VERACIOUS

DREADFUL - EVENT #7

In this game of Truth AND Dare, there will be no winners.

No one has ever described Dallas as a “must-see” destination. Sure, certain individuals will claim to enjoy such-and-such or so-and-so, but the truth is they are likely lifelong constituents with a warped desire to coerce unsuspecting, dewy-eyed people to their dull, sodden city. If you come across someone who says something as ludicrous and slanderous as the city being a top-notch place, cease discussions with them immediately. At best, Dallas should be considered a stopover point, a place where you get off the highway, take a piss, and ogle at the skyline for three seconds before moving onto a better city like Waco or Texarkana.

One could argue (although they shouldn’t) that Dallas is a mysterious and bizarre intersection of BBQ, intolerance, and elaborate highway overpasses. Few other places can boast the same claim.

As with any major city, money reigns supreme, with apartment complexes like The Amorphophallus owned by conglomerates whose shit stinks worse than most. Billionaires prop themselves up in gated communities and feed off the suffering of the poor. They own sports teams, have archaic beliefs, and contribute nothing to society except broken promises. Massive corporations have their headquarters in the suburbs and rope prospective employees in with the promise of promotions, pathetic pay raises, and ho-hum benefits. People gobble it up because they have no other choice.

Somewhere in the midst of the money hierarchy is the Trent family. They exist in anonymity for most and notoriety for a select few. For decades they have owned the most exclusive, sought-after private country club in the Dallas area, known, in a boring turn of events, as the Dallas Country Club. Research shows that a yawn-inducing name like such yields ten percent higher profit than businesses that opt for a unique name. People at the country club swear by that fact, even though the supposed source croaked a dozen years back.

(Another interesting fact: there are no parks in Dallas. Not a one. Some will try to argue that Klyde Warren Park is indeed a park, but it sits above a highway and is sandwiched between busy cross streets. It’s no different from trying to play a soccer game in the middle of Route 75. Most of the green space the city has cordoned off belongs to private clubs, like the one mentioned above. Beautiful, bountiful green space only meant for the tiny percentage who enjoy paying six-figure initiation fees to jerk off other socialites and money hoarders. The closest thing to a “park” that Dallas has is Highland Park—a neighborhood so devoid of diversity that they don’t need streetlights. The collective whiteness of the residents is enough to be seen from orbit at night.)

Somewhere in the midst of the Trent hierarchy is Bubba. Bubba, like anyone living off of generational wealth, is a real cocksucker—a put-down said by everyone he meets, including his parents, pastor, and high school principal. Bubba wears the name with honor because he lacks any self-awareness. Would a true cocksucker get as many women as he does? Would a legit cocksucker drive a gas-guzzler that gets eight miles to the gallon? Would a real cocksucker spend three hours a day in the gym to get absolutely shredded?

Okay, that part about Bubba lacking self-awareness isn’t true. Admittedly, he’s an easy target. In reality, Bubba has been coddled his entire life. He is the youngest of five and what his parents deemed their miracle child. He is premature in many ways, with his birth being the most notable. On the drive home after spending his initial months in the NICU, his mother whispered in his ear how she’d never let him suffer again.

And, mostly, she has stuck to her word.

Bubba Trent didn’t need to pursue college like his other siblings. He didn’t need to apply for a job at the country club; instead, he was gifted one. His mother softened every failure of his and bribed every official who needed to be corrected. Bubba’s golden parachute was studded with diamonds and other rare minerals, yet somehow it only allowed him to descend even slower.

He could do no wrong because he wasn’t allowed to do any wrongs, which is what made him a cocksucker.

That part was true.

All the protective parenting had made Bubba a soft soul. He put up a stone-cold exterior in public, but that façade corroded in private. Case in point: Bubba had just caddied for a former Cowboys quarterback who was rude, snide, and uppity for all eighteen holes. Bubba put on a brave face and absorbed each blow, but now he is letting the tears flow freely. He turns up the radio to drown out the sobs. Crying in his truck has always been his go-to choice because it sits so high off the ground that he knows no one else can see inside.

“Breaking news this afternoon out of Spokane, Washington. [CENSORED], the twenty-five-year-old responsible for the Walt Whitman Elementary School shooting, has been sentenced to life in prison without parole. He was found guilty of all thirty-six charges,” the disc jockey says. Bubba listens to FM radio on his drive home each day. His parents cut the satellite radio package three months ago.

“Wait, are you sure you have the name right?” the second disc jockey asks.

“Yes, it’s [CENSORED].”

“No, no. That guy is the one who shot up the synagogue in Illinois. The Walt Whitman shooter is [CENSORED]. He was killed by police at the scene.”

“No, no,” the first disc jockey says. “We’re both wrong. That’s the guy who set the explosive devices in the movie theater. He really tore that place up. They had a hard time identifying the bodies.”

“Wait, then who is [CENSORED]?”

“Is he the one who drove through the Mardi Gras crowd in New Orleans?”

“You know, I think that might be it. Just an absolute tragedy, that one.”

“An absolute tragedy,” the first disk jockey echoes.

“An absolute tragedy,” the second disk jockey says. “It’s so easy to get them all jumbled and tumbled. Too, too easy. Too easy. Sheesh, especially when so many of them happen and folks like us can move on without a second thought. My brain can’t keep ‘em straight,” the voice laughs. “Anyway, here’s a favorite from Huey Lewis & The News.”

The opening of “I Want A New Drug” starts playing. Bubba is unfamiliar with the song and decides to embrace silence instead.

