Frank looked at the small, pink slip that he had pulled from his mailbox. He found it sealed inside an envelope with no return address. The slip read:
Dear Mr. Francis,
You have been the latest target of Revenge Enterprises©. As per our policy, we are unable to disclose information about our customers. Rest assured, you have been pardoned and will no longer be subject to the various methods we use for our clients.
If you have any questions, call (919) 555-0130.
Regards,
Revenge Enterprises
Frank thought this was a joke. But then, he looked back on the past three miserable months, and it all made sense; the hookers that had shown up at his workplace, the dents in his car, the bad case of the flu, the smelly dog shit that seemed to appear on his front lawn each morning. The past 3 months had been filled with these major bothers, and while this letter wasn’t believable, it would certainly explain some things.
What the hell, he thought. I’ll give ‘em a call.
Frank dialed the number and expected to hear that obnoxious message, “The number or code you have dialed is incorrect!” That, or a series of beeps. Instead, he heard static.
Figures, he thought.
Then the phone began to ring. After one ring, a prerecorded message occurred. It was a woman’s voice, middle-aged, a slight southern accent.
“Thank you for calling Revenge Enterprises,” the voice said. “To speak with the next available agent, please press…” And then, in an eerily hushed tone, “…nine, three.”
Frank dialed and waited. The phone rang again, this time as a series of two quick rings followed by a short silence. After about six of these, a young woman answered.
“Thank you for calling Revenge Enterprises,” she said. “This is Mellissa. How may I help you?”
Frank was at a loss.
“Hello?” said Mellissa.
“H-Hi,” said Frank. “So… is this a real company?”
Mellissa giggled. “Yes, sir. This is a real company. What can I do for you? Assuming that isn’t your only question.” She followed this with another playful giggle that made Frank feel a weird sense of ease.
“Uh, well,” Frank began, “I got something from you guys in the mail. It’s a receipt of some sort, I guess. Says I was targeted by you guys? Does that mean someone used your service, uh, against me?”
“Yes. So, that is exactly what that would mean. We are, however, unable to disclose any information on our cliental.”
“Nothing?”
“No, sir.”
“Not even a first name?”
“No, sir. We have a very strict policy and take pride in the confidence of our clients. That includes you. So, anything you say to us is totally privileged.”
Frank thought he was in a dream, and was a moment away from pinching his arm before Melissa began to speak again.
“Were you interested in actually using our service?” Melissa asked.
“For what, exactly?” asked Frank.
Melissa chuckled. “Well, for revenge, of course!” She then went into full-on salesperson mode. “So, who do you want revenge on? Everyone’s got somebody.”
And, boy, could Frank think of one name in particular.
***
It was the spring of 2019 and, unbeknown to Frank, these were the last days of his four-year relationship. Molly was her name. They’d met on Tinder back in 2015 and, after some flirty back-and-forth, they went on a coffee date. Things were great for almost a year before the romance settled into its usual routines, strengths, and weaknesses. Frank played the part of the puppy and Molly was the aloof cat. His love language had much to do with physical touch, something that Molly would always grow tired of. Frank thought it was down to her love language, which may have been different from his own. But the truth was, Molly just wasn’t all that into him. That was something he had to come to terms with when things ended. Despite all that time she had spent with him, all the years that had gone by, she never really looked at him as a dominant man with a masculine frame. No, he was the little pooch that loved without conditions, that came trotting to the door when she walked in, tail swinging and tongue out, ready for a back rub and a gentle scratch behind the ears.
“There is nothing,” he’d once said to her, “absolutely nothing that you can do that will make me give up on us. Nothing you can do or say will make me leave you.”
He should have been more careful with his words. She took them to heart.
Frank had a friend named Clayton, who was in the military and was stationed on a base in Utah. The two had been best friends since high school and were now in their early 20’s. They made time to hang out by playing Xbox Live once a week. Frank had recently visited Clayton over in Utah and they’d had an awesome week of barhopping and target shooting and just plain shooting the shit.
Clayton had a fatal flaw, however, that Frank was all too aware of. Clayton was promiscuous, but to detrimental effect. A true home wrecker, it seemed there was almost no level Clayton would stoop to. Married women. Brides-to-be. Even a college girl who had just lost her father got the old pump-and-dump.
It turned out there was no level Clayton wouldn’t stoop to. Because that year, on that spring break, Clayton slept with his best friend’s girl.
