Bertino’s Head

(stolen from Jimmy Callaway)

When they smashed in the door Tamblyn and Russell didn’t know what they were going to get. Turned out what they got was a fat kid with an enormous head in a grease stained Metal Mulisha tee shirt.
“On the floor, asshole!”
Russell swept the kid’s feet out from under him. Tamblyn snapped the cuffs tight. Jerked the kid to his feet by his cuffed wrists. He knew it hurt like hell. That’s the way they wanted it. The way it needed to be. Pit bull dominance right off the bat.
“Move it you fat fuck.”
Russell fast walked the kid out the door, down the stairs and tossed him into the backseat of the cruiser. Tamblyn hit the gas as soon as Russell’s door slammed. The kid lurched back against the seat then went face first into the steel screen when Tamblyn locked the brakes up. The metal mesh cut the kids cheekbones and the bridge of his nose wide open and a few teeth went flying. Russell half turned in his seat.
“How’d ya like that, ass face? Want some more?”
“No, please no more.” The kid’s voice came out mushy and wet.
Tamblyn gunned the motor. Looked at Russell.
“Think he’s ready?”
“Nah,” Russell said. “Not yet.”
The big v-eight barked loud. The rear brakes screeched. The kid hit the screen again. This time he managed to turn his face away so the wire tore his left ear loose. Left it hanging by the lobe. This time the kid stayed forward his face pressed against the metal. He blinked some of the blood away from his eyes. They were going going gone but he pulled a little focus on Russell’s face.
“Please . . .” was all he managed to pant out.
“Please.” Tamblyn snickered. “Fuck your please, Bertino. Fuck it in the ass. Just tell us where Callaway is.”
“Yeah, Bertino. Just tell us where Jimmy is and all the pain will stop,” Russell said.
The kid’s voice was weak. Sounded like it was coming from somewhere far far away. Fading fast.
“Yeah,” he said. “Yeah . . . Jimmy said . . . Jimmy said—“he pressed his face into the screen hard. His voice faded to almost inaudible.
Both cops leaned right up to him. Listening hard through the solid steel mesh.
“Jimmy said . . . to tell you. He’d see you both . . . In hell.”
Bertino’s fingers found the red button of the remote and pressed it home. The three pounds of C4 wrapped around his neck detonated, blowing the mesh apart, sending a thousand slivers of steel through both men’s faces. In the silence following the explosion the three headless bodies in the squad car seemed almost peaceful and the night almost quiet and the moon almost as bright.

2 Responses to “Bertino’s Head”

  1. God, you’re sick.

  2. Better watch your back, Jimmy.

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