This is not one of those.
It is not even one of those stories which simply finds itself told, for no better reason than that it exists. No, this story is one which must be dragged, kicking and screaming and biting and pissing all over your trouser legs, out of the darkness and forced into the light of day, leaving everyone involved – reader and writer and story itself – feeling dirty and violated.
It is not a good story.
It will not be well written. Absolutely refuses, in fact.
But here it is, all the same.
You have been warned.
His name was Tuesday, and so it was inevitable that he became a hit man. All contract killers are named after days of the week, although not all men named for days of the week become contract killers. So, Tuesday, paid killer. Mr. Tuesday, professionally, of course; a certain amount of decorum attaches to the profession. Any common thug may be called ‘Jonesie,’ but a real professional will insist on the proper honorifics. Mr. Tuesday it was to be, then.
And he might have been something other than a contract killer, truth be told, but for his given name. ‘Tuesday’ was a sufficiently difficult hurdle to surmount, but…. ‘Reginald.’ That sealed it. There was nothing to be gained in going by ‘Reg.’ Reg Tuesday was a dodgy corner market, where one might secure cigarettes, beer, and expired milk; but it was never a living man. And ‘Reggie.’ Well, Reggie Tuesday was a paedophile. Everyone knew that. And while Reginald had always wanted to be a librarian, a nicely quiet and peaceful occupation if ever there was one, ‘Reginald Tuesday’ was simply locked in. He was to be a hit man. No argument.
It really was his father’s fault, of course. Carl Tuesday was a brick-layer. And a good one. Skilled, practiced, reliable. That was Carl. But he was bored with his life before it had very much begun, and he hadn’t wanted that for his son. Now, Carl hadn’t heard of the convention that all contract killers are named after days of the week. With a name like ‘Carl,’ he wouldn’t have. With a name like ‘Carl,’ he was lucky to escape being a paedophile himself. No, there would be no ‘Carl, Jr.’ Reginald had a certain gravitas, especially as suggested by Carl’s wife Jeanette.
And so Reginald Tuesday was born. Much against his wishes.
There had been, for some very brief time, a chance that Reginald might have actually escaped his fate. A chance existed that he might have been a librarian, as he desired. ‘Reginald’ certainly leant itself to quiet, steadfast, regimented professions, and that describes neatly the perfect librarian. But that door shut as soon as Reginald encountered his first truly vicious schoolyard bully. Ten-year-old Timmy Shea was, at least in terms of his age and region, a professional bully. He only picked on those smaller and weaker than himself, and always limited his predations to those who would be least likely to tattle. Eight-year-old Reginald Tuesday was the perfect target. Quiet, thoughtful, and raised to settle one’s problems on one’s own powers; also smaller than Timmy, of course. After a few weeks of grooming – arm-punches and tripping, name-calling and spilled milk – Timmy went for the coup-de-gras. Young Reginald found himself stuck up in a fairly expert headlock with a snotty, sniffling voice demanding his lunch money. Money which Reginald did not have, as his mother always packed his lunch. Reginald struggled briefly, which motion only caused Timmy to tighten his grip. Reginald instinctively jerked his head backwards, administering a clumsy but effective headbutt directly into Timmy’s nose. Timmy toppled back onto his butt, blood streaming down his chin, with a look of complete disbelief on what remained of his face. Reginald absolutely believed Timmy’s screeched threats of death, and in fear for his life administered a very smart kick to Timmy’s fork. And when that failed to wholly deter Timmy’s threats and imprecations, Reginald kicked him in the head.
Timmy turned out all right for all of this. A brief stay in the hospital for concussion and stitches, and a slight alteration of brain physiology, and Timmy Shea, professional bully, eventually became Father Timothy Shea, humanitarian.
Reginald was quietly feted as a hero by his classmates, and marked as a potential problem by his teachers. His father also realized that Reginald needed a little more guidance than he had heretofore delivered, and influenced by a well-timed Bruce Lee movie, took his son for martial arts lessons.
And that was that. Tuesday could no more alter his fate than a train could choose not to follow the rails.
