THE KNOTTED GUN
by Mary Vettel
Chapter 1
It didn’t take the boys long to lure the homeless man into the car. Promises of a three star hotel room with hot shower, shave and a haircut, anything off the room service menu, a new suit of clothes and a well-timed flash of cash clinched it. Even the biblical quotes that peppered their conversation as they left behind the urine-stained sidewalks in the derelict part of town and entered the sleepy suburbs didn’t sour the deal. They had initially offered him a bottle of Stoli pilfered from their grandfather’s liquor cabinet, but the man had declined. He wasn’t an alcoholic, he stated, simply without a place to call home.
“Why’d you fellas wanna know if I was a veteran?” he asked from the back seat as the street lights flickered across his worn features.
The brothers exchanged looks as the car slowed and pulled into the hotel parking lot. “Oh, it’s just that we tried to help another homeless gentleman but he turned out to be a vet and he went ballistic--” Wayne Rutledge began.
“What my brother means is the unfortunate soul suffered from some kind of post traumatic stress disorder and went into a rage of sorts. It was quite frightening,” Warren Rutledge said. He glanced in the rear view mirror at their passenger. “He refused our help.”
The homeless man nodded. “Poor son of a bitch.”
Wayne stepped out of the car and opened the door to the back seat. He pressed his index finger and thumb against his Tom Selleck mustache.
“You boys twins?” the homeless man looked from Wayne to Warren in the driver’s seat.
“Yes,” Warren said with a tight smile and smoothed his matching mustache. “Yes, we are.”
“Hey, do you like magic?” Wayne asked and plunged the needle into the homeless man’s shoulder and depressed the syringe.
“What the…?” The man slumped onto the seat.
Wayne shut the back door and resumed his spot up front. “This damn wig is giving me a fucking headache.” He jabbed a finger up under the hairpiece and tried to loosen it.
“You look like Florence Henderson,” Warren said and laughed.
“Like you don’t?” Wayne sneered at his brother in an identical wig. “Now, come on, let’s get going. And don’t blow any fucking red lights like last time. I’m not in the mood to deal with cops tonight.”
***
Warren entered the darkened living room to find his brother in a vintage tuxedo and draped in a shiny black cape sitting forward in a chair, the remote aimed at the TV. In an instant Warren knew his brother was watching the old VHS video of Langley the Magnificent. “This again? You’d think you would’ve had it memorized by now.” He glanced away from the screen. He cringed inwardly at the sight of himself and his brother dressed in fishnet stockings, pink satin corsets, poufy blond wigs and an abundance of lipstick and blush acting as the magician’s assistants.
“I would’ve if you hadn’t stepped in front of Langley and blocked his hand.” He froze the picture. “Damn it!” He got to his feet and reached for the black silk hat on the coffee table. It looked like Buster Keaton’s famous flat one until he flicked the brim and it transformed into a magician’s top hat.
“What’s with the get up?”
Wayne held wide his arms and looked down at himself. “What? What’s wrong with what I’m wearing?”
Warren shook his head and walked away.
“What?” Wayne called after his brother. “Like I should be wearing a hazmat suit or something?”
“Hurry up. The sodium pentobarbital’s gonna wear off soon. I don’t want a repeat of last time.” Warren trotted down the basement stairs.
“Jesus! You gagged him, didn’t you?”
“Nobody’d hear him all the way out here anyway,” Warren called over his shoulder.
“Well, I don’t want to hear him,” Wayne whispered as he closed the gap between himself and his brother.
“Really?” Warren turned and narrowed his eyes at his twin. “I thought you particularly enjoyed that part.”
“Shut up.” Wayne scowled and gave the top of his silk hat a little pat after he shimmied it snuggly in place. “You’re not going to spoil this for me.”
***
“That’s the last fucking time,” Warren said as he roughly rolled his bloodied clothes into a ball.
“I’ve heard that before,” Wayne snickered from behind as they walked up the stairs from the basement.
“No!” Warren snapped, turned on the top step and shoved the bundle of clothes at his brother.
Wayne recoiled. “Dammit!” He let the clothes fall to the tread and wiped at the starched white front of his tuxedo shirt. “Look what you did, you moron! I got through the whole thing without a drop on me and you have to go ahead--”
“Shut the fuck up,” Warren said and shoved the basement door open and walked naked through the kitchen to the bathroom.
“Hey, I get the shower first,” Wayne complained.
Without breaking his stride, Warren slid a 13” knife from the wood block on the counter and spun around, nearly slipping in the bloody footprints on the faded linoleum. “Back the fuck up, Wayne, or I swear I’ll slit your throat. ‘Because I can’,” he mocked his brother’s favorite expression.
Wayne skidded to a stop, leaned away and crossed his forearms in front of his face.
