Chris McElwain

King Worm

The night before he killed King Worm in the parking lot of the Pacific Aquarium, Jerome Wilkes had an exceptionally vivid dream.

In this dream, a white man in a suit (a blue suit, much like the one his father was buried in) is standing in the middle of a field. Without warning, the man sniffs the air. He breaks out into a run. With the roving eye of dream, Wilkes sees the man’s feet as they furiously pound the earth, the sweat as it pours down his red, contorted face. The man takes an enormous leap, flying through the air, legs splayed like a velociraptor, and pounces with a thud and a shriek on the back of a grazing buffalo.

Wilkes looks away. The narrative of his dream skips a page, and when he looks back, the buffalo is dead, and the man has his face buried in the carcass.

Before he wakes, Wilkes is left with a final image of the man in the blue suit looking up at him. He pulls his head up out of the animal’s rib cage, and his cheeks are smeared with blood. He’s gripping a piece of what appears to be the animal’s intestine in his hands, and, worst of all, a large chunk of flesh dangles from the man’s clenched teeth.

The next morning was smoggy. Wilkes looked out the driver’s side window of his black Mustang, and the putrid sky filled him with disgust and an anger whose roots were nameless. Through the gloomy haze, the noisy, crowded streets of downtown Long Beach seemed like a subterranean nest, a colony of social insects. Worker ants and soldier ants and queen ants and homeless ants, their spindly corpses left to rot in the midday sun. All waiting to be washed away in the next heavy rain.

In the seat beside him, Allesandro was growing more and more agitated.

“Jerome, where you going, man? We gotta meet Big G by one.”

“Fuck Big G.”

“See, that’s your problem, man. You always gotta be harder than the next guy. Just flip around and get on the 405. We can still make it.”

“Nobody fucking pushes me around, Sandro. If G wants to talk, we’ll talk, but I said I was going to go see the ocean this morning, and that’s what I’m gonna do. Now you can chill your ass out, or you can take a bus.”

Allesandro slumped back in his seat, rubbing his palm over his forehead and muttering to himself. Wilkes ignored him. He and Allesandro were old acquaintances. They had met soon after his father’s funeral and had become partners of sorts, working together for Rufus Gills, a self-styled crime boss known more often by his girth and the first letter of his last name.

The Mustang reached a stoplight, and the smell of fish tacos penetrated its interior. Wilkes slid his sunglasses down his nose and noted that a new Baja grill had opened on the corner of Redondo and 7^th. A swarm of pedestrians scuttled onto the crosswalk in front of him. Wilkes looked at his watch. Nearly 12:45. Feeding time, he thought.

The light turned green, and the car moved on, taking a right on the next street and heading towards the bay.

“We got shit to do today, Jerome. Where we going?”

“I told you, Sandro. I want to see the ocean.”

“What you want to see it about?”

Wilkes said nothing. He made a left and guided the black Mustang into a parking space beside the beach. He adjusted his collar and slipped a stick of gum into his mouth before emerging to greet the salty air; down a small dirt slope, over a bike lane and onto the sand, Allesandro lagging grumpily behind.

Taking off his shoes, Wilkes plunged his feet into the warm sand and felt himself absorbed by the vast blue-grey expanse before him. Allesandro walked up beside him and followed his gaze with puzzlement.

“Ever hear of King Worm?” Sandro finally asked, lowering himself to the ground and resting on his haunches.

The name struck something tender in Wilkes’ subconscious. King Worm. The words were loaded. He remained silent

“No? Man, you gotta keep your ears open, Jerome.” Allesandro continued. “From what I’ve heard, this guy’s hard. I mean, harder than hard. Respected coast to coast as a grade-A badass. He’s got ties to the Mafia and all that shit. Bigger than Big G.”

“So?”

“So I hear this guy’s in Long Beach right now, and he’s been talking to Big G.”

Wilkes closed his eyes and listened to the waves.

“What do you think about that, Jerome?” Allesandro insisted, “Fucking King Worm in town talking to Big G. That’s some big shit, huh? I’m thinking that’s maybe why G wants to see us. Cuz we’re like his best guys. He wants us to meet the Worm. You know what I heard—Hey! Jerome! Where you going?”

“I’m done here,” he replied and climbed back up the slope towards his car.

Big G’s office was located in the garage of a one-story residence just east of Torrance.

G was sitting on his desk when Wilkes and Allesandro walked in through the side door. He was a big man and nearing forty. His jowels hung loosely from an otherwise round, almost babyish face.

Two of his men lounged nearby on a black leather couch smoking cigarettes, and the room was filled with the smell. Overhead, a ceiling fan gave off a dull whir and cast its rotating shadow on the wall opposite the desk.

“Jerome. Sandro. How are you, brothers?” Big G greeted them.

“Hey, Big G. Sorry we’re so late. Totally fucked by traffic on the 405,” Allesandro replied, his eyes flitting towards the two men on the couch and back to Big G.

“Please. Do not give it a second thought. When one invites a man as important as Jerome Wilkes into your home, one can forgive a certain lack of punctuality.” Big G grinned broadly to emphasize the irony of his comment. Wilkes did not return the smile.