The sound of his sniffles reverberate around the interior of his refurbished truck. He grabs a tissue and dabs at his eyes. “I always thought you were a shitty commentator too,” Bubba says to hoist his spirits about being verbally abused. He manages to crack a smile by the time the gate trudges open into The Amorphophallus. The truck barely fits under the low-hanging ceiling. The leasing office has warned him multiple times that they are not responsible for any damages to his truck. Neither am I, Bubba snarks to himself. In his experience, potential problems like that are handled by outside forces. The less he knew, the better.

Bubba navigates up to the parking garage rooftop, minding his corners and watching out for any cars coming from the opposite direction. For whatever reason, other residents treated the parking garage as their personal drag race strip. On this evening, he encounters no one else.

This is where he comes on the days when he needs an escape. His roommate can be insufferable and overbearing and reminiscent of his mother, so the longer he can delay interactions with him the better.

Eight months ago, his mother approached him with tears flooding her eyes. She had an ultimatum: either Bubba moves out into the specified apartment complex or be dropped from any inheritance. (He later learned that his other siblings had banded together and created a united front to their parents. They were tired of Bubba being a “fuck-up” and “skating” through “life” without “any” consequences. Bubba, who doesn’t know shit from shiitake, classified the sequence of events as a true tragedy.) Bubba had grown used to his lifestyle, not so much the extravagance of it, but how he didn’t need to slave away at a corporate job his father would have secured for him. Instead, he caddies three days a week for (mostly) respectable clients. Many value his insight, and for the ones who don’t, he adds enough laxative into their drink to spice up the back nine. Bubba didn’t want to lose the leisure. He didn’t want to spend his evenings worrying about spreadsheets and presentations and financials for a company that didn’t value him, that didn’t know the genuine Bubba.

With that logic stitched in place, Bubba’s decision was simple. His mother never explained why they chose The Amorphophallus for him, but after moving in, he understood: the complex was the middle of the road in every sense. Not shabby or elite. Not cheap or overly expensive. Not full of wackos or booming with socialites and dangerous influences. The Amorphophallus was as straightforward and stimulating as a colonoscopy. His parents must have wanted him to learn a “lesson” or take a step in “maturing.” Whatever. Fine. He’d do whatever it took to keep the cash flow coming in.

So far, the experiment had been tolerable. Outside of his roommate, Bubba somewhat appreciated the change-up. He enjoyed seeing how poor people lived. He enjoyed hearing them leave in the mornings for their dead-end jobs. He took satisfaction in knowing that while he was stuck here for a year or two (at the most), they would spend their entire lives scratching and clawing at that elusive upward mobility. Bubba guffawed at the concept of people his age affording a house or paying off student loans.

They are so fucked.

This is the stuff he contemplated and rationalized while sitting in his idling truck, burning fuel, brainpower, and the remnants of a humiliating day.

Bubba found his refuge in month two of the excursion he’s on. One day, the tiny voice that echoed inside him said to keep driving. Go higher, it urged. He obliged. That first night, he spent six hours up here, listening to the tollway traffic and gazing at the colorful skyline. He never noticed it before. He didn’t know that Reunion Tower was a thing that lit up in celebration after a sports team’s win. For being born in Dallas, Bubba wasn’t much of a local. Their private jet didn’t stay parked at Love Field for too long between trips.

On this particular night, the top floor is empty except for the 2003 Hyundai Sonata that sits abandoned in the corner. The only reason Bubba knows the make and model is because it’s been there for as long as Bubba can recall. He parks on the south side of the parking garage, giving him the best view of the skyline. He puts the front seat back and turns the radio back on. More classic rock dribbles from the speakers. Whether he knows each song no longer matters; he’s here for the vibe.

He’s here to press pause on his life.

Bubba Trent knows he is different. He knows that his life is exceptional compared to the average. He knows that “normal” problems will never plague him. He knows that most will never understand how he could have any problems at all. The thing that’s easy to forget is that Bubba is still human. And much like any other human, Bubba has a propensity to fuck up. This is where he goes to clear his mind of such burdens. If he held onto all the terrible, unsightly things he did, he’d be just as miserable as everyone else. He is above that. Soaring high beyond such pettiness. Yes, it’s true, Bubba Trent is a cocksucker, but he is proud of it. No homo, though.

Bubba closes his eyes and listens to the radio, which pairs nicely with the purring exhaust pipe. Sleep is an arm’s reach away. He is drifting closer and clo—

Tap . . . tap, tap . . . taptaptap

A knock on the driver’s side window pulls Bubba awake. His eyes dart open, and his heart skips a beat at the intrusion. He considers lying still and waiting for the individual to pass. Maybe he misheard it in the fir—

taptaptaptaptaptaptaptaptaptap

The noise continues at a rapid pace.

taptaptaptaptaptaptaptap

Bubba has confidence that his tinted windows make it impossible to see into the truck. Is that an occasional problem with law enforcement? Yeah, it can be. But when your last name is Trent, they let such a meaningless infraction slide.

Maybe it’s someone from the apartment complex. Maybe they have enacted a new rule stating that all vehicles are forbidden from idling on the top floor. Maybe someone needs assistance. Knowing this state, they were probably shot during a domestic dispute. Bubba rationalizes all the possibilities and continues to keep a low profile.

TAP . . . TAP . . . TAPTAPTAPTAPTAPTAP . . . TAPTAP

He decides that the intrusion can no longer be ignored. With minimal urgency, Bubba lifts the seat until he can peek his head high enough to see out the window. When he does, all he sees is a floating hand and a glass bottle responsible for the noise. It doesn’t seem like they are trying to break the window. They just want his attention.

