Post by jenkins on Oct 27, 2012 20:54:02 GMT -5
Max Holden, thirty-eight years old, had been in the business of Silicon Valley Computers over the last four years. Many people wouldn’t suspect that Max would be a computer nerd. He stood six feet, four inches tall and weighed about two hundred and forty pounds of country muscle. His parents, even his siblings, never considered Max’s high intelligence and fascination with computers, building computers, developing software, hardware, and the like.
With the war in Iraq still running rampant over the last five years, well balanced, conglomerate corporations had been slowly declining, laying off hundred—and, perhaps in some cases, thousands—of employees daily, and governments couldn’t give these corporations, like Silicon Valley Computers, to keep them afloat. Governments rather spend billions of dollars that it didn’t have to finance the war, and in attempt to put a strangle hold on the oil.
One day Max was called to Brandon Williams’ office. He wasn’t sure what the boss wanted to talk about with him, but when the urgency in his voice didn’t settle with him. So he got out of his cubicle, smoothed out his tie—a compulsive nuance he developed, and sat outside of William’s office. He watched people walk passed him, giving him these weird looks, as if he didn’t belong in Silicon Valley Computers. There were days that he didn’t fit in with these people. How could someone who looked like a damn professional wrestler be interested in computers?
Mr. Williams’ office door opened, and out came Travis Burton with tears rolling down his cheeks. For as long as Max had known Travis he never seen Travis cry before. He had known as the brainy, wise-cracking computer guru who would come to your house, fix your computer, and he would pay you for giving him a house call. Now seeing him with tears staining his cheeks, hunched over and hiding his face from people, raised an alarm with Max.
“Max Holden! C’mon in!” Max looked over at Mr. Williams, turned his attention back to Travis and saw that he was already gone, then got up from his chair, and entered Brandon William’s office. In his fifties, he was tall, lean, and handsome. He had jet black hair with no gray or white strands present, sapphire blue eyes, and a pearly white smile. He wore the most expensive business suits, not because he wanted to look good; he already knew he was one of the beautiful people, but because he was better than all the cronies he had hired.
“Have a seat, Max,” Brandon said, flashing his smile at his large employee. Max did what he was told and looked at his boss.
“What’s going on with Travis? Why was he crying?”
“Oh that,” Brandon answered with a little laugh. “I had to let him go. It’s too bad that he had to take it so hard. There are other computer jobs out there that he can easily get without any problems.”
Max raised his eyebrows at his callous boss. He couldn’t believe the behavior that Brandon was exhibiting. He wasn’t the person he had met when he showed him his résumé four years ago. Now he saw an uncaring, aging individual who wore Armani suits. “Why would you go and do that for, Mr. Williams? Travis is one of your best employees here!” Tinges of red were in the corners of his vision. He wasn’t made at the fact that Travis was fired; it was because of Brandon’s cruel behavior. “I can’t believe you’re acting like some fucking prick, Brandon! You fired one of your best employees, and you don’t give a damn!”
Still smiling, he raised his hands up in defense. “Take it easy, Max. There’s no need for you to have a cerebral hemorrhage. Ever since the war this business has been slowly declining. I had to let go a bunch of workers to stabilize the budget a year into the war, and I have to do the same thing again today. I have to let Travis go, and I have to let you go as well, Max…”
Max didn’t hear anything else after that. Brandon Williams continued to ramble about why he had to let Max Holden, a man who busted his ass for the last four years in his company, who made Williams even richer, was letting him go because of budget cuts? He knew what was going on and he wasn’t going to go down without a fight!
Max lurched to his feet, gripped an edge of Brandon’s desk, and with one hand, he flipped it over, sending it crashing through the window. As it fell three stories down Max almost had his hands around Brandon’s neck if it wasn’t for the security guards stationed only a few feet away from Brandon’s office breaking up the possible murder.
“Get that madman out of my office!”
