Johnny and Cindy were on watch this time. It had been nearly a whole month since they pulled a job and anticipation had set in for the trio. Ralph flipped through the pages of the latest Maxim, paying little attention to the articles, but, rather on the oil-smeared, anorexic girls in bikinis. It was all a ploy as he waited to get the “coast is clear” signal from Johnny and Cindy, who kept their eyes on the new clerk sitting behind the hard wood counter while pretending to be fumbling through some cans of beans in aisle two. The clerk wore a nametag that read, “Jim” and bore the same name as the previous clerk. Ralph wondered what became of old the Jim, who the kids in town called “Hops,” a wrinkly old man with two inch thick bifocals that had a limp when he walked; the result of having one leg shorter than the other. The kids had a grand ol’ time making “Hops” the butt of all jokes, especially when he’d hop after them after having stolen a candy bar or a deck of baseball cards, hence, the nickname, “Hops”. A sad old man indeed, crippled during the Second World War and widowed with the passing of his wife after a losing battle with cancer a few years ago; a man whose eyes had lived to tell a thousand tales. Old Jim, “Hops,” had not been given the respect deserved in the small town of Rural and now he no longer sat behind the old wooden counter at The Old Shoppe.

There was a stern look in the new clerk’s eyes; he was playing the role of security camera, shifting his eyes among the three culprits and recording their every move. His neatly trimmed beard and mustache disguised his face with ambiguity so much that one might even mistake him for Ol’ Saint Nick, if you believed in that kind of stuff. A good portion of his belly lay atop of the counter that provided surplus pressure to the already crumpling wood that more or less aged the way the old Jim, not this imposter, had. He watched and scrutinized every movement; there would be no room for error today.

The Old Shoppe was a place of business, or lack thereof, which situated itself just outside of Clinton Road, which stretched off into the barren distance. Clinton Road didn’t really lead to anywhere, except for some dead land with run-down houses and abandoned vehicles that the kids labeled as the Devil’s Spine; adults liked to call the property a junkyard. Ralph lived just a few miles south of Clinton Road and The Old Shoppe, both miles apart from the nearest house. He lived on a big, old farm that any “Queer Eye for the Straight House” aficionado would shout makeover! There, he resided with his mom, Jeannie and his step dad, Sam, who took the responsibilities as man of the house when Ralph’s old man skipped town. Ralph never knew his real father and his mother never spoke a word of him as if he were a subject of taboo, especially around Sam. But, Ralph had heard stories about him; stories about how he was a crook, a loner who swindled his way into getting money from married women, one of these women being Jeannie. Ralph could sometimes sense resentment from Sam, often considering whether his stepfather saw the eyes of his wife’s former lover in his bastard son’s eyes. Ralph had been sure that it had been the motivation for the occasional beatings that would oftentimes leave him soiled in the groin area with warm, nauseating piss trickling down his legs. It was a pathetic sight and Ralph often wished that Sam was drunk when he was getting beat because then it gave him an excuse, an explanation for why his stepfather, whom he’d grown to love, hated him so much. Ralph grew immune to the beatings and found refuge in the backwoods of Clinton Road, despite the horror stories of devil worship and ghostly occurrences that surrounded the road.

It was here, in these backwoods, where Ralph would entertain himself on one of his imaginary quests for lost treasure or an adventure in search of the kidnapped princess of the imagined Wakuku Tribe. Indeed, it was a refuge, and escape, for Ralph although he never did find the princess. Instead, what he did find on one, hot July afternoon was another boy his age who wore a baseball cap with the letter “J” stitched into its fabric. Ralph sat poised on a rock, only hunching over every so often to pick up a flat stone to skip over the previously undisturbed surface of Black Pond, when he heard the shrill shrieks of an animal of unknown origin; the only thing he was certain off was that it was an animal. He followed the noise, trying to make as little noise as possible himself, when he saw a boy standing a few yards away from him. The boy inhaled and exhaled with deep gasps as if he were out of air; his clothes had been covered with blood.

“Chased the little fucker and got him. I finally got him!”

Ralph looked down to the ground by the boy’s feet where a squirrel lay with its belly cut open with a jagged edge of a hunting knife. Its eyes were wide; shock had probably killed the poor thing before that crazy son-of-a-bitch had finished his botched medical procedure. It was an awkward moment for Ralph. He didn’t know whether to run or to… well that was pretty much the only option he had in mind. But he remained composed, not wanting to show the other boy that he was afraid.

“My name’s Johnny,” said the boy covered in blood.

“Ralph.”

And a wonderful friendship ensued.