It didn’t take the boys long to lure the homeless man into the car. Promises of a three star hotel room with hot shower, shave and a haircut, anything off the room service menu, a new suit of clothes and a well-timed flash of cash clinched it. Even the biblical quotes that peppered their conversation as they left behind the urine-stained sidewalks in the derelict part of town and entered the sleepy suburbs didn’t sour the deal. They had initially offered him a bottle of Stoli pilfered from their grandfather’s liquor cabinet, but the man had declined. He wasn’t an alcoholic, he stated, simply without a place to call home.
“Why’d you fellas wanna know if I was a veteran?” he asked from the back seat as the street lights flickered across his worn features.
The brothers exchanged looks as the car slowed and pulled into the hotel parking lot. “Oh, it’s just that we tried to help another homeless gentleman but he turned out to be a vet and he went ballistic--” Wayne Rutledge began.
“What my brother means is the unfortunate soul suffered from some kind of post traumatic stress disorder and went into a rage of sorts. It was quite frightening,” Warren Rutledge said. He glanced in the rear view mirror at their passenger. “He refused our help.”
The homeless man nodded. “Poor son of a bitch.”
Wayne stepped out of the car and opened the door to the back seat. He pressed his index finger and thumb against his Tom Selleck mustache.
“You boys twins?” the homeless man looked from Wayne to Warren in the driver’s seat.
“Yes,” Warren said with a tight smile and smoothed his matching mustache. “Yes, we are.”
“Hey, do you like magic?” Wayne asked and plunged the needle into the homeless man’s shoulder and depressed the syringe.
“What the…?” The man slumped onto the seat.
Wayne shut the back door and resumed his spot up front. “This damn wig is giving me a fucking headache.” He jabbed a finger up under the hairpiece and tried to loosen it.
“You look like Florence Henderson,” Warren said and laughed.
“Like you don’t?” Wayne sneered at his brother in an identical wig. “Now, come on, let’s get going. And don’t blow any fucking red lights like last time. I’m not in the mood to deal with cops tonight.”
***
Warren entered the darkened living room to find his brother in a vintage tuxedo and draped in a shiny black cape sitting forward in a chair, the remote aimed at the TV. In an instant Warren knew his brother was watching the old VHS video of Langley the Magnificent. “This again? You’d think you would’ve had it memorized by now.” He glanced away from the screen. He cringed inwardly at the sight of himself and his brother dressed in fishnet stockings, pink satin corsets, poufy blond wigs and an abundance of lipstick and blush acting as the magician’s assistants.
“I would’ve if you hadn’t stepped in front of Langley and blocked his hand.” He froze the picture. “Damn it!” He got to his feet and reached for the black silk hat on the coffee table. It looked like Buster Keaton’s famous flat one until he flicked the brim and it transformed into a magician’s top hat.
“What’s with the get up?”
Wayne held wide his arms and looked down at himself. “What? What’s wrong with what I’m wearing?”
Warren shook his head and walked away.
“What?” Wayne called after his brother. “Like I should be wearing a hazmat suit or something?”
“Hurry up. The sodium pentobarbital’s gonna wear off soon. I don’t want a repeat of last time.” Warren trotted down the basement stairs.
“Jesus! You gagged him, didn’t you?”
“Nobody’d hear him all the way out here anyway,” Warren called over his shoulder.
“Well, I don’t want to hear him,” Wayne whispered as he closed the gap between himself and his brother.
“Really?” Warren turned and narrowed his eyes at his twin. “I thought you particularly enjoyed that part.”
“Shut up.” Wayne scowled and gave the top of his silk hat a little pat after he shimmied it snuggly in place. “You’re not going to spoil this for me.”
***
“That’s the last fucking time,” Warren said as he roughly rolled his bloodied clothes into a ball.
“I’ve heard that before,” Wayne snickered from behind as they walked up the stairs from the basement.
“No!” Warren snapped, turned on the top step and shoved the bundle of clothes at his brother.
Wayne recoiled. “Dammit!” He let the clothes fall to the tread and wiped at the starched white front of his tuxedo shirt. “Look what you did, you moron! I got through the whole thing without a drop on me and you have to go ahead--”
“Shut the fuck up,” Warren said and shoved the basement door open and walked naked through the kitchen to the bathroom.
“Hey, I get the shower first,” Wayne complained.
Without breaking his stride, Warren slid a 13” knife from the wood block on the counter and spun around, nearly slipping in the bloody footprints on the faded linoleum. “Back the fuck up, Wayne, or I swear I’ll slit your throat. ‘Because I can’,” he mocked his brother’s favorite expression.
Wayne skidded to a stop, leaned away and crossed his forearms in front of his face.
