No More Mister Nice Guy

No More Mister Nice Guy

Life Better Lived Dead

M. Matheson

Copyright 2016 Michael Matheson

Smashwords Edition

ISBN: 9781311795069

This eBook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This eBook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. Thank you for respecting the hard work of the author.

No more Mister Nice Guy

No more Mister Clean

No more Mister Nice Guy.

They say he's sick - he's obscene.

-Alice Cooper

Nice — the eternal enemy of good indeed.

– M. Matheson

Chapter 1

Deserted

The Corporal’s nostrils flared as a brazen smile broke across his face. He breathed in deeply the scent of dust, dying flesh and cordite as the relentless hum of Death’s march continued its insistent quest throughout this land.

Gunner sniffed again. Death seemed to live in every object and fill even the Goddamned air of this unnamed street in Fallujah.

The atmosphere had been poisoned by this campaign, and was ruled by the cries of the dead and dying. Yet, it served to remind him just how alive he felt now that he had rid his life of that nice, much too nice guy, sadly only a boy at the time of his demise.

Alice Cooper’s song, No More Mister Nice Guy, rang in his head. He smiled.

The squad’s goal, made clear by precise orders, was to cleanse the troubled four-block area of insurgents and return it to the peaceful families and business people who gave it life. Gunner, a name he had picked up in basic training, walked point. The forefinger of his right hand itched feverishly, as it most always did, and was splayed expectantly alongside the trigger guard of the Minimi, more accurately an M-249 SAW machine gun, and precisely a BIG ASS GUN. Billy preferred the bigger gun and kept his M-16 strapped across his back. He cradled the larger gun as lovingly in his arms as if it were his firstborn son. The toned muscles of his forearms stood in sharp relief through leathery tanned and sunburned skin.

Stillness ruled as people lurked unseen in the shadows. Family units clutched together in dark corners, fearing the ones who had brought this cloud of death and destruction to their homes.

Eerie silence, hushed and strained, left only the crunch of gravel from under boots and the impossibly slow turn of tires from the eight-wheeled LAV-25.

Sensing a shift in personnel over his left shoulder, Billy turned to the Marine who had rotated into that spot and whispered loudly, Goddamn everyone else screws this place into the ground, turns it into a freaking snake pit, and when they can’t figure out how to pull their heads out of their stinking...you know... they send in the Marines. Same way it was in World War II and Nam. Some things just never change. I imagine it’ll be that way in every freaking war until we all blow ourselves to hell, and then whoever’s to blame will call the Marines to come and take the Devil out.

Uh, huh— grunted Buford Buzz Lawson, which was nearly all the six-foot-six, 350-pound Marine ever said; he was fearless and a damn good Marine. Gunner was happy to have him on his flank, for he was sure that Buzz was as near to insane as he.

The squad broke off by twos and threes to methodically search homes and businesses, all nearly vacant of decent folks. Here was a very dangerous place to be. Looking into its dark corners was a lot like sticking your arm in a black hole just to count the sleeping rattlesnakes.

Once a bustling thoroughfare, these streets had been reduced to piles of rubble, mere husks of their former selves. Signs hung all akimbo, their faded paint riddled with bullet holes; piles of broken cinderblock, like levees against the dust, stood stacked along the streets. Brave leftover inhabitants, suspicious even of their neighbors, hid in shadows and holes lest they draw the attention of U.S. patrols, or worse.

A flash of black robe and shiny metal scurried along a rooftop like a rat, and Billy caught him with the corner of his eye. Without the slightest hesitation, he raised the SAW and let loose a twenty-round burst of bullets that spattered and rained cinder block until a human body, with hardware, hit the rooftop with a thump and clatter. Gunner waved two fingers and sent a pair of squad members double-time to check it out. Within minutes, they waved a thumbs-up sign from the roof.

Billy had earned the handle Gunner for his manic passion of working with any tool or machine built to kill, maim, or blow things to bits. And, he was very, very good – rated expert or better – ahead of all his peers, even trainers and superiors, in each one. It seemed as if God himself had made him for killing.

Mitch the Itch, Dustin Theophilus Michelin, once said to a replacement troop on his first day in, He gives me the creeps, and nodded up towards Gunner. The farther ahead he is, the safer we are back here. Mitch received his moniker The Itch for a quick, but often inaccurate trigger finger.