“I’LL FUCKIN’ KILL YOU, WILLIAMS! GET’CHER FUCKIN’ HANDS OFFA ME! LEMME GO! YOU’LL FUCKIN’ PAY FOR THIS, YOU FUCKIN’ PIPSQUEAK! I SPENT FOUR FUCKIN’ YEARS BUSTIN’ MY FUCKIN’ BALLS FOR YOU, AND THIS IS HOW YOU REPAY…”
Max’s explosive ranting finally ceased, and everyone on Brandon Williams’ floor was looking at each other, and looking at their boss. Brandon’s hair was in disarray, sweat was pouring down his face, and his was thumping hard against his ribcage. He never saw someone almost try to kill him after letting him go from the company. He had no choice; that’s what Brandon was telling Max until he went ape shit. He looked at the employees on his floor, smoothed his hair back from his forehead and smiled. “It’s all right, folks, get back to work.”
“I can’t believe he fuckin’ canned my ass after I worked my ass off for that little pipsqueak. That fuckin’ little pipsqueak has no idea what he has done, letting go one of the best computer engineers in his fuckin’ business.”
Eight hours later Max was in his favorite bar, throwing back shots of Bourbon and talking to Owen Holliday, the bartender. He had known Owen since they were in high school. He was a burly black man, about the same height as Max and nearly sixty pounds heavier. Barrel-chested and bald, he looked like someone that you don’t want to mess with, but in actuality, he was the biggest Teddy bear you would ever meet. Married for fifteen years, had two daughters, he was blessed for having this life. When one person was blessed with the perfect life, one had to come into his bar and shit all over it due to the turnout of his day.
“That sucks to hear, man, it really does,” Owen said, giving him another shot of Bourbon. “What are you gonna do?”
Before answering Owen’s question, he threw back his umpteenth shot of Bourbon, feeling the satisfactory burn slide down his throat, and let out a burp. “Forget about what happened and go job hunting. Those are the only things I can do, Owen.” He looked up at his friend. “Is there any positions open in your place?”
Owen let out a laugh and patted Max on the shoulder. “For as big as you are, you should be a professional wrestler. But alas, there aren’t any places available, and there are no bouncers required in his bar. There’s seldom any violence, and if there was, they’d take their fight outside. I’m not putting up with anyone’s shit when I’m working.”
“I hear that.” He got up from the barstool, stumbled a bit, got his balance back, and waved at Owen. “I’ll see you again, Owen.”
Letting out a chuckle, Owen said, “Are you okay to drive, Max?”
“Yeah, I’m fine. I just tripped that’s all. Don’t worry about me.”
Max wasn’t fine. He woke up the next morning hung over, and his head was throbbing. But that didn’t matter to Max. Hung over or not he was going to get out of bed, take a shower, and look through the classifies for a job. Letting out a groan he got out of bed, shuffled to the bathroom, removed his boxers, and got into the shower. For the first time since losing his job, he felt good. The shower cleansed him, washed away his worries—not that he had any—and boosted his confidence in looking for a job.
After his shower he toweled off, shaved, and dressed. He went downstairs for some breakfast when the doorbell rang. He watched to the door, opened it and saw Tim Smothers, Max’s landlord and owner of the townhouse complex Max lived in. He was short, portly fellow about Max’s age, sporting a Friar Tuck hairdo, a walrus mustache, and horned rim glasses that made his big brown eyes bulge out of their sockets. He wore blue jeans, a white polo shirt with a duck on the left breast, and black tennis shoes.
“Morning, Tim. What can I do for you—”
“Can the pleasantries, Max.” He handed him an eviction notice.
Max looked at it for a moment. It looked like it was written in Greek. Max had paid his rent two days before losing his job and now, Tim was standing in front of him about to commit murder because he didn’t have the rent Max already paid for. Keeping his temper in check, he looked down at the landlord—whom was eight inches shorter—and gave him a smile. “I already paid you the rent. I wrote you a check. Didn’t you get it?”
Tim wasn’t smiling. He wasn’t amused by Max’s futile attempt to play nice. Ever since he met Max six years ago there was something didn’t like about him. He wasn’t sure what it was, but there was something about him that didn’t settle with him. But after giving him a chance to rent out one of his available townhouses, he saw that he wasn’t a bad guy. He paid his rent on time and he was neighborly to the other tenants. There had been a few times where Max and Tim had clashed over maintenance problems that could’ve been easily fixed, but Max and the landlord worked through their heated discussions, and all of Max’s maintenance problems were fixed.
