MASTER – 10.2 – FINAL INSTALLMENT!

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“No!” I jump back, then shove the handgun into my pocket. I whirl around. That gunshot

could’ve been heard for miles. I’ve got to move! I turn and run, back to the mustang. I reach the parking lot – car’s gone. I have no ride. I’m a wanted man, without any ride.

I don’t have time to think, and I sure as shit can’t afford to stand out here like a dumbass. Not after my finger pulled the trigger on the shot heard around the woods. I turn and head into the hotel, rushing back through the side entrance. I sprint up the stairs, and go to the only hiding place I can think of – big boy’s hotel room. I swing open the door, rush into the bathroom, and wash my hands.

“So you killed him.”

I turn the faucet off, and stare back at my haunted reflection in the mirror. Somebody is in the room.

***Unfortunately, I will no longer be posting excerpts from Master.  But if you’d like to complete the story, you may read the full book here!

• Thomas M. Watt

Master – 10.1

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CHAPTER 10

I lead the way into the hotel through the side entrance.

“O M G Phil, what are you thinking?” says Ashley.

“Not sure.” I don’t want her following me, but I can’t afford to let her out of my sight. If she runs, I’m finished.

The side door is propped open. Easy entry. I begin the slow pitter-patter down the hallway. My heart races. I’ve got an iron grip around the handgun.

I’m on the second floor. I step, step, step down the hallway, eyeing each door. I wonder how many guests have reserved rooms within earshot. I wonder how many would call the cops at the sound of gunfire.

I stop at 203. I press my ear against the door. Television sounds – late-night Cinemax special. I look at Ashley, and her eyes are already locked on mine.

You’re not actually going to kill someone, right?” she says.

I drop my gaze, then cover the peephole and turn to the door. I hold the gun in my left hand, and knock slowly with my right. The television’s porno-moans cease. I hear slow footsteps from whoever’s inside. They’re coming my way.

“What?” says the dark, low voice inside.

I don’t respond.

“Speak!” says the voice.

I hear a groan, then footsteps away. I knock again, three, slow, times.

“WHAT!”

I take a breath. “I need to speak with you.”

“About what?”

I gulp. “Master.”

I hear the bolt lock snap open. I clench my handgun tighter.

Sweat drips off my eyebrow.

The door handle turns. I cock the gun, ready to fire.

Door stops short of opening all the way. He left the chain fastened, and pokes one eye in the crack. Latch comes undone. The door opens. I see his face – it’s big and wide, just like the rest of his body. He stares me up and down, then slams the door shut. I pound it with my fist.

“Who is Master?” I say.

Nothing. I gulp.

Door flies open. Before I can react, he grabs me by the shirt and rips me inside. I fall on the floor. He’s running away. This is a big dude – one I can easily outrun.

I bolt out the room and chase after him – he’s heading toward the stairway. I start after him, then stop and turn around. Ashley’s gone!

“Shit!”

She must have taken the elevator. Probably just walked in. I sprint after it. I press the button; slam it even. Too late.

I turn around and fly down the hallway. I reach the stairwell, and jump down the first flight, then the second. I start running to the elevator shaft on the first floor, then stop.

I can see the hotel receptionist speaking on the phone. I can’t risk being spotted by her running through the hotel lobby. Not even to catch Ashley.

I turn and sprint out the side door. Big boy’s nowhere to be seen. Right by the hotel is a heavily wooded area. Great place for a hideout.

I enter the woods running. I don’t hear anything. This guy could have a gun.

I slow down to a crawling pace. He could be anywhere. I have no flashlight on me, not even a phone. Both my hands are locked around the handle.

My breath is heavy. Every step I take breaks twigs, and I can’t bring my hands to stop shaking. This isn’t like any football game – this is life or death.

Something creaks. Up above, a short distance away. I shuffle my feet across one another. I can hardly contain my breath.

A snap. High, overhead.

I raise my gun and aim. I can’t see him.

A loud smack, followed by a crash. A tree branch broke, no doubt it was unable to support him.

I run over, and find him lying on the ground, hands covering his face.

“No more!” He screams. “No more, please!”

