No Dominion(33)

 Hey, guys. What’s up?

Terry takes off his glasses, rubs his eyes, making a big show of how run down he is.

 I need your help, Joe.

Tom starts waving his arms around.

 Fuck that, his help. We don’t need his help, he’s already helped plenty, already fucked himself. It’s time for sentencing. I move waiving the inquiry and going straight to the sentencing.

 Yeah, Tom, once we’re officially convened and the whole council is here, that’ll be cool. But for now, I’m just kind of passing the time with an old friend here.

 Bullshit! That’s favoritism, Terry! That kind of crap, that shit is over! You can’t get away with, with protecting him anymore. He’s done. And, man, your time, your time is coming to a close. As soon as we’re convened, as soon as this spy has been executed, I’m calling for a referendum on your chairmanship. You harbored his ass, you kept this serpent in the garden, man. This shit is down to you as much as it is to him.

Terry starts to open his mouth. I get ready to enjoy seeing Tom put in his place, but it doesn’t happen. Terry just shakes his head and holds up one hand.

 Yeah. Yeah, you’re right. That’s right. And I, man, I thoroughly expect something like this, my chairmanship has to come into question. That’s, you know, that’s just the price. But I am going to invoke some privileges, I am going to serve as Joe’s defense in the inquiry.

Tom shakes his head, arms folded over his chest.

 Not gonna be an inquiry.

Terry nods.

 Yeah, OK, if you have your way, in the sentencing phase I’m still gonna serve as his defense. And, you know, as such, I have a right to talk to the man. Right here, in front of everybody.

Tom taps his index finger on the table right in front of Terry.

 No. Fucking. Way. No way does this guy get any more special treatment.

Lydia leans forward, putting her elbows on the table, her biceps stretching the fabric of her black sweater.

 You’re wrong, Tom.

He moves his eyes from Terry to her.

 What?

 It’s due process. He may be a shit, and Terry may be on his way out, but due process is due process. He can talk to him if he wants.

There’s a little stare-off. Lydia could tear Tom a few new assholes at will. If he didn’t have his partisans here. But it hasn’t come to that yet, it hasn’t come to an open coup of Society leadership. Yet.

He nods, throws up his hands.

 OK, OK, due process it is. But if Terry can ask questions, we all can.

Terry shrugs.

 Sure, sure, if that’s what it takes. Sure.

He looks back at me.

 So, like I was saying, Joe, I can use your help. As I guess you can kind of see, the shit’s been hitting the fan.

 No kidding?

 Sure has.

 How hard?

Tom sits on the edge of the table.

 Not as hard as I’m gonna kick your balls into your throat if you don’t stop being a smartass.

I look at him.

 How’s the leg, Tom? Get that bullet out?

He laughs.

 Yeah, be funny. Take it all the way. Sure, I got the bullet out. Got it in a plastic bag. Gonna be exhibit A when we sentence your ass. That alone, fucker, that alone is gonna get you executed. Before we do it, I’m gonna take that bullet and shove it through your ear.

I look at Terry.

 You gonna let him talk to me like that?

Terry fingers his papers, gives them a flip.

 Well, right now, like you kind of been hearing, there’s not much I can do. I mean, you ask how hard the shit’s hit the fan, let me tell you, hard enough to stick on everything.

 That’s pretty hard.

 Yeah, yeah it is. Hell, Joe, once we got tipped off you were on your way back down, the shit would have to be pretty hard to get Predo and us to agree to let you pass all the way without no one getting in your way. ’Cause, you know, no one wanted a big scene with you getting dragged off a train or anything. And still, getting Predo to agree to let us take you into custody, that took some doing. Wouldn’t you say that’s some shit hitting hard?

I don’t say anything. I don’t really have to. Because he’s right, that’s some shit hitting the fan pretty damn hard.

 You got to admit, whatever it was made you go wandering around the Hood, trailing one of Predo’s enforcers, whatever that was, it’d have to be pretty damn important to get you off the hook at this point. And, well, that’s even assuming the enforcer hadn’t gone missing. Then we got.

He looks at his papers.

 We got one of Digga’s people, Papa Doc, sending word through Predo that you escaped custody and beat on some guards. All and all…

He looks at the papers again.

 Looks like you’ve been making some noise all over. And, you know, shooting Tom, well, that was a bad call, too. So.

He drops the papers and looks up.