“I did get your check and it has bounced. You have twenty-four hours to get me nine hundred dollars, or I’m going to have to ask you to pack up your things and move out of the premises.
“But that’s impossible! All my checks are good! My bank told me that the money in my account was good, so I wrote you a check for the rent. I didn’t have the cash on hand with me. If you let me go to an ATM—”
“There wasn’t enough money in your account to pay for your rent. My bank called your bank and told me a different story after the check you sent me bounced.”
Max was seeing red again. He was seeing red when his boss terminated him yesterday, and he was seeing red when his landlord told him his check was no good. What the fuck was this, anyway, Shit on Max Holden Week? It certainly was turning out that way.
Oh, I get it, he thought to himself. His lips pulled back into a smile. I see where this is coming from: Tim fucking hates my guts because I’ve been a prick about the maintenance in this townhouse. Well, if he fixed the fuckin’ shit before I moved in, we wouldn’t have butted heads all those times. And now, he’s pulling this shit on me? I don’t think so.
“I see where this is going, Tim. You’re pulling this bullshit on me because I’m not like the rest of your tenants who are instantly satisfied after one phone call, being guaranteed that someone is going to come to their homes and fix whatever needs fixing. I’m not like your spineless peons you call tenants. When I want something fixed, I’ll be on your ass until it’s fixed. I shouldn’t have to live in a sub-par townhouse with shit that don’t work—”
“If you don’t like the living conditions—”
“Shut the hell up, I’m not finished!” That went over well, but Max didn’t care at this point. After what he’d been through, he might as well fuck up and do it royally. “I don’t need little runts like you to interrupt me when I’m talking. I have the floor, I’m going to speak! I’ve been a good tenant to you for six years, and now you want to pull this bullshit about one of my checks bouncing? Go to a different bank, and if my check still bounces, I’ll get you the money, but I don’t have twenty four hours to collect it. I lost my job yesterday, and I was about to make some breakfast and look through the classifies until you rang my doorbell.”
Tim’s hardened features slightly softened, but not by much to notice. “Look, Max, I don’t care how you get the money, just as long as you get it to me, in cash this time. And I’ll extend the deadline to next week. That should give you enough time to get you a job and cash in my hot little hand. If you can’t do that, enjoy this townhouse while it lasts. Good day.”
Smothers spun on his heel, walked off of Max’s porch and got into his Cadillac. As Max watched him pull out of the driveway and onto the street, the red was threatening. He wanted to chase Tim down the street, rip him out of his car and pummel him into a bloody pulp, but that wouldn’t get him anywhere, except landing him in jail for assault. He should’ve spent the night in jail for attempted assault, but Max got off easy. And after that quarrel yesterday, he highly doubted that he was going to get his last check in the mail from Silicon Valley Computers.
A moment later the phone rang. Ugh now who? As if his day couldn’t get any worse, now someone wanted his attention via phone waves. Grumbling to himself, he went over to his cordless in the kitchen, ripped the handset off the dock, and thumbed the ON button. “Hello?”
“Maxwell?” It was Max’s younger and only sister, Tabitha, Tabby Kat to her friends, because her full name was Tabitha Kathleen Holden. She was the only person in her family, aside from his mother that called him Maxwell. And if his brothers Joseph or Zackary ever called him Maxwell, they would eat Max’s fist for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. If they craved a midnight snack, Max would oblige them.
Her voice was watery, as if she had been crying. Something bad had happened; Max could feel those vibes from his sister. When Tabitha was born, the only girl in the family, Max had a keen interest in protecting his little sister. Since she was the only daughter in the Holden family, it was Max’s duty to protect her, no matter what happened to him. And strangely, they had this kinetic bond, as if they could read each other’s minds, or they could sense each other feelings before they said them.
“What’s wrong, Tabby?” He had a feeling something happened in the family.
