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Snake sat on the bench at a picnic table overlooking the lake at Byrd Park. The Carillon and the beer trucks were behind him. His work was done and it was all over but the shouting and payday. Boris had given him enough pain medicine to hold him until he could get medical care. He figured he’d go to the hospital later in the afternoon when he was long gone from Richmond. He watched the paddleboats on the lake and surveyed the enormous homes on the other side. He reflected on his life of crime, pain, and loneliness.
"Hello, mister." A small musical voice startled him. He jumped. "Did you hurt your arm? It looks like it might be bleeding," a child said as her brown eyes inspected the bandages on his right arm.
Snake looked down at the young child with short blond ringlets and serious brown eyes. He didn't think he’d spoken to a child before — at least not for thirty years. At first, he just stared at her unsure if she’d actually spoken to him.
The little girl walked a little closer and inspected his arm critically. She nodded her head and said, "Yeah. Just like I thought. It's still bleeding." She looked away from his arm up into his face and asked, "How’d you hurt it?"
"I... I got bitten by a dog, a big mean dog," Snake said as he pointed to his forearm. He looked at her carefully and said in a kind voice he hardly recognized, "You should always stay away from dogs you don't know, did you know that?"
The little girl nodded solemnly. "Yeah, I know." She looked at his arm again and said, "I think you need to go to the hospital. Especially if you did it yesterday and it’s still bleeding. That’s bad," she said as she pondered his injuries.
Snake cracked a smile. This was one smart little girl. He said, "You think I should? I'm going to go this afternoon when I get off work. As soon as my boss says I can go home, I'm gonna go see a doctor and get some stitches.
The little girl nodded and said, "My mama is an artist. My daddy’s a doctor. My mama is over there," she said as she pointed towards the Carillon, "hanging up her big oil paintings. You want to come over and see them? They're beautiful," she offered. "Her name is Melodie and she paints all kinds of stuff, mostly big stuff with weird designs," the little girl announced.
Snake shook his head and said, "I'm sorry. I can’t go. But, I’m sure they’re very nice, just like you said. I'm on my lunch break and I have to get back to work cleaning up trash and sweeping the concrete."
The little girl looked disappointed.
“Tell you what though. I'll try to get over there before I get off work and say hi to you and your mother," he said. “Does that sound good to you?”
The little girl nodded, smiled and scampered off. Snake could see a tall dark-headed woman call and motion frantically to the child. That's a stupid woman to let her child roam all over the park unsupervised. No telling what could happen to her. Or what will happen to her. Snake felt a funny feeling come over him. Was he going soft? He’d never cared about anyone before, but this little girl had somehow touched him. He wondered if there was a way to save her. Or if she would die soon.
Snake continued to think about the little girl. He felt strange. He never spoke with children. He didn't like children and he didn't understand them. He shook his head and shivered slightly wondering if he was losing his mind. Maybe it was all the drugs he’d taken. He felt terrible all over. He wondered if he had a fever. Or even worse, if he could be getting lockjaw or rabies from that damned dog. He laid his head back against the bench and drifted off to sleep for a few seconds.
"Snake, get up. It's almost show time," a happy, excited Boris said to him. He sat down next to him on the bench, his smelly, skeletal body touching him. “We gotta move in five minutes. The beer tent opens at one and I don't want to miss anything." Snake could feel the excitement drifting off Boris and it disgusted him.
Snake ignored him as his thoughts returned to the innocent young child. He wondered how many kids would die today between the canisters of poison gas and the beer. They wouldn't kill any kids with beer unless they drank from their parent’s beer cups. His head raged with pain. He turned to Boris and asked, "Man, you got any Tylenol? I think I got a fever. I feel like hell. I can hardly move. My body hurts so much," he whined.
Boris picked up his backpack, reached inside and pulled out a bottle of acetaminophen. "Here, take it. After everything happens, you need to get to a doctor. You probably do have a fever. Those dog bites were bad," he said.
Snake swallowed four Tylenol and his thoughts returned to his conversation with the little girl. What was wrong with him? Was he hallucinating? Maybe he was already dead. He didn't know. But the conversation with the child was the brightest moment he could remember in his entire life. The only time his life had been totally shaped by innocence and honesty.
Boris stood and covered his face with the hood of his rain poncho. "Get up. I want to move over to that bench just outside the beer tent. I want a good view and the front row seat. I don't want to miss anything.”
Snake stared at him with loathing. He shook his head and said, “You’re a real sicko, you know that?”
Boris smiled happily. “I've been working towards this day for years. I've wanted to test this poison forever," he said with passion, his eyes bright.
Snake stared at Boris. He'd never seen him like this. Boris’s eyes shone with happiness and his normally pale cheeks were flushed. He was ecstatic with glee. Snake recognized that killing people was more than a job for Boris. It was an experience he loved, cherished and enjoyed. Killing people wasn’t just about survival or money, it was about science, research and experiments. It was twisted, but it was true.
Boris was impatient. "Get up, man. We gotta go," he urged him. "I want a front row seat to this show,” he repeated happily. "I been in line with this ticket for my entire life," he gushed.
Snake shook his head. “Man, who are we working for? Who wants all these people killed? You can tell me. I deserve to know,” Snake insisted.
Boris gave him a strange look and said, “You don’t know?”
Snake shook his head. “No idea. Tell me.”
“Me. It’s me. I want them dead. What’s wrong with you? I thought you’d figured that out by now,” he snorted and laughed.
Snake was shocked. “You? But why? What did these people ever do to you?”
“It’s personal. Now get up. I want a good seat,” Boris ordered, an irrational, wild look on his face.
Snake shook his head and struggled to his feet, but his balance was off. He slipped in the wet grass. "You go ahead, Boris. Grab us the bench and I'll be there in a couple of minutes. As soon as I'm steady on my feet," Snake promised.
"Okay, no problem. I'll save you a seat," Boris said, his tall skinny body glowing, his bumpy head glistening with rain, excitement and passion. He looked like a crow in his dark rain poncho. Snake watched him grab a bag of popcorn from a vendor, walk nonchalantly over to a bench, and sit down to wait for the show. He looked back, gave Snake a final look and said, “It’s not really me, Snake. Don’t worry. You’ll get paid.”
What the hell is he talking about? The man is nuts. Nausea traveled up Snake's esophagus, but he swallowed it. He turned his face towards the drizzling rain. He looked over and saw the little girl helping her mother in her art booth. He wondered if they would survive. He wondered if he would survive. He wanted to live but most of all, he wanted his old self back. Snake wanted his cold, evil, uncaring, killer personality back in his body. He didn't like having feelings. They hurt. They were painful. He looked again at the little girl and she waved at him. He turned his head away and pretended he didn’t see her.