“Sandro said you wanted to talk to me,” he said.

Big G’s grin broadened. He lowered himself from his desk and walked around to the chair behind.

“James. Wolf. Would you two leave us alone for a few minutes?”

The two men on the couch left the room wordlessly. G leaned back in his chair and popped a hard candy into his mouth.

“I’ve always liked you, Jerome. You know that?”

There was a brief moment of silence. The fan continued to whir.

“You ever hear of King Worm, Jerome?”

Wilkes glanced at Allesandro.

“Yeah, I think I’ve heard the name,” he replied.

“Good. The Worm and I met through a mutual friend in Chicago. He’s looking to fashion a few reliable business connections on the west coast. Well, this spells golden opportunity, brothers. Chance to establish my crew as a real force on the Westside. Finally get some respect. Show those South Bay fucks who the real playmakers are, huh Jerome?”

“I got no love for South Bay, G. You know that,” Wilkes responded.

Big G stopped the candy in his mouth between his molars and fixed Wilkes with a meaningful look.

“Your daddy was a good man, Jerome. I learned a lot from that man. He was on top when he died. Remember that.”

Wilkes absentmindedly searched his pockets for a stick of gum.

“You got a job for me or what?” he asked.

“No job,” Big G replied, “King Worm wants to meet you. I told him I’d pass the word along.”

Wilkes paused just before the gum was to enter his mouth.

“What’s this about, G? You know I don’t know this guy.”

“But he knows you. Your father, anyway. Milo did a job for the Worm couple years before the murder. Guess he made an impression.”

Big G slid a scrap of paper with a phone number across his desk. Wilkes picked it up, studied it, and stuffed it in his pocket.

Jerome Wilkes first killed another person when he was fourteen years old. Not technically in cold blood, but intentionally and without regret.

An older boy named Oscar Lopez, known sometimes as “Rattlesnake” because of the bandana he wore with a picture of a snake, attended the same highschool as Jerome in Barstow, where Jerome was living for the time with his mother.

What probably started as a meaningless taunt escalated rapidly. Insults turned to challenges, challenges to threats, and threats to violence. By the time their dispute reached its climax, Jerome had already suffered a concussion in a confrontation with several of Rattlesnake’s friends, and they had both been suspended twice for fighting. One day, they agreed to meet after school near the campus’s side gate.

Other students crowded around the two boys as Rattlesnake slammed Jerome’s then scrawny body against a concrete pillar. Jerome heard his shoulder crack but lay limp, waiting for his opportunity. Finally, it came. Rattlesnake grabbed him by the t-shirt and pulled him close, attempting to force him against the pillar a second time. Jerome reached for the butterfly knife in his pocket, flipped it open as he had practiced, and plunged it into his opponent’s esophagus. When Rattlesnake stumbled back, clutching his throat, Jerome charged him and guided the knife between his ribs. Two of Rattlesnake’s friends jumped in to help, but by this time the police had arrived. Jerome was taken into custody, and Oscar Lopez was pronounced dead twelve hours later.

In court, the jury examined the evidence and declared that the murder was in self-defense. Whatever the verdict, however, Jerome knew that he had taken a life and swore to himself that he would never be afraid again.

It was the dead of night when Jerome switched off the Mustang’s engine and gestured for Allesandro to remain in the car. The Aquarium’s parking lot was deserted apart from a pack of seagulls cawing and viciously quarreling over scraps of food.

He got out and stood under an enormous mural of a shark. A Great White. The rows of teeth protruding from its open mouth seemed to glisten under the harsh glow of the streetlamp. In contrast, its black, beady eyes seemed lifeless and unthinking. Wilkes waited.

“Mr. Wilkes.”

The voice surprised him. The echoes from the empty parking lot, bouncing off the Aquarium’s concrete façade, were such that for a single mad moment he thought that the giant shark was speaking to him.

“I’m pleased to see you here.”

Wilkes turned to see a solitary figure, dressed in a long black coat, approaching him. It passed underneath the streetlamp, and Wilkes could begin to make out some of its features. He was an older man, older perhaps than Big G, but there was something etched into his face, some sort of quiet intensity, that left no doubt. This was King Worm.

His walk was slow, unhurried, as he approached. Despite himself, Wilkes felt a resentful awe creep over him.

“You King Worm?” Wilkes heard himself shout as the figure approached.

King Worm came to a stop in front of him and extended his hand.

“Mr. Wilkes. I’m glad you decided to call. I’ve wanted to meet you ever since I first contacted Mr. Gills first began. I knew your father, you know.”

“Yeah. I heard.”

“Milo Wilkes always impressed me very much. He had a quality which I both share and admire. I was pleased to hear his son had followed in his footsteps.”

The sound of a car door opening drew their attention towards the Mustang. Sandro emerged and began walking towards them. When Wilkes told him forcefully to get back in the car, Sandro stopped in his tracks and shouted.

“Mr. Worm! What’s up! I’m Sandro. I’m Jerome’s partner.”