“It’s Mom. She died. Massive stroke. I can’t believe this happened to her. With Daddy nowhere to be found, I can’t tell him that she’s gone. Oh, Maxwell, what am I gonna do?” She was sobbing uncontrollably now.
Oh this week was getting better and better. First he lost the best job he ever had, Tim Smothers walked onto his doorstep and basically said “Gimme your rent money or you’re outta here,” and now Sharon Holden, seventy-four, passed away from a stroke.
The red was back.
“Maxwell, are you there?”
Controlling himself, he let out a sigh and said, “Yeah, Tabby Kat, I’m here. When did she die?”
“Just last night. The nursing home she stayed him just called me a few minutes ago. We’re setting up the funeral for Friday; that’ll give Joe and Zack enough time to get down here for her funeral.”
“Have you called them yet?”
“I don’t know if I can, not like this. Could you call them for me, please, Maxwell?”
“Sure, kid, I’ll do that for you. Do you need me over there?”
“Oh, I know how busy you are with Silicon Valley Computers. I don’t want to monopolize any of your time, Maxwell.” Tabby Kat sniffed.
“You don’t need to worry about that, because I was fired yesterday. Brandon Williams was an asshole, and he threw me out of the job I worked hard on for four years, and he doesn’t give a damn. He even fired Travis Burton.”
There was silence on the other line, then: “I’m sorry to hear that. With the war going on, it doesn’t surprise me that that place hasn’t been closed yet.” There was a doorbell in the background. “Hey, I gotta go. If you can make it down here that would be great. Talk to you later, Maxwell.” She hung up.
Max let out a sigh. Things weren’t going well. Things weren’t going well at all. He placed the phone back on its dock, went to the closet and grabbed a jacket. His car keys were already in his pocket. He left the townhouse, locked up and went to his truck, a 2001 Ford Ranger 4X4. Before he could enter his pickup, something whistled through the air and slammed into his left shoulder blade. He let out a roar of pain, turned around and frantically looked around.
Then he saw him, Brandon Williams, with a silenced Beretta in his hand. Brandon flashed his pearly whites and squeezed the trigger. This time the bullet slammed into his chest, tearing a hole into his heart.
Max’s eyes began to blur with tears. He could no longer see Williams, but when he looked down, he saw that his left palm was covered in blood.
That was the last time he saw red.
With the war in Iraq still running rampant over the last five years, well balanced, conglomerate corporations had been slowly declining, laying off hundred—and, perhaps in some cases, thousands—of employees daily, and governments couldn’t give these corporations, like Silicon Valley Computers, to keep them afloat. Governments rather spend billions of dollars that it didn’t have to finance the war, and in attempt to put a strangle hold on the oil.
One day Max was called to Brandon Williams’ office. He wasn’t sure what the boss wanted to talk about with him, but when the urgency in his voice didn’t settle with him. So he got out of his cubicle, smoothed out his tie—a compulsive nuance he developed, and sat outside of William’s office. He watched people walk passed him, giving him these weird looks, as if he didn’t belong in Silicon Valley Computers. There were days that he didn’t fit in with these people. How could someone who looked like a damn professional wrestler be interested in computers?
Mr. Williams’ office door opened, and out came Travis Burton with tears rolling down his cheeks. For as long as Max had known Travis he never seen Travis cry before. He had known as the brainy, wise-cracking computer guru who would come to your house, fix your computer, and he would pay you for giving him a house call. Now seeing him with tears staining his cheeks, hunched over and hiding his face from people, raised an alarm with Max.
“Max Holden! C’mon in!” Max looked over at Mr. Williams, turned his attention back to Travis and saw that he was already gone, then got up from his chair, and entered Brandon William’s office. In his fifties, he was tall, lean, and handsome. He had jet black hair with no gray or white strands present, sapphire blue eyes, and a pearly white smile. He wore the most expensive business suits, not because he wanted to look good; he already knew he was one of the beautiful people, but because he was better than all the cronies he had hired.
“Have a seat, Max,” Brandon said, flashing his smile at his large employee. Max did what he was told and looked at his boss.
“What’s going on with Travis? Why was he crying?”
