The Red
By
Derek A. Schneider



    Some days were better than others. For brief periods, Thom was in control. Sometimes he would even go several days without it, but these instances were rare. No, more often than not, the red was upon him. More frequently than ever, the red would consume him completely.
    Alcohol worked sometimes. He supposed that was why he came to the bar in the first place. Though, on occasion, drinking made the red far worse. He knew the best course of action would be to avoid human contact all together, but he had no control over that at the moment. It was much like being the sole audience member at a twisted play where the script has been thrown out the window and the raging, uncontrollable actor is winging it onstage. So, there he was, at a shit kicking honky-tonk bar on a Wednesday night in the middle of backwater-who the fuck knows where-Tennessee.
    The seventies were not kind to Thom and he was glad as hell they were over. Somewhere, amongst the disco crazed fuck heads that make up the country was a little boy that Thom called his son. A five year old that had thick blonde curls, chubby red cheeks, and was just as fascinated by Star Wars as all the aforementioned fuck heads, especially now that the sequel was out.
    It had been a year. One year ago Lynn had packed a bag, taken the boy, and walked out on him for good. He didn’t blame her though. He had hurt her badly, and though he would never willingly hurt the boy, he knew it would have been a matter of time. The red didn’t consider age or gender, it only begged for the violence.
    The hick music was blaring from the speakers that hung from the walls around the bar. A crowd of people wearing K-mart’s best blue light specials and brand new cowboy hats were packed on the small dance floor, moving in unison to the song. He was fairly certain it was Hank Williams, though he had never been one to follow country music.
    Trying to remain inconspicuous, Thom moved over and took a seat at the end of the bar. The bartender gave him a strange look then walked over reluctantly to take his order.
    “Beer,” Thom said over the music.
    Without a word the bartender grabbed a glass, poured the beer from a tap, and sat it down on the bar. Thom slid the money to him, along with a dollar tip and began to sip his drink.
    It had occurred to him on the way in that his appearance was such that it would stand out in a bar like this. The long hair and scruffy face would not go unnoticed for long. This logic didn’t matter to the red, hell that part of him wanted to draw attention. It was hoping the patrons of the bar would see him. Then he could stomp the fuck out of those backwater, inbred, cousin fucking bastard and enjoy every minute of it.
    That was the red.
    Thom had no desire to fight. He had always been a peace lover. Hell, he had joined in many peace rallies while the war in ‘Nam was going on. The red didn’t care about all of that. The red just wanted to kick some ass.
    He drank the beer down and ordered another. The beverage was cold and soothing. It helped. Thom thought the day might actually turn out to be a good one, but that was before one of the hicks tapped him on the shoulder.
    “You’re a little out of your element, ain’t you hippie?” the cowboy said. Cowboy. That’s what they liked to call themselves. Though, Thom was sure he was no more a cowboy than John Travolta was in that stupid fucking movie that came out earlier in the year. The suburban dickhead that was speaking to him would never make it as a real cowboy.
    “I asked you a question, hippie,” the cowboy said a little more forcefully.
    Thom only stared at him. More specifically, the red stared at him. Thom was in the back seat now, holding on to the suicide door for dear life. Behind the cowboy, a group of men (also dressed like effeminate cattle rustlers) were forming to back up their friend. Though he had come in to calm himself with alcohol, he had found a fight to appease the red.
    The thing about the fighting was; Thom had never had any kind of experience with it at all. In high school he was the captain of the debate team, which had led him to major in political science in his two years at Notre Dame, a college career that was cut short by a burning desire to join the rallies and protests against the war. But then, the red took over, making him a powerful and precise fighting machine. There was an accuracy to his strikes that was uncanny. A power that was inhuman and unexplainable. Thom knew the cowboys were about to experience it firsthand.
    “What’s wrong?” the cowboy said. “Cat got your tongue, you hippie faggot!” With heavy emphasis on the word “faggot” the cowboy pushed Thom’s chest. It was all that was needed to unleash the red.
    Thom came up from his barstool fast, driving his forehead into the first cowboy’s nose. He felt the cartilage there crumble and was well aware that the shards may have punctured the cowpokes brain.
    The others were momentarily frozen by the suddenness of the attack. Thom (the red) took advantage of this lapse. He threw one fist forward and felt a man’s jaw shatter to pieces. A spin move from there gave him the momentum to drive his left elbow up to smash another cowboy’s face knocking his cheap hat to the floor.
    A fist came Thom’s way. It just missed his face and left the arm positioned over his shoulder. He quickly grabbed the man’s wrist and pulled down hard. The elbow gave a crunch, bending the arm in a direction it wasn’t meant to bend. The man screamed in agony. Thom (the red) pushed him aside and welcomed the others as they came. A clumsy left hook. Another miss. Thom (the red) reached up with one powerful hand and found the man’s face, in a flash the opponent was forced downward over Thom’s knee. The man’s spine splintered and he fell limp to the floor.
    Now, it seemed that every hick in the bar was coming in his direction. It wasn’t supposed to go this way. The hippies weren’t supposed to fight back. How many times had these people roughed up someone like him just to get them to move through town a little faster?
    The red was in complete control now. A skilled artist in brutality that was far beyond anything the dumb shits in the bar could hope to accomplish, but they didn’t seem to get that. Not yet anyway. It would be a lesson learned the hard way.
