. The tee-shirt ripped, but the horrible, masked pervert was pulled off of his bloody victim.

Shermy landed on his can, which suffered an inelastic collision with a hard, cement cellar floor. “Ouhhhh! Whhhyyyy?” Whinned Shermy.

“Because you are sick and you disgust me!!” Yelled Bacon. “I told you not to f—king kill him!”

“He bbadd Boy, bbadd boy!” Shermy complained.

“You sick f—k!” Bacon explained. “You haven’t met a bad boy until you piss off the boss. Oh, we are both so screwed.” Bacon remonstrated as his head drooped, his shoulders sagged, and hope of survival fell away from his heart. “We are so totally screwed!”

“Whuuhhuhhh….” Smallbone groaned. “Whuuhhuhuhuh..” He continued.

“There is a God.” Bacon said with a voice too drained to express the relief he felt through his entire body.

>>>>End Part I<<<<<<