“Oh that,” Brandon answered with a little laugh. “I had to let him go. It’s too bad that he had to take it so hard. There are other computer jobs out there that he can easily get without any problems.”
Max raised his eyebrows at his callous boss. He couldn’t believe the behavior that Brandon was exhibiting. He wasn’t the person he had met when he showed him his résumé four years ago. Now he saw an uncaring, aging individual who wore Armani suits. “Why would you go and do that for, Mr. Williams? Travis is one of your best employees here!” Tinges of red were in the corners of his vision. He wasn’t made at the fact that Travis was fired; it was because of Brandon’s cruel behavior. “I can’t believe you’re acting like some fucking prick, Brandon! You fired one of your best employees, and you don’t give a damn!”
Still smiling, he raised his hands up in defense. “Take it easy, Max. There’s no need for you to have a cerebral hemorrhage. Ever since the war this business has been slowly declining. I had to let go a bunch of workers to stabilize the budget a year into the war, and I have to do the same thing again today. I have to let Travis go, and I have to let you go as well, Max…”
Max didn’t hear anything else after that. Brandon Williams continued to ramble about why he had to let Max Holden, a man who busted his ass for the last four years in his company, who made Williams even richer, was letting him go because of budget cuts? He knew what was going on and he wasn’t going to go down without a fight!
Max lurched to his feet, gripped an edge of Brandon’s desk, and with one hand, he flipped it over, sending it crashing through the window. As it fell three stories down Max almost had his hands around Brandon’s neck if it wasn’t for the security guards stationed only a few feet away from Brandon’s office breaking up the possible murder.
“Get that madman out of my office!”
“I’LL FUCKIN’ KILL YOU, WILLIAMS! GET’CHER FUCKIN’ HANDS OFFA ME! LEMME GO! YOU’LL FUCKIN’ PAY FOR THIS, YOU FUCKIN’ PIPSQUEAK! I SPENT FOUR FUCKIN’ YEARS BUSTIN’ MY FUCKIN’ BALLS FOR YOU, AND THIS IS HOW YOU REPAY…”
Max’s explosive ranting finally ceased, and everyone on Brandon Williams’ floor was looking at each other, and looking at their boss. Brandon’s hair was in disarray, sweat was pouring down his face, and his was thumping hard against his ribcage. He never saw someone almost try to kill him after letting him go from the company. He had no choice; that’s what Brandon was telling Max until he went ape shit. He looked at the employees on his floor, smoothed his hair back from his forehead and smiled. “It’s all right, folks, get back to work.”
“I can’t believe he fuckin’ canned my ass after I worked my ass off for that little pipsqueak. That fuckin’ little pipsqueak has no idea what he has done, letting go one of the best computer engineers in his fuckin’ business.”
Eight hours later Max was in his favorite bar, throwing back shots of Bourbon and talking to Owen Holliday, the bartender. He had known Owen since they were in high school. He was a burly black man, about the same height as Max and nearly sixty pounds heavier. Barrel-chested and bald, he looked like someone that you don’t want to mess with, but in actuality, he was the biggest Teddy bear you would ever meet. Married for fifteen years, had two daughters, he was blessed for having this life. When one person was blessed with the perfect life, one had to come into his bar and shit all over it due to the turnout of his day.
“That sucks to hear, man, it really does,” Owen said, giving him another shot of Bourbon. “What are you gonna do?”
Before answering Owen’s question, he threw back his umpteenth shot of Bourbon, feeling the satisfactory burn slide down his throat, and let out a burp. “Forget about what happened and go job hunting. Those are the only things I can do, Owen.” He looked up at his friend. “Is there any positions open in your place?”
Owen let out a laugh and patted Max on the shoulder. “For as big as you are, you should be a professional wrestler. But alas, there aren’t any places available, and there are no bouncers required in his bar. There’s seldom any violence, and if there was, they’d take their fight outside. I’m not putting up with anyone’s shit when I’m working.”
“I hear that.” He got up from the barstool, stumbled a bit, got his balance back, and waved at Owen. “I’ll see you again, Owen.”
Letting out a chuckle, Owen said, “Are you okay to drive, Max?”
