Dead Nolte (7 page)

At one point he had let himself ponder the possibility, that
maybe, he had slipped into the realm of completely-fucking-nuts, or that his
medication had gone south of the border, maybe soured in the sun. Perhaps the
medication was having a bad interaction with the alcohol, which he refused to
quit drinking. Nolte tried to convince his mind, that his eyes and nose had no
idea what they were talking about, but reality kept elbowing its way back into
his desperate reasoning.

Maybe he had mold behind the sheetrock, maybe a can of tuna
or beans had exploded somewhere in the house and his brain had become coated
with tuna mold. He soon ran out of things to blame it on and reluctantly
allowed himself to admit to what the shadow really was and why it was here.

The doctors had fucked up. They had screwed up plain and
simple. It didn’t take an educated man to cipher the writing on the shithouse
wall, Nolte could see it plain as day. He wasn’t educated in any academic sense
of the word, but he wasn’t stupid, either. Some things can be deduced with simple
reasoning, and good ol’ fashioned common sense. He knew what the shadow wanted.
It wanted a piece of his ass. Death had come aknockin’.

"But what you want and what you get are two different
ducks, Motherfucker!" Sometimes Nolte would yell this at his shadow,
sometimes he would say it to himself, but every time, it made him feel a little
better. Defiance had always been a substitute for his lack of constitution. A
temporary salve for the impotence of his soul.

As far as Nolte was concerned, this thing/shadow/reaper/medical
error, whatever the hell it was, could hang around until monkeys fly out Jesus’
ass on Judgment Day, he wasn’t going to die until he was good and ready to die
and no shit cloud was going to rush him.

"Wish in one hand and shit in the other, Shitbag."
Sometimes Nolte would say this to avoid sounding repetitious to the shadow, or
to himself.

When the smells weren’t confusing his nostrils or tying his
mind in an olfactory knot, he would stare at the small dark apparition with
unfiltered contempt. Its small stature alone repulsed him. He was sure he
deserved something better if better could be used in terms concerning or
relating to the Reaper. He had always thought death would have a little more
style when it came to collect his ass, a little more pizazz. This thing had
nothing. No Sickle of Death, no Sword of Damnation, nothing, nothing but little
puffs of stink.

Have a little fucking respect. Nolte damned sure felt that he’d
earned it. At least put on a better show, something a bit more sinister than a
bitch-assed shadow, slinking around, puffing out queefs of popcorn farts and
spearmint baby shit!

Enough is enough! “Enough is enough!
---
Respect
Motherfucker! R-E-S-P-E-C-T-M-U-T-H-E-R-F-U-C-K-E-R!” Nolte yelled. “Show me
some fucking respect.”

Long ago Nolte had come to the conclusion, that respect, or
more pointedly, the lack of respect shown to him, had been and still was the
bane of his existence. Lack of it had been at the root of every violent moment
in his past. The lack of it had caused every relationship in his life to fail.
Lack of respect was the common denominator of his miseries. Respect was a
simple courtesy, which he felt he was owed. “You want respect?” He yelled at
the shadow. “Earn it, bitch!”

Nolte was a firm believer in giving respect where respect
was due, he just felt there weren’t too many idiots out there on God’s Green
Earth, who were due any and just because they didn’t have it coming, didn’t
mean they didn’t owe it to him.

“Who knows how far I could have gone, with the support, and
respect, I deserved,” Nolte said this often; usually this statement was passed
along to drunken wretches, unlucky enough to find themselves on a barstool in
Nolte’s vicinity, at the end of a successful drinking binge.

Nolte didn’t feel he needed support, but felt, that it
would’ve been nice to have some, once in a while. What he really felt he
needed, was what he was duly owed and that was respect. In truth, as far as feelings
went, Nolte could feel nothing, drunk or sober; he just thought he felt things.

Perhaps, it’s that everyone sees themselves in more
flattering light than others might, that fueled Nolte’s delusions. Nolte saw
himself as an untapped resource, an overlooked mentor, a well from which one
could quench their thirst for common sense. Though Nolte had never actually
mentored anyone, he always thought he would have been a good one. He had a lot
to offer those around him, and it was obvious to him, those around him were
clearly in need of mentoring. Had anyone shown any interest or the proper
respect, he would have been more than willing to distribute his gift and
generously instill his wisdom unto anyone he found worthy of his precious
insights. He would have mentored the shit out of them.

