Why Jack Wanted to Save the People of Azeroth

SOMETIME BEFORE THE CLIMAX1

I sighed. It was nearly three in the afternoon. Two more hours and then it was off to a plate of hot wings and a cold mug of 1919 root beer.2

“Seriously dude, if you just do the trial offer you won’t regret it.”3

I frowned, pausing for a moment to make it seem like I was actually considering his proposition.4

“How much would it cost me?”5

“That’s the best part broham, it’s free.”6

I’d been hoping there was a catch. By the enthusiastic look on his face neither one of us was in the mood for me to admit that I simply wasn’t interested.7

“Don’t get me wrong, I like the idea of slaying dragons and orcs and…”8

“Tauren.”9

“Whatever. It sounds like fun, but I’m already behind on the last month’s project.”10

The silence was birthed, lived for a few moments and then died when the beanpole IT guy from MIT when into a coughing fit. We both turned and looked at him, staring absently for a few moments.11

“Lame,” he said, picking up a French fry and pointing it at me, “you have no compassion.”12

I laughed.13

“The people of Azeroth need you!”14

I grabbed a few more fries.15

“Well they can just-”16

“MISTER PAUL! MISTER MCJUNKIN! MY OFFICE! NOW!” a voice, high and thin roared from the hallway as a short, stubby legged creature waddled by.17

The IT guy gave us a dirty look as we got to our feet and left the cafeteria. I’d been sure that no one would notice that I was late on the graphs. It wasn’t like anyone ever really looked at them anyway.18

It’s been said that some people look like their pets. The boss, Charles Wentworth Unger IV, looked like his office, small, stuffed and intense. Sitting like a bloated tumor behind the desk, he stared at us over thick, wire rimmed glasses with his infamously beady eyes.19

“Jack McJunkin?” he said slowly, as if talking with a special person.20

“Yes Mister Unger,” I said evenly, trying not to look at the big boned savior of Azerwhatever sitting next to me.21

I still felt like I was brown nosing every time I spoke with the squat little man.22

“Tillman Paul?”23

“Howdy,” Til said with a grin.24

My eyes widened in horror. You never addressed the boss as anything other than “Boss” or “Mr. Unger.” I’d heard the beady-eyed, pasty, balding man give the new guy from the mailroom a verbal lambasting that was fast becoming legend around the office. From cubicle to cubicle the story was that the boy had quit and had gone to therapy for a few weeks before going postal at a post office. It didn’t matter if Til was my best and only friend since finger painting the blackboard in preschool.25

I faked a cough nervously, wondering if he understood what it meant to take the bull by the horns. Mr. Unger reached a pudgy thumb up and pushed his coke bottle glasses further up on his nose, smiling. Til just smiled back at him. He told me once that he was Jewish. With his extra curly hair and penchant for Adam Sandler I was inclined to believe him. Still, the Jews hadn’t asked for the Holocaust.26

“Mister Paul. Mister McJunkin. You’re fired.”27

Til stopped smiling. I gripped the faded armrests, knuckles turning white. Mr. Unger just stared at us, grinning. A tiny, sardonic voice in the back of my head innocently wondered if pigs could smile. Bile burned at the back of my throat. This job had been the last hurrah, my final shot at making it. I stood up, staring vacantly beyond those beady eyes. I was going to end up like Til, living in his mother’s basement. Til. I could hear his breath coming hard and fast as I turned to leave the office.28

“Hang on Mister McJunkin,” that haunting, reedy voice said, scratching at my ears.29

Til was still sitting in the chair. He was going to need a bag before he hyperventilated. I looked at the boss, somehow still afraid even though it didn’t matter anymore. He must have found out about the graphs.30

“I have a proposition for you.”31

I looked down at Til, watching for a moment as he leaned forward, head between his legs. He seemed to be breathing better. It was all I could do not to fall to my knees and beg for my job. Meal after meal of canned green beans, instant potatoes and macaroni and cheese was enough to chain a man’s pride. The bills didn’t help either. I sat back down in the chair and took a deep breath, resting a shaking hand on Til’s heaving back.32

“I’m listening.”33

SOMETIME AFTER THE CLIMAX34

The sun woke up, peeking over the horizon to wash through glass windows, exhaust fumes and lies. I gasped and sat up, coughing heavily as I squinted at the sun. Taking a pull from the nearly empty bottle of something cheap and strong I set it down and used the same hand to wipe blood and snot from my nose and mouth. The left side of my face was caked with blood, eye nearly swollen shut. There was a hole in my sleeve, just above the elbow. Beneath that hole in my shirt was a hole in my arm. I looked at my limp limb and hoped with the hope of a tired man that the bullet had gone straight through.35

“Ex-excuse me sir?” a quiet voice said from somewhere in front of me.36

I looked up, spitting blood through the new gaps in my smile. It was a security guard. Good.37