Bubba inclines the seat to its regular position. He can now see that the floating hand belongs to an arm, which, unsurprisingly, extends to a shoulder and an entire human body.

“Hey,” the person outside says. The tapping slows and then tapers out like your favorite song ending. “I know you can see me. I can see you. I come in peace,” they say, holding up both hands. “Just wanted to invite you to play a game with us.” They motion over to the three individuals standing twenty feet behind them.

“Not interested,” Bubba yells.

“Sure you are,” they say. “Look, it’s a simple game. You’ve played it before. Still, I can explain the rules in thirty seconds and then we are on our way. I promise that it’s worth your time. I wouldn’t knock on a stranger’s window if it wasn’t.”

Bubba doubles down. “I’m really not interested.” Without realizing it, his hand drifts toward the gun beneath his seat. He stops himself before his fingers reach the grip. The Smith & Wesson 442 sitting patiently underneath has been a favorite of Bubba’s since his dad first brought him to the range as a kid. Reliable, easy to clean, and deadly at this range. Bubba thinks he’s got the guts and balls to use it if the situation ever called for such force.

“C’mon,” they say. They grit their teeth and strain to open—what Bubba can now see—the glass Coke bottle. Once achieved, they take a swig of it and tilt their head back to enjoy the taste. “You know, I live here. In Apartment 408. It’s not like I’m some rando. You have nothing to be afraid of.”

“I’m not afraid. Just not interested.”

“Boo. Don’t be a cocksucker. Jeez, c’mon. Are you allergic to fun or something? Christ. Here . . . Here, how about this?” They put down the glass bottle and point to their chest. “In the spirit of transparency, my name is Scarlett, but everyone calls me Scar. I guess I leave a good impression on others. I’ve lived at The Amorphophallus for . . . oh, eh . . . a year and three months. I work downtown at The Hooters, so you know I have self-worth issues. Or maybe I just know how to exploit sex-deprived idiots. Take your pick. Either way, here we are. Your turn.”

Bubba looks at Scar’s tits as if they didn’t exist until this moment. He can’t help it. He is as depraved as any other man. He’d never admit how they were the determining factor in relenting. With the window still rolled up, Bubba says, “I’m Bubba. Been here eight months. This is my hiding spot, so I’m not thrilled at someone else finding out about it.”

“Hiding in plain sight,” Scar says. “So sorry to intrude. After tonight, I don’t see you ever coming back here.”

Bubba shuts off the engine and finally gets out of the car. He pockets the keys and leaves his phone on the driver’s seat. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Nothing,” Scar laughs. “Just wanted to see if you were paying attention.”

Bubba eyes her and lets the comment slide. “Did you grow up around here?” he asks. “You look familiar.”

“More or less. Dallas is a big place, though. I doubt we have ever crossed paths. Maybe we passed by one another over on Thirty-Five or something.” Scar laughs again. “I’ve never considered that, actually: how many people we zip by on the highway. Each with their own life and own worries and own families.”

“Yeah . . .” Bubba says.

Scar grabs Bubba’s hand. Her skin is freezing, but he doesn’t mind. The physical touch is worth the slight discomfort. “Let me introduce you to the others before we start.”

They make the short walk over to the three guys. They look . . . dead. Devoid of any life and emotion. They are standing with hands in their pockets and slack-jawed expressions that are captured fully under the setting sun. “Dean, Ned, Aiden, meet Bubba. Bubba meet Dean, Ned, and Aiden.” Like a wire had snapped back into place, all three guys look at Bubba at smile. They begin talking over one another.

“Nice to meet you.”

“How’s it going?”

“Beautiful night, isn’t it?”

Bubba shakes each of their hands and returns the pleasantries. They talk about the weather and the price of gas.

“Oh boy howdy, that truck you got must be a real burden on the ole wallet,” one guy says. Bubba has already forgotten his name.

“It’s manageable,” Bubba says.

“Okay, great,” Scar cuts in. “Glad everyone is getting along. Meeting new people is one pleasure of life. Along with sitting next to a fire on a chilly night and getting revenge.”

“What?” Ned says. Although Bubba does not remember his name, you should.

“You never sat near a fire on a chilly night?” Scar asks. “How sad. Very sad.” She claps her hands and gets everyone back on track. “Okay, let’s stop pissing away our time. I have other places to be.” She looks right at Bubba as if he should know what her future plans are. “The game is simple, as are the rules. We are playing one full round of Truth and Dare.”

“Truth and Dare?” Dean says.

“Yes. Did I stutter? If you have an iota of patience, I will explain,” Scar says with a pout of annoyance. “The game is the same as what we all love, with one exception. Each player needs to complete both a truth and a dare during their turn. Failure to do so results in dire consequences. Simple enough, right?”

Mumbles of consent are heard from the guys.

“Wait, what are the consequences of losing?” Bubba asks.

“Oh, they are nothing to worry about. A minor punishment that may cause slight embarrassment is all. Seeing as you four are all intelligent, agile men, you should have no issues. Remember: no assisting one another. To each is their own.”

“Are you playing?” Aiden asks.

Scar brings two fingers to the bridge of her nose. “Jesus, no. I am the host. Anymore stupid fucking questions?”

The guys stare back at Scar with blank expressions.

“Wonderful,” Scar says. “Aiden, why don’t you go first? C’mon, don’t be shy. I only bite during a blue moon.” Scar beckons Aiden closer. With hesitation, he steps toward her, looking back at the guys as if he is being deployed overseas to a losing war.

