The Bagman

Chapter 9
Rematch

Chapter Description: In which Johnny Spettro fights the Bagman on his own terms.

The Bagman: Chapter 9- Rematch

Night. Central Park. Three days. Three fucking days Johnny Spettro, now age twelve, had waited. Three long, long days and nights. In Central Park. Day and night. No sleep. Maybe he was eleven now, hard to say. Couldn’t even tell what time it was. No watch.

The fiend that did this to him, that regressed him, said that that which didn’t kill him would make him younger. That he’d regress more and more with every injury. Maybe sleep deprivation was an injury. Maybe starvation was. Maybe his clothes were just a little loser because he hadn’t had anything decent to eat in days. Johnny didn’t know. Johnny didn’t care.

He cared about being safe and taking minimal risks. He took no unnecessary risks. That’s why Central Park. During the day it was filled with tourists, the kind of people who wanted to see the Sunny Side of New York; the kind of people who would take notice of a little boy kicking and screaming. During the night, it was filled with bored, corrupt cops, bums, and lowlifes; the kind of people that would rape a little kid for shits and giggles, murder him and throw his body in a ditch. Giovanni Canecattivo’s kind of people. Every time Johnny blinked, he saw Canecattivo, his greasy, sweaty hands, pointing the gun in Johnny’s face. Still, when everyone was a threat, there was no safe place for the real enemy to blend in.

Shelter, he felt, was a false comfort, and walls could be used to pin him in, trap him. Luck had gotten him out before, but it would not do so again, Johnny instinctively knew. The Bagman would find him regardless. Everyone knew the Bagman always finished his tasks. He wasn’t human, Johnny felt. Not really. Not anymore.

Johnny hadn’t bothered to get out of the pink t-shirt and skort he had stolen. Too much effort and energy would have been wasted in stealing new gender appropriate clothes. Sadly, from the right angle, or the right light, or far enough away twelve year old, spindly Johnny could pass for an undeveloped twelve year old girl. The clock was ticking, Johnny felt, so dignity took a back seat to vengeance. It didn’t matter that Johnny looked and felt ridiculous anymore, he wasn’t getting out of this unscarred anyways so bring on the bullshit.

Besides, Johnny mused to himself, what he really wanted to be wearing right then was possibly even more embarrassing than girl’s clothes. Johnny didn’t consider himself a “sissy” in the ab/dl sense, but he’d kill to be in a diaper right now, girly clothes or not.

The gun that he kept in his pocket had so far prevented him from being raped, though not from being propositioned. Even 3 day old stink and the warning that he was a boy wasn’t enough to unarouse some sickos. Johnny held the gun in his hands, pondering. How easy would it be then: To shoot himself in the foot, or the chest, or the head? He wouldn’t die, Johnny knew. He’d already survived a mattress full of C-4 and the only thing he’d lost was a couple of years. How easy would it be to just de-age himself back into a baby? He could start over, become a baby and let the Bagman erase his memories. Live happily ever after. Or heck, he could possibly even luck out, become a baby, and keep his memories. Best of both worlds, right?

But as tricky as it had been for a young man to kill the heads of the Five Families; and as difficult as it would be for a prepubescent boy to do the same; it would be impossible for an infant to pull the job off. Being able to run, let alone walk, was almost a prerequisite to finishing the job. So no. Not now. Not yet.

Johnny began to mutter to himself. It was a mantra of sorts. Something that he made up on the spot the first night in Central Park. Something to keep himself awake. Couldn’t sleep, that’s how the Bagman found him last time. So he just talked to himself. Over and over again.

“I am Johnny Spettro,” he intoned as he rocked back and forth on the dew soaked grass. “I am the ghost of my father made flesh. I have burned the Jerk, and killed the Coin. I will slay the Lion, and bring darkness to Midnight. Then,” he took a deep breath, “I will put down the Mad Dog. I will finish my vendetta and avenge my family.”

It might have been delirium, but Johnny had begun to see things. Hallucinations maybe. Premonitions perhaps. Prophecy…Johnny didn’t dwell. But where his mind would dismiss things, his eyes wouldn’t let go so easily. He saw flashes of a war outside the gates of Heaven. A fallen Angel twisting her purpose to torment an innocent in Hell. He saw a slick snake in a green suit, smiling seductively offering a crying, lonely toad a bag of evil tricks. Johnny saw a man, a boy really, not much older than Johnny used to be, torn between two worlds and in the thrall of two glittering eyes. He saw the snake again, making promises and twisting words to an old crow that had lost its will to sing. He saw a strange shop where fate was bought and sold at the cost of freedom. And finally he saw a teenage girl in pink training pants, running headlong into the Inferno, a host of Angels on her heels.

