Dead Nolte (11 page)

***

N
olte looked into the window of the antique
shop and tried to rehearse his lines. The music store looked like a real
shithole, but so had the witch’s place. Nolte checked the palm of his hand to
see if he was at the correct address. His head was more than a bit fuzzy. The
crazy witch had put magic ink in his dick beater and as instructed, he’d licked
it a few minutes prior to his arrival at the shop. She wasn’t shitting when she
told him to only lick it once, if the fuzz got any worse, he would be lucky to
remember his own name.

As he opened the door, a small bell rang over his head and
once again when he closed it. He waited for another bell, but there wasn’t one.
Usually, things came in threes. He looked back at the top of the door. The bell
remained motionless. He looked down at his palm, the shit she had given him was
strong, he needed to maintain. He figured he was already at functioning retard,
and quickly heading south toward babbling fool.

“Is your business musical, or personal in nature?” queried
an effeminate male voice from the back of the shop.

This pole smoker sounds like he has sugar in his britches,
Nolte thought. He didn’t think he had it in him to deal with any fag shit in
his present state. “A coon-ass named Leroy…Linus sent me from Plaquemines…I
need to talk to the trumpet player.” Nolte scratched a phantom itchy spot on
his ass while he waited for a response. He could hear the fag in the back
wrestling with some paper. Soft footsteps crossed the rear of the shop. A tiny
man suddenly appeared off to his right, startling Nolte enough to make him
jump.

“Are you inquiring about the Trumpet Fixer?” The tiny man
asked. The tiny man's facial expression looked to Nolte, as though he had just
chewed on a lemon, but Nolte’s motto was live and let live, he didn’t care what
the cocksucker put in his mouth, as long as he kept his fag cooties to himself.

Baal’s inspection of Nolte went from head to toe and back
from toe to head, and despite its brevity, the scrutiny was intense enough for
Nolte to feel it in his bones, it felt even more judgmental and prejudiced than
his own assessment of the faggoty voice.

Just as Nolte had feared, the booty bandit was checking him
out. Nolte could only nod; the question and the eye rape had unnerved him. In
his fuzzy mind, he thought he had just told the little man that very fucking
thing. If the little fucker could keep his mind off my corn-hole, maybe he
could understand English.

“I asked if you are inquiring about the Trumpet Fixer?”

“No offense, but you can keep it in your pants. I don’t go
in for that inquiring shit; I’m a pussy hound, myself.” Suddenly concerned with
date rape drugs and setups, Nolte forgot his rehearsed patter. “I was sent here
by a Plaquemines nigger named Linus, he tells me I need to talk to a trumpet
player.”

Baal found the man wanting in many ways and was quite sure
he could provide any number of services, which might benefit the rather dim
looking fellow, but the mentally afflicted were under the protection of God
himself and could not be engaged in negotiations.

“Please allow me to be blunt,” The man’s vacant stare was
giving Baal cause for concern. “I cannot, in good conscience make any deals, with
any person impaired by, or under the influence of drugs or alcohol, nor do I
deal with those found to be simple of mind, unless the mental affliction was
the result of an injury, and the transaction is a means to repair the injury.”

“Listen, Nancy boy, I’ve only had three beers and I’m as
sober as any judge in New Orleans. I was told by a nigger coon-ass, that you
and I could help each other. I’m not here to waste your time. I find offense in
not only your words but your tone.” Nolte secretly thanked himself and every
cop that had ever pulled him over while he was drunk, it wasn’t what the witch
had told him to say, but the indignant attitude he always used on cops. He knew
in an instant, the improvisation had served him well. The little man actually
appeared to be amused.

The tiny man walked toward him, rocking from side to side on
the legs of a toddler. Stopping in front of Nolte, he offered his small hand
for Nolte to shake. “Hello, my name is Baal. I have the full authority to speak
on behalf of the party, through which, all deals are finalized and to whom,
final payment shall be made. Please state your business.”