In this brief interim, another question is posed past the asking period. “How will you know if we are telling the truth? It’s not like we know each other.”

Scar sighs and stomps a foot. She brings the glass bottle to her cheek. “Dean—”

“I’m Ned,” he says.

“Dean, Ned. Whoever you are. You’re getting close to just being dead. How does that sound?”

Ned begins to respond but stops short. Instead, he gives Scar a thumbs-up.

Aiden is now standing next to Scar. He stands taller by at least half a foot, and yet she appears to be the more dominating one. “Fuck. Fine. I’ll answer your anemic question . . . I have no way of knowing whether you are telling the truth. Intuition, though. That’s a powerful thing if you believe in the idea. Anyone who is suspected of spinning the truth will face a harsher dare. Does that satisfy your itch, Ned?” Scar emphasizes the last word. At this, Ned turns his face away like a child who has just been scolded.

“Aiden, welcome. Please try to show some competence. This is a child’s game, remember? You should be able to manage,” Scar says.

This isn’t right. This isn’t right, Bubba says to himself. He breaks from the trance he’s in and takes a step forward. Dean thrusts out an arm and grabs the back of Bubba’s shirt. With softness and sincerity, Dean says, “Don’t. You already made your choice.” Bubba looks at Dean and understands that he isn’t joking. Bubba steps back into place. The first chance he gets, he is blitzing to the car. He will barrel through Scarlett if he has to.

For right now, he continues to play along.

“Aiden, let’s start with a truth,” Scar says. “It’s a simple question: Have you ever bullied someone?”

Aiden looks skyward for inspiration, finds none, and returns his gaze to the floor. “I . . .” he trails off.

Scar takes another sip from the Coke bottle. She stares over at Aiden and waits for him to proceed.

Aiden stammers and stutters until clarity launches into him. “Yes, I suppose I have. I used to be a dick in high school.”

“Is that so?” Scar says. “Well, good on you for recognizing your past behavior. See, that was easy.” She walks away from Aiden. Her stride is measured. She knows they are fixated on her every move. The stage light won’t be ripped away from her. Scar spins around to face Aiden again and jabs a finger in his direction. “One more question. An elaboration of sorts. What kind of bullying did you fancy? There are many variations, after all. Verbal, physical, mental, et cetera. To say you bullied someone doesn’t paint the clearest picture.”

Aiden scrunches his face as if he’s just licked a lemon. “I-I, uh, I used to steal this kid’s clothes and towel after baseball practice. He’d race around the locker room covering himself up until I gave him his stuff back.”

“Oh, my goodness. How humiliating!” Scar says. “Poor kid. He must have hated you. Like, really fucking despised you. I understand it. I really do. People used to poke fun at me. One day, you are forced to take things head-on, and, well, everything changes. Unfortunately for me, I never got an apology from my abuser. And while your victim isn’t here today, you get to repent for your sins.” Scar takes a moment to finish the last of her Coke. “So, Aiden, your dare: I want you to strip down naked and run around the fourth-floor hallways while knocking on each door. Maybe a few will be curious and see you for what you are.”

“Absolutely not,” Aiden says without hesitation. He looks over at the other guys. Bubba shrugs. Ned and Dean remain motionless.

“Absolutely not?” Scar mocks. “Karma is real, my dude. You need to cleanse yourself and ensure your life returns to a blank slate. This is the best way for you to apologize to this kid. I mean, jeez, you didn’t even care enough to say his name. C’mon, I’m sure you look just fine with no clothes on.”

“Fuck that. I’d rather eat fucking glass than do that,” Aiden says.

“You know,” Scar says, stepping in the middle between Aiden and the other guys, “I never understood why people say such ridiculous things. Would you actually eat glass, Aiden? Would you? Would somebody really cut off their arm instead of doing a simple task? Hyperbole is so overdone.”

“I meant it,” Aiden says.

“Good, I was hoping you did.” Scar drops the Coke bottle. The glass splits against the concrete floor and scatters into a dozen pieces. Scar bends down and picks up the largest piece. With jagged edges on all sides, it’s about the size of a Q-Tip. She extends an arm to Aiden. “Eat it.”

“What?”

“Eat. It.” Scar enunciates the two words to clear up any misunderstanding.

Bubba steps forward. “No, nope. That’s enough. Nobody is doing that.” He turns to Aiden. “Buddy, you don’t have to do that. Really. This isn’t funny anymore. Not that it ever was.”

“I’ll do it,” Aiden squeaks out.

“Are you fucking kidding me?” Bubba says. “Are you actually fucking kidding me?”

“I need to repent,” Aiden says. “I’ve been bad. Mean. Hurtful. This is my medicine.”

Scar moves to Aiden and places a hand on his shoulder. “This is your medicine. That’s right.”

“Repent?!” Bubba yells. “About being a bully? What, like ten years ago? We all sucked in high school. Dude, you can’t be serious. You’re insane. This—”

“Shhhhh,” Scar says, bringing a finger to her lips. “Your time is coming. Let’s quiet down with all the needless commentary, yeah?” She turns back to Aiden and hands him the piece of glass. “Whenever you’re ready.”

Aiden tilts his hand and examines the piece of glass from all angles.

“Don’t do it,” Bubba pleads. His eyes dart between Aiden and the truck sitting fifty feet away now. Somehow, the top floor feels as if it has been expanding.

