Free Remo Went Rogue by Mike McCrary

takes alleys at high speed, running rip-shit in and out of traffic—offensive driving at its finest. He makes New York cabbies seem tame and neutered in comparison
    The Mercedes races across the Brooklyn Bridge , breezing past the other cars at a frantic pace as if they were standing still. Escape and self-preservation are Remo’s only concern as he taps nervously on the steering wheel, constantly checking the side mirrors. It’s fight-or-flight in action, and flight has won by an overwhelming margin. Remo’s been reduced to moving on instinct, and instinct is screaming to get the fuck out.
    Peeling off an exit ramp, Remo’s CL600 reaches a red light and comes to a stop. Remo’s breathing is slowly but surely returning to a normal. He’s still on edge, but coming down a bit. He’s bought himself some time to think about what the hell he’s going to do. He tries to, anyway, but his thoughts are complete shit.
    Who would know how to help me?  
    His mind drifts . . .
    He grabs his iPhone and flips through it, eventually finding what he’s looking for: a video he’d taken of Sean playing in the park.
    He stares at the screen, almost through it. He wants to jump into the video and join that place—a place he gave up.
    Remo stops just short of running his finger over the boy on the screen’s hair. The boy is bursting at the seams with life, so happy and no sign of hate or anger. What’s that like, wonders Remo. Can’t remember ever feeling like that. Maybe he never did. He’s transported to another world, a better world, where things make sense. This one makes no sense. Not now, not ever. Not Remo’s world.
    The light turns green and Remo’s foot slides over, reaching for the accelerator . . .
    Smash!
    The driver’s window explodes from the impact of a crowbar.
    It’s a jarring moment of mind-bending confusion, punctuated by a fist crunching into Remo’s jaw. He takes another blow to the jaw, then another that dots his eye. Spit and blood scatters. The hand now tugs at Remo’s suit jacket, trying to pull him from the car. The seatbelt prevents Remo for being dragged from the car, keeps pulling him back into the driver’s seat.
    Remo thanks God for that.
    A tactical knife comes in, sawing away at the seatbelt, through it. in seconds. The door’s pulled open, spilling Remo out into the street where he rolls on the concrete. Fights to get his focus back…then he wishes he hadn’t.
    Above him stands Chicken Wing, .357 in hand. It’s not aimed at Remo though, even though Chicken Wing would like nothing more than to execute this fucker right here and now. No, not yet. He holds the gun by the barrel.
    Like a blunt weapon.
    Remo knows what’s coming as he mutters, “Sean . . .”

    Chicken Wing whips the butt of his .357 in Remo’s head.     

PART III

    (living a dream)

15
     

    This is not REM sleep.
    This isn’t even REMO sleep.
    This is what happens after a guy called Chicken Wing beats you to a pulp.
    There are no dreams. No tits, no pussy, and no aerial sex with a blue chick. There’s only a thick, swollen mass of nothing.
    A cerebral shit sandwich.
    If there’s a state of being wedged somewhere between awake, asleep and dead…this is it.
    Remo drifts in and out of consciousness a handful of times. There’s a flash of being dumped into a trunk and landing on a spare tire. He vaguely remembers not liking it. Later there was a red glow, of brake lights he guesses, flashing off and on while Remo rolled back and forth like a grocery sack .
    Other than that bit of fun, all Remo knows is that it feels as if his skull was thrown down a hole, with demons and ghouls spitting on it all the way down.
    He also retains a smeared vision of Chicken Wing wailing on him, and noticing that Mr. Wing was really, really enjoying it. Remo can’t wait for Johnnie Blue to take that memory out of his head. That is if he ever sees his good buddy Blue, or his favorite mix of R&B, again.
    During one if his brief blips of