Nolte started to speak, but thought better of it, afraid he
would jinx his DUI checkpoint response. Instead he pulled the small folded
paper the witch had given him, from his pocket and handed it to Baal along with
a wink. He instantly wished he could take back the wink. What if the mini-fag
thought he was coming on to him? Nolte tried to shake the thought from his
head, but it was stubborn.

Baal carefully unfolded the paper and read the content of
the note. A moment later, he looked sternly into Nolte’s eyes. “Sir, this item
hardly seems worth the price you will be required to pay. I must reiterate,
that no agreements will be struck with those found simple of mind unless the
diminished capacity was the result of injury, and the deal includes repair of
said injury.”

Who in the fuck did this thigh-high twink think he was?
Nolte bit hard on his tongue. “Sir, I’m a coin collector, initiated by an inheritance
I received from my dearly departed daddy. The addition of this Hebe coin will
make my collection one of the most complete Jew collections on the planet. I
want this specific coin, because my dear old daddy and dolly lommy dothead,
over there in Jewland had an agreement, that if ever the sandnigger was to sell
this coin, my dearly departed daddy or me, would have first dibs on it.” Nolte
looked around the store as if the next part of his request was for their ears
only.” And…” he paused as he bent to whisper in the twink’s ear. “And, I want
you to give me a bigger dick.” Nolte straightened himself, and grinned, all the
while, wondering how he had managed to pull all of that out of his ass, with
the mind of a barely functional, window licking retard residing in his head.

A smile twisted at Baal’s lips. “Ah yes, well that sheds a
bit of light on things. A physical enhancement is one of our more requested
forms of service.” Baal turned on his stubby legs and waddled off toward the
back of the shop. “Follow me, if you will.” He said, no longer bothering to
direct the words at Nolte.” I don’t usually make, what you might call; ‘two for
one’ deals, but I found your presentation to be quite humorous, Sir.”
  

The tiny man took off toward the back of the shop. Had the
man’s legs been any longer, Nolte was quite sure, there would have been a swish
in his step. Nolte followed the midget obediently, trying, in vain, not to
envision the tiny man with a foot of Plaquemines nigger dick up his ass.

Baal pointed a stub of a finger, directing Nolte to what
looked to be a podium on four long legs. Atop it, in the center, was a single
sheet of blank paper, an inkwell and a large quill.

“Please stand to one side for a moment.” Nolte quickly
jumped back, the tiny fag had almost touched him. He moved around the podium,
allowing Baal to slide a small wooden stepstool around to the front of the tall
table.

“It would suit me to better to use a shorter signing
platform, but my boss directed me to this acquisition many, many years ago.” He
climbed up the two steps of the small ladder and smoothed his hand across the
table’s well-worn surface and smiled.” This bimah was constructed by the
Christ, himself. It is said that he read from the book of Isaiah on it, on the
day his friends and neighbors tried to stone him to death. One cannot find this
level of craftsmanship these days, can one?” Baal looked up at Nolte, his
crooked smile dripping with sarcasm. “My boss thought it added a nice touch,
given the currency exchanged here.” Baal’s look became dire.” You do understand
the currency exchanged here, don’t you?”

Nolte nodded.” You want my soul.”

“Yes, that is our required method of payment. Of course, we
only collect, when you are ‘finished with it’ so to speak.” Turning his attention
to the paper in front of him, Ball began to scribble frantically. After a few
minutes, Baal lifted his head to look at Nolte. “The paper you have given me
makes no mention of a larger penis. Might I inquire as to the length and girth
you seek, so that I might specify it in the contract?”

“Twice as long, and twice as big around…Make it look like a
tall can of corn.” Nolte’s grin spread from ear to ear. He had already
forgotten about his big new dick. He hoped like hell, the shit the witch had
given him wasn’t permanent. A big dick wouldn’t do him any good if he was too
stupid to use it, and at the moment, he felt a few beers shy of a six-pack.