Bubba’s words go unheeded. Aiden brings the glass to his mouth and swallows. Instantly, Aiden’s eyes bulge and both hands rush to his neck. He chokes; the sound echoing out into the night. Scar stands idle as Aiden drops to his knees. The glass is lodged in his throat, each serrated edge slicing into him. Aiden turns to the other guys and pleads his case with spastic hand movements. Bubba steps forward and is restrained again by Dean’s arm. Bubba tries to swat it away, but Dean holds firm without exerting much effort.

Aiden is now on his back, gyrating like he is being pummeled by multiple lightning strikes. His legs kick and stomp against the concrete. His elbows smack against the ground as his arms prove to be of no help. Blood pools in his mouth, bubbles over his bluish lips, and falls down his cheeks. A gurgling noise replaces all else until Aiden emits one last gasp.

His body goes still. Not all sinners are absolved.

“No, no, no, no,” Bubba says. He continues to fight against Dean’s grasp. He no longer cares about Aiden or preventing this stupid fucking game from happening. His goal is to get as far away from here as possible. He’s going straight home. No more apartment living for him. He’s learned whatever lessons he needed to.

Scar kicks more glass over to Aiden’s body. She seems unimpressed by his inability to swallow what was given to him. Scar steps onto Aiden’s chest, using his body to propel herself forward to the other guys. “What a shame. A real tragedy. That’ll be tough to move past . . . Anyway, Ned? It’s Ned, right?” Ned gives a solemn nod. “Wonderful! Your turn. Just like your counterpart, we will start with a truth.” Scar’s voice has climbed an octave. She tries to be light and cheery about all that’s happened—and likely to happen.

“And Bubba,” Scar continues, “try to keep yourself in check. Any outbursts from you may result in immediate disqualification.”

“Fuck you!” he says, thinking that it will prove a point.

Scar laughs and pretends to take out a notepad and scribble her findings. “Unable to follow directions.” She looks back at Bubba. “And appears as though he’d like to murder me.” She closes the imaginary notebook and tosses it aside. “That was your get-out-of-jail-free card. I know we are now mixing games, but you get the point. Another disruption and I will fucking kill you. Seriously. I mean, how many chances can one person get? I have been beyond patient with you. Show some couth, hmm?”

Bubba offers no counterpoint. Dean’s hand is still clenching a fistful of fabric. They are comparable in size, but something is misaligned about Dean, like he is one inconvenience away from going postal. Bubba stares down at Aiden’s corpse. Who was he? Did he live at The Amorphophallus? Why was he up here with this crazy bitch?

“Ned, Ned, Ned,” Scar says. “You have been amazingly patient. Kudos galore to you! Your truth: What is your biggest fear?”

Ned walks in a tight circle, avoiding the dead body gawking at the starless sky. “I have this irrational fear that I’m going to make one poor choice and screw up my entire life.”

“Care to elaborate further? This is a safe space,” Scar says, nodding with encouragement.

“I don’t know,” Ned says. “It’s . . . It’s like, what if I take bad financial advice from some sleazy banker and lose all my money? Or what if I accept a management position at my job and lose all my free time? What if I marry someone and it eventually ends in divorce? All that lost time and freedom. It’s daunting and debilitating. I don’t want to live sometimes. The fear feels insurmountable.”

“Aww, Ned! Your vulnerability is appreciated. We need to normalize men having feelings,” Scar says. “I’m no expert, but I see a common theme amongst your fears: it’s loss. Loss of time. Loss of assets. Loss of sanity. It’s valid. It’s all valid, Ned. Loss is a real fucker, but you can’t let that fear paralyze you. You must rise above it. You hear me, hoss? Loss is an illusion. What was lost can be gained again. Well, most of the time.” With her foot, Scar pokes at Aiden’s rib cage. His body is already gray and hollow.

“Thank you, Scarlett.”

“Please call me Scar. Scarlett is what the newspaper called me.”

“Scar. Yes, sorry. Thank you for your viewpoint. Perhaps with time, I can reshape my thinking.”

Scar smiles. “Why don’t we start now? Ned, for your dare, go key that car over there.” She points to the abandoned Sonata. “You can use this as a substitute for keys.” Scar kicks over the next largest piece of glass that isn’t lodged in Aiden’s swollen throat.

A panic spreads across Ned’s face. “I can’t do that. There’re cameras up here. They will see me. They will send cops to arrest me. I’ll go to jail for months. Years, maybe. I’ll never see daylight again. I—”

“Ned, please, you are catastrophizing. Take a breath, grab the glass, and scratch that car to absolute shit.”

Ned smacks his hands against the sides of his face. “No, no, no. I can’t. I won’t. I shall not.”

“Okay, you fucking weirdo,” Scar says, still moving bits of glass around with her foot. “Key the truck instead. Doesn’t look like any cameras are over on this side and Bubba won’t mind the minor cosmetic damage. Isn’t that right?”

“I’d mind very much,” Bubba says, trying to stay levelheaded.

“Is the truck new? It looks . . . reworked.”

“It’s a few years old. No one is keying my car.”

“Is that so?” Scar says. “Thankfully, I really don’t give a shit if you approve it or not. Ned, you either key the car or face soon-to-be known consequences.”

Ned chews on his fingernails. He narrows his eyes and looks back and forth between Bubba, the truck, and the glass at his feet.

“Don’t do it,” Bubba warns. “I will fuck you up.”

Ned bends down and grabs the glass. He palms it in a way that none of the edges cut into him. He brings up his hand and slashes it through the air, testing out the motion. He laughs to himself and then turns to Bubba. “Didn’t anyone ever tell you that trucks are bad for the environment?”