Molly had told Frank that she needed a break, a break from everything. She needed a break from her job and a break from her parents and a break from Frank, too.
“Fine,” he told her. “Whatever you need.”
Molly was to go to Key West with her best friend Janice. Frank dropped her off at the airport and told her he loved her and sent her on her way. He went back home to finish a copywriting job for a freelance client.
On the first day Molly was gone, it took her hours to respond to Frank’s texts. After he sent a simple, “You alive?” message, she didn’t respond at all day. Molly’s parents soon messaged Frank and asked if he had heard from Molly. She hadn’t answered her phone the whole day. Panicked, her parents looked up her flight number to try and make sense of things.
Her flight was not to Florida. It was a two-way flight to Utah, to a little military town that nobody lives in.
Frank called Molly’s friend, the friend who was supposed to have gone to Florida with her. The friend was still in North Carolina. Hot flashes ran across Frank’s skin as he picked up his cellphone and, with shaking hands, dialed Clayton’s number.
“Hello?” said Clayton.
“Hey,” said Frank.
“What’s up, man?”
“Is…” Frank didn’t want to ask. He didn’t want to know. “is, uh…”
“Huh?”
“Is Molly there?”
“Molly? Your Molly?”
“Yeah. Is she there?”
“Why would she be here?”
“She said she went to Florida,” said Frank. “But I looked up her flight and it says she flew to your town in Utah.”
“Uh… well, she’s not here.”
“You sure? That’s pretty weird, man.”
“Yeah, I’m sure. Listen, it’s been a day. I gotta go.”
Clayton hung up and left Frank to sit there and connect the dots.
No way, he thought. My girlfriend? My best friend? No way they could do this to me.
It just couldn’t be true. What a fool he was. The evidence was there, and the evidence was strong.
Of course, the truth came to light a few hours later. Molly had gone to Clayton’s town to stay with him for the week, getting the companionship she claimed she did not receive back at home. But the worst part wasn’t that Molly had lied or that his best friend had lied or that the two had likely gotten down and dirty, over and over with no interruption. The worst came when these two narcissists turned the tables on Frank and made him the bad guy.
Molly called Frank a stalker and said things were getting “dangerous.” Clayton insulted Frank’s “workaholism,” claiming this had happened because Frank paid little attention to Molly and even less to Clayton. That was the worst part, the fact that the two just couldn’t own up to it. They could not apologize. They could not even take pity on Frank. He’d been betrayed by the two people he trusted the most, and he could not get an apology or a hint of regret in their tones.
And then, months later, Molly reached out to Frank. She wanted to get back together. She claimed she missed his kisses and back rubs and the limitless affection he gave. Frank couldn’t believe the gall. But he played devil’s advocate. There was something he needed to know. The two met at a coffee shop, the location of their first date.
“Did you have sex with him?” Frank asked.
“Do you really want to know?” Molly replied.
Well, there was his answer. But he had to hear it from her lips. “Yes.”
“Yes,” said Molly. “We did.”
“How many times?”
“Three? Four?”
Frank repeated, knowing three or four was bullshit. “How many times?”
Molly gulped. “Countless. We did it all week long.”
With heat rising in his chest and an urge to put his fist across Molly’s pretty little face, Frank stood up.
“Fuck you,” he said. “You’re never gonna see me, again.”
When he got home, he called Clayton and confronted him. That was when Frank’s anger tripled.
“Why are we still talking about this?” Clayton asked.
“Because you did it,” said Frank. “You won’t even apologize.”
“Dude, let’s just move past this. It’s really immature of you to keep holding a grudge.”
“Go to hell, Clayton.”
“Oh, yeah. Real mature.”
The next thing Frank said, he meant. “I hope you get deployed. Somewhere in Afghanistan or Iraq or Syria. And I hope you die there. Alone.”
Frank hung up. He had never felt anger like this, not in his whole life. Frank could not believe that, after all this time, after how badly Clayton had betrayed him, he would not apologize. He would not even move an inch.
Nothing fuels thoughts of vengeance more than when the wrongdoer believes they were right.
***
“Hello?” Mellissa said, having heard nothing but static for a long moment. Frank, who had been stewing on that fateful day last year, snapped from his trance.
“Oh,” said Frank, “I’m here. Sorry.”
“I’m assuming there is someone you want revenge on. Is my assumption accurate?”
