Jake Don't Play

Content Note: The following story deals explicitly with themes of sexual violence, including sexual assault and rape, as well as themes of retribution. It includes scenes that some readers may find distressing. Reader discretion is strongly advised.

I come around back of the house and found Jake in his spring chair beside the stump, pulling at a pint bottle of Old Crow like it held the whole damn universe, every star and planet that ever were or will be. Jake squinted at me over the neck of the bottle. I slid into an empty chair on the other side of the stump, spring steel creaking under my skinny ass.

“You bring it?”

I pulled a Colt revolver from inside my coat and laid it on the stump between us.

“Didn’t ask you to serve it for lunch. A nod would’ve done.”

I reached for it, but Jake batted my hand away, palmed the pistol, and slid it into his lap. Held out the pint. I didn’t say nothing, just took a nip and handed it back. I’ve known the man fifty years. Don’t do to prattle when he’s in a mood. Jake don’t have what you’d call a lot of tolerance. He’s short on patience, too.

He stood, slipped the Colt into his waistband, covered it with the flap of his canvas jacket, and waved toward the barn.

“Bernard, you ain’t got to be part of this.”

“Quit talking shit, Jake. Your kin is my kin.”

Jake shrugged and walked toward the barn. I fell in beside him.

He slid back the barn door. Fingers of sunlight snuck through gaps in the siding boards. Dust motes danced in the air. One shaft of light fell on a young fella tied to an oak chair, the heavy slatted kind you might see in a jury box.

Even scrunched up as he was, you could see he was a big man. Looked like a biker. A duct tape gag covered the fella’s face south of his nose. Above the duct tape, his eyes was wide open and staring daggers. If looks could kill, we’d been dead.

Jake stepped right up to that chair without a pause. Reached out, got hold of an edge, and yanked that duct tape free. The gag ripped off with a sticky peeling sound that gave me the cringes.

“My partners get here, you two gonna wish you were dead.”

Jake smiled at the empty bluff.

“You see anybody here besides us, Bernard?”

“Nary a one, Jake.”

Jake nodded, flipped back his jacket, and pulled the Colt. The biker eyed that blue-black .357 and did his best to sneer.

“Fuck you, old man.”

Jake flipped open the cylinder and reached into his pocket.

“I appreciate your defiance. Shows grit. I admire grit in a man.”

Jake dipped his hand into his pocket. When he pulled it out, a single .357 cartridge lay on his palm. Made sure that fella saw it, then dropped the bullet into the cylinder.

“Anything you want to tell me, son?”

“Yeah. You ain’t my pa, you crazy fuck.”

“Beg pardon. Now, you and me gonna play a little game.”

Jake spun the cylinder. Clickity-clickity-click. Didn’t say nothing, just stared into the fella’s eyes.

  That noise climbed up my spine like a branch snapping when you’re out in the woods at night. Don’t know what that biker heard, but his eyes were showing fear behind the bluff. He had good reason to be afraid. Jake don’t play. I guess that fella was finally figuring that out.  

That poor bastard tied to the chair was right about one thing. Jake weren’t his father. Which ain’t the same as saying Jake wasn’t someone’s daddy. Had been, anyway. 

Jake’s harder than coffin nails. Always has been, even when him and me were boys. But being hard don’t mean he’s got no heart or that his heart can’t be broke in two.

He fell hard for Maisie. I stood as best man. Proud to do it, too. Another year, and here came baby Jessie. Sweetest little girl there ever was and pretty, too.

Being hard ain’t the same as being lucky. The cancer took Maisie before Jessie’s tenth birthday. Jake was left a widower caring for an only daughter. I reckon he did his best, but it weren’t enough. 

Losing her ma broke something inside Jessie. She sort of lost her way. Grew into a wild teenager. Got pregnant at sixteen. That’s how we got baby Caroline. 

Jake ended up more of a father than a grandpa. Jessie wasn’t much of a mother, truth be told. She ran wilder and further, got to messing with the meth, then vanished altogether. It fell to Jake to raise Caroline. That girl shone bright as the sun in Jake’s eyes.

Jake gave that cylinder another spin. One bullet, five empty chambers. Clickity-clickity-click. Rolled his wrist and snapped that cylinder home.