*   *   *   *   *

Ralph had always wondered why old Jim never bothered calling the cops or why he hadn’t packed some heat after about the third time they had robbed him. Johnny would point his old man’s six shooter dead between Jim’s eyes, cock the hammer and utter something to the effect of, “Hand over the cash or your brains are going to be all over that back wall!” Ralph thought it was kind of funny, but it provided for the desired effect. Jim never showed any fear. As if expecting the hold-up, as it did become routine, Jim would only sigh and lift his arms into the air. It could have been that Jim no longer cared or perhaps no longer had the energy to try to curse us out of the shop. After the loss of his wife, the once energetic old man became limp and no longer had any life to burn and the fact that he stared dead into the barrel of a .357 Magnum and had little or no effect on him proved beyond any reasonable doubt that old Jim wanted to meet his maker and be once again reunited with his darling old wife; he never provoked Johnny to pull the trigger, however. Ralph often wondered if the gun was ever loaded and if Johnny would have the mental capacity of pulling the trigger if the situation ever arose. It was hard to tell because Johnny was what Ralph liked to call, unpredictable. Johnny was rebellious; a troubled teen who was born to wreak havoc and defy authority. He would boast about how he would beat his own father whenever the old man tried to tell him what to do, or rather, whenever he tried to be a father. Yeah, Johnny was headed down that path that would no doubt lead to prison time, or worse, death. But he was a good friend to Ralph and an even better boyfriend to Cindy.

She was a beautiful girl. Her dark hair hung loose behind her back and down to her waist, which complimented her seemingly smooth and creamy skin. Ralph had often daydreamed about licking her flesh like vanilla ice cream on a hot summer day, licking her face all the way down to that sensitive area of her body just bellow her navel; it was pure fantasy that often awoke Ralph with an erection. He approached her one day, hoping to make his fantasies a reality. By this time he was already in love with her and he hoped that the feeling was mutual. He wore his best outfit, which was a pair of ripped jeans and a dirty brown tank top, that had once been white, and a pair of old penniless loafers. Ralph set off into the woods to pick some flowers which resulted in one of the most unique bouquets one had set eyes on in Rural that consisted of dandelions, sunflowers, leaves and grass; certainly a sight for sore eyes. Still, it was better than nothing, he thought, and Cindy would certainly appreciate the effort.

He walked the three miles to her house on Winthorpe Drive, just a few clicks east of Clinton Road and knocked with enthusiasm at her front door.

There was no answer.

He stood and knocked for what seemed like minutes even hours, when in fact it was only a few seconds. Ralph made his way around the house towards the patio where the hazy interior of the house was exposed through the opened backdoor; the inside of the house was quiet.

“H-- Hello,” he shouted, sticking his head just inside the door.

Again, there was no answer.

He stepped into the house and cringed as the floorboard creaked under the weight of his feet. The eerie silence of the house amplified the sound of the deteriorating wood, a sort of a poor man’s house alarm. More so than anything, he was afraid that Cindy’s old man would be home and shoot him dead where he stood. Cindy had previously warned the boys about her father. He was an alcoholic and had shot at a few boys she claimed to be “friends”. Ralph didn’t know much about her, but knew enough to be confident in saying that she’s no angel. He can tell by the way her eyes widened and her ears darted when any mention of sex was brought up, usually by Johnny.

Cindy’s father did not step out and blow a hole the size of Rhode Island through Ralph’s chest, as he had feared. There was still the silence, except for the noise he heard coming from the upstairs. It was a constant noise with no rhythm to it, just a light bang…bang…bang… Ralph began to sweat; he wasn’t sure if it was because fear just kicked into high gear or if it was because the sun blazed at nearly one hundred degrees in the afternoon sky. Maybe her father was home after all, up in the roof fixing a loose panel or maybe he was beating her, killing her; the mere thought of an oversized fist pounding into Cindy’s flesh drove Ralph insane. He tried to formulate his next move in his mind all the while being aware that each second he wasted could mean life or death for Cindy. He had to do something and it needed to be quick before it was too late. Memories of that unforgettable night at the creek flushed his memory as he stood staring down the lengthy hallway that lead to the upstairs part of the house. Cindy had called him and Johnny to meet her there, by the creek. She had been crying over the phone and Ralph could hear the desperation in her voice.

“He’s trying to kill me,” she had shouted over the phone.