Several minutes later, Baal finished the contract by
documenting the time and date. He sprinkled a fine powder over the wet ink and
blew it off carefully with soft puffs. He smiled at Nolte and gestured to the
powder. “The pounce we use is ground from the bones of children.” His smile
grew. “The children were not sacrificed of course. Their bodies were donated,
one might say.” His smile grew even larger as he recalled a day, not long past,
by Baal’s measure of time, when humans had thrown infants into white hot
cauldrons, to sizzle and pop, in praise of his name. Fond memories, fond
memories indeed, he thought.

Baal climbed down the step stool, scooted it back around to
the side of the table and again climbed the two steps. “Please step forward,
read carefully what I have written, and if you are in agreement with the terms,
initial above ‘tall can of corn’ and sign the contract using your first name
only, at the bottom of the papyrus, near the X.”

Nolte reached for the paper in front of him and received a
light slap to the back of his hand, from Baal. “Please do not touch the
document until you have read it thoroughly and signed. You must understand and
agree with the terms before you come in contact with the papyrus.” Baal
scolded.

“How in the fuck do I sign my name?” Nolte looked confused.

“With care, sir, with much care,” Baal told him, his round,
childlike face showed no emotion. The jovial expression brought on by the
lighthearted trip down memory lane and thoughts of burning children had been
replaced with a more serious demeanor. One better suited to the task at hand.

“Don’t we need to poke my finger, so I can sign this in
blood?” Nolte asked.

“You have seen too many motion pictures, sir. We have never
done that. Our word is our bond.” His impression of the man standing before him
led Baal to believe, that the concept of bonding could not be explained,
without a great deal of effort.

Nolte took the faggoty looking feather pen and dipped the
tip in the inkwell. He looked over at Baal. “Now you’ll give me the money, and
I go and get the coin, right”

“Read the document. I included every request, which was
written on the paper you handed me.”

Nolte nodded. “And when should I expect the bigger dick?”

“Read the document, sir, it’s all in there, however, you
should start seeing results, within the hour.”

Putting the fancy pen to the paper, Nolte signed his name
with two Ts, purposely misspelling it. He smiled to himself, inside, get them
on a technicality, he thought. Nolte watched as the ink swirled around on the
paper and snaked itself into the correct spelling.

“That will not work, Mr. Nolte. If I only had a farthing for
every time someone has attempted that.” Baal’s look turned to utter contempt.
“Our word is our bond, Mr. Nolte.”

“Why are you calling by my name all of a sudden?” Nolte
asked suspiciously.

“I had to wait until you wrote it out for me. Though our
organization has had our eye on you for a long time, Mr. Nolte, you are a man
of misdeeds and absolutely devoid of character. One way or another, our paths
would have crossed, but you never really existed to us, in a business sense,
until the moment you signed the papyrus.”

Baal took the quill from Nolte and removed the contract from
the table. “We came to the conclusion long ago Mr. Nolte, that forgiveness can
happen when you least expect it. So many have asked for it at the very last
moment of their life and received it, cutting us out of the picture entirely.
We stopped taking one’s word alone and began to include the written and signed
agreement. Though it is no guarantee, it seems to reduce dishonesty. Dishonesty
aside, the contract is iron clad and does hold water, at even the highest
levels of management.”
 
Baal grinned at
Nolte. “We no longer need to worry about any of that forgiveness nonsense with
you now, do we, Mr. Nolte?”

 
“No sir, you don’t
shorty.” Nolte reached down and squeezed his dick through his pants. To his
delight, it felt thicker.

R
on
sat on the edge of his bed rubbing his face; there was a time when his
circulation didn’t require coaxing. A time when losing a few hours of sleep
didn’t destroy an entire day. As far as bucket lists went, his was quite
lengthy and aging wasn’t on it.

