Saturday's Storyteller: "You'd think running from the law for thirteen years would make a man skinny."
by Belinda Roddie
You'd think running from the law for thirteen years would make a man skinny. It doesn't. Gunther "Grimace" MacGee was fat, fat, fat - weighing over a good three hundred pounds when we finally nabbed him. He was called Grimace because even when he was thinner, he always had a few good folds of extra skin bunched up around his cheeks, like he was meant to be born a dog with a wrinkled mouth and snout. Therefore, even when he smiled, it looked like he was either disgusted or in immense pain.
My superior, Evan Schmidt, had been trying to sniff out this enormous hound for a dozen of those thirteen years. The job was passed to him by the chief after Grimace MacGee didn't show up at the courthouse to play witness to a murder case. The victim had been a twenty-something black gentleman, a fairly wealthy son of a more than fairly wealthy business mogul, having invested much of his inheritance in the car industry. The young man had been mowed down by one of his own shops' automobiles - a fancy Epee 3000, hot off the assembly line. It wasn't until Grimace had been missing for two days that we realized that he had been behind the wheel, and not the company grunt who had been accused of steering the thing straight into the dead guy's soon-to-be-dead ribcage. Of course, that was after we also learned that he had driven a stolen car out of town and hit three other people as he went. Two of them dead. This guy was gold in the justice mine.
So Schmidt was clearly more than a little obsessed with the situation, even when other cases that were easier to manage were brought to his attention. That's where I come in. I joined the special unit three years ago, thinking I'd be another patrol officer but instead complimented for my keen eye. I had a worthless piece of paper that claimed I had studied criminology when really, most of my time had been spent away from the labs and more on the streets, trying to play vigilante. I had been a stupid college kid who had gotten away with a degree anyway - shows how great the education system here is in our country - and now here I was, helping this balding, goatee-sporting, necktie-wearing stereotypical TV drama detective so he could finally snuff this guy out.
Grimace MacGee was not an easy guy to miss - he wasn't huge in the pictures we had, but the jowl was pretty obvious, if not anything else. He was bulky, well-dressed, and brown-haired. In some pictures, he had a mustache - others, he didn't. Most importantly, he always grimaced, even when I was half-sure that he was damn happy to be in some of the photo ops with some of the big guys in town.
"Grimace was pretty big in the political scene," Schmidt informed me for about the seventh time in the past three years I had known him. "He ran the re-election campaign for Dexter Havernackle back in the day. Bastard was like a dying fish, and Grimace just resuscitated him. He won with seventy percent of the vote."
"So what, everyone wanted him on the team?" I asked, wondering if Schmidt would get my thinly veiled baseball joke.
"Oh, yeah," Schmidt snorted, scrubbing coffee grime off his whiskered chin. Again, fitting the role so well. Where were the doughnuts? "Grimace has been advisor to three governors, two senators, even presidential nominees. Though on a more national level, he wasn't exactly as slick. But he knows how this state runs. He knows the city and the country here. Urban and rural. Like a fox who travels with one suitcase and a slippery smile."
"Or a scowl," I correct.
"Yes, yes, make that very clear, Bentley. Very clear."
Anyway, that was a typical day for us. Looking over pictures, looking over leads, trying to find clues as to his whereabouts. We kept in touch with each and every one of his relatives. Even when we were busy putting other brats behind bars, Grimace loomed big in our minds. We had three people to avenge, and while I wasn't exactly overly enthusiastic about being a hero, Schmidt certainly was. That was why, when we got the call thirteen years after Grimace's newfound fugitive status, the man was a little more than ecstatic.
"Gopherville," he nearly spat all over my face as I kept falling asleep at my desk. It had been a long night. "Gopherville. One of his cousins found him. He's been living as a plumber, fixing leaky sinks and stopped up toilets. And woo, is he a big one!"
"Big catch?"
"Big tub of lard."
"Good," I sneered. "Then he can't outrun us."
Not that he didn't try. Schmidt and I hopped into his run-down Jeep because we had three police cars flanking us already and boy, did Schmidt love his damn Jeep. We drove a good two hundred miles without stopping, not even when the skies were dimming above us. Gopherville was priority, and we wheeled around to where Grimace's "hide-out" was allegedly and found it to be a fairly nice two-story house.
"Got you, you homicidal sleazeball," Schmidt hissed, and he lit a cigarette. More archetypal by the day. I supposed that since I was watching Schmidt in action, he had to play up the part.
The door was answered by a scrawny little woman who told us in a very thick accent that "Gunny" was downstairs. We barely even moved when we heard the footsteps and the slamming of wood. We barreled toward the sound, approaching a closed door that must have led into a basement. I fingered the gun snuggled nicely into its holster. Schmidt already had his firearm out.
"MacGee!" he barked. "We've got police forces all around the perimeter! We have you surrounded!"
We didn't hear any verbal response. Just lots of grunting. Schmidt whacked the flat of his shoe against the door.