They met at the creek just after midnight and even though it was dark, Ralph could tell that her face bore different shades of light and dark. Her face was no longer smooth and creamy, but rather battered and distorted. There was a controlled anger that possessed Ralph that night. He wanted nothing more than to go to her house and kill the old man while he slept on his beat up recliner still holding the empty bottle of whiskey that he had, without a doubt, used to pummel Cindy. Ralph tried his best to console Cindy that night, but she found more comfort with Johnny. His anger raged and burned inside as he now became what most teens and adults dread… the third wheel. “Friends, they’re just friends”, he said to himself knowing that it was only false rationalization. Poor Ralph wanted so dearly to tell her how he felt, to tell her that he loved her, but now was not the right time. That time would come.

Bang…bang…bang…

Ralph stood at the foot of the stairwell; he held the bouquet that he had gathered for Cindy with a firm grip as if they seemed fit to use as a weapon. He tilted his head so that his ears faced the stairwell and listened to the banging noise that was coming from the upstairs.

Bang… bang…bang…

Ralph started up the stairs. There was something else going on upstairs and the closer he got, the better he was able to follow the origin of the noise. He contemplated on whether or not he should have just turned around and gotten the hell out of there, but his curiosity got the better of him- it always did. He whispered a soft prayer, hoping that what he feared the most would not be revealed to him. When he reached the top floor, he looked down the small corridor to the closed door from where the noise was coming from at the far end of the hallway.

Bang…bang…bang…

This time, louder, and was accompanied by other sounds; the unmistakable sounds of a man and a woman. The other noises weren’t words, but whimpers and moans. My God, the old man was killing her! Ralph had concluded. He dropped the bouquet to the ground and dashed for the door. He didn’t know what he was going to do. For all he knew, he was going to end up dead just like Cindy and her old man would bury them somewhere beneath the foundation where their bodies would never be discovered. He looked around the corridor for something to grab, something to use as a weapon but there was nothing. There was no choice but to face him man-to-man where there was no doubt in Ralph’s mind that the old man would pound on him so bad that he would be unrecognizable at his own funeral. Still, he might be able to hold some ground. His dad…Sam… his dad had shown him how to throw a punch or two. “Hit him where it counts”, the farmer had once said pointing to the area where his balls sagged. That was sure to bring the old man to his knees where Ralph could pound on him until there was nothing left but a limp, lifeless corpse lying atop the wet surface of his own blood.

Ralph’s heart pounded hard against his chest. I’m coming Cindy, I’m coming. He had to save the princess of the Wakuku tribe. She was just beyond that door at the far end of the corridor, probably dead by now.

Bang…bang…bang…

Ralph pushed through the door. He stood there, mortified, his face filled with horror. Oh God, no! He thought. It was far worse than he had anticipated. Nothing could have prepared him for what he saw before him. There was Cindy spread-eagled, Johnny in between her legs. Bang…bang…bang came the noise from the headboard beating against the wall. Ralph had just made it in time to witness Johnny climax into the dark pit of her navel. They did not notice Ralph standing in the doorway, too caught up in the moment of passion, or rather lust.

“Hit him where it counts!”

But Ralph turned around and quietly closed the door behind him. He walked down the corridor, which now seemed like that long last mile to death row. The bouquet lay where Ralph had dropped them; they crumpled under his loafers as he stepped on them. They were nothing but flowers for the dead now, because that’s what they were to him… dead.

*     *     *     *     *

Jim’s eyes beamed across The Old Shoppe and watched the kids with caution or maybe even intent.

“You kids need help with anything,” he shouted.

Ralph looked up from the Maxim and shook his head. Johnny and Cindy ignored the question and locked lips like newly weds eager to get back to their room and hump like jack-rabbits. Ralph could feel Jim’s gaze burning through the magazine and into his very soul; it was all getting suspicious and they were spending more time doing nothing in The Old Shoppe than was necessary. They needed to make their move, but first they had to set up Jim.

The setup was simple; Ralph would ask Jim for something on the wall behind the counter and when he’d turn around, Johnny would already have the barrel of the gun pointed at Jim’s face whence Johnny would then utter a line to the effect of, “Open the cash register or your forehead eats lead!” The setup works every time, at least with the old Jim.

Ralph put the magazine back on the rack and made his approach towards the counter. Jim stared at him, sweat glazing on his forehead; something was not right. The walk to the counter took an eternity and reminded Ralph of the walk down Cindy’s corridor when he’d caught his best friend in bed with the girl he loved. Thoughts of the incident flashed through Ralph’s mind like snapshots; anger and pain both filled his heart simultaneously. Options wore thin with each step he took; the exit being the most thought about option. As Ralph laid an elbow atop of the counter and looked past Jim to the wall behind him, he knew that he had just reached the point of no return. What could he ask for this time?

“Batteries, you got any batteries?”

Stupid, stupid, stupid. The batteries were on top of the counter just next to his elbow. Jim stared… and stared; he was on to them.