“It is.” But then Frank thought of how this same company had targeted him. He wondered if it had been Molly who paid for their services, hungry for vengeance after Frank had dumped her like trash.
“So that was your people ruining my life the past few months?” Frank asked.
“I’m sorry,” said Mellissa, “I am unable to give out that information, sir.”
“I could have you arrested, you know.”
“That wouldn’t be the first time we’ve heard that, sir.” Her tone was still eerily friendly.
“I’m serious. I’ll call the cops.”
“Where would you tell them to go?”
“I…”
“Where is our address?” Mellissa persisted.
“There isn’t one,” said Frank.
“That’s correct, sir.”
“I-I’ll report you to the FTC.”
“The FTC? The agency that gets thousands of reports of scammers and fraud, every single day, and does nothing about them?”
“Yes.” Dammit, don’t say yes to that, idiot.
Mellissa giggled. “Okay,” she said.
“How dare you,” said Frank. “Fantastic line of work you’re in, lady. Really. Your parents must be proud.”
“Sir…” Mellissa was very serious, now. All the bubbly kindness and saleswoman tactics had washed away. For the first time on this call, she spoke like a human being, heart-to-heart, person-to-person. “…the way I see it, you have three options. Option A: You report us to the FTC, you report us to the police, and they file away your complaint, never to review it again. Option B: You use our service for an easy, affordable price, satisfaction guaranteed.”
“What’s Option C?” Frank asked.
“You hang up the phone, you forget about all this, and you continue to live like everyone else; crazed with revenge, plagued day and night by vengeful fantasies that will never come true, visions of the people who wronged them, who will never, ever get their comeuppance. A life of quiet, vengeful desperation. The choice is yours, sir. Think about it.”
She hung up.
Frank did think about it. He thought of everything; Clayton’s dumb face and his entitlement and his destructive tendencies and all the lives he’d ruined and all the people he had likely betrayed. Someone had to stop it. It was only right. It was only just.
After a few hours, Frank redialed the number. Again, it was Mellissa who answered.
“Hello, Mister Francis,” she said. “Glad to hear from you.”
“Just Frank is fine,” Frank replied.
“Okay, Frank. What can I do for you?”
“I, uh…” Can’t believe I’m doing this. “…I wanna use your service.”
“I’m glad to hear that, Frank.”
“How’s this work?”
“So,” Mellissa began, “there are three packages; the Silver, the Gold, and the Platinum services. The Silver package will be a one-time payment of three-thousand dollars. Gold is a one-time payment of five-thousand. And our Platinum Package—or as it is known here, at the office, the obliteration package—that’s a one-time payment of twelve-thousand dollars. All in. No refunds. While it is up to you to decide which package you’ll choose, we strongly advise that you let the punishment fit the crime.”
“What are the details of each package?” Frank asked.
“We aren’t allowed to discuss the exact details, as that tends to disrupt the satisfaction of our clients once they actually see the retribution being carried out.”
“Well, I gotta know what I’m agreeing to.”
“Well, Frank, between you and me…” Mellissa paused a moment. “The package you were victimized by was the silver package. These are… petty torments.”
Uh-uh, Frank thought. Not for Clayton. He deserves much worse than dog shit on his front lawn.
“How about the Gold Package?” Frank asked.
“So, the Gold package is going to be a bit more destructive,” said Mellissa. “Just for example’s sake, your quarry might wake up to find his cellphone in a puddle, in the yard. Maybe there’s a nail embedded in his front tire. Maybe there’s a roach infestation in his attic.”
“Hmm…”
Frank thought about it. A flat tire was a pain in the ass, and a roach infestation was surely something one might lose sleep over. But did it equal the sleep that Clayton had cost him? The countless hours of stewing and the days of waking up at two in the afternoon due to such strong depression?
“And the Platinum?” Frank asked.
“Thought you’d never ask,” said Mellissa. “As I said, before, this is what’s known as our obliteration package.”
“I like that.”
“Oh, you will. This package is a life destroyer, if you will. While the Gold Package affects the common comforts of the wrongdoer, the Platinum Package focuses in on what matters most: the wrongdoer’s personal life. The wrongdoer will find him or herself out of a job, his or her darkest secrets exposed, and a reputation that is in the toilet.”
