To Mayweather

Mayweather rushed through the darkness from under the old wing back chair. The old floral wing back chair was his safe haven when Jeremy was not at home. On it or under it, it was Mayweather’s chair. Now, Mayweather was not a big dog, just barely a medium dog…thirty-five pounds or so. He had been Jeremy’s dog since being picked from a line-up of condemned dogs, dogs who had run out of time at the city pound. He was brindled and the folks at the pound guessed he was part Airedale and part Scottish Terrier based on the shape of his head, his coarse fir and his tail…but who really knew? He was named after Floyd Mayweather, a great heavyweight boxer. Jeremy had told him many times while giving him belly rubs, “You’re a mutt of very high character and I think you’re the best damn dog in the world.” Jeremy loved Mayweather deeply and Mayweather loved Jeremy as much. He was very protective of their home... and children...anyone’s children. Jeremy had no children and had not figured out why Mayweather was so reactionary and protective; but had watched Mayweather intimidate a much larger dog who was "threatening" and snarling at some children on the sidewalk across the street. It was a stray and the children’s mother had called animal control, but was afraid to intercede. Meantime, the snarling dog was holding the children at bay, huddled together by a bush. Two were very afraid and crying. Mayweather rushed over and placed himself between the children and the threatening stray. He growled and bared his teeth, moving slowly toward the intruder. Suddenly, the larger dog bolted and ran away. The kids’ mother was so happy that she baked Mayweather a chicken and thanked Jeremy profusely for having such a good dog….and those kids would love on Mayweather at every opportunity...and he loved them….the chicken and the love.

This night, however, someone was breaking into the back door of their two bedroom frame house...and it wasn’t Jeremy. Jeremy unlocked the doors with a key. Mayweather knew that sound. Jeremy wouldn’t break the glass. Mayweather smelled foul play, something only a dog can smell. Without hesitation, Mayweather’s nails were clicking on the hardwood floor; and the intruder could hear, but barely see, his assailant in the darkness. “Ow! Ow! You little bastard! Ow! Get offa me! Ow!” Mayweather had bitten the intruder on one ankle, then the other; but, just as sudden as his attack, Mayweather was still.

Jeremy had received a call about his truck from a potential buyer. Jeremy had decided that he no longer needed the old truck, that his Honda CR-V would do. It was roomy, quieter, more comfortable and it got better mileage. It would carry most anything he needed to carry. He wouldn’t have to continue paying for insurance for the truck either. When the guy came over to assess the truck, he introduced himself as Steve. Steve was duly impressed with the low mileage, one-owner ‘79 Toyota pickup. It was a basic truck, but dent-free; and the silver paint still shined; and the interior was exceptionally clean. Jeremy had upgraded the radio, installed a bug guard and had the rear and side windows professionally tinted. The Michelin tires were almost new. Over the years, he had made some improvements in the truck, had upgraded the suspension components and the brakes. Only a few small telltale dents and scrapes in the bed took away from its appearance. Jeremy took care of his vehicles. The buyer was very happy that it had factory air conditioning that still worked. He hadn’t argued at all over the price of $3700, but said he couldn’t bring all the cash until 5:30 or 6:00 that evening. He had left $200 in cash as a good faith deposit. Oddly enough, one of the two $100 bills had the word “tattoo” scribbled on it with what appeared to be green Magic Marker.

Steve apologized for being late when he returned at 6:15. He said he couldn't find a ride, so he had walked there. It took a little longer than he thought. Jeremy told him he would have come to get him if Steve had called. Oh, well. It had worked out. Steve had thirty-five $100 bills in an oversized pink envelope from a valentine or some other type of greeting card. Jeremy counted the bills while Steve was doing some last minute checking. Jeremy added the other two $100 bills to the contents of the envelope. He invited Steve in for a glass of tea while he retrieved the truck’s maintenance log book from his desk drawer and put the pink envelope in its place. "I'll deposoit this cash this evening" he said to Steve, who had graciously refused the tea, saying he needed to go, that he had a date. He and Jeremy were both happy with the transaction. Steve waved as he drove away with the truck and the signed title at 6:30.

Jeremy decided to clean up a little before depositing the money in the bank. After his shower, while he stared into the mirror, he decided it was time for a change. He shaved off his full beard and shaved his head. It would be all part of his new Spring/Summer look. Glasses were the new “thing”; so, he stored his contacts in the medicine chest and put on his pair of wire rim Stetsons with the lightly tinted lenses. The prescription was not quite strong enough any more, but would do until he could get new lenses. He put on some clean clothes and thought he might go to the Infinity Club for a couple of beers after he deposited the cash in the bank. He had noticed that despite his efforts to be careful about all the shaving, the sink drain had gotten slow...clogging with whiskers and hair, he supposed.

He stopped and bought some unbranded Chinese drain cleaner at the Food ‘n’ Fuel on his way to the bank. He was a regular customer there and the drain cleaner had been personally recommended by the store manager. Jeremy had been very pleased with the product on two previous occasions. It was just a couple of ounces of some clear chemical, but it worked fast…very fast. Nothing could stop it. It could eat through any clog. There was no English on the small container, only Chinese; but there were a couple of tiny pictures about its use, including a skull and crossbones, a poison warning. Whatever….it was very strong stuff… and cheap. When Harsa, Harry for short, rang it up he asked Jeremy if he needed a bag. Jeremy declined and put the little plastic jar in his pocket and, as he left the store, told Harry to have a good weekend.

As he entered one of the lanes at the bank, Jeremy realized that he had gotten so caught up in his new image that he had forgotten the envelope with the cash. He was a little frustrated and hated having so much cash around the house. Oh, well…he’d deposit the cash in the morning. He thought it strange that he had forgotten the envelope.