“Oh, God. Really? Ned, that was awful,” Scar says, rolling her eyes.

Everyone watches as Ned walks over to the truck. It’s at least seventy feet away now, long enough that Bubba knows definitively that they have moved without actually moving. Ned starts on the driver’s side door and jams the piece of glass into it. He drags his arm upward and then into a loop. The pattern jumbles into an indecipherable mess as Ned creates his masterpiece. Each door is scratched until the metal shows underneath. Bubba can hear a cackle of pleasure from Ned, who is erasing his greatest fear with minimal resistance. For good measure, Ned ends his criminal spree by jabbing the glass into the taillights until the plastic cracks and breaks.

“Oh, you are deliciously petty,” Scar says as Ned stomps on the remnants of the taillights. “Bravo! Bravo!” She claps with unbridled joy.

Ned walks back to the group with a triumphant grin plastered on his face. He steps over Aiden’s body and gives a bow. For a moment, the stage light shifts to the new rising star. He basks in it as Scar continues to clap with obnoxious intent right into Bubba’s ear.

For Bubba, his seething internal rage has simmered back to a familiar feeling of hopelessness. He’s watched one guy die and another deface his car. Bubba no longer knows if he will survive this. His shoulders slacken, and the hardened look on his face recedes. If he does live, he is turning his life around. No doubt about that. He is going to be grateful for all he has. He is going to show up to work on time and give exemplary effort each day. He will repent for all the things he has done.

“Thank you, Ned. Your ability to tell the truth and complete the dare means you are free to go,” Scar says. In a metaphorical sense, Scar is gesturing for the stage light to be returned to her.

“What?” Ned says.

“Go. Leave. Be gone. We still have two more people to get through. And I’m growing bored.”

Ned absorbs the words and turns around. He steps over Aiden’s body. He continues until he reaches the elevator. He looks back one last time before the doors open and he disappears inside.

“Down to the last two,” Scar says. “Just to recap: we have had one death and one winner. So, your odds are at fifty-fifty. Not bad. Not bad at all . . . Dean, why don’t you let go of the leash and come over here? Don’t worry, Bubba won’t go anywhere. He wouldn’t make it far on foot.”

Dean releases his grasp on Bubba’s shirt and stands before Scar. “I’m ready,” he says with no expression. In another life, Dean could have stood before Buckingham Palace and kept the Queen safe. He exhibits classic henchman behavior—blind devotion and fighting for a losing cause.

At least, that’s how Bubba sees it.

Being free from Dean’s tether, Bubba reassesses his options. Clearly, the elevator works since he just watched Ned use it. He could also make a beeline for the exit ramp and run until his legs gave out. Of course, his truck is the optimal option. Get inside, lock the doors, and call the police. The problem is that it’s too simple, too appealing. The truck sits under the glow of the parking garage lighting, just waiting to be put to use. Bubba tries to shake the feeling that it’s a trap.

Everything about this evening has been a fucking trap, Bubba tells himself. He smiles at that. Life is just fucking stupid sometimes. Bubba turns inward and considers all the dumb shit he has done. And as he falls into himself, he still doesn’t piece together why this is happening to him.

“Something funny?” Scar says.

Bubba shakes his head.

“Good . . . Okay, Dean, here is your truth to answer: Have you ever been shot?”

Dean’s answer comes quick. “No, ma’am. Never even fired a gun before.”

“Oh, really? I didn’t know that. Personally, I had never touched a gun before I moved here. A cliché, I know. But Texas truly is a land of opportunity. Secede from the Union, I say. Fuck the liberals and their social programs. Let’s keep Texas on its own electrical grid. That’ll show ‘em!” She pauses and notices that neither Bubba nor Dean care for the political commentary. “Wow, tough crowd. In all seriousness, I have had a gun for years now. Protection and such. A funny thing happens when you buy a gun that people don’t tell you: paranoia nips at you. All the time. You look at people differently. You see the world differently. You fantasize about stopping crime and preventing tragedies. You’re the hero because who else will carry out swift justice like you? I fell deep into this trap. I imagined a multitude of scenarios where I came out on top. And yet, at the end of things, I never fired my gun. It wasn’t even on me at the time.” Scar looks at Bubba. He still doesn’t recognize her.

How?

How?

How?

That’s the question that runs through her shattered mind. How can this useless fucking cocksucker not remember me?

Scar turns back to Dean. “I want the opportunity now. So, Dean, I dare you to survive a gut punch.” Scar reaches into her waistband and pulls out a gun. The movement and subsequent reveal are magnificent. No Hollywood movie has ever done it better or cleaner or with more flair. Scar palms the gun, clicks off the safety, and points it at Dean’s stomach. Dean doesn’t move, frozen in place. He hasn’t been given a command to run or scream or plead.

Scar fires once. The bullet hits Dean where intended. Blood blooms from the intrusion. Nothing more than a worried gasp escapes his lips as he clutches at the wound. He rocks on his feet before falling forward.

“They say that a bullet to the stomach is one of the more painful places to get shot,” Scar says. “Not that any place is pleasant, I imagine. On top of that, apparently it takes a while to die from a gunshot like this. How are you doing, Dean? Hanging in there?” She stands over him and looks down. Dean opens his mouth and stares up with glazed-over eyes. He searches for meaning. A henchman sometimes doesn’t know how expendable he is. Don’t worry, though. Dean died long ago. This is just a mirror, a revival of sorts.