I point the gun at his head. “What are you talking about? Who’s Master!”

“No!” He yells. “I can’t take this. I can’t!”

“Tell me about Master!”

The big guy chuckles. “Master? You wanna know who he is?” He starts laughing, then grabs handfuls of dirt and smears it onto his face. He grows hysterical, and pounds his fist into the twigs and branches next to him.

I bring the gun closer to his head. “Stop laughing.”

He doesn’t; he’s cracking up.

I step forward until I have one shoe on his stomach. I bend over and press the barrel into his forehead.

“Tell me everything you know.”

His eyes grow big, and he quits laughing. “A guy can only take so much.”

“Who is he?!”

“Oh, you want to know about Master?”

My finger is on the trigger. “Yes.”

A big grin spreads across his face. “Fuck. You.” He reaches out for my gun and pushes my finger into the trigger. Half his noggin splatters out behind him as the gunshot echoes through the woods.

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• Thomas M. Watt

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Master – 9.2

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After ten minutes of silence, Ashley sighs, then holds out her phone out and drops it in my hand.

“My life’s in there.”

“Didn’t think you’d give it up.”

“The thought of you touching me is making me nauseous.”

I roll my window down and am on the verge of flinging it as far from the road as possible.

“Don’t! Just stuff it in your pocket!”

I load the gun, reach the phone out the window, then fire a bullet through it. The phone is blown to bits and scattered by the wind outside.

“What the eff? You killed it!”

I don’t respond. Mainly cause phones don’t die. Instead, I try to develop a plan for this hotel killing. Could it be a set-up, where the man in 203 is waiting for me? Don’t think so – it doesn’t seem like Master wants me killed. Not yet at least.

So why kill this person? And if I do, will Master even know? That question lingers in my mind for a while. He has men working for him in the real world – that much I’ve figured out. The thug who drugged me at my doorstep, the one driving the white van – at least two of them. I don’t believe in supernatural phenomena, but the thought of him having a peephole into my soul scares the shit out of me.

“Weren’t you supposed to be in the NFL or something?”

My eyes snap to Ashley, then cut back to the dark horizon out my window.

“Didn’t work out.”

She laughs. “Loretta made you quit, didn’t she?”

I show at her and hold up gun again.

“That’s what people say, she made you stop.” She dances her fingers through her bleached blonde hair. “God, if you get me on the news I’m gonna be so eff-ing pissed.”

I pinch the bridge of my nose and shake my head. “You love attention.”

“I’m not wearing any make-up.”

I turn to face her. She is wearing make-up, and looks beautiful. Scratch that – the kind of good-looking playboy models are.

“So sorry I look so ugly,” says Ashley.

I don’t say a word. She’s fishing for compliments. That shit rubs me the wrong way. Some girls really are ugly, so I never understand why I’m supposed to reassure the pretty ones they’re still society’s A-listers.

“I said I’m sorry I look so ugly.”

“Don’t worry about it.”

I hear her jaw snap shut and steal a glance – she’s got her arms crossed, and looks like she’s trying to shoot laser beams out of her squinted eyes. I can’t help but smirk for the first time all day.

“Why are you kidnapping me?” she says.

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• Thomas M. Watt

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CHAPTER 8

I wake up screaming. I’m bloody, my shirt is ripped, and I’m surrounded by desert. My head is attached to my body; my upper torso is no longer spooned clean.

A brief chill. Then the torment returns.

“No.” I push myself up. I grab my expos cap, jam it on until I’m eye-deep, then rip it off and throw it to the ground.

Somebody’s handgun is in my pocket.

I pat my pockets down – no phone, no wallet. I do a three-sixty. My family is gone. Loretta and Avery are hostages.

Master has them. In real life.

My eyes glaze over the sand, then the rocks around me. How is this possible? Am I delusional, have I gone full-blown insane?

I pick one of the rocks up, then hurl it. How could a psychopath from my dreams kidnap my family? I snatch another, then fling it forty plus yards.