    Thom’s fist moved seemingly of their own accord, savagely beating and smashing away at the belligerent crowd. Men and women fell. The red didn’t care; it would mow them all down. Bones snapped, blood sprayed, an older man even lost control of his bowels. Another actually jumped from the top of a pool table. Thom (the red) caught him mid flight and used his momentum to toss him into the wall. The drywall crumbled and caved in a nearly perfect, man shaped hole.
    When the bar patrons seemed to all come at him at once, Thom went for the pool table. He picked it up by one end and swung it around the room. A slate pool table that surely had to weigh around 800 pounds had become a weapon in the hands of the red.
    Swinging the table to the left, he knocked over a waitress and many cowboys. Swinging the table to the right he hit three more waitresses, a drunk cowgirl, and an old man with a harelip. By this point it was clear that the remainder of the group had no interest in fighting. Now, they were merely trying to contain the madman that had unleashed hell on their happy, little town.     
    With a strained grunt, the red threw the pool table forward and the width of it bowled bar patrons over until it came to a stop near the back of the bar. The remaining fighters stopped their forward progression and stared at Thom, no doubt wondering if the stranger in front of them was so coked out of his mind that his strength had been heightened to an insane level. Thom didn’t know where the strength came from. He just assumed it came from the red. It would be a surprise to him to know that he was wrong, but Thom would never know where it truly came from. He would never discover the real source.
    At that point, the red decided that the fight was over. It turned Thom toward the entrance of the bar and walked out. The few cowboys and cowgirls left standing only watched him go.
    Once he stepped outside and the cool December air hit him, the red receded and Thom was his old self again. He could again see the world in full Technicolor. The dull red had cleared from his vision. It only took seconds to see the flashing red and blue that filled the air around him then. The police had apparently gotten word of the brawl.
    The five patrol cars (five cars for one man) came to a stop, the doors on either side came open, and Thom suddenly had ten revolvers trained on him. He then wondered where the red was when he really needed it.
    “Raise your hands over your head!” one officer demanded.
    Thom did as he was told held his throbbing and cracked hand up.
    The officer called again; “Do you have any weapons hidden on your person right now?”
    “No sir,” Thom called.
    Some of the other cops shared a doubtful look as if asking each other silently if they had the right guy. Surely this man, who looked to weigh all of 135lbs soaking wet and had a shy, nervous voice had not just beat all of the living hell out of a bunch of shit kicking hicks.
    “Slowly walk forward and place your hand on the hood of the car.”
    Thom nodded and again followed the order. Once his hands touched the hood, his right wrist was pulled out from beneath him and his face came down on the warm hood of the cruiser. His left hand was then pulled behind him and cuffs were fastened to his wrist.
    “Is that him?” one cop asked. There was a sound like paper flapping in the wind and the cop that was giving all of the orders came into Thom’s line of sight.  The officer looked from Thom to the paper and back again several times before finally stating; “Yeah, that’s him. Hope you boys are ready to be on TV.”
    The cop must have read the confusion on Thom’s face, for he started to recite what was printed on the paper. “One hundred and seventeen counts of aggravated assault in six different states, one count of murder in Ohio, and two counts of murder in Indiana. We just caught ourselves one of the FBI’s most wanted.”
    Thom couldn’t believe what he was hearing. He had no idea things had gotten so out of hand. And when the cops went into the tavern, they would most likely find at least a couple more murder counts to tack on to that list. Not to mention about forty more assaulted victims.
    It was then that Thom came to the conclusion that prison would be a good thing. At least there he would be able to stay out of trouble. Somewhat, anyway. But, the red had other plans. The red was suddenly, savagely pushing forward, sending poor Thom reeling to the back of his fevered brain only to watch helplessly as his vision blurred to red once again.
    “Read him his rights, Pete,” the commanding officer said. Pete began to read the rights off, but didn’t get very far.
    Thom (the red) had pulled the cuffs apart and was moving fast before the cops could stop him. Pete’s nose was smashed inward, seemingly imploding from the force of the punch. The other cops scrambled to get the guns out of the holsters they had returned them to.
    Before they could take aim, the red took hold of the driver side door of the patrol car nearest to him. He ripped the door off its hinges and held it up as a shield.
    The gunshots ripped through the night air. Thom heard the bullets ping as they hit the door and he felt them as they pierced his skin. Unfortunately, hiding behind car doors wasn’t as effective as they had made it appear on TV. The red kept moving nonetheless, slinging the door at two cops who were both clipped in the head and forced to the ground with blood flowing from their wounds.
    The other officers continued to fire, but the red only moved on, tackling another cop to the ground. The bullets never let up and even through the crimson haze, Thom could feel the red growing weaker. After dropping four more cops with brutal attacks, the red finally fell to the ground and faded completely. Thom had no doubt that the cops would have to explain why they’d shot an unarmed man so many times (final autopsy would show seventy-nine bullet wounds), but as Thom’s life faded from his body, he found his mind wondering to other things.
      It turned to his son.
      Most importantly, he wondered if his boy would grow up and inherit the curse of the red and prayed that he wouldn’t. With one final gasping breath, Thom closed his eyes, thought of his only child, and died in the street.
      
      The End.