"MacGee!" he warned. "We're coming in!"
More grunting. We didn't bother to wait any longer. I jabbed my leg outward and the door burst off its hinge, and we marched into the small, dimly lit space. It was crammed with forgotten bookshelves and boxes upon boxes of CDs and records. I thought I even saw a car engine dead and reaching steel rigor mortis on the floor - maybe ripped from the car Grimace stole. Then, as my eyes refocused, I saw a lump sitting in the corner of the space.
"Huh."
There he was, fat as Hell, wearing brown corduroy and a grubby jacket with his name sewn into it. "Gunther." Grimace MacGee was flabby as Hell and looking through photos.
"Well," he grunted when he saw us. "Hi."
"The Hell are you doing, MacGee?" demanded Schmidt.
"Just checking some mementos before I go to jail," he replied. He looked at me. "You I haven't seen before."
"Bentley," I replied a little too politely. "Debra. Deb."
"Hi, Deb," Grimace grimaced. "I'm Tubby."
He didn't really put up much of a fight. I wasn't sure if Schmidt was more relieved or more disappointed. But as he was nonchalantly handcuffed and carted off, he asked me one last question before being shoved with considerable effort into the police car.
"Hey, Deb. Do they offer free liposuction in prison?"
***
Dear Deb,
It's me again. Writing from Cell 214 with a worn down pencil and some shitty binder paper. Can you believe how many more guys come in here by the day? They ought to overhaul the educational system in this country.
Let me cut to the chase: I'm not going to bother you with creepy letters for much longer. I'm sure you're not interested in reading them from an odd guy like me. Good news is, I'm not so fat anymore. I think I've lost about fifty pounds since I got in here. Got a ways to go before I can fit into the nicer jumpsuit, though.
Anyway, you tell Schmidt I say congratulations. I was a cowardly asswipe who mowed down several people because I was an angry, screwed up motherfucker with hardly a shred of soul. The car guy didn't deserve my fury, but when you mix road rage with "I'm tired of my existence," you're bound to get basket cases like me.
I've asked my little Savannah, who you met on that fateful day, to send you a wine basket. Hope you like Merlot. My brother owns a vineyard that I am now forbidden to go to, but at least he likes my former mistress. In short, stay away from the fast food joints and enjoy your little job taking care of bastards like me.
Sincerely,
Gunther MacGee
P.S. You know my joke about liposuction? I'd like to get facial reconstruction, too. You have any idea how tired I am of being called 'Grimace'?
Oh, I could only imagine, my good man.
This week's prompt was provided by Daniel Bulone.
You'd think running from the law for thirteen years would make a man skinny. It doesn't. Gunther "Grimace" MacGee was fat, fat, fat - weighing over a good three hundred pounds when we finally nabbed him. He was called Grimace because even when he was thinner, he always had a few good folds of extra skin bunched up around his cheeks, like he was meant to be born a dog with a wrinkled mouth and snout. Therefore, even when he smiled, it looked like he was either disgusted or in immense pain.
My superior, Evan Schmidt, had been trying to sniff out this enormous hound for a dozen of those thirteen years. The job was passed to him by the chief after Grimace MacGee didn't show up at the courthouse to play witness to a murder case. The victim had been a twenty-something black gentleman, a fairly wealthy son of a more than fairly wealthy business mogul, having invested much of his inheritance in the car industry. The young man had been mowed down by one of his own shops' automobiles - a fancy Epee 3000, hot off the assembly line. It wasn't until Grimace had been missing for two days that we realized that he had been behind the wheel, and not the company grunt who had been accused of steering the thing straight into the dead guy's soon-to-be-dead ribcage. Of course, that was after we also learned that he had driven a stolen car out of town and hit three other people as he went. Two of them dead. This guy was gold in the justice mine.
So Schmidt was clearly more than a little obsessed with the situation, even when other cases that were easier to manage were brought to his attention. That's where I come in. I joined the special unit three years ago, thinking I'd be another patrol officer but instead complimented for my keen eye. I had a worthless piece of paper that claimed I had studied criminology when really, most of my time had been spent away from the labs and more on the streets, trying to play vigilante. I had been a stupid college kid who had gotten away with a degree anyway - shows how great the education system here is in our country - and now here I was, helping this balding, goatee-sporting, necktie-wearing stereotypical TV drama detective so he could finally snuff this guy out.
Grimace MacGee was not an easy guy to miss - he wasn't huge in the pictures we had, but the jowl was pretty obvious, if not anything else. He was bulky, well-dressed, and brown-haired. In some pictures, he had a mustache - others, he didn't. Most importantly, he always grimaced, even when I was half-sure that he was damn happy to be in some of the photo ops with some of the big guys in town.
"Grimace was pretty big in the political scene," Schmidt informed me for about the seventh time in the past three years I had known him. "He ran the re-election campaign for Dexter Havernackle back in the day. Bastard was like a dying fish, and Grimace just resuscitated him. He won with seventy percent of the vote."