What Nolte had, couldn’t be found in books. What he had,
he’d earned with dedicated study at the School of Hard Knocks and the Library
of Common Sense. It hadn’t come cheap either; it had been bought and paid for
with blood, sweat, and tears. He had come by it the old fashioned way, the hard
way, either by someone pounding it into his head or kicking it up his ass and
by God he thought he deserved some consideration and appreciation from those,
unwilling to trade punches with life.

The people who had come and gone in his past would have been
so much better off, had they only opened their eyes to his vast and varied,
experience and wisdom. Had they shown even a little respect or even the tiniest
interest, he might have fast-tracked them around life’s obstacles and put them
on the path to greater things. He could have bridged the emotional pitfalls and
helped them avoid countless injuries to heart and soul. All that for the low,
low price of a little respect.

It irritated Nolte, to no end, to see morons stumbling
through life, unable to even guess at what was up around the bend. Idiots,
blissfully ignorant of their own shortcomings and limitations, thinking their
can-do, glass half full, tomorrow’s another day mentality would carry them
through the harsh realities of life’s day to day mind-fuck. It was wishful
thinking on their part, at best. A letter to Santa Claus would produce more
tangible results.

This is where Nolte’s involvement would’ve come in handy. He
could’ve really put them ahead in the game by leaps and bounds, were they to
offer a respectful and appreciative ear to a few moments of his instruction.

More than once he’d told himself, that these unwitting,
ungrateful fucks had no business breathing the same air as him. As a matter of
fact, he felt that every swinging dick on the planet should thank him
personally, they all, owed him a bit of gratitude, he could have reduced their
numbers greatly on many occasions, had he had a mind to. He could have put them
down like dogs and raised a toast with half full glasses of their own blood.
“Tomorrow’s another day motherfuckers! Drink up!”

Rampaging snipers don’t climb clock towers; they are driven
up them by the stupidity that surrounds them.

There were so many times in his life, Nolte had thought
about climbing his own ‘clock tower’ and cause lesser men to trample his grapes
of wrath. They would dance and shit themselves to the wonderful sound of his
staccato gunfire. ‘Bust a move, bitches.’ He would say, with his cheek pressed
against the smooth stock of his rifle. He would whisper it like Charlie
Bronson. ‘Bust a move, Bitches.’ They would dance for him and sing. Even as
they scurried like mice for cover, they would yell to one another out of pure
respect, “Get behind something, this asshole can shoot!”

As a kid, Nolte had found a sheet of plywood behind their
tool shed. It had been pressed into the ground by weather and time. Hoping for
a garter snake, he’d flipped the rotting wood over, but instead of a serpent,
baby mice ran in every direction. His heart raced and he’d leaped into the
chaos with both feet. Pumping his knees like pistons, he stomped them in a
dance of brutal, hysterical, exhilaration, though, he was quite careful not to
let any run up his pant leg. His mother had told him many times, ‘to be bitten
by any animal, was instant rabies’. Shots in the stomach had been a major fear
of Nolte’s, throughout his childhood.

The mouse stomping had been a mad minute, which had resulted
in a rush of unfiltered excitement and pure power, which he’d never before
experienced. The memory of that raw rush of adrenalin had remained with him the
rest of his life, even forming much of his life. He longed for the metallic
taste of it and the thought of doing the same thing to people, had always held
more than a certain allure. It was an almost sexual desire. It called out to
him at times, in a voice that was almost too hard to ignore.

POP-POP-POP-POP, they’d all fall dead. He envisioned the
poor gomers and goobers as they scrambled, bobbing in and out of his
crosshairs. POP-POP-POP-POP, they would drop like empty shit sacks as he
relieved them of their pain and suffering. Even so, through their fear and
panic, they would marvel at his accuracy. He would put the unwitting, ungrateful
mice out of their misery one after another until he, himself, was taken out,
jerking and flopping in a hail of bullets, as he struggled to squeeze off one
more shot. His name would echo throughout eternity. Oswald’s name would never
again be mentioned without his. When analysts discussed firing disciplines and
recoil recovery, they would be forced to use Nolte’s skills as a prime example.

