The Psychopath

The difference between the violent man and the psychopath is the brutality of the act. Where the violent man is reactive, the psychopath remains personally absent, separated from the act itself, and thereby immune to its brutality. The psychopath is not a slave to rage or emotion. He is not prone to violent outbursts or a tidal wave of triggers and fissures. He is an equalizing effect in a society rubbed raw by two extremes: passivity and violence. The psychopath is not an inherently violent man, he is a calculating, rational being, and that is why he is so fucking dangerous.

“Get out of my way,” the violent man seethed, his fists balling up, and his eyes glowing like a scimitar-pricked Spanish bull.

“I told you, Gringo, the bar’s full at the moment.” the psychopath reasoned, his eyes hollow, black pupils spinning in the grip of emotionless rhythmic breathing.

“That’s it, asshole.” the violent man reached out suddenly, intending to grab onto the pinstriped collar of psychopath’s thousand-dollar suit. But there was nothing there. He pinwheeled in emptiness. Where there had once been an adversary, now there was nothing but empty space.

“Shit.” He muttered. Inside he knew the sudden, awful truth…he’d fucked up.

“I don’t believe that you understand, what I’m saying, my guy,” the psychopath breathed heavily into his victim’s ear from just behind his left shoulder. “You are like the kookaburra, loud and obnoxious.” He brought his left arm up under the big brute’s tree trunk arm, pirouetted underneath, and pulled down sharply over his slightly curved back. The entire motion was fluid, almost like a samba or waltz. As he tossed the man over his shoulders, feet tumbling over sunburned head, the matador threw out his right arm in a ceremonious flourish. The violent man crumpled to the ground, legs and ankles clacking against the tiles as his body followed, trunk, waist, shoulders, head.

Hovering over the shocked, seething man, the psychopath stooped and whispered, “I, on the other hand, am like the osprey.” The brute’s eyes grew wide as he stared up into the icy smile and inky black pupils. “I am silent, sudden…and deadly.” Two sharp blows punctuated the momentary stillness, and the violent man felt the air burst from his lungs. He fell to his side, gasping for a breath that would not return, his knuckles turning white as he gripped the base of a barstool and writhed in agony.

The pin-striped adversary had only moved two steps, he had hardly stooped at all, his suit was still unruffled, his collars popped up the way he always wore them in the alleyways of Little Havana. But the violent man was nearly unconscious, sucking breath noisily on the ground. He coughed and sputtered in the humid Miami air that had grown thick and murky around him. He choked and spat an alluvial fan of crimson on the hand-painted Spanish tiles. As he felt the room spinning, he rolled heavily to one side, embracing the cool ground with his reddening cheek.

“You piece of shit…” He started, his eyes blazing as he turned in violent pride to stare his nemesis in the eye.

“Now, now, mi amigo, no name calling.” The psychopath turned slowly above his prey, a thin, sudden breeze flaring out his suit jacket, the stripes buffeted like feathers as he twisted and spun above the violent man.

“I’ll do more than call…” He never finished the statement. The rattlesnake skin of a curved white boot collided heavily with the brute’s chin and spun his head skyward. His body rose slightly, his shirt billowing under the force of the blow. Like a sack of coconut husks, he collapsed back down to the pavement. From his pocket tumbled a small, black notebook. A moleskin. The kind that men used for daydreams or debt collecting.

The psychopath stooped and picked it up.

“What is this, mi amigo?” He asked the unconscious brute of a man. He flared the pages, letting the tan cotton flow along his fingertips as his eyes danced across the scrawled names, dates, and figures. “Seems like we’ve got some collecting to do.”

Each name had a corresponding amount. 10k, 3k, 3k, 4k. Each number was marked with a bright red X and the word “Overdue” was scrawled along the margin. $20,000 in total. A princely sum. And maybe just enough to let this violent sack of shit go on breathing another night.

In a normal barfight, this is the part where a bouncer would waltz over, place an arm firmly around the shoulders of the victor and ask him to cool off at the bar. This was not a normal barfight, and this was not a normal bar. At ‘The Grotto’, his personal, hidden corner of South Beach, the psychopath was his own bouncer, his own shot caller, and there was no arm over his shoulder or calming hand on his chest.

This was a neighborhood dive with a wide-open dancefloor that spanned the alleys behind two up-scale hotels. It was a local bar in the center of everything tourist. It was the type of bar where people minded their own business, enjoyed the stiff drinks and live music, and moved on silently, like specters into the night. In fact, most of the guests seated at the teak, candle-lit tables had swiveled their chairs, absently counting the stones on the alley walls or staring heavily into their chilled mugs.

“Mi amigo,” he began with the sweet lilt of a familiar uncle or doting grandfather, stooping lower before slapping the violent man coolly across his sweaty face, “time to rise and shine.”

“Fuckin gutter trash.” The man mumbled, the spittle on his lips a light pink blend of phlegm and blood.