“You sure you don’t need help with anything,” Jim asked again.

Sweat accumulated just below Ralph’s hairline and dripped down the side of his face and splashed onto the countertop. He was getting desperate and wanted out of the situation. He closed his eyes for a moment, and for that brief moment, Ralph was in his backwoods searching for his princess. That is where he wanted to be, in his fantasy, not the cold, harsh reality that stared back at him while Cindy and Johnny “Cakes” drooled all over each other in isle number two. For the first time, Ralph came to realize what he was… nothing. He was nothing to Johnny and Cindy; he was a follower, a gopher, a schmuck and worse yet, a third wheel! Johnny had him wrapped around his finger from the very first day they met and Cindy came along and hopped on the bandwagon. He was being used the whole time. Ralph’s arm swiped the counter as if it had a mind of its own and knocked over the battery display rack. Again, Jim gave Ralph a curious look, as did the two lovebirds. Ralph stared into space, the breath escaping his mouth and nostrils at a rapid rate. The Old Shoppe was silent.

“You going to pick that up or should I,” Jim broke the silence.

Ralph ignored the question. Jim sighed and bent down behind the counter to pick up the batteries. Ralph remained entranced and jerked out of it when he noticed something; there was something unusual about the whole ordeal. A pair of feet stuck out from behind the counter and pointed towards the ceiling; one foot appeared to be shorter than the other. My God, he thought. His heart pounded and the sweat now flowed from his forehead like a running faucet. He slowly pushed his upper body forward and over the counter. Ralph could still hear “Jim” fumbling around on the floor picking up loose batteries. His eyes grew closer to the edge of the counter and he could see the back of “Jim’s” head. Just a little closer. He can now see that “Jim” was picking up batteries from old Jim’s, “Hop’s,” dead body. There was a hole the size of a basketball in his chest that revealed his internal organs.

Ralph withdrew his body and turned to Johnny. He motioned for Johnny to come over with the gun quickly and quietly, but Johnny was too busy burying his face into Cindy’s mouth. Ralph desperately waved his arms in the air to no avail. He turned around and could still see the back of the imposter’s head just below the counter. The window of opportunity was closing and it would only be a matter of time before “Jim” would take care of them just like he took care of “Hops”.

Ralph approached Johnny, as quietly as he could, and reached for the gun tucked behind his belt. He grabbed the gun and approached the counter.

“Hey!” Johnny yelled back at him.

Ralph cocked the gun just as Jim came over the counter holding a double barreled shotgun. Ralph raised the gun and aimed it towards Jim squeezing the trigger and getting a shot off just as Jim opened fire. The impact of the blast sent Ralph gliding across the shop and landing on a stack of evenly piled cans of beans that were on special for .99 cents a can. Jim stood momentarily as blood trickled down his forehead from the quarter-sized hole that the .357 penetrated into his brain. Jim managed to fire off another shot as his heavy body weighed itself down to the ground. Small, metallic pellets scattered over the counter and into the gleaming path towards Cindy’s face. They impacted on her silk, smooth skin, peeling it off in increments and finally splitting her head open. Blood and fragments of her brain splattered on Johnny’s face who remained still from the shock, or was it cowardice? There was a loud thud as Cindy’s body hit the ground with excessive force. Ralph looked down to his chest, barely able to breathe, and coughed up blood. He frantically tried to put internal organs and bone fragments back into his chest, hoping that he would be able to somehow manage to put himself together and survive; it was useless. Johnny looked at his two friends, their blood smudged into his clothes like the blood of the squirrel he devoured that day in the woods near Black Pond. Cindy’s headless corpse lay at his feet, still twitching, as the thick gush of crimson poured out of her headless stump. Johnny motioned down to her, hesitating for a moment, and then ever so slightly lifted her body into his arms; he wept for the first time since he was an eight-year old boy when his grandmother died.

“My God, Cindy,” he whispered.

He rocked his body, and hers, back and forth, holding the body of his lustful, now dead, Cindy. He screamed; it wasn’t supposed to happen this way. And in a flash, it was all over for him too. There was another shot and the last image he would live to see would be that of a headless Cindy. The bullet had left a hole on the side of Johnny’s head. His body dropped to the side and hit the ground just beside Cindy’s. Smoke slithered its way out of the barrel of the .357. Ralph threw the gun to his side and crawled towards Cindy, creating a trail of red on the hardwood floor as he made his way towards her corpse. There, he mounted his body atop of hers, his Wakuku princess, and lay his head on her chest. He planted a kiss on her left breast, breathed one last breathe and closed his eyes.