I grab a third, then sprint forward. I swing my arm back, then hurl it through the air. My pace diminishes to a clumsy limp. Two more lifeless steps, then I stumble and fall, face-first into the sand. My wrist jams from my half-assed attempt to catch myself. Grains of sand fill my mouth and catch in the cracks between my teeth.

I slip the handgun out from my pocket and stare down the barrel.

The sicko has my family. He could be raping them, torturing them. Maybe he’s killed them already. Maybe he’s right – maybe I’m doomed to fail.

Have I lost my mind? Has ‘Master’ really infiltrated my dreams and abducted my family? Does he even exists, or has paranoia deranged the shit out of me?

I think hard about my morning with Loretta, searching for some alternative explanation. Is it possible our love wasn’t mutual, and she opted to take our daughter and run? No – She wouldn’t do something like that, I’m sure of it.

That cop who pulled me over – he seemed tormented, too. Especially when he blew his brains out. Maybe Master had him.

I flip the gun aside.

I’m dehydrated, hungry, and disoriented. I push off my belly then sit on my knees, gazing absently at the sun. I remain there until only a faint orange glow remains. I drop my head, let out a breath, then rise to my feet.

I have to get going. I have to save my family.

There is a roadway in the distance. I look down at the handgun, bend over to grab it, then stop. I swipe my expos hat up instead, then fix it over my shaggy hair as I walk toward the roadway.

I’m not going to kill anyone. Like I said before, I’m not a man of violence, and there’s no way in hell I’m going to let Master get to me. Even with my family in jeopardy, force and intimidation is not part of my lifestyle. I clean pools for Christ’s sake.

I pause short of my fifth step. What choice do I really have, though? My wife and daughter are in his hands. He’s the one calling the shots.

I shut my eyes and sigh.

“Goddammit.”

I return to where I sat, grab the gun, then tuck it in the waistband of my jeans and hike through the desert sand over to the roadway.

I’m not going to use it. But I’d be an idiot not to take it.

I wish going to the authorities were an option. Too bad cops don’t file police reports about nightmares. Plus I’m freaked out about how Master tracks me in real life. Could be some wacko shit like Being John Malkovich, where there’s this portal that allows people to observe life through some famous actor’s eyes. I forget the actor’s name.

Master? Who is this guy? Why did he pick me to carry out his dirty work? Somehow this complete stranger has jacked the steering wheel of my own life and taken me for a joy-ride.

I reach the road, then wait on the side. A trailer approaches. My arm is outstretched, thumb aimed skyward. I step out for the driver to see me. He tugs the horn and swerves around.

Five minutes pass without a single other vehicle passing. Then a truck rumbles my way. This time I jump in the road and wave my arms frantically. They slow to a roll, and I move aside and signal for him to lower the window.

Guy laughs and gives me the finger, then drives off.

Enough with the bullshit.

I hold the gun firm with one hand. Next car is mine.

A red mustang comes tearing down the highway. I flag them down from the middle of the road. I hope to God the driver isn’t one of those mad-as-hell gun owners who live for murdering in self-defense. The mustang pulls over and stops, but the tinted window remains up.

I take one last breath, then aim my gun at the driver’s side window. I fight jitters as I reach out for the door handle. Part of me fully expects my head to be blown off before I ever see who’s inside. I tug the handle, and hear the snappy click – it’s unlocked. I bring the door toward me.

“O… M… G,” she says.

Fuck me.

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• Thomas M. Watt

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Master strolls over to his desk, then searches through the various drawers. “I need you to kill the man staying in room 203 at the Sheraton tonight. Sleep in his bed and wait for further instruction.”

“What are you doing?”

“I’m looking for…” He says, more absorbed by his search than our conversation. “Ah, here it is.” Master returns into view with his hand wrapped around the handle of a spoon. He holds the rounded tip up to his nose, then sniffs it.            “What?”

Master makes his way over to me, stops, then stares plainly into my eyes.

“What?” I say.

He places his thumbs on my temples. “I don’t think you’re half as handsome as she thinks.”

“As who thinks? What are you doing?”

Master stabs the blunt end of the spoon into my chest.

“Ah!” I scream.