“Sir, you can’t sleep here. You’re going to have to move.”38

I tried to stand, left leg not quite working right. He extended a hand, which I took. He looked at me again as I stood, like he was seeing me for the first time. My white work shirt was covered in grime and blood. My pants were torn in several places. I smelled like vomit. His mouth moved, lips and tongue twitching as I watched the struggle play plainly across his face, talk or puke. I was a disgusting sight.39

“It’s okay, I work here.”40

“I-I-I don’t think-“41

I handed him the bottle so I could tuck my shirt in. Everything was harder with only one good arm. The best thing he had on his utility belt was either mace or the TASER. I finished tucking my shirt in and reached for the bottle. He stared dumbly at me as I drained the last of my painkilling juice and threw it into the street. I stared back as the bottle shattered somewhere behind me, glass tinking and clinking across the blacktop of the sparsely populated parking lot.42

“So, you going to open the doors? I’ve got work to do.”43

HOW TO GRILL PORK44

I squeezed my eyes shut when he turned the lights on. It was satisfying to hear him shout, voice a little higher pitched than usual. I lay back in the chair and looked at him upside down. His hair was still wet from when he’d tried to comb the dark brown, graying strands over the growing bald spot. He stared at me for a moment, hand on his chest.45

“Mister McJunkin?!”46

He coughed, chuckling nervously as he walked around me to get to his desk. There had never been much room in this office. I sat up a little straighter glancing down for a moment at the red stain spreading slowly over the armrest. The liquor had worked its charms well enough. The pain was only a dull grinding instead of a sharp stabbing. I wanted to break his desk lamp. Over his head.47

“You’re not looking so good Mister McJunkin,” he said, still smiling as he took an old aluminum thermos from underneath his desk, “want something to drink?”48

I thought about it long enough to run my tongue down into the gaps where three teeth had been the day before. The gaps felt sticky and tasted like blood. My tongue hurt.49

“Sure.”50

I sat in silence, staring at him as he poured something dark and brown into a Styrofoam cup. I took the cup and drained whatever he was offering in one gulp. It burned like lava going down, but it was a relief. For a moment I could forget about the pain in my mouth, my arm and pretty much everywhere else.51

“Do you have it?” his dark beady eyes held mine intently, as if merely by the asking he could make me give it to him.52

The desk lamp wasn’t enough. The thermos might be better. Or maybe the chair.53

“Do you have the money?”54

“Tillman is dead.”55

He kept staring at me. If he had been willing to show any kind of remorse, any sort of guilt, even if he really didn’t mean it, I would have taken the wire off right then and there. Instead I held the cup out for a refill, shaking it at him when he didn’t move.56

“I’ve got the money,” I said as he tipped the dented old thermos over my cup, filling me up to the brim.57

“Good, good. Now. Now Mister McJunkin I need you to give me the money. Where is it?”58

“My apartment.”59

“Why didn’t you bring it here?”60

“I didn’t feel comfortable walking to work with a duffle bag of half a million dollars.”61

He nodded absently, jowls jumping and twitching under his par of chins.62

“We’ll have to go and get the money. I’ve got time. Four hours. Four hours before the flight leaves.”63

His voice got softer as he continued muttering to himself. I frowned. It was as if he’d forgotten about me. Those beady eyes peered through those thick, thick lenses. The boss, Charles Wentworth Unger IV, the balding bovine, the reason for every nick, cut, puncture and bullet wound on my person, pulled a small silver pistol from a desk drawer. His hand was shaking.64

“We’re going to your apartment, unless you want to join your friend.”65

I frowned, somewhat disappointed that the gaps where three of my teeth had once been were still bleeding. He wiped away the sweat on his forehead as I spit a mouthful of blood onto the carpet.66

“If you put it that way.”67

I struggled to my feet, wincing as I felt my kneecap slide around in ways it was never meant to. Only a little longer and it would all be over. Slipping the little gun into his pocket, he closed the thermos and put it underneath his desk. We left his office, taking the elevator down the hall. I tried to keep my mind off of the pain by attempting to decipher why the attractive young woman was looking at me with disgust. There were plenty of reasons to choose from. It could have been the smell of vomit that was slowly filling the small, suddenly a bit too personal, space. Or it could have been that my sleeve was so soaked by now from the bleeding that it was dripping onto the polished linoleum flooring. I smiled at her. It didn’t help that the three teeth I was missing where all in the front.68

“Is there something in my teeth?”69

She put a hand to her mouth and backed further into the corner of the elevator. When we finally reached the first floor she exited the elevator as quickly as she could, heading towards the restrooms sign as Mr. Unger and I stepped through the revolving doors. My shuffling limp and bloodied visage drew stares. The security guard who’d let me in was standing just outside. I winked at him and pressed a bloodstained five dollar bill against his chest.70