Old age could kiss his ass, and he took offense at the very
idea of it. You’re only as old as you feel. Whoever came up with that could
kiss his ass too. Ron hated people that spoke in catchphrases and old sayings,
but that didn’t keep them from dancing around in his own head, perhaps, that’s
why he hated them. You’re only as old as you feel. Ron felt somewhere in his
late nineties or early hundreds, lack of sleep usually added five or six decades
to the old saying, when it applied to him.

Writing a best-selling, self-help book was on his bucket
list, and what better subject than anti-aging theories, or a complete history
of idiots and their catchphrases.

Though he didn’t qualify as a spring chicken anymore, he was
a far cry from being old. He ran his hand through his hair; he had his hair
going for him. It wasn’t receding, it was the same hairline he’d had in high
school, and the fact, that none of it was gray took some of the creak out of
his bones. He combed it back with his fingers, patting down some of the
more unruly
tufts. The importance of hair would have to be
stressed in his book, the self-help book, not the one about catchphrases. While
he waited for the creaks in his legs to get the news, that he still had all his
hair, he wondered what in the hell a spring chicken was, and who was the idiot
that saw fit to relate one to human aging.

This day had gone to hell in a handbasket, in a hurry. The
last thing he had wanted to wake up to was a dead Nolte; even though it came as
no surprise, he’d rather have put the matter off indefinitely, or entirely.
Several times, especially lately, he’d told himself, he would just ignore the
news when it came, and carry on as if nothing had happened. He felt he had no
horse in the race. Not my circus, not my monkeys. He had never liked the man,
much less, loved him and he was pretty sure the feelings were reciprocal. It
was no sweat off either’s nose, according to both, whether the other lived or
died.

Ron and his brother Charlie had been painted out of the
family portrait by Nolte’s second attempt at family life; an arrangement that
suited the brothers, just fine. Neither needed a constant reminder of whence
they came nor wanted to deal with the embarrassment, such an intimate
association to an asshole provided. “You’re Nolte’s kid, ain'tcha?” was always
accompanied by the facial expression: 'There’s a pubic hair in my soup.'

The old man had been banging pretty hard on death’s door for
the last month or so, something Ron’s stepsisters saw fit to remind him of as
often as possible. Their calls usually came back to back, within minutes of
each other, each update identical in every way to the last, including the level
of guilt they intended to inflict.

Guilt was the sole objective of the phone calls. The sisters
knew that he really couldn’t care less about Nolte’s condition and by providing
Ron with details of the dying man’s condition, he would be prompted to reflect
on how little he really cared, thus producing his guilt.

Their actions were quite devious, and Ron was left with no
other choice, but to applaud their ingenuity. However, the frequency, in which
they indulged in their twisted behavior, really pissed him off. They had tried
their mind game on Charlie once, but he had immediately posted their phone
numbers in the Craigslist personals, along with a brief description of their
hungry, cock-craving mouths. Charlie never received another guilt call.

The last month had seen the geezer fade fast, and provided
the girls with a fount of opportunities to dabble in their insidious phone
perversion. One of the more fervent attempts at making Ron feel like shit had
been the diaper update. Back to back phone calls, explaining in great detail,
the unexpected arrival of Nolte’s incontinence, and the enormous effort
suddenly required in sustaining the old man’s cleanliness.

It had been reiterated many times on each phone call, how
neither of them had signed on for that specific inconvenience. It had also been
hinted at, that, if conscience allowed, a monetary donation from Ron might ease
the burden, or at least make the unholy task less loathsome. Ron of course,
ignored the hints; he felt the conniving bitches were getting their just
deserts, besides; he was desperate to retaliate for the guilt calls. There was
also no doubt in his mind; Nolte was shitting himself on purpose, just so he
might get his stinger rubbed with a washcloth, and he wasn’t about to pay for
the old man’s hand-jobs.

The old man had outlasted the doctors’ predictions, and
relatively speaking, was puttering along quite nicely, not accounting for
soiled diapers, but Nolte was a creature of habit, and any deviation in his
routine spoke volumes to anyone paying attention. The recent reduction in his
alcohol intake gave Ron the heads-up.