"So what, everyone wanted him on the team?" I asked, wondering if Schmidt would get my thinly veiled baseball joke.
"Oh, yeah," Schmidt snorted, scrubbing coffee grime off his whiskered chin. Again, fitting the role so well. Where were the doughnuts? "Grimace has been advisor to three governors, two senators, even presidential nominees. Though on a more national level, he wasn't exactly as slick. But he knows how this state runs. He knows the city and the country here. Urban and rural. Like a fox who travels with one suitcase and a slippery smile."
"Or a scowl," I correct.
"Yes, yes, make that very clear, Bentley. Very clear."
Anyway, that was a typical day for us. Looking over pictures, looking over leads, trying to find clues as to his whereabouts. We kept in touch with each and every one of his relatives. Even when we were busy putting other brats behind bars, Grimace loomed big in our minds. We had three people to avenge, and while I wasn't exactly overly enthusiastic about being a hero, Schmidt certainly was. That was why, when we got the call thirteen years after Grimace's newfound fugitive status, the man was a little more than ecstatic.
"Gopherville," he nearly spat all over my face as I kept falling asleep at my desk. It had been a long night. "Gopherville. One of his cousins found him. He's been living as a plumber, fixing leaky sinks and stopped up toilets. And woo, is he a big one!"
"Big catch?"
"Big tub of lard."
"Good," I sneered. "Then he can't outrun us."
Not that he didn't try. Schmidt and I hopped into his run-down Jeep because we had three police cars flanking us already and boy, did Schmidt love his damn Jeep. We drove a good two hundred miles without stopping, not even when the skies were dimming above us. Gopherville was priority, and we wheeled around to where Grimace's "hide-out" was allegedly and found it to be a fairly nice two-story house.
"Got you, you homicidal sleazeball," Schmidt hissed, and he lit a cigarette. More archetypal by the day. I supposed that since I was watching Schmidt in action, he had to play up the part.
The door was answered by a scrawny little woman who told us in a very thick accent that "Gunny" was downstairs. We barely even moved when we heard the footsteps and the slamming of wood. We barreled toward the sound, approaching a closed door that must have led into a basement. I fingered the gun snuggled nicely into its holster. Schmidt already had his firearm out.
"MacGee!" he barked. "We've got police forces all around the perimeter! We have you surrounded!"
We didn't hear any verbal response. Just lots of grunting. Schmidt whacked the flat of his shoe against the door.
"MacGee!" he warned. "We're coming in!"
More grunting. We didn't bother to wait any longer. I jabbed my leg outward and the door burst off its hinge, and we marched into the small, dimly lit space. It was crammed with forgotten bookshelves and boxes upon boxes of CDs and records. I thought I even saw a car engine dead and reaching steel rigor mortis on the floor - maybe ripped from the car Grimace stole. Then, as my eyes refocused, I saw a lump sitting in the corner of the space.
"Huh."
There he was, fat as Hell, wearing brown corduroy and a grubby jacket with his name sewn into it. "Gunther." Grimace MacGee was flabby as Hell and looking through photos.
"Well," he grunted when he saw us. "Hi."
"The Hell are you doing, MacGee?" demanded Schmidt.
"Just checking some mementos before I go to jail," he replied. He looked at me. "You I haven't seen before."
"Bentley," I replied a little too politely. "Debra. Deb."
"Hi, Deb," Grimace grimaced. "I'm Tubby."
He didn't really put up much of a fight. I wasn't sure if Schmidt was more relieved or more disappointed. But as he was nonchalantly handcuffed and carted off, he asked me one last question before being shoved with considerable effort into the police car.
"Hey, Deb. Do they offer free liposuction in prison?"
***
Dear Deb,
It's me again. Writing from Cell 214 with a worn down pencil and some shitty binder paper. Can you believe how many more guys come in here by the day? They ought to overhaul the educational system in this country.
Let me cut to the chase: I'm not going to bother you with creepy letters for much longer. I'm sure you're not interested in reading them from an odd guy like me. Good news is, I'm not so fat anymore. I think I've lost about fifty pounds since I got in here. Got a ways to go before I can fit into the nicer jumpsuit, though.
Anyway, you tell Schmidt I say congratulations. I was a cowardly asswipe who mowed down several people because I was an angry, screwed up motherfucker with hardly a shred of soul. The car guy didn't deserve my fury, but when you mix road rage with "I'm tired of my existence," you're bound to get basket cases like me.
I've asked my little Savannah, who you met on that fateful day, to send you a wine basket. Hope you like Merlot. My brother owns a vineyard that I am now forbidden to go to, but at least he likes my former mistress. In short, stay away from the fast food joints and enjoy your little job taking care of bastards like me.
Sincerely,
Gunther MacGee
P.S. You know my joke about liposuction? I'd like to get facial reconstruction, too. You have any idea how tired I am of being called 'Grimace'?
Oh, I could only imagine, my good man.
This week's prompt was provided by Daniel Bulone.
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