“Buy yourself something nice.”71

Mr. Unger forced a smile as the guard absently took the bill, dropping it when he saw the blood staining Honest Abe’s face red.72

“Come on Mister McJunkin, we don’t want to be late.”73

I nodded and shuffled along next to him as he waddled out into the parking lot.74

“Was that bill one of-“75

“Relax Chuck. It wasn’t one of yours.”76

The power of calling Mr. Unger anything other than Mr. Unger and not getting screamed at for it would have been intoxicating twenty four hours ago. Til would have laughed. Everything was different now. I felt numb.77

“Get in.”78

His car, a pale green 1951 Studebaker Commando, was parked between two SUVs. I opened the door not so much sliding into the passenger side seat as falling. Grunting from the exertion he struggled for a bit before taking his coat off and throwing it into the back seat. The engine roared to life and we motored our way out of the parking lot. I waved to the security guard, throwing him a mock salute and a gruesome grin. My apartment was a good fifteen minutes away so I turned the radio on, playing with the dial until I heard something I liked. The music washed over me as I leaned my head back, window open.79

Jesse James, Jesse James. 80

He was cursed with a quick and restless gun. Jesse James! 81

And he played the game that no man ever won. Jesse James! 82

But his killin' turned him cold, he grew bitter, he grew bold 83

And he fought the world with a gold and hungry gun. 84

Gold and hungry gun, 85

Gold and hungry gun, 86

Blasting flame, a lasting shame, 87

On the man with a hungry gun. 88

Jesse James, Jesse James.89

As the song ended Mr. Unger’s fat fingers turned the radio off. He took a deep breath as we pulled to a stop an intersection. He frowned and looked in either direction and then straight ahead, squinting at the car in front of us.90

“Take the next left.”91

He nodded and wiped his sleeve across his face. Sweat stains clung to the armpits of his bulging shirt. I sat next to the fatty tumor and closed my eyes as he took the next left.92

“Go through the next two lights and take the first right, north Desiree.”93

I spent the next ten minutes asleep. Fat fingers poking me in the ribs woke me up. It wouldn’t have been so bad if I hadn’t been hit by the truck right after the bank robbery.94

“We’re on north Desiree, which building is it?”95

He was starting to sound scared. If he had any idea what was really going on he would have wet himself. And then he might have shot me. I sighed, trying not to breathe too deeply as I pointed to an old, dilapidated brick apartment complex on his side of the street. He’d almost touched the wire I was wearing.96

“Get out of the car,” he said, putting the car in park and turning off the engine.97

I opened the door with my good hand and stepped out of the car. Music floated down from the apartments above, a Mexican rap with a beat heavy on the bass that I’d heard nearly every waking hour I spent in that cesspool of cheap cigarettes, bootleg DVDs and cloth diapers. But the rent was cheap. The Superintendent was a cranky old polish lady who didn’t speak a word of English beyond “rent?” and “garbage?” Taking out the garbage for her was one way to get into her good graces. Buying her a bottle of anything with alcohol in it was another. She had an odd taste for Mike’s Hard Cranberry Lemonade and sour cream donut holes.98

“Don’t try anything stupid,” Mr. Unger said, voice cracking as I opened the door, broken glass crunching under our feet as we walked into the dimly lit hall.99

Stupid? I was tempted to make a move for the gun he was now fondling in his pocket. I felt like I’d been put through a meat grinder, tenderized and ready to be cooked. I was beyond doing something stupid. If the opportunity presented itself, doing something crazy might be more fun than wearing a wire and leading the top suspect in the biggest embezzlement case since Enron to my apartment for a possible shootout.100

“Sure thing Chuck.”101

I missed the elevator. Trying to climb stairs with a few broken ribs, a dislocated kneecap and cheap, strong buzz is more along the lines of what I had come to think of as “stupid.” When we finally made it to the fourth floor there was a familiar face waiting for me. The landlady had been cruel enough to procreate. His name, RADOMIŁ, was crudely stitched across the bright blue jumpsuit he wore whenever I saw him, which was as little as possible. Some fool car shop had been dumb enough to hire him. He was a few years older than me and lived with his mother, acting as the translator for anyone too stupid to speak such an important language like Polish. The greasy, rat-faced parasite was leaning against my door, smoking a cheap cigarette. I hated Menthols. If someone wants to crystallize their lungs, fine by me. Just don’t drag me down with you.102

“Dobry dzień głupiec,” he said, grinning as sickly white smoke drifted lazily from his nostrils and from between his crooked, yellow teeth.103

“Not now Rado,” I said, trying not to sound confrontational.104

“Not now, not now,” he took another drag and leaned forward as went to open the door, “well mother says now. Now it is time for you to pay rent. You still haven’t paid us for last month.”105