“Ah ah ah,” the psychopath intoned, placing his boot down heavily upon brute’s left hand, “you do not call a cobra names, or it will spit venom in your face.”

“Bitch…” The violent man struggled, his head was spinning.

“You need to learn some manners, mi amigo. Tienes un problema, cabron,” the psychopath whispered. It was always much more serious when he spoke Spanish, and the pall that fell over the bar was so heavy that even the lighthearted sway of the live, three-man band at the front had dimmed to a soft and ominous tenor. His boot ground harder into the man’s hand.

“Okay, okay.” He cried out, the weight of the boot was agonizing as it pressed his palm into the uneven tiles of the alley. “I’m sorry.”

“Seems to me like you owe restitution.”

“Resti…what?”

“Restitution. When a man is wronged by another, he is owed restitution.”

“Fuck off…” The pressure continued. The heavy, steel sole bore down, his eyes glazed over as the pain grew excruciating.

“Respect and restitution, mi amigo.”

“God dammit,” The violent man was writhing, his body twisting like an everglades gator as he tried uselessly to spin out from under the steel sole of the boot.

“Seems like we’ve got about twenty-grand in restitution right here.” The psychopath smiled, a pale, knowing grin that chilled the violent man to his core. He shuddered involuntarily as he stared up at the little black book held above his head, felt the pressure on his hand, saw the resolve in the man’s subtle threat.

“Shit. Yeah, okay. It’s yours…if you can collect it.” He muttered, his eyes pleading to the silent crowd for aid, assistance of any kind. No one looked at him. Not even for a moment.

“What was that?”

“I said it’s yours. All of it. Just let me go!” The words were desperate now, and as he spoke, he watched a glint of satisfaction pass across those humorless lips, an acknowledgement of an agreement, a contract between the two of them. Binding and unconditional. His life was now held between the pages of that notebook.

And as suddenly as it had started, it was over. The psychopath raised up to full height, the beaten man’s arm in his, and practically lifted him into the air before depositing him heavily onto a thick-legged barstool.

“Marco, dos cervezas,” he called out to the bartender who leapt to attention, popping the caps off of two Tecate dark brews. He wedged two limes into the gaping mouths of the sweaty bottles and slid them across the bar. The violent man sat stunned, almost afraid to look at the shadowy figure who leaned against barstool next to him. He cautiously surveyed the champion as he took a deep draw from his beer.

His collar was flared out, revealing thin whisps of dark chest hair against his tanned skin. His long legs were crossed one over the other, the thin white pinstripes of an impeccably tailored suit folded into cuffs that rimmed a pair of white, snake-skin boots. A glint of metal flashed beneath the steel soles, and the violent man held his left hand gingerly around the cool beer bottle, desperately trying to nurse the pain of his broken fingers.

“What’s your deal, my guy?” The psychopath asked him, his eyes two dark craters staring through his now docile foe.

“Nothing, just up from the Keys for the weekend.”

“Business?”

“Bookie. Doing some collection work.”

“And?”

“And nothing, just trying to have a good time.”

“Seems like it,” He observed with a hint of sarcasm spilling out onto the deeply pitted mahogany bar.

“Till I met you….” The violent man whined limply.

“Word of advice, gringo,” The psychopath cooed, “When you’re here in Little Havana, you show respect to the locals.” Around the bar, faces beamed as the regulars noted the praise. He lifted his beer, took a long swig, and slammed it down onto the table with such force that everyone visibly jumped in their seats. He pulled his stool closer to the violent man, and leaned close, whispering in his ear:

“Or you might find that our little town is not as friendly as these paper lights and musica would make it seem.” He spoke in thickly accented English, his voice taking on the timbre of an old Cuban cigar maker or a greying picadillo player as he held his face just inches from winnowing bookie.

“I…I’m sorry. I wasn’t thinking.” The man whimpered.

“I know you weren’t….” The psychopath hissed between clenched teeth leaning closer, malevolently. He glared at the beaten man, a shadow of his prideful self. His sweaty, reddening face ashen and fearful.

Like a puff adder, the suited psychopath snapped back, rising to his full height. The violent man rocked on his stool, almost toppling to the floor. He caught the edge of the bar at the last second and steadied himself, gulping timidly at his beer.

Leafing through the black notebook, the psychopath noted two names under the words Little Havana in bright red ink, the first was his uncle, the second his brother-in-law. It was going to be a long, satisfying weekend. Smiling to himself, he raised his bottle into the air, his eyes glistening with anticipation.

“For Cuba, we forgive you!” He smiled icily at the violent man, tucked the notebook into his suit jacket, and called out loudly “Musica!” At his command, the band moved out from the vines in the corner and started to navigate the sparse crowd, their instruments strumming, voices trebling. Waiters and waitresses slipped silently between tables of smiling patrons; and the drinks started flowing. The buzz of a mid-July evening simmered as peace returned to the bodega.