“I don’t think Dean is going to pull through. Shame. Real shame. One could say that this evening has been a terrible tragedy,” Scar says. “I guess that just leaves you, Bubs. It’s not shocking, right? This has all been a long and drawn-out affair just for you. Once again proving that you are the star of the show. It’s always been about Bubba Trent. It’s always been about you stepping on everyone you meet. Oh, sure, you shed tears and pretend to be impacted, but there’s nothing inside you. You’re a void. A vacuum as wide and expansive as outer space. Good for you. Truly. I wish I were as compartmentalized as you.”

Bubba says nothing. He lets Scar continue to monologue.

“My hatred for you runs eternal. But. I will still give you a chance, just like the others. Unlike them, though, we will start with a dare . . . Bubba, I want you to run atop the wall that surrounds this top floor. It protects people or cars from careening off the edge, but with this dare, we will see how nimble you are.”

“Why would I do that?” Bubba asks.

“Are you daft? That isn’t rhetorical. I want you to answer. Are you a fucking moron?” Scar says. She waves the gun in front of her. “Did you not witness my demonstration? By my count, there are five bullets left in here. If you think you can outpace a bullet, please, be my guest. If you think you can make it to your car before I wing you, be my guest. If you deny this dare, I will execute you on the spot. Bubba, I am giving you a chance to survive. Indulge me, will you? Watching you run and risk your life will bring immense amusement.”

“Why do I have to run?”

“This will be timed, of course. Failure to beat the time will blah blah, yadda yadda. You get the idea.”

Bubba notices Dean has stopped fidgeting. His hands are no longer pressed to the wound. The blood that spreads from his body is searching for any crack or seam to burrow deeper into the parking garage foundation. Any pain that plagued his face has relaxed. His pants are wet at the front—one last insult that death brings. Dean never had a chance.

No one said that Truth and Dare was fair.

“How old are you, Bubba?” Scar asks.

“Twenty-eight.”

“Perfect. Because I’m feeling merciful, I will tack on an extra five seconds. You have thirty-three seconds to make your way around.”

“That’s not nearly enough time.”

“Of course it isn’t. But you’ll manage. Or not. Either way, the world will move on. Isn’t that right? Your death will be seen as a tragedy, but one that’s completely forgotten. With all the misery happening here tonight, you may never be found. Even better, maybe you fall and survive. You get to writhe in a pool of blood, with your bones broken and your pathetic dreams shattered.”

“You are fucking awful,” Bubba says.

“No. No. No! That’s you! Don’t you fucking get it,” Scar says, stepping closer to him.

“Who are you?” Bubba whispers.

Scar presses the gun to Bubba’s chest and leans into him. “You finish the dare and I’ll tell you a truth.” She slaps a hand on his back and pushes him toward the wall. “Wait, one last thing: hand over your car keys. I’d hate for you to do something stupid.”

Without looking, Bubba can feel the gun raised at him again. What a world, he thinks. Never in his life has he seen a woman so confident with a gun. In his opinion, women should be submissive, obedient, and possess any other traits that made them inferior to men. That’s one of the best things he picked up while working at the country club. Rich men really, truly loathe their wives. A deep-rooted hatred. Why else would they spend so much time playing golf at the same course or getting annihilated at the same bar off the same brand of scotch? Maybe this Scarlett lady before him is an ex-lover. By his own admission, Bubba’s number should be higher. He’s got money, notoriety, and influence. Isn’t that enough to wow any female? Isn’t that what any female wants? Apparently not. As Bubba fishes into his pocket and hands over his keys, he runs through his one-night stands, his weekend flings, and the brief few that could have meant more. As Bubba walks to the retaining wall, he considers how those podcasts were right. He is suppressing primal rage. His weakness isn’t being sensitive. His weakness is suffocating raw emotion. Whoever is lucky enough to be his wife someday will know the feeling of his hand striking their cheek. They will know that being unfaithful is all a part of being an alpha. They will provide him with children. They will be the vessel for future generations of the Trent name.

As Bubba pulls himself up onto the wall, the top floor shrinks to what it was. The illusion has faded. He has a chance. Even more than that, the hatred that now bubbles within propels him forward. Bubba doesn’t watch his step. Bubba doesn’t look down at the vessel for his death. Bubba sprints and puts those hours at the gym to use. His arms pump. His legs flex and exaggerate the calf muscles hiding beneath his pants. His mouth gapes. His eyes widen. The path forward has never been more concrete—literally. As Bubba reaches each corner, he plants a foot and deftly strides ahead to the next portion. His heart races and his anger swells. Completing this means he is one step closer to wrapping his hands around her throat. He is ever closer to unloading his gun into her skull, watching her face collapse into itself. He consults all the ways she can die. Nobody can outrun wrath. Nobody can outwit a Trent.

Nobody fucks with Bubba.

Without realizing it, Bubba finishes his lap. He jumps down off the wall and strides toward Scar. His chest is puffed out. His shoulders broadened. “I am going to fucking kill you,” he declares. The words sounded more threatening in his head.

Scar sidesteps the incoming assault and brings the revolver down against Bubba’s skull. It dazes him enough that he has no chance when Scar steps in and kicks the back of his knee. Bubba collapses onto the concrete floor. “Fuck you. Fuck you! Fuck you!” he screams up at her.

