Chapter Three

[Jove Belane]

CHAPTER THREE

Harvey is Real
POV: Harvey

Alas, like so many things, it would all fall apart in the end. Like our precious democracy, it would crumble and deteriorate into 'who cares'. What is 'it', but a litany of poor decisions made by my client, Jove Belane. His decision to follow the harlot, his decision to assault the ISIS member, and every other decision fueled by the contents of his many discarded glass bottles.

Jove's reward was a bastard child and a headache. He didn't sleep anymore and I pitied him. I lied when I told him I would stick around to help with the child. Hour two of our little nuclear family ended with a faked headache and a brisk walk to my limousine. I don't tolerate children. Children the size and age of Jove and children the size and age of the bastard child. The poor doomed child. Zero tolerance.

Children.

It would be up to me, Harvey Lohman, to put everything back together again.

I went to visit Jove and Mariska's assailant under the guise of his 'lawyer'.

You would be surprised to know what weight my career choice carries. They see me and see my credentials and almost always assume I'm that sleazy defense lawyer with the billboards ads beside the freeway and the television commercials wedged into the breaks between Judge Judy re-runs. No matter how they judge me, they see who they want to see, or, who they expect to see.

I can get anywhere.

I sat down across from my new 'client' and for a moment he looked at me as if he knew me, but once I smiled, he realized who he was looking at.

"You aren't my lawyer."

I chuckled, "Of course I'm not your lawyer. Who would represent someone a step away from Gitmo? If that were still a thing. Is it a thing? It might be. I think Obama claimed he would shut down Gitmo, but it never happened."

"What do you want?"

I couldn't understand or didn't care to understand his words--they were mired in a thick middle eastern accent which I'm sure would raise the hair on the back of 'simple white folk' necks like needles if they heard it. Imagine if a Trump voter had to sit next to a man like that on a plane?

Chaos, ladies and gentlemen.

"I just want to talk. You're in here on quite a charge. Aggravated assault, attempted murder, and of course, suspicion of terrorist activity." I grinned, "Like I said. Gitmo. You're an orange jump suit and a beating away. I'd love to save you from that."

"I am not a terrorist," he scoffed.

"Oh, but you have the looks and the skin to match. You may as well be a terrorist."

I knew much more about him than I led on. He was, in fact, a member of a sleeper cell, as they're called in the movies and lackadaisical thriller television shows starring Kiefer Sutherland. I'm not entirely sure what the plan was, but it had been completely botched by the fact that both the terrorist and Jove Belane wished to penetrate the same monster of a woman, by the name of Mariska.

"You should have aimed higher," I told him as I pulled a bag of hard candies out of my pocket.

"What?" he asked.

"Mariska. You should have killed her. You would have saved me some trouble," I let my eyes roll as I popped a cherry hard candy into my mouth, "If only you had better aim. Am I right?"

"You're crazy. This meeting is over."

He tried to get up, but I wouldn't let him.

"No no. You're staying just for a moment longer. Please. Have a hard candy," I insisted, "What's your favorite flavor? I have every flavor you could imagine, while you're not imagining the death of the infidels, anyways. Plus, they're halal, just for you."

He thought about it for a moment and I could sense that he had already decided that he hated me. I smiled, enjoying the attention and opened the bag and held it up to him. He mulled it over for a moment and our eyes met.

"Blueberry."

"Yes?"

"Blueberry is my favorite flavor."

He looked into the bag and they were all blue.

Blueberry, just for him.

I shook the bag, enticing him to grab one. Our eyes met again and I wondered if he was thinking about how soon his life was going to end. He had such precious time left and I hoped he knew it. There was no way he was going to live to carry out whatever plan it was he had floating around in his Quran-warped little brain.

He would die and the world wouldn't care. His heart would quit beating and the world would be more concerned about what Justin Bieber would do in his 'Calvins'.

I would forget him the moment I left.

Quran, Bible, Book of Mormon. Terrible reads.

Religion, right?

He pulled a Blueberry hard candy out of the bag and carefully placed it into his mouth. For a moment I almost felt sad for him. I knew, deep inside, he had wants and love and hope. He wanted more out of life than his Quran was willing to give him. He wanted freedom and love, but he wouldn't get it. All he was going to get for his troubles, was a flatlined heart monitor blasting out a high pitched declaration of his death.

What a way to go.

He pushed the hard candy from one side of his mouth to the other with his tongue and flashed a small smile.

"It's good," he said, with a slurp.

"Right? They're delicious," I grinned, "Mine is cherry. It will turn my tongue and lips red. Yours? Yours will turn your lips blue."

There are dark things in this world. Dark things that hide so respectable 'folks' don't have to see them. They want to go along their day and consider what they're buying next. They don't want to be bogged down with reality. They would rather step past the bum than consider how the bum got there. They wouldn't even fathom the idea that they could be in the same position. One simple turn of fate can change everything.

Fate.

His eyes grew wide suddenly as he gasped. His hands gripped the table suddenly, like he was on a roller coaster during its initial plummet downward. I leaned back in my chair as his eyes started to water and he let out another gasp. I grinned as he pulled a hand away from the desk and reached for his throat. Veins bulged out of his neck and forehead as he struggled.

"Are you ok?" I asked.

He didn't respond. He tried, in vain, to thrust his chest into the table, but had no luck. He slumped back into his chair and our eyes met and he saw something he wasn't prepared for.

He wheezed, "شیطان"

I saw, in his eyes, a mix of fear and awareness of impending death. He wasn't going to see those virgins he was promised. All he was going to see was my face and he knew it.

There wasn't a heaven for people like him. Only dirt. Dirt and vile filth. Insects using flesh to gain life. I laughed, knowing that he was going to grant insects so much sustenance. In a way, he was helping better the world.

Over a long enough timeline, his remains would, one day, become the new fossil fuels. Far off generations would go to war over his crude.

I laughed at humanity.

He fell face first onto the table and I heard the last bit of life leave his lungs.

I laughed harder.

"That blueberry. So good, but it looks like I'm saving the rest for me."

I stood up and returned the bag of hard candies to my pocket. I walked to the door and exited. The guard, who was watching, wasn't even there anymore. I laughed as I walked down the hallway.

The guard's favorite hard candy flavor was pineapple.

I told you, I have all of the flavors.

Had justice been served? You tell me. This man, this terrorist man. This pashto spewing monster hadn't done me any justice. Mariska was still breathing and Jove was still pining after her.

Jove should have been laying flowers doomed to die on her grave and moving on. Jove Belane was proving to be softer than I could ever have imagined.

My next step was to steer Louis Winston with his stupid nickname, in the right direction.

We'll see.

End.