Frank thought of Clayton and the fact that Clayton was in the military. If he could somehow get Clayton discharged from the military… by god, what a delicious piece of revenge that would be.
“How much did you say the Platinum Package costs?” Frank asked.
“Twelve-thousand,” Mellissa replied, “all in.”
Frank thought a moment, but not for long.
“Okay,” he said. “I’m in.”
“Excellent decision, Frank. If I could have your email address, we can send out all the information for you to fill out.”
“Okay.”
A long pause, as Frank fantasized.
“What’s the email address?” Mellissa asked.
“Oh,” said Frank. He gave the address.
A moment passed as Mellissa jotted this down.
“Okay, great!” she said. “And what we’ll do, next, is send you a form. This form will ask you a lot of different questions about the person who wronged you, what this person did, and we’ll even take some suggestions on some of the torments we can issue out to this person. However, we will take some liberties with our torments, as we believe that true satisfaction comes with an element of surprise. Make sense?”
“Yes.”
“Okay. And, before I go, I am required to ask you if you are sure of your decision. We are not in the business of judging whether or not the perpetrator deserves his or her punishments. That is completely up to you.”
Frank thought a moment. He was not sure if this was the road he would like to go down, but then he thought of how awful Clayton’s actions had made him feel. Some days, he felt so bad, he could not get out of bed. He could barely move his head. Depression had hit him like a wave of molasses that he had to move constantly through, day in and day out, and it was all because of Clayton.
“I’m sure,” said Frank.
“Excellent,” said Mellissa. “Do you have a pen?”
Frank grabbed a pen and a napkin. “Go.”
“This is your case number. Three, zero, six, six, five.”
Frank jotted it down. “Thanks.”
“Expect an email, momentarily.”
“Okay. Buh-bye.”
Frank hung up and saw that his hand trembled. He was not sure if he was nervous or excited, or both. He had read somewhere that the body’s reaction to those two feelings was the same. Only the mind could tell the difference.
***
Mellissa got up from her desk, file folder in hand. She removed her headset, her ears reentering that sea of office sound; low chatter, phones ringing, fingers typing, papers swishing, printers printing, pens scribbling. She left her desk and walked down an aisle of gray carpet, her high heels carrying her through this ocean of cubicles, lit by florescent lights that were always just a bit too bright. Her business skirt glided through the office labyrinth, drawing stares from male employees who had little to no eye candy in their own cubicles, besides the private tab of porn on their computers.
The big double doors had a sign above them that read ARCHIVES. Mellissa entered. She went to aisle ninety-six and found the empty shelf with Frank’s case number. She placed the file folder snug between countless others.
“Here we go,” she mumbled.
***
It was several weeks after Clayton’s most recent tour of duty. He awoke after midnight to the sound of a car alarm. He checked the other side of the bed and saw that the girl he had taken home that night was still there.
Okay, he thought. So she isn’t out there, stealing my car. That’s good.
Clayton got out of bed, rubbed his eyes, and straightened his boxers, which had been pulled crooked in his sleep. He approached the window and looked out. He saw flashing orange lights coming from his own jeep. He looked closer and saw that all his jeep’s windows had been smashed, a giant dent plowed into the hood, the tires slashed. Thousands of dollars in damage.
“The fuck?” he muttered as he yanked open his night stand drawer, grabbed his handgun, and cocked it. The woman in bed—whose name he had forgotten, or maybe never even learned—shifted and stirred, but stayed asleep.
Clayton rushed outside in his boxers, his handgun aimed at nothing. He waved it around, his military instincts kicking in. He had been in Jordan, just a few weeks ago, fighting ISIS. Now he was back in the states, trying to adjust. Shit like this was not helping.
Revenge Enterprises knew it.
***
Though he was promised a DVD with footage of the incident, Frank sat in his car, which was parked a few houses down from Clayton’s. He had been watching with binoculars as two masked men ran to Clayton’s driveway and smashed the jeep’s windows and slashed the tires, before dashing away and vanishing into the night. Ghosts, that was what they were, untraceable. It was perfect.
Frank smiled as he watched Clayton pace his driveway, so confused, so angry, so distraught, picking up precious pieces of his jeep. This was not as sweet as Frank had hoped, but he knew it was just an appetizer. The best was yet to come.
He watched as Clayton stood and stared into the night, as though the perpetrator would just show back up. Even from this distance, at this time of night, Frank could piece together all of Clayton’s familiar features; that stupid shaved head, those big brown eyes, those chubby cheeks that even the military’s training had not been able to shed.
