What We in the 'Biz Call, "A Fixer-Upper"

The Devil Was Born in Georgia

Jeremy, at the end of the day, was a craftsman.

He built engines, replaced taillights, told jokes to anyone who would listen. He was a jockey, a helper. He was a fixer, someone who pulled things together with his bare hands, and one day—he thought as he smoked a cigar while staring out the open garage to the nightlife below—that wouldn't just be a metaphor.

"Ray. Ray! Come on man, you can't do this to me."

"Oh cry me a fucking river, Dooley."

Ray said his name like a joke, condescension that ached like old muscle tear that should have healed a long time ago. Still, Jeremy moved in front of the door, as if he could stop Ray with his body alone. As if any physical barrier was going to work when Ray was already long, long gone.

For what felt like the seventh time, Jeremy said, "you were in on this, man."

"Yeah, that was back when I thought you had a fucking plan." Ray threw the last of his clothes in his bag. "Back before I knew our exit strategy was 'we'll wing it'."

"Winging it is a good plan." Jeremy wiped his palms on his jeans. Ray zipped up his bag, slinging it over his shoulder to join his rifle case. That was all there was to it—nothing left in the house to prove he existed at all. No scraps of clothes, no Game Boy. Two carry-ons and he had completely extracted himself from Jeremy's life. "Please Ray. I can't do this without you."

"Then don't."

And then he was gone.

Jeremy stood alone in the kitchen for eons, just staring out at nothing while the sun carved a slow window-pattern across the foldout table. It seemed to be that the world was ending. He wasn't like Ray—with his own weapons and means to go back to if the going got tough—Jeremy needed this job to go well, needed to pay back for borrowed guns and other resources he'd expended setting up the small-time robbery. He raised his hands up and under his glasses, trying to massage the reality back into his skin.

I need backup he thought numbly, and pulled out his phone. By habit, his fingers found the familiar number, sending two texts with barely a second between. He stared at the screen mutely for a little while, looking at the stream of blue that went up for months upon months, and only let out a final sigh of defeat when the last ray of sunshine passed over his shoe. This was bad. Worse than bad—he needed either a partner or a miracle if he didn't want to be on the business end of his supplier's piece.

With a bite to the inside of his check, he asked himself where people went when they had no other options.

This time when he lifted his phone, he opened Craigslist and shot off a quick ad. help needed. tonight (10/16/2015) not afraid of dirt, bring your own mask and tools. It left a faint twinge in his fingers as he posted, like this moment signified the pivotal instance that would bring about his swift and ugly end. He walked over to the kitchen chair (just the one. Ray was the closest thing to a someone who might warrant more) and bent over it on the exhale. Breathe, that was the thing. Breathe, that thing humans do. His body was still here, the night was still young, and the world wouldn't be half as terrifying once the job started and he got a gun in his hands.

His phone vibrated. Someone had taken a bite.

The neon buzz of the giant M felt like a prickle on the back of his neck as he lurked underneath our holy fast food savior. It wasn't wise to meet up with an accomplice the day of a job, especially with no resume, no backup, and no idea if the candidate in question might get bored and shoot him in the head. But he was out of options here—if Larry found out he couldn't pay him back, biting it was only a matter of when.