He was six foot two, and 300 pounds. Black hair, blue eyed, good
looking for an overweight, middle-aged man.
I met the corpse at a bar in Hialeah, Florida. He had been drinking since three in the afternoon with acquaintances and bar fly hookers. The ones around him
didn’t
know his name but only laughed at his jokes for another drink or a dollar they can bum. I know because I was one of those hanging on every smile and giggle. I laughed when he laughed. Smiled when he did. Became serious when he dropped his
head in thought. I was the mooch at the end of the bar.
I found out his name later when I rummaged through the pockets of the lump of lard. Henry Bickard. Age 35. His license
wasn’t renewed. But he drove a Mercedes. One of the main reasons why I killed him. Material stuff doesn’t really matter to me; it’s just that pieces of shit don’t deserve comfort when they are trying to off themselves.
And Henry was one of those pieces of shit that wanted to die. Drinking like a fish and gorging his mouth with croquettes and other fried delicacies he sought out in the roach bar. Plus, he visited the bathroom more than frequently, whispering to one of the crater-face, haggard whores sitting next to him to come with him to the toilet. He was looking for anything that might kill him. It wasn’t plain to him though. He did beg for his life, but he was unaware of his own demise; he wouldn’t have left the grin on his face when I did smack his head down with the rock. A happy life wouldn’t left joy as his farewell grimace.
Henry was pissed drunk when it 8pm came around. He wanted somebody to drive him. He knew enough not to trust the hookers; they’d only leave him in the parking lot with his boxers and a smudged kiss. I’d been talking to him on and off, not really confiding with him as the other mooches did but for some reason he liked me. He trusted me enough because he didn’t know me as well as the ones spilling their guts. He liked that about me, but for only for one reason—the unknown can have many possibilities and he was bargaining for the right one: death.
He tossed me the keys and asked me to take him home. I said, “let’s go”. Sweaty and smelling like rubber, Henry hugged me and told me how much he appreciated what I was doing for him. He called me his son and told me to call him Papi.
I did as he said. Called him Papi. I don’t think he was homosexual but from me knowing the type of guy he was he could’ve been just a person looking for any shit and giggles to get into. I wasn’t up for that so I let it pass.
We got into the car and asked him where his house was. He told me in his slurred voice and I started for that direction. He wasn’t cognate of what he was saying to me. I only agreed with him to appease him and not start an argument.
But things changed when it seemed he got his second wind. He was no longer talking but looking at me. Staring at me with his blue eyes. I asked him what he was looking at and he didn’t respond. He just stared. Wiping his mouth.
And in an instant the fat man was on me, pulling my leg towards him, grabbing my balls and dick. Grabbing onto my neck and pulling my head towards him. I was first taken by surprise when he grabbed me. The car swerved and pushed the gas down. The ride got jerky then my head got clear. And in that instant I knew what had happened, I elbowed the fat man’s nose twice. It broke and began to bleed. I stopped the car and got out. Ran to the other side of the car, opened the door and began punching him. It didn’t affect him. I looked around the ground for an object and found a laaarge rock. He was trying to stop the blood gushing from his nose and at the same time trying to close the door. But he wasn’t able to. I yanked the door from his hands and swung the rock down on his skull. Henry’s head dropped forward and his stomach stopped rising up and down. He was dead.
I didn’t know what to do first. The man was huge. Bleeding everywhere. Frantically, I pulled the fat man out, rummaged his pockets, siphoned gas from the car with a hose he had on the back seat, poured it on him and burned the fat lard. I only hoped it covered my tracks. I sunk his Mercedes in a lake. Emptied his account and robbed his house. I wore gloves and masks. I am sure they won’t find me. He had money. There was no way a low-life like me can be connected with him. The man was not even known in the bar. And if they did know him, why would they say anything…the guy was a piece of shit to begin with.