It’s not much, Frank thought. But it’s a start. I like this. I like watching you suffer, even if it is only a little bit, for now. I can’t wait to see more.
This feeling of vengeance, this whetting of Frank’s appetite, it was so similar to a kind of sexual satisfaction. This was the foreplay, that feeling of excitement, the promise of further satisfaction of the nerve endings.
Oh my, what a glorious feeling.
Frank returned home and, when he got in bed, it was the feeling of being a 9-year-old on Christmas Eve. Difficulty falling asleep, but in the best possible way, those happy and excited feelings keeping him full of energy.
Revenge. It was a new feeling, a feeling that many hope to achieve but not many reach. It was unfamiliar to Frank, but he liked it.
***
Clayton waitered at a restaurant downtown called The Original Kathy’s. He wore one of those country club-type outfits—the black button-down shirt with the black slacks and black shoes—as he told people of today’s specials with his hands folded in front of him, clasping his little notebook. Revenge Enterprises had watched him for a while, now, and had sent one of their own to get a job at the restaurant.
The man from Revenge Enterprises was named Martin. He was a man of Mexican descent and he had jet black hair that was slicked back and a perfectly trimmed mustache and a soul patch beneath his lip. He was charming, friendly, and good-looking, and he had no trouble getting the job. He was hired as a cook. That was a vital part of the plan.
Around the time that Clayton took his lunch break each day, Martin cooked a dish for a very important customer; a medium-well ribeye with a side of diced potatoes and asparagus. The customer was a food critic—a phony sent by Revenge Enterprises—from the Salem Food Inquirer, a phony magazine that Revenge Enterprises had thought up. Frank thought they really went above and beyond, and that perhaps his case had struck a cord with some of the company’s employees.
Martin handed the dish off to Clayton, but when he did, he looked at Clayton with his overly friendly smile and his sincere eyes and said, “The guy who ordered this, he took off.”
“Really?” Clayton asked.
“Yeah, man. It’s your lunch break, right?”
“Almost.”
Martin nodded to the plate. “Go for it. To-go boxes are right over there.”
“Really? Are you sure he left?”
“Yeah, man. Of course.”
“Okay, cool. Thanks man.”
“Hey, you got it.”
About ten minutes passed before the phony food critic, named Kevin, began to make a fuss. The manager got involved and asked Martin what happened. Martin looked dumfounded.
“You didn’t get your meal?” Martin asked Kevin.
“No,” said Kevin, “otherwise I wouldn’t be asking for it.”
“Certainly, certainly.” Martin looked at the manager, Rick. “I handed it off to that waiter, uh, what’s his name? Clayton, I think?”
“Where is he?” Rick asked.
“I think he’s on break,” said Martin.
Rick was a fairly nice boss, but when things did not go well, his usual nice demeanor washed away. He was a big guy, six foot four, maybe six foot five, so it made it all the more intimidating if he was angry with you. Clayton sat in the break room with a mouthful of steak and potatoes when Rick entered.
“Enjoying your meal?” Rick asked as he folded his arms over his thousand-dollar suit.
Clayton finished chewing and swallowed. “What’s wrong, boss?”
“The meal you’re eating was supposed to go to a food critic,” said Rick. “How do you think his review of our restaurant is gonna look, now? I’m thinking one star.”
“Rick, I don’t understand –
“Our reputation could be in the toilet!”
“Rick, I –
“I don’t allow thieves to work for me! Pack your stuff. You’re fired!”
“Boss, Martin told me that the guy left.”
“Why would he do a thing like that?”
“I don’t know, I –
“Martin is an excellent cook and a great guy. Trying to pin this on him only makes you look worse. Pack your things and get out.”
When Clayton went to confront Martin, he was gone. Just like the men who had trashed his car, Martin was a ghost. Who was to say if Martin was his real name?
Frank watched with binoculars, from his car, as Clayton left the restaurant with his apron in one hand and his to-go box still in the other. As Clayton hung his head, Frank got a good look at his face; so dazed, so puzzled, so hurt. Good god, it was tremendous. He hoped that Clayton would go through the same pain he went through. He hoped Clayton would find himself deep in a state of shock for the rest of the week. He hoped Clayton had trouble sleeping. And he hoped Clayton would understand that this bad karma was so well deserved.
