Bad Mojo

The best stories and the worst crimes are those that involve passion. I feel that was what he was trying to tell me, before he started narrating his story. It was not much of a story as it was a recollection. Or so I found that out later.

It was early Sunday morning that I woke up, and toed him in the ribs to get up. We had gone to the party together and got totally drunk. He even had brought his girlfriend over to the party. She was a petite, little thing, and I really wish the both of them had never met. I felt that she’d look better around my arms, but I’d rather not explain that to him. There was no one really awake that early, and I heard the faint solo of Hotel California wafting from the adjoining room. His room smelt like a bachelor pad. The bed was propped up against the wall, and mattresses were laid on the floor. He said that it was cooler down there. Whatever made him happy. I grabbed my brush and started from the door when I felt his clammy hand grab my ankle. “S-Sit down.”, he mumbled. “Let me go and brush my teeth.” I snapped back, and my head started to ache. “N-no, if you go I’ll forget what it was.” I decided to humour him, and sat down. My legs were aching anyways, and I was in no mood to walk the distance to the toilet. “This better be good” I told him. I reached for the pack of cigarettes on the top of the table, but they were way out of my reach, so I fell back on to the mattress.

“Stan”, he mumbled, “I want to tell you about this dream I just had. This was you and Maggie on the train, and it was pulling out of the station. I was standing all alone on the platform, waving to the both of you. ”

“Yeah Carl, we were doping, with your blessings.”

“No Stan, it was real, you were going away with her. You really like her, don’t you.”

Hotel California was replaced by ‘Turn the page’. Whoever would listen to that stuff so early in the morning.

“Carl, you’re off your head. You know I'm happy for the both of you.”

“I love her, and I don’t want to dream about her with someone else.”

“Don’t worry, Carl, she will never go out with anyone else, you should trust her more.”

I pulled the both of Tropicana off the table.

“Here, have a swig of this, you'll feel all better.”

He propped himself up, and tool a long swig. He flung the bottle to the other side of the room.

“Hey, this stuff is bitter.”

“Must’ve gone bad, been a week since its been bought. ”

I started to get up, when I heard him snarl, ”You like her, don’t you” I swung around, to narrowly miss the chair he swung at me. “Carl, you’ve gone mad.” I said as I scrambled for the door.

He collapsed on his face roughly between the table and the mattress. The fan creaked incessantly. The first rays of the sun started poring in through the window, and fell on the back of his neck. His legs were twisted in a strange position under the table. The next door occupant finally refined his taste and played the acoustic version of ‘When September ends’.

There was a sharp tap on the door. I walked over to it and cautiously opened it.

“Is it over”, she asked.

“Yes”

She handed me the note which I cautiously slipped next to the body.

“He’ll never hit you again”, I said, as we headed out the building.

Stories about crimes of passion are quite good as well.