“You tried, Bubba. You really did. I don’t think you realize how physically impossible it is to kill me. That’s not what this night is about.” Scar circles around her prey, relishing the power she has held this evening. “It took you one minute and twenty-five seconds to run the perimeter. To say you ran is being overly generous. You are not the hero of your story, Bubba. You are a blob. You waste your evenings glued to your computer watching porn and dreaming of finding the energy to go to the gym. Tomorrow I’ll change, you whisper to yourself as you gorge on pizza rolls and garlic bread. Fucking worthless. You and your family are nothing but grifters and liars hellbent on never souring a reputation no one cares about.” Scar kneels down and looks Bubba in the eyes. “For the finale, here is your truth: Bubba Trent, have you ever killed someone, you goddamn motherfucking cocksucker?”

As Bubba does with any potential problem, he buries it. Instead of answering Scar’s question, he takes advantage of her blind rage. Bubba raises an arm and elbows her on the side of her head. Scar topples over onto her back. With newfound speed, Bubba moves on top of her. He pins her arms down with his legs. He settles his remaining girth onto her stomach. It’s now that he unleashes his primal rage and allows the alpha male burning inside him free. The blood dripping down his face obscures his vision. He wipes it away. He will not be tamed. He will not succumb to this succubus. Women are a plague.

It’s time for a culling.

“Don’t! Call! Me! A! Cocksucker!” Bubba howls. He grabs both sides of Scar’s skull and lifts it up. With all the force he can muster, Bubba slams her head against the concrete. The crunch of bone, fluid, and her tiny, worthless brain is intoxicating. He does it again. And again. And again. All that anger. All that madness bottled up is set free. Scar’s laughter incenses him further. It strangles his soul and tries to settle into him, to make him think twice about his actions.

Has Bubba Trent ever killed before?

Oh yes. Of course he has. It’s a rite of passage within the Trent family. The beauty of killing is figuring out how to get away with it.

As her brain leaks out onto the concrete, Scar’s laughter subsides. The look of perverse pleasure that’s been plastered to her face all night wanes. The snide remarks. The power dynamic. The ridiculous game.

It’s all over.

Bubba stands up and kicks the dead woman once in the ribs. “Stupid cunt,” he says. He’s the most powerful man who’s ever existed. He pictures himself strutting into the country club lounge and telling this story. He will be a hero. They will immortalize him. They won’t ever say a cruel thing about him again.

Bubba finds the car keys and leaves the three bodies behind. They will be someone else’s mess to clean up. Right now, he needs a shower, a beer, and some time to jerk off. He decides then that he will sleep at his parent’s house. Fuck this fucking apartment complex.

Back at the car, he settles into the driver’s seat. He mindlessly scrolls through his phone for a few minutes and then tosses it into the cupholder. He turns on the car and turns up the radio.

“Another tragedy tonight coming out of South Carolina. Reports say tha—”

Bubba clicks the button and returns to silence. It’s just better not to think about anyone else’s suffering.

Mimicking what he did on the way up, Bubba minds each corner as he drives down the parking garage. He doesn’t pass any cars. More spots than usual are empty, even on the busier floors.

As he winds through the final turn, he reaches over to the ignition and fiddles with his car keys. The fob to open the gate is on there somewhere. He always tells himself that he’s got too many useless keys. One of these days he will get around to cleani—

The fob isn’t there. Bubba stops the car and focuses his attention. It’s not there. How? Where? He punches the steering wheel once. She must have taken it. That fucking bitch.

He feels a coldness run through him. That wave of anxiety we all experience when dread is sitting right beside you.

“Looking for this,” the voice says.

Against his better judgement, Bubba turns to the passenger seat and looks at Scar. She is whole. She holds out the fob. “Who am I, Bubba? Who am I?”

“You’re no one.”

“SAY IT!” Scar’s face warps and erodes. The burn marks rip across her face. Her right arm severs at the elbow, spraying blood against the dashboard. She screams. Not in anger. Fear. Death is nipping at her. Her chest caves in, the bones piercing all the vital organs. Blood gushes from her neck. With slurred speech, she says, “You killed me. You killed us all.”

He did. Two years ago. Bubba read the names on the Dallas Morning News website but never committed the names to memory. He was told not to. That was the only way to move past it. That was the only way to find normalcy in his life. He got all the necessary bodywork done on the truck to bring it back to its previous state. He walked away that night without a scratch on him.

“I . . .” he tries to say. The answer has always been here from the moment he saw her. He watched the car collide with the median and roll over four times. He watched as a woman flew from the windshield onto the road. He listened as two more begged for their lives inside the burning vehicle. He heard their screams echo and rattle inside his head as he drove straight home, leaving the deserted road behind. It was someone else’s mess to find.

Bubba returns to himself and finds the gun under the seat. With precision, he pulls it free and unloads the entire clip into the passenger seat. He’s killed Scar twice already. Why not a third?

It’s a useless endeavor. She isn’t there. All Bubba’s left with are ringing ears and a shaking hand. He drops the gun onto the floor and puts the car back in drive.

“I killed you. I killed you,” he says to himself.

He feels the cold snap again. He feels it on the back of his neck.

“Now it’s your turn,” the voice whispers.

The unused seatbelt lurches forward and wraps itself around Bubba’s neck. In the rearview mirror, he can see Scar’s distorted face grinning with purpose as she pulls it tighter. Bubba’s leg kicks out and stomps down on the accelerator. The truck moves with surprising speed as it barrels forward. Bubba’s eyes become bloodshot. He reaches for the steering wheel, but the distance expands. His arms can do nothing but grasp the stale air. The last thing Bubba hears before the truck sprints into the gate is the repeated cackling from the backseat.

The last thing Bubba wonders is whether the accident will leave him scarred.