Rusty & Slasher's Guide to Crime

Rusty & Slasher’s

GUIDE TO CRIME

by Jenny Harrison

Smashwords Edition

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Published by:

Lamplighter Press on Smashwords

Copyright@ 2012 Jennifer Ann Harrison

Check out other titles by this author at:

http://www.jennyharrison.co.nz

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You not bringin’’ that dirty mutt along with us, are you?

Hey, don’ you call our dog dirty.

He drools.

Okay, so he drools a bit but that don’ make him dirty.

Muttley stays in the car when we do the job, you hear me?

Suits me.

Russell and John Naills, twin sons of Mildred Naills, commonly and henceforthly known as Ma, get into the car, back slowly out of the driveway and drive off.

The night seems particularly ominous with a few sullen clouds scudding across the sky. A witching sort of night, although neither boy would have recognised it as such; they being the Marvel comics sort rather than the classics.

Dressed in black, in an old black car with a drooling pit bull terrier on the back seat, they are taking the first exciting step in their brand-new career. They are about to rob Mrs Iris Jenkins who, they have heard, has a load of spare change under her mattress, some fancy jewellery from the time when she was a Lady-of-Means and probably a few knick-knacks they can sell to their fence.

Not that they have a fence. Not yet, anyway. Their criminal career has to start somewhere and they have decided that Mrs Jenkins is going to be the first to experience their brutish ways. It will set the pattern for a few savage robbery jobs in the evenings and lying around the house drinking beer and watching Masterchef on TV the rest of the time.

They are about to make their fortune, the easy way.

On the drive to Mrs Jenkins, Russell and John Naills begin to realise there is quite a lot to think about. Top of that list is what to buy with their ill-gotten gains, for they are aiming high. A Ferrari, perhaps. John Naills fancies an Aston Martin but will settle for a Ferrari each if Russell insists.

Second thought is a little more depressing; what to tell Ma when they come home laden with stolen goodies. Ma has her Burdens, among them a husband who chose exactly this sort of life – and received ten years for his efforts. With Pa’s less-than-shining example, the boys promise themselves they will be a little more cautious and a little more successful.

Their silent ponderings are suddenly punctuated by Muttley who releases a singularly malodorous fart. Russell jerks on the hand brake, flings himself out of the door and onto the street.

Jeez, he yells. What you been feeding that dog?

John doesn’t deign to answer. As all dog owners know, canine farts are to be endured like having to listen to the Queen’s Speech on Christmas Day. He merely continues his previously thoughtful silence as Russell clambers back into the car, feeling considerably weakened by Muttley’s stentorian release of colonic gas.

When you rob an old lady, John asks. Do you tie her up and gag her?

Russell doesn’t reply, cannot reply, as his head is out of the window and he is filling his lungs with air that hasn’t been contaminated. At that precise moment he is more concerned about Muttley’s ability to change the ambience inside the motor car than he is about tying up little old ladies. He cannot think of much else but the awful stench that permeates everything.

An’ what about face paint? John continues. Why not use face paint, Rusty, instead of these smelly old balaclavas?

Nah, we wear balaclavas, says Russell. All the crims on TV wear balaclavas. You ever see a crim on TV wearing face paint? Don’t worry, the balaclavas’ll scare her.

Another ponderous thought penetrates the foul dog-odour in the car.

What if she has a heart attack while we doin’ our stuff? asks John. Do we call for an ambulance or just leave her?

Stop asking stupid questions, Russell says.

I’m jus’ tryin’ to think ahead here. After a thoughtful pause John goes on. Once we got the loot where do we hide the stuff? We can’t keep it in the house. Ma’ll sniff it out in minutes and then she’ll kill us dead.

Russell brushes off the thought of Ma’s disapproval. Once they have some loot to stash away they can think about the problem of a fence and of Ma. It’s way too early to worry about that. Get the job done first. Stash it somewhere and then think about how to sell it. Ma, of course, is going to be the big problem. She definitely won’t want her boys going down the same road as Pa. Or will she? You never can tell with Ma, Russell concludes.

There is no doubt Russell and John Naills love their mother who would probably be greatly surprised if they ever announced such a pansy emotion. She would be further greatly overwhelmed to receive a bit of cash to cover household expenses, as her two boys usually spend their dole money before it gets as far as rent or food.

In the car on the way to perform their first robbery Russell’s thoughts turn to Ma, broad of bosom and with arms made for crushing large boys even though at the age of twenty-four the boys do not think they should be lovingly hugged by their Ma, at least not in public.

Russell wonders what their father was thinking when he got caught, especially having a wife who could hug like Ma and cook like Jamie Oliver. But that is another story, one Russell still hasn’t been told. Ma’s as good at secrets as she is at chicken casserole, he reckons. Still, sitting in prison far from home cooking and hugs must be tough, Russell thinks, and we better be smart so we don’t land up the same way.

