Lem and the Oil Drum

Smoke landed on Lem's tongue. He was close. This is where homeless and travelers converged, with makeshift cookfires, camps struck from tents and plastic tarps and cardboard and grocery carts. He saw the flames from a glowing pit. It was cold tonight. They were burning anything they could find.

Shadows milled in the light. Lem entered the clearing, made sure they saw him, and stood quietly.

Most of them turned their backs. A couple shuffled toward him.

The first was Jaye. He was a prostitute sometimes. Another was Maisie. She had a son uptown, in some law office. She hadn't heard from him in years. The third was Cowboy, on account of his hat, his beard and the crags in his skin.

Lem produced his baggie. A few joints. A few rocks. Some painkillers he'd lifted. Cash. A fifth of vodka. Not much, but times were hard, and they didn't complain as he divvied it up.

He knew their tastes, like fingerprints in the air that he caught on his tongue like snowflakes. But there was something else. A new scent, and the way they were avoiding his eyes. If Lem had any brains, he'd drop the baggie and head for the trees. If he had any brains, he'd jump on the first freight train out of this dump and let the hunters and the Buttercups devour each other.

Lem handed the vodka to Cowboy, crumpled up the empty baggie, and waved them away. Jaye and Cowboy scuttled to the shadows like crabs. Maisie took the time to whisper, "Honey, I'm sorry," before turning away.

There were at least three. One stood up behind the oil drum. Lem tasted the oil from his shotgun. There were a couple more behind the trees. Sweating.  They were all scared of him. Cherries, told to watch the hobos for him or someone like him.

Oil Drum produced his shotgun, racked a shell and pointed it Lem's way. The squatters melted into the shadows; they wanted no part of it. Soon it was Lem and Oil Drum and his bros in the trees, and the crackling fire.

'I'll make it quick, deadman," Oil Drum said, leveling the shotgun, "Just tell me which one of you motherfuckers burned up T-Monkey. Then your war's over."

Lem licked his lips, just enough tongue to get this guy's scent. Bourbon. Dope. His accent was Midwestern, not a local. Not one of T-Monkey's pals. He was drunk, high, and put up to this shit duty by someone else.

So Lem raised his hands like he was giving up. Then, he pushed. He focused on the man's scent, rode it to his mind and grabbed hold. It was the same trick he did to get dealers to hand him bags for free, to get club kids to stand still in a back alley, to get cab drivers to take him where he needed to go without tripping the meter.

I'M NOT HERE. Lem put that thought into the wind, so it would enter the man's mind. I'M NOT HERE. THIS IS A TRICK. I'M IN THE OIL DRUM. RIGHT THERE, WATCHING YOU.

The man stumbled, and stopped. Suddenly, he swung the shotgun toward the oil drum. "The FUCK," he shouted, "How the FUCK you get over....FREEZE, motherfucker!"

Lem dropped back, slowly, one foot at a time into the trees. He licked his lips. He could taste the uncertainty. This guy's friends had no idea what he was doing, and it scared them. That didn't matter to Lem, all he cared about was that they were no longer watching him.

"FUCK YOU ASSHOLE!" Oil Drum sent three slugs into the oildrum, the report echoed from the trees and the buildings beyond. "GET OUT OF MY HEAD! FUCK YOU! FUCK YOU!"

He pumped that shotgun and pulled the trigger until the oil drum was full of holes and the gun was empty. He threw the shotty away, pulled a pistol from his belt and emptied that into the can, too. All the while, Lem sent thoughts into the wind. "I'm over here, you fucking loser. Wow, that was close. Try again. You sure you know how to use that thing?" And so on.

All the while, Lem tasted the air with his tongue. The ones in the trees were getting nervous. One took off, leaving a trail of fear behind him like a dust cloud. The other muttered something and walked out into the campsite.

Lem smiled. He sent the thought into the wind, "HERE I AM YOU FAGGOT."

On cue, Oil Drum turned toward his buddy, who started to protest, but Lem filled Oil Drum's mind with other things. "I'M RIGHT HERE, BITCH. TAKE ME OUT, GET SOME RESPECT, GET YOU SOME HEAD BACK AT THE QUORUM."

Lem even made him seem like he had fangs.

The rest took care of itself. Oil Drum pulled a combat knife and scrambled toward his confused buddy. He slashed, they grappled, blood was drawn. Lem squeezed his eyes shut and bit his tongue, kept his mind on Oil Drum, feeding the fear.

Soon, Oil Drum rolled away, his blade red. His buddy wasn't moving. Lem let him wake up. He dropped his knife, bent over his dead friend, calling to him, calling out things that made Lem's heart ache. Lem forced himself to shut it out. He was at war.

He didn't need to push out to the man's mind again. He was cradling his dead friend in his arms now, calling out his name. Lem didn't let himself remember it.

Lem walked toward the knife, picked it up. A heartbeat later, the only sound in the clearing came from the flames in the oil drum.

He found a plastic cup the squatters had left behind. He filled it, drank it off, tossed it in the fire. He made sure he was gone before the cops arrived.