And through all of it, he saw diapers. Diapers, diapers, diapers. He just couldn’t get his fetish off of his mind and it was infecting every thought he had, so great was his desire for relief. But nowhere in this madness, did Johnny see himself. He was outside of it all. All of it. Destiny held no promises for him, death would not take him, he refused dream, desire and despair held no allure to him, and even delirium would not give him anything that he could use; not even small comfort. He was truly alone. Only destruction in some form awaited him. All Johnny could do now is wait and be the cheese in his own mouse-trap.

“I am Johnny Spettro,” he began again to ward off sleep. “I am the ghost of my father made flesh. I have burned the Jerk, and killed the Coin. I will slay the Lion, and bring darkness to Midnight. Then, I will put down the Mad Dog. I will finish my vendetta…” Johnny heard footsteps and held his breath.

They were slow and steady. They had a wet thwopping sound to them. THWOP. THWOP. THWOP. Like wet flip flops on the boardwalk after a day at the beach, or perhaps what toad hears as its own feet hit the mud.

A low whistle pierced the darkness. At first it seemed tuneless, but as it forced its way into Johnny’s ears, he could make out a melody. “Hall of the Mountain King,” rang out through the night in a low haunting whistle.

The smell hit him next. The smell of someone who did not bathe or bother to wash their clothes. It was a rank smell, one that masked Johnny’s ripening scent completely by comparison. But this wasn’t just the smell of poor hygiene. This was the smell of death, of someone who had no more use for love, or life.

A match flared in the darkness, briefly illuminating the stringy-haired, pot-bellied silhouette of what could only be a demon in human flesh. Johnny’s eyes squinted involuntarily, the match temporarily blinding him. The toad of a man took a long big puff off of his cigar as he closed the distance between them.

“Finish the prayer,” the Bagman croaked. “Go on. I’ll let ya finish.” He took a long puff and blew a smoke ring.

“It’s not a prayer,” Johnny muttered, not bothering to stand up off the grass, “it’s a promise.”

“Whatever,” The Bagman rasped. “Some promises are meant to be broken.”

“You’re here to murder me,” Johnny said. Fact. Not question. The Bagman’s chapped puffy lips curled and his dead grey eyes narrowed slightly in incredulity.

“Quit being so dramatic kid. I’m not gonna murder ya.”

“You’re going to erase my life, my past, and everything about me that made me me,” Johnny snapped. “It might as well be murder. I’ll cease to exist as I am now!” Johnny balled his hands up into a fist, suddenly welling up with righteous indignation.

“If I was gonna kill you kid,” the monster growled, “you’d be dead. Just be glad I’m such a softie in my old age.”

“You look like you were born old,” Johnny spat, his voice making it sound more like a schoolyard diss than any form of witty repartee.

“Next your gonna tell me I gots cooties,” the Bagman gave a wet, phlegmy laugh. “Oh well, I guess that’s appropriate for your age. Any last words while you still have teeth and the memories to talk? Maybe you wanna make a request about which brand of diapers you use?” He gave a mocking wink to the boy, “Huggies or Pampers? Sorry, I don’t do that store brand shit.”

“Fuck you!” Johnny spit as he leveled his gun at the Bagman’s head. In the blink of an eye, he was behind Johnny, with one hand around Johnny’s throat and the other around Johnny’s arm. How in the name of Heaven could anyone so fat be so unbelievably fast? Johnny’s free hand instinctively went for his throat, while the Bagman squeezed the arm holding the gun- hard.

Johnny’s grip loosened involuntarily as the Bagman got a better grip on his wrist, squeezing the joints and pressure points. Shakily, and unwillingly, Johnny dropped the gun.

“Gun, nice try kid.” The old toad hissed. “Guns are loud. Loud noises attract cops out here in public. Cops create complications that I can’t afford right now. I like your style.” Johnny could hear himself wheezing as he tried to breathe through the bagman’s vice grip on his throat.

“But guns are for men, kid.” The Bagman growled, anger and condescension blending into a venom that laced every syllable. “Same thing with explosives. But you’re not man, kid. Your bedroom proved that. You’re just a little brat pretending to be big and playtime’s over.” The Bagman’s hand let go of Johnny’s wrist and vanished behind his peripheral vision. Johnny was still struggling futilely to break the death grip that the monster had on his throat. He tried to scream, he tried to shout…but more than anything, he just wanted to breathe. He couldn’t think. He couldn’t concentrate. His plan was falling apart right in front of him.

“So you wanna be a man, huh short stuff?” The Bagman spat into Johnny’s ear. The Bagman’s gloved hand came back into view, the dim moonlight glinted off a straight-razor as it came into Johnny’s peripheral. “THEN HOW ABOUT A SHAVE?!”

