Fleetwood Butchers
In a cool, dark room of steel an elderly man struggles to hang half a calf on one of the meat hooks. As he finally gets the cleaned meat hanging among the others the store phone rings. Strange, he thinks to himself, we never get calls after hours.
“Fleetwood Butchers, Graham speaking.”
The voice on the other end on the line was familiar to the elderly man.
“Hello Graham, it’s Dr Bennet. Sorry for the late call but your test results just came in. Can we schedule a time for you to come visit as soon as possible?”
He sounds slightly uneasy.
“Of course, I can close the shop at lunch tomorrow and come in then?”
“Perfect, I’ll see you at one tomorrow.”
“Just before you go,” Graham cuts him off, “can you please tell me, did they come back positive?”
There was a substantial pause on the other end.
“Yes,” Dr Bennet broke the silence, “yes they did. But we will go into depth about what we can do to manage it tomorrow when you come in. I am really sorry Graham, I have to go. I’ll see you at one.”
“Thank you for your call doctor, I’ll see you then.”
Graham takes a moment before placing the phone back on the wall, then stands unmoving.
Four towns over from the butcher’s lies an old, one two room house. The house is surrounded by large trees and mossy logs, it is located just off the highway. Inside lies broken liquor bottles, overflowing ash trays and a few empty syringes. Found on the couch is a middle-aged man, possibly in his late 40s, although he looks as though he could be 60. His messy yet thick hair is fully grey and his skin looks as though it is beginning to slip off his face, especially under the eyes. He is passed out sprawled across the couch. He is awoken by the slamming of his front door as a lady of the night leaves. Looking dazed he pushes his heavy body off the couch and towards the cooler that lies in the middle of the room, plucks a can of beer from the now water, and finds his position back on the couch with the television remote in hand.
Two hours later he hasn’t moved, and jumps at a knock at the door. He opens it to find a very large man in a cheap suit, with two messy ladies standing each side of him. Before anyone says a word, the drunk is met with a swinging fist to his overworked liver. As he crumbles to his knees, the large gentleman speaks in a very low and husky voice.
“Why do you make me do this things Joe? I don’t want to be here, I want to be down at the house watching over the other girls. You know why I'm here though don’t you?”
“I don’t know shit.” Joe replies, speaking through winded lungs.
The man grabs the shoulder of Joe’s shirt and pulls him upright, before delivering another blow to the same spot. Joe falls into a small pile at the man’s feet.
“Wrong answer Joe.”
The large man walks over Joe and into the small house, looking disgusted by the mess.
“You recognise these girls I brought with me today, Yes?”
Without looking up Joe confirms.
“Good, good. Now they are telling me they have been here with you since Friday night, that’s four days Joe. You realise its Monday, don’t you? Well they are telling me that you haven’t paid them yet, they said they had to leave early because they were scared for their own safety.”
“That’s bullshit!” Joe jumps in.
“DO NOT INTERUPT ME!” Bellows the man, before returning to his usual confident composure. “Now they say they left without pay. They even looked everywhere in here for their money and couldn’t find anything. Do you have their money Joe?”
On his hands and knees now, Joe doesn’t reply.
“Joseph?”
“I can get it.” He replies, sounding like a shell of a man.
“That’s good to hear, I’ll collect it Friday.”
The man gets down onto one knee, right a Joe’s eyelevel.
“Don’t disappoint me again, this is the very last time I go easy on you.”
With direct eye contact he pulls back the opening of his suit jacket, flashing a shiny silver Nine Millimetre and his dominance. He pats Joe on the back as he leaves, possibly a bit too hard.
“Oh, and clean this fucking shit up, you’re filthy.”
In the city at a shooting range where soldiers get 15% off is a young man wearing his army colours proudly. He does however have a slightly messy appearance, with his buzz cut somewhat uneven and a reasonably thick facial scruff, and large dark bags under his eyes that come with sleepless nights. He has four magazines lined up on hit counter, all evenly spaced and standing upright. At the end of the range hangs a standard round target. Without much thought or excitement, he swiftly slides the first magazine into his gun and empties it swiftly, with a metallic click the magazine falls onto the counter and before you could even see what has happened a fresh one is in the gun, and empty already. This happens twice more and before any time passed the young man has put 60 bullets straight through the centre of the target. A large gentleman with a NYPD badge on his belt looks over into the booth to have a better look at the young man’s target.
“Great shooting Woody! I wish we could have you on the force… but, you know.” The man’s voice awkwardly trails off.