He leaned down, eyes level with the biker, that Colt pistol hovering in the air between them. Jake’s voice dropped into a growl.  

“Just to keep things sporting, I’ll go first.”

Quick as a snake, Jake straightened up. He raised that pistol to his temple and pulled the trigger. The hammer clacked. Loudest damn silence I ever heard.

“Your turn, boy.”

Jake stuck the .357 to that fella’s forehead. That biker tried to look tough, but fear took him. He winced his eyes shut. Jake pulled the trigger. Another clack, loud enough to fill that old barn.

“Lucky so far, ain’t we? My go.”

Tough guy opened his eyes, hoping to see Jake’s brains go flying. Didn’t expect to see Jake smiling as he raised the pistol. Jake stared at that fella. Clack. Another empty cylinder.

Without a word, Jake swung that Colt down between the biker’s eyes. This time, the man whimpered out loud. I swear to you, when that pistol clacked again, my guts lurched hard.

“Damn, boy, you must be Irish. Got the luck. But the odds are getting leaner, ain’t they?”

Jake dropped to one knee, eye level with the biker. Put the gun to his temple and fired. Nothing happened except you could see the life drain out of that fella in the chair.

“You been counting, boy? I make it five empty, one to go. Anything you want to tell me? Something to ease your passing?”

Weren’t no sneering now and no hard words. He was blubbering like a school kid, snot and tears running down his face. Mumbled something through the tears.

“Can’t hear what you’re saying, boy.”

Fella gagged, shook his head. He spat sideways, raised his eyes, managed to find his voice.

“I’m sorry, okay? Didn’t know that girl was kin to you. It was just a party. I was drunk as hell. I made a move on her, and she told me to fuck off. Didn’t mean for nothing to happen.”

His words ran off into more slobbering, but Jake weren’t through with him.

“Didn’t mean what to happen, boy?”

“I didn’t mean to… didn’t mean to hurt her none.”

“Didn’t mean to hurt my granddaughter. Is that what you’re trying to say?”

That poor fella nodded so hard snot flew, his eyes wide and pleading.

“I’ll tell her that, you raping bastard. It’ll be a consolation, her knowing you didn’t mean to hurt her.”

Jake stood tall, mashed the muzzle of the Colt into that boy’s forehead, and pulled the trigger. The fella’s head snapped back like he’d really been shot, but the only sound was a hammer pin falling on a dud round.

A vile stench filled the air. Jake stepped away, fanning with his left hand. With his right hand, he thumbed the release, flipped open the cylinder, and dropped one bullet into his palm. Held it out arm’s length under the fella’s nose.

“A dummy round, boy.”

Jake waved the bullet under that fella’s nose. Looked like one of them snake charmers mesmerizing a cobra. That fella followed it with his eyes, back and forth, until his eyes glazed over. 

Right then, seemed like that fella turned to jelly. His eyes squeezed shut, and his body sagged down into his own shit. Would have fallen right out of the chair if he weren’t tied to it.

Jake dropped the dead round into his left pocket and reached into the other. Came up with a handful of .357 shells. Them bullets whispered into the cylinder, one by one. Then he snapped the cylinder shut.

“Open your eyes, you piece of shit.”

I’ll give that fella credit. He looked up, eyes wide like he was hypnotized.

“You’re raping days are over, boy. Adios.”

Jake fired square into that biker’s chest. The Colt jumped with the recoil. Jake pushed it down and fired again. And again. The barn exploded with a roar like hell’s own thunder. Three more shots and my ears about rang out of my head.

The thunder rolled away, but my skull kept right on ringing. What was left of that poor sonofabitch slumped sideways in the chair, limp as a rag doll and leaking. Blood pooled on the planks beneath that dead sack of meat.

Jake turned to me, pistol hanging at his side. I saw his mouth moving but couldn’t make out what he said. Shook my head and cupped a hand to my ear.

“I said, you mind fetching me the chainsaw.”

Like I said before, Jake don’t play. Mister dead biker learned that lesson the hard way. I done what Jake asked and fetched the saw. Didn’t have no qualms about it, nor fear for that matter. Jake ain’t the only one that’s hard.