“Yeah, I’m fine. I just tripped that’s all. Don’t worry about me.”
Max wasn’t fine. He woke up the next morning hung over, and his head was throbbing. But that didn’t matter to Max. Hung over or not he was going to get out of bed, take a shower, and look through the classifies for a job. Letting out a groan he got out of bed, shuffled to the bathroom, removed his boxers, and got into the shower. For the first time since losing his job, he felt good. The shower cleansed him, washed away his worries—not that he had any—and boosted his confidence in looking for a job.
After his shower he toweled off, shaved, and dressed. He went downstairs for some breakfast when the doorbell rang. He watched to the door, opened it and saw Tim Smothers, Max’s landlord and owner of the townhouse complex Max lived in. He was short, portly fellow about Max’s age, sporting a Friar Tuck hairdo, a walrus mustache, and horned rim glasses that made his big brown eyes bulge out of their sockets. He wore blue jeans, a white polo shirt with a duck on the left breast, and black tennis shoes.
“Morning, Tim. What can I do for you—”
“Can the pleasantries, Max.” He handed him an eviction notice.
Max looked at it for a moment. It looked like it was written in Greek. Max had paid his rent two days before losing his job and now, Tim was standing in front of him about to commit murder because he didn’t have the rent Max already paid for. Keeping his temper in check, he looked down at the landlord—whom was eight inches shorter—and gave him a smile. “I already paid you the rent. I wrote you a check. Didn’t you get it?”
Tim wasn’t smiling. He wasn’t amused by Max’s futile attempt to play nice. Ever since he met Max six years ago there was something didn’t like about him. He wasn’t sure what it was, but there was something about him that didn’t settle with him. But after giving him a chance to rent out one of his available townhouses, he saw that he wasn’t a bad guy. He paid his rent on time and he was neighborly to the other tenants. There had been a few times where Max and Tim had clashed over maintenance problems that could’ve been easily fixed, but Max and the landlord worked through their heated discussions, and all of Max’s maintenance problems were fixed.
“I did get your check and it has bounced. You have twenty-four hours to get me nine hundred dollars, or I’m going to have to ask you to pack up your things and move out of the premises.
“But that’s impossible! All my checks are good! My bank told me that the money in my account was good, so I wrote you a check for the rent. I didn’t have the cash on hand with me. If you let me go to an ATM—”
“There wasn’t enough money in your account to pay for your rent. My bank called your bank and told me a different story after the check you sent me bounced.”
Max was seeing red again. He was seeing red when his boss terminated him yesterday, and he was seeing red when his landlord told him his check was no good. What the fuck was this, anyway, Shit on Max Holden Week? It certainly was turning out that way.
Oh, I get it, he thought to himself. His lips pulled back into a smile. I see where this is coming from: Tim fucking hates my guts because I’ve been a prick about the maintenance in this townhouse. Well, if he fixed the fuckin’ shit before I moved in, we wouldn’t have butted heads all those times. And now, he’s pulling this shit on me? I don’t think so.
“I see where this is going, Tim. You’re pulling this bullshit on me because I’m not like the rest of your tenants who are instantly satisfied after one phone call, being guaranteed that someone is going to come to their homes and fix whatever needs fixing. I’m not like your spineless peons you call tenants. When I want something fixed, I’ll be on your ass until it’s fixed. I shouldn’t have to live in a sub-par townhouse with shit that don’t work—”
“If you don’t like the living conditions—”
“Shut the hell up, I’m not finished!” That went over well, but Max didn’t care at this point. After what he’d been through, he might as well fuck up and do it royally. “I don’t need little runts like you to interrupt me when I’m talking. I have the floor, I’m going to speak! I’ve been a good tenant to you for six years, and now you want to pull this bullshit about one of my checks bouncing? Go to a different bank, and if my check still bounces, I’ll get you the money, but I don’t have twenty four hours to collect it. I lost my job yesterday, and I was about to make some breakfast and look through the classifies until you rang my doorbell.”