John is less worried about Ma and more worried about the fate of Muttley who was Pa’s dog, left behind when their Old Man had his troubles. At the time Ma packed away anything that reminded her of Ernie; photos, the clothes he had left behind, the few birthday presents he had bought her. But Muttley is the one thing she cannot pack away, so the old dog continues to live in the kitchen, muttering in his sleep and flubbering his bad breath into the air.

You goin’ to hold the hammer? John asks. They are nearing their destination and these details need to be sorted.

What hammer?

The hammer we’ll use to knock the old lady out.

Nah, you can.

I don’t want to. I don’t want to hit any old biddy on the head. You can do it.

I’m not hitting any old biddy on the head either.

Well then ...

Okay, here’s the plan. We go in and tie her up.

Then?

Then we’ll play it by ear, says Russell, unable to imagine anything further than going into Mrs Jenkins’s house, taking her money and bolting. Now, jus’ let me concentrate on my driving, okay?

At this time of night the streets of Panui are silent. The boys drive through the only traffic light in Main Street, gleeful to be going through the red without stopping, and cruise past the lighted shop windows which house silent mannequins with vacant stares. Panui generally dies at about nine o’clock in the evening, usually only coming to any sort of life over the weekends when there is a rugby match down on the weed-embossed sports ground. Or when the circus arrives to spend the off-season months at their winter quarters in Dairy Flats and the children get invited to watch rehearsals for the next season. Then the town lifts a little as flamboyant circus people flood the town or parade their animals down Main Street. Slasher was once invited to ride atop Judy the elephant, but he ran away screaming and wetting his pants and so that was that.

In between the rugby season and the circus, residents hunker down in front of their television sets and let other people’s adventures drift through their zombie minds. They are little different from any other community in New Zealand – except most communities don’t have Russell and John Naills in their midst.

The boys have recently joined the local rugby team but are usually red-carded before half-time, such is the nature of their playing (all biff and fist-bunch, with bloody noses their speciality). It doesn't matter that they don’t get much game-time; they still enjoy the after-the-match beer with the rest of the team which, for most of them, is the most important part of any game. John wonders what the team will think when they hear that the twin brothers have a new career.

Silence encloses them as they drive towards their destiny. The silence is broken by a familiar gripe.

Why’d she call me John? It is an old whinge, one that Russell has heard many times over the years. She could of called me anything in the whole world, but she calls me John. Why didn’ the Old Girl give me a name like ... And here John’s imagination comes to a halt.

What would he have preferred had he been given the choice? He wished he’d had a chance at some input when they sat around deciding on a name for the second and quite unexpected baby that slithered out five minutes after Ma had thought it all over. He could have, had he been sitting up and partaking of sausages and mash and not mother’s milk, made some good suggestions although Marmaduke and Ethelred would not have been on the list. Instead, while he lay there drooling and gargling and pooping, his future as plain John had been decided.

You still on about your stupid name? Russell asks. Shut up and give it a rest, will you?

Why can’t we have names like Slasher or something? John grumbles. Real gangster names. I like Slasher. It’s got a sort of ...

You want me to call you Slasher then I’ll call you Slasher. But nex’ time you want to take a slash in the garden don’ blame me.

It is well known in the neighbourhood that John Naills likes to pee on his mother’s rose bushes; especially in the mornings when the pretty girls are walking by on their way to school or older women are hurrying to the bus stop up the road. In fact, John Naills makes sure they see what is on offer. He is happiest when the girls walk by, swaying their comely hips and smirking at him, but not too sure why they only wave with their pinkie fingers. Still, that’s girls for you. One day he’ll understand them. Maybe.

Actually, I think I want to be called Slick. Jus’ think of the news headlines; ‘Slick’s gang strikes again’.

No, you stay Slasher, Russell says. It’s got a certain ring to it. It suits you.

An’ what about you? What criminal name do you want to use?

I’m staying Rusty, Russell says. Ma called me Rusty right from the beginning after Pa loaded me with Russell. And what Ma says is good enough for me.

But, come on. I mean Rusty Naills. Don’ you get tired of the boys ...?

Rusty shrugs. The boys on the rugby team don’t say anything to his face. Not anymore. The name Rusty Naills wasn’t too much of an issue in the change-room after he had sorted a few of the guys out by changing their minds manually. It was only when they called him Painted to his face that he got seriously affronted. That was a once-off with solemn consequences and there was a combined decision taken by the team not to affront Russell Naills ever again.

It is after midnight when they draw up in front of Mrs Iris Jenkins’s home and drag at the hand brake. It is the right time for bad doings and stuff, just right for a bit of well-judged thieving, Rusty thinks, and as dark as an alley cat’s arsehole. Rusty is satisfied that all is going to plan with the moonless sky black and sinister and the street light in front of Mrs Jenkins’s house shattered by a well-placed rock earlier in the day.

You got the hammer? he asks.

Yep, and where’s the rope?

Rope?

"How you think