I looked at Mr. Unger and shrugged. His beady eyes looked from me to Rado and then further down the hall.106

“Fine,” Mr. Unger said, jowls shaking, cheeks still flushed from the climb up the stairs,” I’ll pay you.”107

Rado held out his hand.108

“Don’t be stupid Rado he-”109

“SHUT UP GŁUPIEC!” he yelled, spittle falling on his sweat stained white tank-top,” if your friend wants to pay for you then let him pay. Mother told me if you did not pay then kick you out.”110

Rado gestured with his open hand at Mr. Unger.111

“In the apartment,” he said breathlessly, gesturing at the door with a chubby hand.112

I took a deep breath and watched as Rado pulled out a large chain of keys and, finding the right key, opened the door to my apartment. I saw Rado’s eyes go wide when he saw Tillman’s body lying facedown in the center of the room. The cash spilling out of the tan, weathered duffle bag on the couch was the next thing he saw. Mr. Unger pushed Rado into the apartment and shot him in the back. I threw myself on my former boss, unable to stop myself from screaming in pain as we fell to the floor. The gun lay just out of reach.113

“Wy strzelaliście mnie…you…” Rado squirmed on the floor in front of me, his eyes wide and filled with tears, hands trying to twist around to touch the hole in his back.114

His heels drummed against the floor, blood spreading slowly away from him. I slammed my forehead into Mr. Unger’s face again and again until his knee came up, catching me full in the groin. The world exploded into pain. As I curled into what I imagined later to be as much the fetal position as a man with broken ribs and a separated kneecap can manage, I heard the click of Mr. Unger’s gun as he pulled the hammer back.115

“Is that all the money?” his hands were shaking and his face was beet red.116

I smiled, trying not to cough on the blood pooling at the back of my throat. He frowned, finger tightening on the trigger. I lifted my shirt up and showed him the recording device taped to my stomach. The thundering of cops charging up the stairs echoed down the hall. Rado was breathing heavily through half sobs, muttering something in Polish that sounded like a prayer. I stared down the barrel of Mr. Unger’s gun and waited. Death wouldn’t be so bad after the last twelve hours. I closed my eyes. Maybe Tillman was waiting for me. It would be-117

Mr. Unger falling on top of me was not what I had been expecting. I opened my eyes to see his beady blacks only inches from my face. His mouth worked frantically but no words came out, only a high, dry rattle that washed over my face. My eyes watered as his body went limp, putting his weight down on my already broken ribs. Men in dark blue coats rushed in the room, guns drawn. I tried to breathe as someone yelled into a radio. Yelling. Everyone was yelling. Lights sparkled, drifted and flashed above me as I felt consciousness slipping away like a prom date that said yes out of pity. Air wrenched my jaws open and crawled down my throat and into my lungs as I felt Mr. Unger being rolled off of me. Someone was talking to me. Something, I opened my eyes and tried to speak. I coughed, the warm, salty taste of blood washing over my lips.118

EPILOGUE ~~~ HOW TO GRILL PORK119

Detective William O’Brien walked into the apartment and almost gagged. The main suspect lay against the wall just inside the door, cheap brown slacks stained with excrement from the loosed bowels of the newly dead. With eyes sharpened by twenty years work on the force and another twenty as the son of a cop, Willy O’Brien saw that the initial report of one shot to the head and one to the lower back were correct. Charles Unger had been in their sights for years. It was finally over. The boy, Jack, lay next to Unger, an EMT giving him a thorough check-up. This hadn’t ended clean.120

“Please sir, don’t move,” the EMT said, voice strained.121

The boy, he couldn’t have been any older than twenty five, was trying to stand up. Another EMT came over and helped hold him down until they could inject him with something that O’Brien could only guess was some kind of sedative, morphine probably. After a few more weak moans and absent struggling, the boy, the detective shook his head, Jack, after a bit more Jack stopped trying to move. Raising a hand to the EMT, Jack whispered something.122

“Sure kid.”123

The other EMT just shook his head and grunted. Another man, probably no more than a few years older than Jack, lay further into the room, eyes staring lifelessly at the ceiling. William Miles O’Brien took a deep breath and ran his fingers through his shoulder length salt ‘n peppered brown hair. As they loaded the bodies on stretchers, he stopped the EMT who stayed behind to drop what looked to be an industrial disinfectant powder on the blood.124

“What did the kid say?”125

“Didn’t make any sense to me,” the man said, shaking the bright orange box with practiced ease over the large, red, congealing pool, “something about saving something. He said, ‘I have to save Azeroth.’ Whatever that means. He was in shock, just delirious.”126

Detective O’Brien nodded and looked around the room as the EMT left. The sharp citrus smell of the disinfectant burned his nose.127