 So, I don’t know. You got anything to say about all this?

Anything to say? Anything to say about Terry being the one who set me off poking in the first place? No. Not yet.

And Tom’s just playing his angle. Hand it to the shit, it’s a bold play. We’ll see how far it gets him.

 I got nothing to say.

Tom hops off the table and goes to the fridge.

 And how ’bout this, asshole, got anything to say about this?

He drops a bag of anathema on the table.

 Got anything to say about this being in your apartment? You fucking poisoner. You motherfucking dealer piece of shit.

Terry gives me a look.

The look goes from the anathema to me and back again. A shake of the head goes with it.

 Of all things, Joe. This stuff? I never thought I’d see it again. Been so long, I had to explain it to Tom and Lydia. You know it’s killing kids out there? You know what it’s doing right now to our kids? Let alone the Society cause, man. Stuff is trouble. Got to say, Tom’s right on this one, it’s poison.

Lydia points at the bag.

 That shit. That shit. That kid you took care of at Doc’s? That fish you put down? That fish was one of mine. He was in the Alliance. You. You fucking. You what? You hooked him and what? He was gonna talk to someone? Tell someone where he got it? Was that it? Did you give him the hotshot that sent him over? You. Jesus. You fucking.

She looks elsewhere, happy not to have my face in her field of vision.

Terry picks up the papers.

 All this stuff, I don’t know, man, this stuff. Maybe, maybe we could have worked some of this out. But that.

He waves the papers at the anathema.

 That is…I don’t know, Joe.

He drops the papers.

 Help me here, man. Tell me something that will help.

Tom sticks his face in mine.

 No. He’s got nothing to say this time. He’s in it now and he knows it. Don’t you, asshole? You are in the shit. Know better than to open your mouth this time, don’t you? Know if you open your mouth this time it’ll fill right up with shit.

 It’s Tom! He’s the one!



It’s funny. Sometimes, you’ll be thinking something, thinking it over and over and over again. You’ll be thinking it and just waiting for the absolutely perfect moment to say it when you know it will have the most impact and really fuck somebody’s shit up. And then, right when you’re all set to say it, someone beats you to the punch.



We all look at The Count.

He says it again.

 It’s Tom! He’s the one! He’s the dealer. Not Joe. It’s Tom.

Tears are running down his face, cutting tracks in the dry blood.

 It’s Tom. He. Oh, God. Don’t let him hurt me. Don’t let him hurt me anymore. It’s Tom.

Not surprisingly, Tom does try to hurt him.

 You shit! You little fuck!

Terry doesn’t need to move.

 Hurley.

Hurley scoops Tom up before he can touch The Count. He puts him on the floor and puts his foot in his chest as he pulls out his twin.45s and points them at Tom’s partisans. They stop thinking about whatever moves they were thinking about and get busy thinking about staying very still.

Hurley looks down.

 Sorry ’bout dat, Tom. You OK?

 Get off me, you fucking moron!

 Sorry, Tom. Not till Terry says so.

The Count, his legs strapped to the legs of the chair, is rocking and lunging against his bindings, trying to get farther away from Tom.

 No! No! Don’t let him up! No! He’ll kill me! No!

Terry stands, arms held out.

 Cool it! Everybody just needs to cool it. Kid! Kid! Count! Dude, cool it. No one is gonna hurt you. Just cool it.

The Count freezes, eyes big in his head. He’s stopped screaming. Mumbling now, whispering.

 Oh, shit, oh shit. I’m gonna die. I don’t wanna die. Oh shit.

 Cool it. Calm down, man.

The Count goes silent except for the crying.

Tom is another matter.

 Get your fucking foot off me, you fucking stupidass retard.

Hurley looks at Terry.

Terry walks over and looks down at Tom.

 Be cool, Tom. This is a tense situation, I know, but we’re gonna sort it. Don’t take it out on Hurley.

 Fuck you, Terry. Get him the fuck off of me.

 You gonna be cool?

Tom opens and closes his mouth a few times, takes some deep breaths.

 Yeah. I’m gonna be cool. Now. Get. Him. Off. Me.

Terry nods.

 OK, cool. Let him up, Hurley. And those guys are OK, you don’t have to cover them.

Hurley takes his foot off Tom’s chest and lowers his guns. But he doesn’t put them away, just moves to the door so no one can get out without going through him.