“Pleased to meet you,” King Worm replied and without another word pulled a silenced handgun from inside his coat and fired three times at Sandro’s chest. Thwip. Thwip. Thwip.

Allesandro gasped, gingerly touched the places where the bullets had entered his body, and collapsed to the pavement. King Worm turned his barrel to face Wilkes, who remained placidly motionless, eyes locked with the Worm’s own.

“Why’d you do that?”

“Because I can, Mr. Wilkes. Power is changing hands, and when power changes hands, blood is spilled. I can’t give a better explanation than that.”

For what might have been the first time in his life, Wilkes had to resist the urged to look away. Maintaining eye contact with the man before him called for all the willpower he had within him, but, though the seconds and minutes passed, Wilkes maintained his detached veneer. Finally, King Worm let out a laugh.

“Come. Walk with me.”

“What about Sandro?”

“Are you nervous, Mr. Wilkes?”

“Ain’t a question of nervous. I can’t just leave the body with my car right there. That’s nothing but stupid.”

“There are more important things in life than prudence, Mr. Wilkes.”

Once again, their eyes locked with one another in a silent contest of wills. Finally, Wilkes nodded slowly, still grappling with his opponent’s gaze.

“Alright,” he agreed. “Fuck it.”

They made their way toward the public street, out from under the shark’s cold and alien gaze. As they strolled, King Worm began again, eyes forward, hands resting calmly in the pockets of his coat.

“I want to teach you something, Mr. Wilkes. The only thing you may ever need to know: fear is the currency of life. The only relationship that really matters is who is afraid and who inspires fear. Master and slave. Predator and prey.”

They passed a bus bench. The stench of urine was suddenly overwhelming. Wilkes felt the bile rise in his throat, feeling like a caged animal forced to pace through his own droppings. King Worm reached into his coat, as if making a decision. Wilkes regarded him with suspicion but did not flinch.

“I want you to do a job for me.”

They stopped near the entrance to a dark alleyway. King Worm handed him an envelope. Inside were several hundred dollars in cash and a photograph of Big G. Wilkes stared at the picture in silence, still feeling sick from the smells.

“You want me to kill Big G?”

King Worm smiled.

“Big G’s already dead. I want you to be the next Big G.”

They locked eyes once again.

“What makes you think I won’t kill you too and be the next King Worm?”

King Worm’s smile broadened.

“I love it. You’re a cunning boy, Mr. Wilkes, just who I need to look after my affairs on the West Coast. But you’re not King Worm yet. Stick with me. Keep your eyes open, and maybe you will take my place someday. Without any competition, you can dominate the Westside. You can expand and expand further. You’ll be bigger than your father. Maybe you’ll rule this rotten decaying mound of a country someday. This whole hollow world. We’ll be in touch.”

King Worm turned his back, and Wilkes felt his jaw clench, the muscles tigthened by the same grim determination that he had always felt. “Fear is the currency of life.” The words echoed in his head, and he was filled with a smoldering lust at the thought of the fear he would inspire with the Worm at his back.

But as King Worm began to walk away, Wilkes saw him stumble just slightly on a crack in the sidewalk. Everything changed. Wilkes felt a tingling, like ice coating his stomach. The awe that had paralyzed him flickered for a brief instant, and for a moment he tasted the anger and revulsion that it masked.

Wilkes lunged forward and grabbed the old man by the neck. He shoved him into the dark alleyway and pulled his gun out from behind him. He slammed him up against the wall and without thinking pressed the barrel to King Worm’s forehead.

Thwip.

The King’s facial muscles solidified into an expression of permanent surprise as blood poured down from the gaping hole above his round, bewildered eyes. His body slid down the alley wall and lay motionless.

What a joke, Wilkes thought. What a cruel, cosmic gag. A world in which the greatest thing he could aspire to was to be king worm. King Worm. The mighty maggot chieftain. A man like any other man. Frail and petty and ridiculous.

Wilkes hid his weapon and walked dreamily back towards his car, then abruptly changed his mind and crossed the street instead. He walked with his head tilted upwards, watching the palm trees pass. Above, dawn was slowly approaching and the sky was beginning to lighten.

The entire city seemed devoid of human life as Wilkes sleepwalked down another block towards the ocean nearby. He could hear the faint roar of the waves, tantalizingly close. He crossed another street, over a mound of grass and dirt and onto the sand.

The ocean. Wilkes felt himself drawn towards the unfathomable expansive greyness. The vast grey of the dawn sky and the vast grey of the water’s surface met at the horizon, and for a moment it was impossible to tell where one stopped and the other began. Briefly, Wilkes reflected on the future.

No Big G. No King Worm. No one left but him. His enemy had underestimated his courage, and he had won.

Or was he foolish? Would the same treacherous demon that had murdered the Worm someday come for him too? Would the police find the two bodies by the aquarium?

But as he stared out to sea, feeling himself merge with its enormity, a profound indifference swept over him.

King worm. Slave worm. The distinction suddenly escaped him.

He fell to his knees on the sand and wept.