“That there is a respectable death.” Nolte said boldly, and
aloud. It was more to intimidate the little coward who lived in his head, whose
curiosity was slowly coaxing him into the open than to address the stink cloud.
Anytime Nolte pondered imprisonment or his own end, the coward would pop into
his head and offer self-preservation alternatives.

He assumed the stink cloud could read his mind and Nolte was
quite sure it had been intimidated by his clock tower revelation. Probably more
than a little intimidated, right up until Nolte’s little fear monkey had poked
his fucking head out from behind whatever flowery, feather boa wrapped section
of Nolte’s brain that he used for hiding.

The little coward had always poked his little bitch head up,
at the last minute, at the most inopportune times and fucked up every chance
Nolte ever had at the limelight. ‘Don’t do it, we might get in trouble! Don’t
do it, we could get hurt!’ If there had ever been a way to gag the little turd,
he would have done it long ago, he fucked up everything. Had he been given half
a chance, Nolte would have been famous; he had never been fond of the word infamous,
he would have been famous. Nevertheless, they would have written books and made
movies about him. He would have shown the world what real crazy was. They could
have locked him up next to Charles Manson, and he would have made Chuck his
bitch!

He caught a glimpse of the little coward as it flitted
across his mind’s eye. “Happiness is a warm gun, motherfucker!” Nolte shouted
after him, trying to sound cold and calloused, in order to scare the simpering
pussy a safe distance away from his manly thoughts. 'Happiness is a warm gun.'
He had a T-shirt with that stamped boldly on the front. That’s what he would
have worn on the clock tower day.

“It’s okay.” He told himself. “If everything goes as
planned, there’s still time. My nest egg will come through.” Nolte would be
respected, if it was the last thing he did on Earth.

“A little respect Motherfucker!”
 
Nolte screamed boldly, yet, he visibly
flinched as the shadow suddenly darted closer. It farted. Burnt pork chops this
time.

Nolte suddenly saw himself as a small boy, at night,
silhouetted against his mother’s burning garden shed. The sound of his sister’s
screams had been replaced by the frantic chanting of his mother. “Where is your
sister, Nolte? Where’s Mattie? Where’s your sister, Nolte? Where’s Mattie?” He
remembered the look of horror on his mother’s face and his inability to answer.
He remembered he’d squeezed the two kitchen matches he still held in his small
hand, so hard they had broken the skin of his palm.

“She bumped her head, Mommy.” Little Nolte said, as he
stared into the flames and wondered what fire would taste like.

Nolte quickly pinched his nostrils, dislodging the oxygen
tube he loathed. “Show some fucking respect you stinkin’ sonofabitch!” He
screamed his voice sounded nasally and comical. Nolte wanted to kill something.
Mostly, he wanted to kill the shadow, but his little coward stepped forward to
save him. ‘Stop Nolte, that thing looks dangerous.’ The little guy feared the
shadow might kill them back.

The reaper had arrived the same day as his last round of
chemo. It must have snuck in the door behind him, like a cockroach.

The doctor had warned Nolte about taking this last round.
Doc had said, he was too weak and the drugs could give him a heart attack. He
hadn’t bothered to mention that they might give him a shadow that spewed mind
altering poison farts.

“Maybe it’s time to face the music, Nolte.” Doc had said.

“Well, book smart motherfuckers and morons all dance alike when
the music’s slow, Doc” Nolte could tell, the doctor had no idea how tough he
was, how special he was. People like me don’t die. He had told himself, amidst
the doctor’s warning. People like me can’t die. “Fuck it, fill ‘er up and check
the oil, Doc.” It didn’t really matter, one way or another, what the med-heads
did, he had a secret. “I will be risen, motherfuckers! On the third day he is
risen! I have a fucking nest egg.”

Nolte either couldn’t, or wouldn’t see the withered shell
he’d become. One reason might have been that he wore well-lubricated whiskey
goggles tinted with grandeur. Another reason could have been, Nolte had a weak,
self-centered mind, riddled with self-preservation and crippling fear, which he
refused to acknowledge.