Jeremy decided to go back home to treat the clogged sink before going out. His experience said the drain cleaner would not take much time. He would go out for a couple of beers a bit later. He stopped at Momma Lucci’s on the way home and bought a small, thin crust combo pizza. He hadn’t eaten anything since his early lunch and he certainly didn’t want to drink on an empty stomach. Besides, Mayweather loved pizza, any pizza. He’d smell it before Jeremy even got it in the house.

When Jeremy arrived at his house, there was a policeman standing beside his police car. As Jeremy pulled into the drive, the policeman came over and told him to wait outside, that an intruder had been seen leaving the house by a neighbor, who had called the police. Jeremy did as told, waiting outside for six or seven minutes before a policeman finally came out and told him he could come in. “Mayweather!? Where’s Mayweather!?” “Wait!” the policeman urgently offered. “Don’t go in the kitchen.” Jeremy ran in the front door and straight to the kitchen. Mayweather lay dead on the floor. He had not just been killed. He had been mutilated. It appeared that he had been tortured before being allowed to die. Jeremy, shaking violently and wanting to cry, looked at the policeman and asked, “What kind of a sick bastard does this?” The policeman was at a loss for words and, shaking his head, looked down at Mayweather’s body. Then, the policeman pointed out that the intruder had come in the back door after breaking the glass. He asked Jeremy to look around the house and figure out what was missing. Jeremy looked and looked, but nothing appeared to be disturbed or messed up. Only the desk drawer was wide open. The pink envelope full of cash was gone. He told the officer about selling his truck and having the $3700 in his drawer. After fifteen or twenty minutes, Jeremy determined nothing else of value was missing. Both thought it strange that nothing else was disturbed or missing, not even his 9mm pistol or his computer. They guessed the thief was so happy about finding the cash, they didn't want to press their luck and left. Apparently, no one had actually ransacked the house for valuables.

After the police got all the pertinent information and left, Jeremy was beside himself with grief. Why did they have to torture Mayweather? Why not just kill him and be done with it? He cleaned up the mess left after the police had removed Mayweather’s body. There was blood all over the floor. He found one of Mayweather’s ears beside the trash can. Jeremy broke down and sobbed like a baby. As he cried, he became angry…very angry…enraged. He had not felt this way since his best friend had been killed in a firefight near Phan Rang in South Vietnam. When that happened, Jeremy became a different kind of soldier, more aggressive, more efficient. Some even said he became "cold" and "evil". He had reaped his revenge that day, attacking with reckless abandon. Now, though, he would simply go to the Infinity Club and have a drink, probably several. Hell, he'd get drunk. To Hell with the drain. He'd take care of that tomorrow. When he climbed into his CR-V, he saw the cold pizza on the passenger seat. Mayweather would have loved that pizza. Jeremy sat alone in the darkness and cried.

When Jeremy finslly arrived at the Infinity Club, it was tough to find a parking place. The joint was hoppin’. He went in and saw one vacant stool at the bar. With his new look, even the bartender, Marcus, did not recognize him. Just as he sat down, he heard words that sliced through the din of the loud music and boisterous conversations, words that chilled him to the marrow. He felt a tremor all the way to his core when he heard the guy next to him tell one of his buddies, “I had to kill his damn dog. The little bastard bit me on both ankles. It hurt like Hell. After I knocked his ass out, I blinded the little bastard; then I cut off his friggin’ ears and slit his throat. I showed that little son of a bitch….and I got the money.” He laughed out loud.

Jeremy slowly turned to see who had spoken the words. There he stood with a couple of friends…Steve, the guy who had purchased his old truck earlier that day. He turned and looked right at Jeremy and smiled, but didn’t recognize Jeremy without his beard and hair. Just then, the culprit ordered another round of double shots for himself and his two buddies. When the drinks arrived, he loudly asserted, “Drinks are on me tonight!” He was waving some money in the air. It was a $100 bill with the word “tattoo” scribbled on it in green ink.

The three of them were "pounding" vodka shots. Jeremy moved closer to Steve, shoulder to shoulder. Steve was on his way to a fine drunk and the place was too busy to be concerned with standing room. Jeremy’s mind was racing. The big pink envelope. Only the money missing. It had suddenly all come together. “And now" Jeremy thought, "he's bragging about killing my dog. Son of a bitch. He didn’t have to mutilate him.” Jeremy started to seethe, seethe like he did in Phan Rang. He was about to become Mr. Hyde. The bartender brought Steve’s crew three more shots. They were doubles. He placed one in front of each of them and took the $100 bill from Steve. Steve yelled, “Keep’em comin’!”

Jeremy could not get the sight of Mayweather’s mutilated body out of his mind. Now, he didn’t care about the money. All he could think of was Mayweather ….and revenge. What could he do to really make this guy suffer? Just then, a fight erupted at the end of the bar; and, while Steve and his two buddies and the bartender turned their attentions to the disagreement, Jeremy made a crucial decision. The drain cleaner. He withdrew the drain cleaner from his pocket. Quickly, decisively, Jeremy reached over and, using a napkin, grabbed Steve’s double vodka. He drank it in one gulp. He discreetly opened the little plastic jar in the privacy of his lap and poured its contents into Steve’s now empty glass, Then, he carefully, nonchalantly, slid the glass back in front of Steve. He discreetly put the lid back on the empty jar and put the jar back in his pocket.

It was quite a tussle at the end of the bar, but Jeremy would never know the outcome. He rose from his seat next to Steve and was quietly exiting the club. No hurry. He took a last look back just as Steve raised the glass to his lips to throw back the double shot of drain cleaner.

Jeremy looked on as Steve threw back the shot. "To Mayweather," whispered Jeremy as he faintly smiled. No, he felt no remorse. Surely, God would understand.

Comments