He replies without making eye contact.
“Yeah I know.”
He wheels his wheelchair out of the booth and starts to head towards the door, both of his front legs are missing from the knee down.
As he rolls into the foyer of his tiny apartment building, a short, poorly groomed man comes out of the back office.
“Woody, hold up a sec would ya?” he calls out.
Without turning woody stops his chair and the little man walks around to face him. He is holding a large army duffle bag.
“I’m real sorry to do this too ya bud, but your checks have stopped comin’ from the gov’ment. I cann’t let ya stay ‘ere any longer. Me and the fellas have packed away ya stuff, ‘ere ya are. Ya got somewhere to go?”
Woody doesn’t know what to feel, he thinks he should’ve seen it coming. Most things go to shit anyways.
“Can I use your phone?” he finally replies.
“Course man, anything ya need. I’ll go outside and hail ya a cab.”
As the little man walks back inside after getting a taxi, he can just hear Woody finish up on the phone.
“Thanks grandad, I’ll see you soon.” Woody says before hanging up the landline.
He makes his way back into the foyer.
“Gonna go stay with ya grandpa? That’ll be nice. Listen I’ve got ya a cab waitin’ outside, gave him a twenny to take ay wherever ya needa go. Take care of ya self a’right?”
“Thanks Johnny.” Woody says as he makes his way out onto the street. “I appreciate it.”
On the porch of a quaint country home stands Graham. The house appears that it could be a painting, extremely beautiful and picturesque, surrounded by luscious green grass and trees, with a white gravel driveway. As he is waiting, a yellow cab pulls up on the side of the street. Out steps the driver and makes his way to the trunk, pops it open and pulls out a green army duffle bag and a wheelchair. He walks the char around to the backseat as the door swings open, Woody lifts himself from the taxi into the chair. Graham walks over and takes the bag from the driver while passing him a $20.
“Thank you, sir, keep the change.” He says as he makes his way over to his grandson. “Woody, it’s good to see you. It’s been a long time.”
“I’m sorry I didn’t see you when I came back Grandad. Just with the hospitals and therapy and rehab.”
“Not a worry, please. I just wish you told me where you were, I would’ve come visit.”
“I know. And I’m so sorry to hear about Ma. I wish I was in the country, I would’ve come to the funeral.”
“I know you would’ve. She always said you were so brave and strong. And she was right, look at you know.”
“Oh, I don’t know about that.” Woody quietly mutters.
“Here, let’s go inside. You remember where the spare room is? Lead the way.” Graham says as he follows Woody towards the door.
As they make their way inside Graham hears a car pull into gravel driveway. Turning around he sees a light blue, very old, run down pickup truck. Out from the driver’s seat steps Joe.
“Heya Dad.”
“Joseph, I wasn’t expecting so see you.” Graham replies, slightly taken aback. “What are you doing here?”
“Well, I was recently let go from the factory, and I haven’t seen you in years. So, I was thinking I could come help out at the Butchers, just like old times.”
“I would love that, it’s great to see you again. This could help clean up your act as well. I just really wish you called ahead first.”
Woody just starts to come out the front door, “Hey grandad, what are you doin…” He stops breathing mid realisation. “What the FUCK are you doing here?!” He quickly begins to make his way towards his father.
“Jr? I had no idea you were here.” Joe says, shocked.
“Of course you didn’t, you didn’t even come see me when I got back, check if I was alive!”
“Would you have let me if I did?” Joe’s voice is beginning to raise to match his sons.
“You’re dam fucking right I wouldn’t have, you weren’t there for me as a kid, why would you be now?”
“Don’t you dare talk about what kind of father I was, you had no idea what I was going through!”
“You were going through are bottle and hooker in America, that’s what!”
Woody’s front wheel gets caught in the gravel and the chair throws him to the ground. Joe comes over to help him back up.
“Don’t you fucking touch me!” Woody snaps.
“Oh so you’re too fucking proud to get help from your own father now, is that it?”
“Would you both shut the fuck up!”
It’s the first time either of them had heard Graham cuss in their lives. They both completely freeze.
“I am so glad your grandmother isn’t here to see this. It’s so pathetic.”
Mid-sentence Graham starts violently coughing, blood from his lungs begin to splatter the white gravel. They both stare at the elderly man as woody pulls himself back into the chair.
“I don’t have too much longer here anyway. I need you both to stay here and help me run the Butchers, no arguments.”