The Unfortunate Expiration of Mr David S Sparks by William F. Aicher

Author:William F. Aicher [Aicher, William F.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: William F. Aicher
Published: 2018-02-16T05:00:00+00:00

TWENTY-EIGHT

A HINT OF POISON

“—dumped in my truck and stole my CDs. What would you suggest I do?”

David scooted closer to the two men seated on the shabby couch opposite him, dragging the feet of his wooden chair across the concrete in little scrapes and scratches. The TV behind him still buzzed with whatever video game he interrupted. With the icy way they both glowered at him, he didn’t dare turn around to find out what game it might be.

“I get it. I’m only saying, he didn’t mean any harm,” the man on the right said. The couch creaked as he shifted his weight to lean in closer to David. “Like I said, he isn’t right in the head,” he whispered. David tasted beer on the man’s breath.

Far across the room, over the man’s shoulder, the crazy CD-stealing, truck-crapper trembled in a corner as he cautiously observed the three seated men. Catching David looking his way, his body quivered, and he shifted his gaze to the floor. He twisted the tip of his shoe back and forth on the cement, as if he expected to somehow burrow through it. David returned his focus to the other two men.

“Well, you didn’t have to beat me with a pipe,” David shifted the steak on his eye.

“You chased our friend through our house while you waved a hatchet.”

David nodded. “So, what’s wrong with him?” he asked.

“There’s a lot wrong with him. At least there is today. Every day he’s worse. A few years ago, he was like everybody else. Pretty sure he’s got the poison.”

The man on the left remained silent, looking David up and down. Occasionally, he opened his mouth, as if to speak, then thought better of it. Sweat dripped from David’s brow, and mixed with the blood of the steak, causing a small stream of red to run down his cheek. He hoped they didn’t notice.

The chill of the room hit David. The day outside, while not quite sweltering, had been hot enough to discourage anything more than shorts, sandals and a t-shirt (which, coincidentally was what David wore). But now a freezing bite stung his bare skin as he began to realize he was alone, in the basement of three strangers—two of whom just kicked the crap out of him. He took the steak from his swollen eye and let it flop onto the coffee table between himself and the men.

The two men seated at the other side of the table, however, seemed perfectly comfortable with the cold, barefoot in jeans and t-shirts. A blue shirt on the left, red on the right. David wiped the sweat from his forehead and the men waited patiently for him to respond.

“He was poisoned?” David asked. “Shouldn’t he be at a hospital?”

“No man, it’s a long-term thing,” the guy in the red shirt replied. “No hospital’s going to help Ben. It’s all in his system now and they can’t clean that kind of mess up—not once it’s settled in like it has with him.

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