He grinds it in until the pressure is enough to break through my skin and tear into my muscle. I rock my head back and scream. Master carves out a portion of my flesh, then digs in again. And again. The pain is real – I feel Master scrape out my chest, piece by piece, with the round tip of the silverware. He plucks out one chuck of flesh after another.

The pain from his endless digging only intensifies as more time passes. My eyes roll back in my head, and I shout in terror. So much blood splashes off my tongue I’m forced to shut my mouth to save my nose from the stench of it.

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• Thomas M. Watt

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CHAPTER 6

My left hand chokes the steering wheel while my right sticks to my phone. I flip it open, push ‘send’ for Loretta, then wait. Voicemail. I ring again. I speed along the roadway. I’m not far from home, and I’ll see that white van coming a mile away.

“God, protect my family. God almighty, for the love of God protect my family.”

I don’t breathe. I’m locked on the road. I enter my neighborhood doing 50 plus. When I see him, it’s too late. Charlie – wearing the red-shirt, playing with chalk.

Now he’s drawing in middle of my street.

I press the brake pedal down, but I’m way too late. I rip back the parking brake – fumes from burnt rubber swarm my pick-up. I’ve veered right, straight for my neighbor’s oak tree. Charlie flees blind – and heads the same direction.

“No!”

I punch my horn and hold it down.

He watches me barrel toward him like a dumbfounded deer.

I crash.

Airbag deploys. Everything’s hazy. Blood and glass are everywhere.

Oak tree splits the front end of my truck. I wobble outside, then search my surroundings.

“Charlie? Charlie, are you okay?”

I’m dizzy; my brain is still bouncing. I don’t see his body anywhere. Then I hear crying. I turn to see –

“Oh my God.”

Hand to my chest. The kid dove into some bushes. If it weren’t for the tree, my Dodge pick-up would have obliterated him. He’s got a few twigs and thorns in his arms, but that’s it.

Charlie screams and goes running inside. I don’t blame him.

Tires screech. I turn around – the white van. It just turned onto my street. I see one roided-out driver, but his comrade from the passenger seat is gone.

“Loretta!” I scream. I pump my arms and race home. “Loretta!”

I reach my driveway. The van skids behind me and stops with a loud ‘bang’ against my garage door. I fly up the front porch and turn the door handle.

“Loret-”

Shotgun clicks from the monster holding it the second I shove the door open. He smiles, then stabs my neck with a syringe. A shooting pain enters my neck as I crumble to the floor. The injection comes from the man I saw in the passenger seat of the van – one with the cleft lip. He’s been standing here, waiting for me.

I’m too late.

I slip out of consciousness.

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• Thomas M. Watt

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“What kind of pansy-ass…”

It goes against everything I know about conduct with police officers, but I step out of my Dodge pick-up and walk over to the officer. He’s now sobbing uncontrollably.

“Easy.” I continue to creep carefully. “Hands up, don’t shoot!” I say with a laugh, hoping to get a rise out from him. He doesn’t even react.

I’m within feet of him now. His chin is in his chest as he looks downward at his gun. He’s shaking it erratically in his lap.

“Why don’t you put that gun back in its holster, Officer?”

“No, no. Everything is not alright!” He waves the gun as he screams.

I take a step back. I swear if he were any person besides a police officer, I’d grab that gun away from him.

“I can’t do this anymore, Phillip.” He says, then turns away.

My brain starts to spin, but then I realize he has my driver’s license. “Hey, relax, it’s okay.”

“No, it’s not. You won’t let me sleep, so what’s the point?”

“What?”

He points the gun at me. I dodge the shot by smacking his wrist with my forearm. I drop back a step then go sprinting toward a front lawn. Another gunshot rings out and I dive. I lie on my stomach with my hands on my head.

“Ahhh!”

I open my eyes and look up. The scream came from a little girl – she points at something behind me.

I whirl around.

“Jesus,” I say.

The police officer blew his own head off. Chunks of brain litter the pavement behind his bike, along with a fresh red pond.

Neighbors exit their homes. I have no idea what’s going on, but they won’t stop asking me. Then someone realizes there’s an officer down, and I’m the guy he pulled over.