Nolte had always said, “You’ll have to pry it from my cold
dead fingers.” Most of the time, ‘it’ meant a bottle of mescal, but sometimes
it referred to his gun or his dick. However, it was clear to anyone remotely
familiar with the old coot, the end was drawing near. If not the cancer,
sobriety would surely kill him.

The sisters, however, felt differently, perhaps feared is a
better word. They worried the old fart would live on forever. This was best
evidenced by the relief on their faces when each time the doctor updated
Nolte’s prognosis, he would leave out the R-word. Both sisters might have been
emotionally destroyed, had the doctor even hinted at remission. It would have
had the same effect, as not only telling a small child there was no Santa but
showing the kid a red-suited corpse, face down and bleeding in the snow.

Ron was pretty sure, one of the reasons the old man had
lasted as long as he did, was to inflict as much emotional suffering on the
sisters as he possibly could. Nolte was all about getting his money’s worth, he
called it his inheritance tax.

The last time they had spoken on the phone, the old man
sounded tired and frail. Ron suspected, deep down, Nolte knew the end was
coming, but by all accounts of the exchange, the irredeemable heathen seemed
unconcerned with his approaching demise. He had made it clear, he had no
intention of making his peace with God, nor did he indicate any regard,
whatsoever, for his final destination. “It is what it is.” He’d said. To hear a
lifetime of debauchery and perversion put into such a simplistic phrase, with
no acknowledgment, or acceptance of responsibility had chilled Ron to his core,
he had never known how truly soulless and hollow the old man was, until that
very moment.

It was better for all concerned, that Nolte was dead. Even
for Nolte. Maybe not for Nolte, he might be revising his views on, ‘it is what
it is.’ Ron was sure, that if Nolte had gone to Heaven, he would have been
kicked out within an hour or so, for trying to fuck cupids in the ass.

Nolte had been a first class asshole, and as far as Ron
knew, that sentiment was widely held by everyone who had come in contact with
the man, yet, there were still times, when Ron had felt sorry for him. It
wasn’t that the geezer had no friends, which drew Ron’s sympathy, he had earned
that. It wasn’t that the cretin had no family who could stomach him for more
than an hour at a time; he had earned that, also. Nolte deserved every ounce of
animosity ever directed at him; Ron had even encouraged enmity in others, as a
way to help justify his own bitterness. It wasn’t that no one liked Nolte that
bothered Ron; it was that Nolte didn’t seem to notice it. He seemed clueless to
the reality, that he was utterly alone and completely unloved.

Maybe he was wrong, maybe Nolte just didn’t want to be
loved. Had Ron been forced to walk in Nolte’s shoes, he would have killed
himself long ago, (if he hadn’t died of shame first) but if Nolte had ever
contemplated ending it all, he’d never let on, at least not to Ron. In fact, if
drunk enough, the old man would babble incessantly about eternal life. Though
Ron never came out and said it, he knew a fart in a whirlwind had a better shot
at eternity, than Nolte. At least the old man didn’t waste away in total regret
like a lot of people do. Ron couldn’t decide which would be worse, dying
unloved, or bleeding out from remorse.

Around the same time Nolte announced his cancer; an
eccentric old woman in the Big Easy, (New Orleans for those who hadn’t contemplated
attending Mardi Gras as often as Ron thought about it) had contacted Ron.
Actually, some Dewey, Cheatum and Howe type law firm had contacted him, wanting
to buy a coin from Nolte’s collection. When the lawyer told him the woman had
put a spell on the coin, which would ward off death and allow Nolte to rise up
on the third day following his passing, Ron hung up the phone.

For the next few days, the law office blew his phone up,
sometimes as many as twenty calls in a single day. Even some of Ron’s, more
insane, stalker girlfriends didn’t have as much persistence. Some girls are
blessed, Ron surmised, with a foresight that told them which men had potential,
and they would latch on to those men like starving Honey Badgers. Ron
considered himself to be dripping with potential and if one were to judge by
the number of crazies he had to hide from, Ron was truly dripping with
something.