A wise and rational fear of Billy squirmed just under the skin of his comrades, and they were always relieved when he volunteered to ride point. That meant he wouldn’t be riding shotgun with any of them, a very dangerous place to be.

Fallujah was the hottest spot in Iraq these days, and so, Bill Hartman was as happy there as anywhere on Earth. Two parts full-tilt Marine and one part psychotic, he served his country well, if not his fellow man. This was not some altruistic mission for him; his being a Marine was all for his own pleasure.

The robed figure he’d shot appeared to be a lone sniper, and so high-fives went all around. Gunner had once more lived up to his name and kept them all out of the fire.

The squad’s tensions loosened like steamed spaghetti, but Gunner, with the senses of a predator, felt the locals’ fear suddenly go on high alert. His somber face busted out into a Cheshire grin. He eased back into his frame, wagged his head from side to side, and his neck made an audible crack. It was about to get hot and dirty, just the way he liked it.

Like ants that scurried from the eater, the locals went to ground; trained by experience, they rarely missed the signs of impending doom that left the air a void of soundless tension.

True to the signs, an explosion rose in slow motion from the bowels of a dead and rusting Fiat abruptly rupturing the atmosphere. Dozens of insurgents flooded the street. The air was immersed in a hot barrage of bullets, shrapnel, and the familiar cacophony of war.

Time gets stretched all out of whack in a firefight, so seconds feel like minutes, and minutes, hours.

Every squad member felt Death's looming gaze.

The survivors heard the RPG fly; it hit the LAV dead center, followed by screams of the Marines who manned it. They had taken a direct hit.

In mere seconds, the squad had been decimated, reduced to bloody rubble. Mitch, still unscathed, was pinned down in a doorway, and across the street, he could see Buzz’s hulking frame trying to take cover behind a crinkled rollup door.

Buzz could see Gunner’s body atop a pile of blocks, and from the looks of it, he was a goner. Then, he saw his head move slightly.

Gunner was still alive. Barely.

Rudely torn from the rusty Fiat, the front quarter of its hood had flipped like a Frisbee pitched by the Giant God of War. It warbled lopsidedly through the air, but was slowed on its way to a perfect landing when it sliced raggedly through Gunner Hartman's thorax.

He missed the firefight. Everything was velvety darkness and silence.

Chapter 2

The Waking Dead

He reached the end of his third tour of duty without much more than a scraped knee, and that he got in a barracks wrestling match with a big Swede, Baard Berfalk. The big guy outweighed him by fifty pounds and Gunner still took him.

William Gunner Hartman awoke in a gel-like haze, surrounded by the snap of M16s and the distinctive thump of countless AK 47s. The 25mm chain gun mounted atop their Light Armored Assault Vehicle should have been thumping; its silence meant it had been hit. It had been obliterated by a direct hit from an anti-tank round.

Gunner’s body lay face-up, overextended atop a pile of shattered cinder blocks. Like a broken child’s toy, he had been cast off to the side of the street amidst other broken pieces of once functioning machinery and building materials. His plans had gone terribly sideways.

A gaping wound like the mouth of some deep-sea animal arched itself towards the smoky sky in one last defiant gesture; his chest pushed out, urged upward by a gang of rotted teeth fallen from the jaws of war, concrete bricks that bit angrily into his flesh. The M16 still strapped to his back cut sharply into his spine, and he worried about the big gun falling into the hands of the enemy.

In an unearthly crash and din, the twisted smoking shell of an economy four-door sedan had come to rest across the street. Amidst the snap, crackle, and pop of the cooling hulk, a headlight popped out and swung slowly by its optic nerve. The other light miraculously survived and signaled Bill with a wink of camaraderie.

Just you and me, baby.

The street, once clogged with thriving family businesses, filled with a fog of debris and choking dust. Signs hawking wares had come already pre-bent and riddled with bullet holes. The few establishments still open for business, the ones that could have afforded glass windows, along with their lingering proprietors, were all veterans of a cornucopia of conflicts, heroes solely out of desperation. With a well-developed sense of impending doom, they kept their vigil behind all manner of improvised steel barricades.

In a sudden whispered shush, the chaos of war faded and morphed into eerie silence.

Lying there, convinced he was a dead man, his bowels spread obscenely open for the world to see, Gunner thought how his first two wishes had come true: he had made it out with a bang, and Billy Hartman was NOT a very nice guy. But, now that it was time to put up the money, he was no longer sure he could afford to pay. He had the two things he had most wanted, but the horrible realization that it brought with it no satisfaction suddenly rushed full force upon him. Like a flood.