***
Revenge Enterprises sent a call girl to Clayton’s house later that week. They had snuck an ad into the papers, one they knew Clayton would go for. Their understanding of human psychology was unprecedented. The call girl showed up at the sad sack Clayton’s house and the two had sex. It was not until a week later that Clayton found out he had chlamydia.
Cured of his STD’s but still out of a job, Clayton turned to selling drugs. His connect was an old high school buddy who sold x pills back then and still did. Clayton made some dough the first day or two, but then, on the second day, an anonymous tip (Revenge Enterprises, of course) to the police sold him up shit’s creek and landed him in jail. An anonymous benefactor (again, you know who) bailed him out of jail. He returned home to find his drugs gone and his money gone, too, taken by the DEA. He then spiraled into drug usage, and that led to a further downward spiral that ended with him living on the streets.
***
It was a rainy night when Frank dialed Revenge Enterprises. He paced around the room in his boxers with his cellphone pressed to his ear.
“Come on, come on, come on,” he mumbled as the phone rang.
“Thank you for calling Revenge Enterprises,” the robo-voice said. “To speak with the next available agent, please press… seven, two.”
Frank dialed the code and after two quick rings, an agent picked up the phone. “Hi, you’ve reached Revenge Enter –
“I have a case number,” said Frank.
“Okay, go ahead.”
“Three, O, six, six, five.”
“All right, one moment please s –
“Can I speak to Mellissa, please?”
“Certainly. I’ll transfer you, now.”
“Okay.”
They put Frank on hold with some vibraphone jazz in the background. Frank sat at his kitchen table as the rain rapped the window next to him. He tapped his fingers on the table as he waited.
“This is Mellissa speaking, how may I help you?”
“Mellissa,” said Frank. “It’s Frank.”
“I know. How are you? What can I do for you, Frank?”
“So, Clayton’s living on the streets, now? Is that true?”
“Let me check…” The clicking of keyboard keys followed. “Correct. Last we saw of him, he’s penniless and taking shelter over by West 4th Street. That’s near the CVS on the corner.”
“Jesus,” said Frank.
“Beautiful, right?” said Melissa. “Are you satisfied with our service, so far?”
“No.”
“No?”
“Well, yes. I mean, I was. But now… this is too much.”
“I thought you wanted revenge, Frank. His life is destroyed, just like he destroyed yours. Isn’t this what you wanted?”
“He didn’t do me this wrong,” said Frank. “I mean, the lost job and the chlamydia was satisfying to watch. But this shit is too much.”
“Too late, now,” Melissa replied. “He’sthe one who started doing drugs and stopped making his payments on his house and his car.”
“I guess. Look, I guess the whole jail thing sent him over the edge. I hate the guy, but the last couple weeks have been a step too far.”
“Well, Frank, we are unable to reverse the process.”
Frank had gotten up and been pacing without even realizing it, but now, he came to a dead stop. “Wait, what are you saying? Are you saying you’re not finished?”
“Not quite, no,” said Mellissa. “We still have more in store, for him.”
“The guy’s homeless! He has nothing left to lose!”
“Oh, now that statement shows a lack of imagination. Everyone’s got something to lose.”
“No. No, no, no! Call it off! This has to end, now!”
“Mister Francis, I’d like to ask that you review our terms and conditions. We have a very clear no-refund policy.”
“Okay, okay, no refunds. Fine. I’ve gotten my money’s worth! I wanna end the transaction!”
Mellissa uttered a light giggle.
“Frank,” she said. “What kind of company would we be if we took people’s money without completing a task? By definition, that would make us scammers. We do not run a scam. We run a legitimate business that delivers results to –
“Cut the shit!” Frank shouted. “I’m the customer! I’m telling you, right now, to end the transaction! Keep the money! Just stop!”
“Frank, I’m going to ask that you calm down.”
“Do not fucking tell me to calm down, lady! I’m warning you! End the transaction, or so help me god!”
“Frank, I am not authorized to make that call.”
“Of course you are! You’re handling my case!”
“I’m just a respondent. I can’t –
“Shut it down, now! Shut it the fuck down, lady!”
“Frank, this is unprofessional. Let’s be reasonable, here.”
“Fuck you, lady. I should’ve never gotten involved with this. You’re a lowlife cunt.”
Mellissa’s professionalism then washed away.