“Stay there!” yells a middle-aged woman. She points a plunger at me.

“I can’t,” I mumble. “I didn’t, I don’t know what-”

A familiar ring – my cell phone, sitting in my driver’s seat. Loretta’s calling! I stand, sprint over, fling my dented door open, and rush to answer.

“Loretta!”

“Help.”

Call ended.

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• Thomas M. Watt

 

Master – 4.2

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Ch. 2

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She’s hidden beneath the covers, and I know she hates being woken up. The only exception is Christmas morning. Then again, she’s wide awake every Christmas morning.

I peel back the cover just enough to see she’s facing away from me. I rest my hand on her brown hair, and she doesn’t move.

“I know you’re sleeping right now, Brussels-sprouts. I just wanted you to know-” I pause.

I lived a very lonely life. That’s what people don’t get about me; that’s what they miss. Until you’ve gone without love, you have no idea how powerful it can be when it finds you. It’s not just a saying, and it sure as hell isn’t something I tell myself to feel better about giving up football. I don’t mean to get sappy, but as I stand here at my daughter’s bedside, knowing a short hallway away rests a beautiful woman who loves Phil Gordon the pool guy, I can’t help but thank God for all the life I have, and forget to give two shits about the one I gave up.

“I love you, Brussels sprouts.”

She turns over, and I finally see her face. Avery puts her hand in mine, then rubs her eye open.

“What time is it, daddy?”

I smirk. “Too early for you.”

She giggles.

I kiss her on the forehead, then get up.

“Wait!”

“What is it?”

“Come over here!”

I sigh, then do.

“Pinky.”

I grin, then hold out the finger. She locks her tiny pinky around mine.

“Say it, daddy.”

“You sure? Figured you’re too grown-up for that.”

“Say it!”

I smile. “Daddy cauliflower always returns for princess Brussels Sprouts.”

“Yay!” says Avery, kicking her legs and feet. I can’t help but laugh along with her – she hates vegetables.

I proceed to the kitchen, scoop out some Columbian roast, toss it in the filter, then add about four cups worth of water and turn the coffee pot on. I wait with my hands on the counter and my head dangling over my chest.

It was a dream, I remind myself. Nothing but a dream.

Still, ‘Master’ seemed so real. The entire scene did. Some dreams are so ludicrous you realize you’re dreaming while you’re in the middle of them. Other dreams fool you a little more, but as soon as you return to consciousness you realize you’d been tricked.

The coffee finishes brewing, and I pour myself a cup.

But then there are those other dreams, when long after waking, you are still convinced that you were in the presence of another being. Maybe not physically, but maybe metaphysically. The universe is a strange place.

“Are you trying to freak me out?”

It’s Loretta – she’s standing in the doorway, glaring at me.

“Yes, just the dream. Don’t worry-”

“You don’t spook easily, Phillip.”

“I know.”

“So why do you look so disturbed, baby?”

I think for a moment, and some primitive part of me urges me to warn her about Master. I almost want to stay here, just to watch over my family and make certain everything remains alright.

“Like you said, it was just a dream.” I hand her the mug. “Here, I don’t even want this. Have a good day, babe.” I kiss her and head for the front door.

“So why are you so upset?”

“Just being paranoid, like you said.”

“Love you, Phillip,” she says as I leave.

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• Thomas M. Watt

Master – 3.2

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Ch. 2

Ch. 3

“Oh… yeah, bring her in.”

“Loretta, come in now.” says Master.

I want to scratch my temple, but I’m having trouble lifting my arm. Loretta enters through the door. She sits in the sofa across from me.

“Babe, I didn’t know you came-”

Master interrupts. “It’s not just football, Phillip. It’s finances, it’s your inability to be a true ‘man of the house.’ Everyone thinks you’re a joke not because you never made it in football, but because you’re a loser in real life.”

“What kind of therapist-”

“I’m not your therapist, I’m your master.” He stops behind Loretta, and sets the canister of gasoline on her shoulder. “How many people will you kill to save your family?”

“What?”

Master unscrews the canister. “Loretta and Avery are mine. Are you, or are you not, willing to kill to see them alive again?”