Mick Jagger was right: You can’t get no satisfaction.

Intense pain rose and set like the moon, only quicker; its ragged edges snatched him abruptly in and out of consciousness. Scraggily claws burrowed their way into the top of his spine and out through his belly like a starving horde of rodents tearing greedily into their latest kill, and always returning just in time to do it all over again.

Billy grinned and gulped a drowning man’s last desperate breath before he plunged headlong into the silent blackness.

Chapter 3

Kill the Kid

The nation sat stunned, their vision of invincibility shattered, as they watched with pie-eyed grief repeated news reports that tried to tell how, why, when, and whose fault it was that terrorists were able to hijack jets and fly them into the World Trade Center buildings and the Pentagon. Heroic passengers were able to divert the last plane from its original target, the White House, and crash into an empty field southeast of Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania.

Billy Hartman, as with so many other young men and women, fixed his mind to join the Marines. For him, the tragedy had come at a convenient time, and now he had a workable plan for the demise of his only real nemesis. The last day of high school would be the beginning of the end for That Nice Boy Billy Hartman, an epithet that clung to him too long, like so many flies on a steaming turd.

If he’d heard it once, he heard it a million times,

Oh, that Hartman kid! What a nice boy!

Being nice was wearing. He was sure that in most folks, it had a rejuvenating effect, but not Billy. He saw no fame or future in this stoic goodness that hovered about him like so much bad cologne.

Why couldn’t he just get with the program, marry a nice girl, and settle down to a NICE mind-numbing version of the American Dream?

That question grated like sand he couldn’t shake out of his shorts. He was stranded, sandwiched between his outward amiability and an inner nastiness; rotting grains of grit chafed at his soul. Dr. Phil would call it conflicted, Billy called it trapped, and now he had a plan to change all that. Thank you, terrorists. While the nation mourned, Billy smiled, if only inwardly, but the truth was, he could have cared less for any one of those 2,996 people who died in the attacks.

In short, and in truth, he was not a very nice guy, and his charade of goodness was tiring. The real Billy had been locked away in a deep inner dungeon for far too long.

War would be a good place to give him the keys, he thought. The murder of that nice Hartman boy would be his first spectacular crime.

****

April 1st, 2002 was Billy's eighteenth birthday, and he woke that day acutely aware of a new presence within his soul. As his plan leapt from the starting gate, he was filled with joy at the thought of ridding himself of what had eaten at him for years. His happy mood had little to do with reaching the age of majority, but it was the starting gun.

BANG!

Say goodbye, Mister Nice Guy! And here's a kick in the ass for you on your way out, he said, swinging his leg at an imagined old ghost as he leapt downstairs to breakfast.

Mom was most always cheerful despite being wedged between the gray cloud that swirled around her husband, Frank, and a nice but troubled, perhaps depressed son. Hell... she told herself, I haven't a clue what's going on inside of that boy, and it hurt her deeply to watch both men wither and drag on in their barely miserable lives. Sonya would not be swept away in that maelstrom; she was just too buoyant, a trait that no amount of darkness could ever drown out.

That morning, she heard a sound not heard in the Hartman house for several years – whistling; a cheery if off-key tune. Even the swinging kitchen door swung a divergent note as Billy pushed into the room, walking as if he was lighter than air.

Smells scrumptious, Ma, he said as he curled his arm around her waist and gave her a peck on the cheek. She started to flinch when he asked innocently, What's the occasion? and gave her a wink that was so full of happiness that Sonya wondered if someone or something had possessed her ever-somber son. She spun to look incredulously into his face and thought of toying with him playfully, but considered again; experience told her that she just might be stepping out across an ancient rotting bridge suspended high above a craggy gorge. Billy could suddenly snap, turn, bite, and plunge her onto the familiar rocks below. Still, she had not seen him this happy since he was a little boy.

Happy birthday, Son, she said with a wide inviting smile as tears filled the back of her throat. She could sense he would soon leave the house, and perhaps their lives, forever. Who could blame him? Hadn't she contemplated the same at least a hundred times? The past had been less than pleasant.

Have a seat. I've cooked your favorite.