Tim’s hardened features slightly softened, but not by much to notice. “Look, Max, I don’t care how you get the money, just as long as you get it to me, in cash this time. And I’ll extend the deadline to next week. That should give you enough time to get you a job and cash in my hot little hand. If you can’t do that, enjoy this townhouse while it lasts. Good day.”
Smothers spun on his heel, walked off of Max’s porch and got into his Cadillac. As Max watched him pull out of the driveway and onto the street, the red was threatening. He wanted to chase Tim down the street, rip him out of his car and pummel him into a bloody pulp, but that wouldn’t get him anywhere, except landing him in jail for assault. He should’ve spent the night in jail for attempted assault, but Max got off easy. And after that quarrel yesterday, he highly doubted that he was going to get his last check in the mail from Silicon Valley Computers.
A moment later the phone rang. Ugh now who? As if his day couldn’t get any worse, now someone wanted his attention via phone waves. Grumbling to himself, he went over to his cordless in the kitchen, ripped the handset off the dock, and thumbed the ON button. “Hello?”
“Maxwell?” It was Max’s younger and only sister, Tabitha, Tabby Kat to her friends, because her full name was Tabitha Kathleen Holden. She was the only person in her family, aside from his mother that called him Maxwell. And if his brothers Joseph or Zackary ever called him Maxwell, they would eat Max’s fist for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. If they craved a midnight snack, Max would oblige them.
Her voice was watery, as if she had been crying. Something bad had happened; Max could feel those vibes from his sister. When Tabitha was born, the only girl in the family, Max had a keen interest in protecting his little sister. Since she was the only daughter in the Holden family, it was Max’s duty to protect her, no matter what happened to him. And strangely, they had this kinetic bond, as if they could read each other’s minds, or they could sense each other feelings before they said them.
“What’s wrong, Tabby?” He had a feeling something happened in the family.
“It’s Mom. She died. Massive stroke. I can’t believe this happened to her. With Daddy nowhere to be found, I can’t tell him that she’s gone. Oh, Maxwell, what am I gonna do?” She was sobbing uncontrollably now.
Oh this week was getting better and better. First he lost the best job he ever had, Tim Smothers walked onto his doorstep and basically said “Gimme your rent money or you’re outta here,” and now Sharon Holden, seventy-four, passed away from a stroke.
The red was back.
“Maxwell, are you there?”
Controlling himself, he let out a sigh and said, “Yeah, Tabby Kat, I’m here. When did she die?”
“Just last night. The nursing home she stayed him just called me a few minutes ago. We’re setting up the funeral for Friday; that’ll give Joe and Zack enough time to get down here for her funeral.”
“Have you called them yet?”
“I don’t know if I can, not like this. Could you call them for me, please, Maxwell?”
“Sure, kid, I’ll do that for you. Do you need me over there?”
“Oh, I know how busy you are with Silicon Valley Computers. I don’t want to monopolize any of your time, Maxwell.” Tabby Kat sniffed.
“You don’t need to worry about that, because I was fired yesterday. Brandon Williams was an asshole, and he threw me out of the job I worked hard on for four years, and he doesn’t give a damn. He even fired Travis Burton.”
There was silence on the other line, then: “I’m sorry to hear that. With the war going on, it doesn’t surprise me that that place hasn’t been closed yet.” There was a doorbell in the background. “Hey, I gotta go. If you can make it down here that would be great. Talk to you later, Maxwell.” She hung up.
Max let out a sigh. Things weren’t going well. Things weren’t going well at all. He placed the phone back on its dock, went to the closet and grabbed a jacket. His car keys were already in his pocket. He left the townhouse, locked up and went to his truck, a 2001 Ford Ranger 4X4. Before he could enter his pickup, something whistled through the air and slammed into his left shoulder blade. He let out a roar of pain, turned around and frantically looked around.
Then he saw him, Brandon Williams, with a silenced Beretta in his hand. Brandon flashed his pearly whites and squeezed the trigger. This time the bullet slammed into his chest, tearing a hole into his heart.
Max’s eyes began to blur with tears. He could no longer see Williams, but when he looked down, he saw that his left palm was covered in blood.
That was the last time he saw red.