“Too late, Frank,” she said. “We’re only just getting started.”
She hung up.
***
The rain pattered hard against Frank’s jacket as he walked hunched over through the soaked, nighttime streets of downtown Winston-Salem. Thunder boomed like an angry god, fitting for Frank’s situation. He was not religious, but he knew that, if there was a god, then he was surely angry with him. If there was a hell, he was likely going. Unless, maybe, he could stop any further misfortune for Clayton.
Frank rounded a corner and saw a pathetic figure, who sat beneath a small cardboard roof that he held above his head, at the front of a back alley, next to a large dumpster. The figure was hunched, curled in a fetal position, and wrapped up in a raincoat.
“Clayton?” Frank called out.
Clayton perked up and jerked his head to the side as though he had heard a ghost. He scrutinized Frank and it was not clear whether or not he recognized him.
“Who’s there?” Clayton asked.
“It’s Frank.”
Silence ensued. Clayton just stared at Frank as the rain came down hard.
“How’d you find me?” Clayton asked.
“Doesn’t matter,” said Frank. “We gotta get you outta here.”
“To where?”
Frank gulped. I can’t believe I’m actually about to say this. “My place?”
There was a pause.
“Sure,” Clayton replied.
Clayton stood and tossed his soaked piece of cardboard. He adjusted his wet clothes and uttered a pitiful sneeze. He was a truly sad sight. Frank’s eyes sunk into despair, which he could not hide.
“You good?” Clayton asked.
“Yeah,” said Frank.
“I’d think you’d be happy, seeing me like this.”
“I’m not.”
“I’ve had a lot of time to think about it. I did you wrong. I’m sorry.”
Frank nodded. “Thank you. I’m sorry, too.”
“For what?”
Footsteps splashing in sidewalk puddles alerted the two men. They looked to the side and saw a man round the corner, holding an umbrella over his head. Clayton knew that smiling, mustached face anywhere.
“Martin?” said Clayton.
It was Martin, from the restaurant. Before anyone had a chance to speak, five masked men emerged from the dark. Three of them grabbed Clayton and hauled him toward the closed pharmacy. The other two led Frank toward the store. Martin followed close behind with that friendly smile plastered to his face.
“Stop!” Frank said. “Just leave him alone!”
“Shh-shh,” Martin whispered, “this is gonna be good.” He had a crazed smile on his face, like a child peering into a bag of Halloween candy.
The empty pharmacy was dark and silent as the three goons dragged a soaked Clayton inside, kicking and shouting, flinging drops of water in all directions. They hauled him to the checkout counter and lifted him up and placed him atop it facedown, shoving his face to the counter with force. He groaned, and his groans turned to pained grunts as the goons pressed down harder. Frank, Martin, and the two other goons followed. The goons all wore black jumpsuits and skeleton masks. Martin whistled a tune as he folded his umbrella. Then, he began to browse the store’s candy aisle.
“You want anything, Frank?” asked Martin.
“No,” said Frank, “I don’t want candy. I want you to let him go. This has gone too far. This is not what I wanted.”
Clayton managed to choke out a few words. “Frank, what are you talking about? Was this you?”
“You already paid,” said Martin, to Frank. “A deal’s a deal, and we’re gonna honor it.”
“You’re not listening!” Frank yelled.
“Sir, I don’t like how you’re acting. You’re making this feel like an unsafe working environment.”
Martin waved to the two goons, and they grabbed Frank from behind and held him. Frank struggled, but these two were strong. As the goons restrained Frank, Martin selected a pack of caramel candies from the shelf. He opened the pack, dumped some candies into his hand, and popped them cheerfully in his mouth. He smiled wide as he nodded to the three goons who restrained Clayton. One of the goons pulled out a hunting knife. The second goon removed one of Clayton’s shoes, and then the sock, exposing Clayton’s tightly-wound achilles tendon.
“What the fuck are you doing?” Frank said. “Stop!”
“Can’t,” said Martin as he chewed candies. “Don’t know how many times we gotta tell you… no refunds, no cancellations. You chose the Platinum Package.”
“No, please!” Clayton squealed. “Please, don’t cut me! Please!”
Martin ignored him as he popped more candy in his mouth and chewed before gesturing to the goons. The knife-wielding goon brought the steel blade to Clayton’s heel.
“Wait!” Frank yelled. “I wanna switch packages!”