Billy held both hands wide as if he was trying playfully to convince her of his surprise, but all the same was truly grateful. Those strong, youthful arms picked her up and swung her round the room and Sonya giggled like a schoolgirl. They sat down in front of a pile of pancakes, eggs, and a platter of limp-cooked slabs of bacon. By the time Frank came in, a contagion had gotten loose in the room, and they were chattering away like two happy little birds.

What the heck you all been smokin'? he asked as he loaded bacon, eggs, and toast on his plate.

Weed, Frank, tons of weed… Billy's lips twisted up in a mocking sneer. He turned back to his bacon and gave his mom a wink, which set them off on an outbreak of the giggles.

Joy to Frank was like sand in his shorts.

Aw, crap, Frank said, and tossed his half-loaded dish in the trash; china plate and all. He snatched a beer from the door of the fridge and paused in the frame of the open back door as if he'd forgotten something he couldn't think of. He pulled a thin cigar from his pocket, struck a match against his jeans, and exited with a curl of smoke and a hint of sulfur. The door hung open long enough for the odors – all Frank – to invade the house before he set himself down on the stoop to sulk in the chilled morning air.

The loose screen door slammed and Sonya and Billy each choked back a laugh, which eventually did exit in spasms and sputters covered tactfully by the backs of their hands. Despite the morning’s joy, Sonya's insides filled with grief, weary from her own prayers for Frank; hope had worn gossamer-thin at the prospect he would one day return to her.

Billy squeezed his mom into the first loving hug she'd had in years. (Billy thought for a moment he had done good, been nice, and liked it, but that soon drifted away with the breeze.)

It'll get better, Mom. I promise.

She wondered at what all was mixed up in that vow.

She watched from the porch as he walked down the street, and when Sonya could no longer see him, she stayed and wished a little longer. She told herself that he wasn’t gone yet, wiped her tears with her apron, and went inside to clean up.

****

As he walked through the aluminum-framed glass doors into the Marine recruiter’s office, a chintzy little bell dinged. He had crossed a threshold of no turning back.

Alice Cooper’s song, No More Mister Nice Guy, ran crisp and clear through the twisted passages of his head.

"No more Mister Nice Guy

No more Mister Clean

No more Mister Nice Guy."

And the last lip-smacking line escaped as a defiant whisper.

They say he's sick - he's obscene.

At the sound of just a hint of his new voice, he began to creep out of his gloom; a malevolent sneer turned up the side of his face, and a cool electric chill scuttled down his spine, landing like a velvet sledgehammer. Lost in momentary ecstasy, he conjured up the coming carnage. His mind filled with images of walking unhindered by niceness, able to tell people what he really thought, and to react with the violence that until now had been held chained down in the basement.

The recruiter, Sergeant Stark Steadman, shook Billy by the shoulder. You alright, son. Steadman looked at him queerly and wondered for a passing moment if Billy was one of those head cases trying to lose themselves in the Corps. This boy gave him the creeps. He knew he should order a psych evaluation, but his bonus would be hung up for who knows how long and his wife had been hammering away at him lately over finances. Lolly Steadman was coming into her teen years with a mouth full of crooked teeth and needed braces, clothes, and the seeming endless stream of trinkets that Mom was always buying to appease her.

With "they say he's sick – he's obscene" ringing in his ears, Billy signed That Nice Hartman Boy’s death warrant.

Mayhem and ruin would soon rule the day.

Chapter 4

The Beginning of the End

Billy Hartman hadn’t wanted word to get around that he’d signed up for the Marines, so his friend, Oxman – likely his only real friend – drove him there in his mother’s borrowed Subaru, a real piece of crap if there ever was one. At the curb, he gave Billy a mock salute.

Oxman was a big bubba white boy – thick in the neck and everywhere else except his brain; he normally drove a hotrod old Dodge Challenger that ran fast like the screaming hot PCs he could and probably did build in his sleep. Always dressed in the requisite black trench coat, Oxman terrified the school administration and half the student body, heck – even his name gave most of them the creeps. Principle Beeman had transferred him out of Elk Grove High School on an unproven charge of infecting the school’s computers with a worm that opened and shut the CD drives every time anyone typed the letter O; the drive wouldn’t close until an X was typed. Beeman was sure that one day Oxman would shoot up the school, and he didn’t want it to be his. So Oxman landed in continuation school— he could get As half awake and standing on his head, What a joke.

Oxman pointed towards the front door. Looks like you got competition. Standing