It wasn’t until a messenger arrived at his door, with five
thousand dollars’ cash in an envelope, did Ron consider having a conversation
with the legal whack-jobs. All he had to do was, call the attorney and hear him
out and the cash was his. Cash had always been able to reduce Ron’s skepticism,
and open him up to new and exciting ideas.

The messenger exchanged a code word with the lawyer at the
beginning of the call, and confirmation that he had fulfilled his obligation at
the end, but in-between, was fifteen minutes of some of the most absurd shit
Ron had ever allowed into his ears. The cut and dried, matter-of-fact manner of
the lawyer had made it sound even more ridiculous. Ron had only heard of one
man who had come back from the dead, though he had serious doubts about the
veracity of that tale, he was damn sure, Nolte and Jesus didn’t fit in the same
category. He was also certain, had Jesus heard his name mentioned in the same
sentence as Nolte, he would climb down from the cross and slap the taste out of
the mouth of whoever had spoken the abomination.

What would make a reasonable professional, with extensive
sacrifice to higher education, say such shit? Ron had asked the man, using
those very words. Money was what. The crazy old woman was willing to pay one
and a half million dollars for the coin.

Ron was to say nothing to Nolte and contact their offices
immediately upon Nolte’s death. The lawyer had made it crystal clear that time
was of the essence once physical death occurred, and time was money, and it was
the money that had made Ron say, “Okeydokey, artichokey.”, Besides, he had seen
the coin, he knew it existed, whether or not it was magical, really didn’t
matter, at a million five.

The finer things in life had always appealed to Ron, not
just finer, but the best, the most expensive, the rarest. Over the years, he
had collected some of them, and though they had kept him a little in the red,
he considered them an investment in life. To him, to go through life without
experiencing what it truly had to offer was the unforgivable sin. Some of his
collectibles were tangible, like his Mercedes or his Rolex, but some were no
more than cherished memories. For instance, consuming a thousand-dollar bottle
of wine, a wedge of aged brie and a Miami Dolphins’ cheerleader, on a foggy
pier in the Florida Keys, to Ron, was as real as the Renoir etching he had
hanging over his couch.

Experiences, if properly committed to memory, could be
valuable possessions. They can be relived and relished, or drawn on to impress
and woo the right women, and by right women, Ron meant rich women. Too many
times he had seen other men tell lies and spin yarns to impress women of means,
only to see their façade crumble under the slightest interrogation. In Ron’s
eyes, any exaggeration, embellishment, or flat out lie would devaluate memory
to a point, where it wasn’t worth having. If you can’t be true to yourself, and
that’s what it boiled down to, why bother drawing breath.

The right woman had helped Ron buy his club. By all
accounts, she had been the perfect woman, beautiful, intelligent and very
wealthy. She had actually purchased a part of his heart that hadn’t even been
for sale. She was a shrewd negotiator.

 
It was she, who had
shown him what decadence really was, and how obscenely expensive trinkets and
tastes truly put flavor into life. She was what Ron had always dreamed of, Mrs.
Right, her only downside was she and her wealth had been attached to the wrong
husband.
 
An older fellow who didn’t
cotton to the idea of other men spending his money, or fucking his wife, and
though he thoroughly frowned upon the extramarital activity, it wasn’t the
jealousy that had terminated the relationship, so much as the husband’s
discovery of the unwitting financial aid he had been providing Ron’s business
venture.

It was the monetary cuckoldry that had really pissed the
husband off. Although by the time the gentleman had discovered his coffers had
been raided, the damage had been done. Ron had gotten a deep taste of opulence
and had become absolutely addicted.

The rise from bartender to bar owner had been long, if not
hard, and though Ron would be considered successful by many, he didn’t have the
cash cushion he felt he needed. The goodies and baubles Ron adorned himself
with, still required great financial sacrifice. He wanted the best of
everything, without it hurting so much.