Johnny’s eyes bulged out with terror. The razor bit into his cheek and blood started running down the side of his face. A wet meaty sound rang out in Johnny’s ears as a piece of his cheek was removed. Johnny was still gasping for breath, unable to scream as the Bagman held him from behind by the throat.

Tears from the pain began to blur Johnny’s vision. Before the first tear could leave though, a slash across the forehead made his vision turn crimson. His eyes stung as blood gushed out of his forehead and poured over his face. This was going so wrong. He was dying. Dying. He couldn’t think. He couldn’t breathe.

GASP! Johnny inhaled, deeply as the bagman let his throat go. His lungs burned as they let in oxygen and his head throbbed. Relief was short lived, though. Before he had managed to suck in two breaths, Johnny felt his scalp being yanked back. Looking back and upside-down, he looked his assailant in the eyes. Pure malevolence stared back at him.

Johnny felt a slice across his throat, and lost his breath again. He couldn’t breathe; he couldn’t even scream let along gurgle for help. Johnny was drowning. Drowning in his own blood. He felt each heartbeat as more and more of his life spilled out of him. His clothes were drenched in the sticky ichor of his life’s blood.

Clumsily, Johnny reached into his blood drenched pockets and fumbled around with clumsy, dying fingers. Finally, finally, Johnny found the vial. He broke the seal and popped the lid using both hands and prayed the Bagman didn’t notice what he was doing.

“You a Heath Ledger fan, by any chance, kid?” Johnny heard as the bloodied razor was slipped into his mouth.

Johnny tossed the open vial of clear liquid right into his assailant’s manic eyes. The Bagman dropped his razor as he screamed in agony. His scream sounded more like an animal than a man, and less natural than any animal Johnny had ever heard. Johnny closed his eyes and rolled into the fetal position as his pulse slowed. His ears picked up a distinct sizzling sound, like eggs in a frying pan.

Johnny felt a distinct numbing sensation and the world seemed to grow a little bigger around him as the pain went away and the spell that had been cast on him went into effect. His skin mended and knitted itself, leaving no trace or scar to indicate that flesh had been cut. New blood filled his desiccated veins and rushed to bring oxygen to his dying brain as his lungs worked painfully to draw fresh air in. His stolen clothes became more of a smock, and the skort slipped easily off his legs. The shirt now covered his nether regions, if only barely.

Slowly, very slowly, Johnny stood. The Bagman for his part was moaning and wailing in agony as smoke steamed off his face. The sounds coming from him resembled something from the exorcist.

“Holy…water…” Johnny panted, his voice now even higher than before, “you…sumbitch. Courtesy…of St. Patrick’s…Cathedral….” Johnny took a long sucking breath “….gift shop.” A mixture of relief and hysteria gave a chuckling quality to Johnny’s voice. “Guessed it would….hurt you…selling your…soul and all…” A satisfied smirk came to Johnny’s still panting face. He wiped the blood off his face and neck. “Looks like…I guessed right.”

Then Johnny saw his real opportunity. THE BAG. The old monster had dropped it as he was attempting to claw his eyes out. Breathlessly, Johnny dashed for the satchel. Adrenaline shooting through him and pure will giving his legs speed, he narrowly avoided the clumsy oafish grasping of his downed enemy. With one hand, Johnny snatched up the bag and hoisted it onto his shoulder, never breaking stride as his little feet carried him dashing out of central park. Ooof…the thing was heavier than it looked. Either that, or Johnny was now younger than he had hoped.

Hours later, after a fire hydrant bath; Johnny checked into a seedy motel/tenement building. The sun had not yet risen but the sky was already starting to change color.

“The fuck?” the so-called manager said when Johnny had rang the bell.

“Gimme a room for the day,” Johnny squeaked. “Here’s a hundred bucks for the day, and a hundred more when I leave if you don’t call the cops.” The Manager simply regarded him, checked the hundred dollar bill to make sure it wasn’t counterfeit, and handed little Johnny a key. Besides, diapers and magic tricks, the Bagman’s signature bag was also apparently well stocked with cash.

Johnny let out a long sigh and collapsed on the squeaky spring mattress. Before passing out, Johnny ripped off the soiled and stained girls t-shirt and rummaged around in the leather diaper bag. He pulled out the biggest size toddler diaper he could find and squeezed into it. He fit. Barely, but he fit. He needed this. He deserved this.

Johnny, now age eight and a half, nine tops, slept peacefully that day; not fearing retribution. After all, what was the Bagman without his bag? Just a man, and Johnny Spettro killed men.