I take several breaths through my nose. “Move that gasoline away from my wife.”

“Answer the question, Phillip.”

“I’m not a man of violence… get that god-damn gasoline away from her!” I try to stand – my legs won’t budge.

Master pours gasoline onto Loretta’s head. I can’t do anything but listen to the ‘glup glup glup’ as he drenches her dark hair.

“My bet is, you are. Our actions often contradict our words.”

“What are you-” I want to charge him, but my back is stuck to the sofa, my feet are glued to the ground.

“Light it,” says Master, then tosses the lighter to Loretta.

It lands in her lap. She stares up at him and blinks, then turns to face me. She looks like a sick puppy dog.

“Do something baby,” she says.

“What’s going on?” I scream. “What is this, where are we?”

“Obey your Master, Loretta.” Master pulls a handgun out from his pocket. “Light it.”

“Baby I’m scared,” says Loretta.

“Why can’t I move!”

“Light it!” Master says. He loads the gun.

“Help me Phillip!”

Master reaches his arm long, then presses the barrel into Loretta’s temple.

“Light it.”

Loretta and I meet eyes.

“Save me,” she says softly.

Master pulls the trigger. It clicks. No bullet comes out.

I wince my eyes closed, then return my view to my still-living wife and let out a breath. “Thank God,” I mutter.

Master opens the chamber, then seems disappointed to discover he’s out of bullets. He drops the gun on the ground, walks over to his desk, then opens the draw.

“What is going on here,” I say, calmly as possible. “Why can’t I move the rest of my body? When did you drug me?”

“Stop speaking.” He finds something in one of the draws of his desk that makes him smile– it’s a book of matches and a cigarette. He lights up.

“What are you doing?”

Master takes a seat, sniffs the cigarette, then frowns. “I need you to deliver a package for me.”

“You got it. Let us leave.”

Master grins at me. “Sounds lovely. I’m fond of that idea.”

“Great.”

He sighs. “Not practical though. Tell her you love her before you leave, you may never see her again.”

“What are you talking about?”

Master flicks the lit cigarette at Loretta.

“No!” I scream.

Flames engulf her from head to toe. Her skin melts like wax, her hair shrivels up like dry weeds. “Baby!” she says.

“I can’t move!”

The heat from the fire warms me. I smell my wife’s flesh burn away. My wife dies in agony before my eyes.

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• Thomas M. Watt

Master – 3.1

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Ch. 2

CHAPTER 3

A muscular trashcan clothed in a pinstriped suit sits across from me. Hair slicked-back, big square glasses, and a fiery glare so intense I swear he wants to kill me.

“You’re scared,” he says, scribbling in his notebook.

The sun shines in through the window, where parked cars, trees, and a graffiti-ed fire hydrant can be seen down below. I’m in a psychiatry office, but I have no memory of driving here.

“Talk about your failure as a football player.”

“What?”

“You were a great college player; one of the greatest ever to play the game. If you would have continued, you could have been a superstar. But you quit.” The psychiatrist pauses, then looks up from his notepad with a flick of his eyes. “Why, did you stop?”

“I don’t recall your name, doctor… what was it again?”

“Master.”

I laugh. “Master? That’s what you want me to call you?”

“Yes.” ‘Master’ pulls a lighter out from his pocket, then flicks the flame on. He lets go of the switch, then does it again. “Why did you give up on your lifelong dream, Mr. Gordon?”

“I don’t see it that way, doc, never have. I was in love, and my daughter Avery was on the way. To be honest with you, professional football isn’t really the right environment to start-”

“Fear.” Master stands up, then walks over to a desk. On top of the desk is a canister of gasoline. He begins to walk in a big circle around the room, carrying the gasoline at his side. “Fear drives us to make desperate decisions. In your case, you quit because you knew it was a matter of time before others discovered the truth.”

“What truth?”

Master pauses, then smiles kindly. “I’m sorry, Mr. Gordon, but I feel it would be rude to leave you wife waiting for a minute longer. Do you mind if she joins us? I know it’s a bit of a surprise, but I can assure you this session will be better spent with her present.”

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• Thomas M. Watt