Martin signaled for the goons to stop. He looked at Frank. “Come again?”
“I want to switch packages,” said Frank. “I wanna switch to the Silver Package. Is that permitted?”
“Hmm… you know what? It might be.” Martin pulled out his cellphone.
“What are you doing?” Frank asked.
“Calling customer support.” Martin pressed the phone to his ear and waited. “Hey. I got a customer, here. Wants to know if he can downgrade his package from Platinum to Silver… Uh-huh… Uh-huh… Yes, his package is still ongoing… Okay, got it. Thanks.”
Martin approached Frank and handed him the phone.
“She needs your confirmation,” said Martin.
Frank pressed the phone to his ear. “Hey,” he said.
“Hi, Frank,” said Mellissa. “So, just to confirm –
“Yes,” said Frank.
“You want to –
“Yes!”
“Frank, let me finish. Just to confirm, you want to switch to the Silver Package?”
“Yes! Yes! Switch to Silver!”
“Okay, got it.” A short pause. “All right, Frank, this is to confirm you’ve changed to the Silver Package. Is there anything else I can help you with?”
“Nope.” Frank handed the phone back to Martin. Martin hung up.
Frank looked to the three goons, who still held a terrified Clayton. The goons did not budge. Frank looked at Martin, confused.
“Go ahead,” said Frank. “Tell ‘em to let him go.”
“Oh, right,” said Martin. “About that…”
“What?”
“The package switch takes about twenty-four hours to process, so…”
“Wait, wait! What?”
Martin nodded to the goons. The knife-wielding goon pressed the blade to Clayton’s tight tendon and stuck it in. Clayton shrieked and squealed as the goon pushed the blade in farther and farther and blood oozed out. The goon sawed a hole in Clayton’s heel and began to pull up on the tendon. Martin stood by, real casual, and continued to eat candy.
“Stop!” Frank yelled. “Stop it! No!”
Clayton uttered a hair-raising squawk as the goon yanked the blade up, slicing Clayton’s tendon clean in half. Clayton’s head shook and his teeth gnashed as he was overwhelmed with pain. Two goons hopped over the counter and grabbed some items from the pharmacy; gauze, disinfectant, stitching glue.
Frank slumped in the grip of the other two, his head hanging low with guilt, shame, and despair. Martin approached and grabbed his umbrella and placed the milk duds in Frank’s lap.
“Your membership should update by tomorrow,” said Martin. “As always, thanks for choosing Revenge Enterprises.” He slapped Frank’s shoulder and left as the goons patched up Clayton.
Frank raised his head and looked into Clayton’s agonized eyes. Even though Clayton’s eyes were open, Frank was not sure if he was conscious.
“I’m so sorry, Clayton,” said Frank. “I’m so sorry.”
Clayton grunted before he was able to speak.
“I deserve it,” he said. “All of it.” His eyes lowered. The lids closed.
***
Clayton lay in the hospital bed and had stared straight ahead for a while, inhumanely still, stewing on all that had happened the last few weeks. His hospital bills had been mysteriously paid, and he knew that was Frank trying to make up for all the bad he had done. But it made up for nothing. Clayton would not have been here, if it were not for Frank. Clayton’s thoughts were cut off when a nurse entered.
“Hey, there,” she said.
Clayton looked her up and down. She was in her mid-20’s, blonde, with a sizable chest that was like catnip for his eyes.
But… ain’t nobody fucking a homeless cripple, he thought.
The nurse handed him an envelope. “This is for you.”
“Who’s it from?” Clayton asked.
“Not sure. It was anonymous. Need anything?”
“More water would be great.”
“Certainly. I’ll be right back.” The nurse left.
Clayton opened the envelope and read.
Dear Mr. Minor,
You have been the latest target of Revenge Enterprises©. As per our policy, we are unable to disclose information about our customers. Rest assured, you have been pardoned and will no longer be subject to the various methods we use for our clients.
If you have any questions, call 919-555-0130.
Regards,
Revenge Enterprises
Clayton gazed at the letter. He thought of the nice hunk of cash Frank had sent him, and he thought of how best to use it. He dialed the phone number for Revenge Enterprises. He was connected to an agent.
“I wanna use your service,” said Clayton.
“Great,” said the agent. “What package do you think best suits you?”
It did not take him long to decide.
“Platinum,” he said.
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