Free The War Against the Assholes by Sam Munson

betters.” “Dr. W.,” said Hob. He meant the ad for Dr. Waldengarten, dermatologist, near the opposite end of the car. He threw. He hit the doctor’s greasy, bland grin. Still whitely visible in the dimness. “So we’re tied,” said Vincent. The brakes shrilled. I lurched in my seat. Vincent fell on his hands. The cards splashed. “Due to a signal malfunction at Brooklyn Bridge–City Hall, we are currently experiencing delays on the four, five, and six lines,” the conductor droned over the speakers. “Come on, really,” I said. “Calm down,” said Hob. “Signs and wonders,” said Charthouse, rising from his seat. Alabama said, “Wood here’s just got blue balls, captain.” “Don’t we all, one way and another,” said Charthouse. He trotted to the rear door, stepping on cards. “I just bought that deck,” said Vincent. “It’s two fifty,” said Charthouse as he opened the rear door. “Or it used to be.” A steel rod glinted in his hand.
    â€œYou don’t know what inflation is these days,” said Vincent. “Questions of monetary policy do not concern me,” said Charthouse. He handed Vincent a flashlight from the black bag. He gave us all flashlights. “Get moving,” said Charthouse. I did. I stumbled when I reached the track bed. My flashlight beam danced across the ties. One palm spattered a puddle of runoff. Scuttering and quiet cries. Rats or mice. “We appreciate your patience”: the conductor, again. You could hear the announcement outside the car as the light flickered back on and the train started to move. “Is this safe,” I said. “As long as we don’t dick around here too long, no question,” said Charthouse. The tunnel air didn’t stink. I assumed it would. Charthouse and Alabama light-scanned the walls. “Bingo,” said Alabama. Her cone of light showed an even deeper darkness. A black doorway. “Up and at ’em,” said Charthouse. We had to climb again, onto the access path. This time I didn’t stumble. Only enough room to stand single file. The door opened inward. More darkness. The air pouring out colder. “No need to be afraid,” said Vincent, “I’m right here.” Through a tight smile. I thought about punching him. Cracking him across the mouth with the barrel of the flashlight I’d retrieved. Industrial. Or a cop flashlight, maybe. I assumed Alabama would shoot me if I did. Instead I said: “That’s okay with me.” “Positive thinking,” said Charthouse, “is what I and others like to see.”
    Tunnels: They wash out your voice. Make it ghostly and thunderous. Like literature. “That round doesn’t count,” said Vincent. “It does, in fact,” Hob said. Their argument close and racketing. The walls of the corridor pristine. White tile. Water dripped. “Let’s stay focused, gentlemen,” said Alabama. She was bringing up the rear. She had her gun out. I could tell by the way she sounded. I didn’t want to check visually. “It amazes me how clean these walls remain,” said Charthouse. His cane scraped and chimed. A rat banged my shoe and leaped over. I didn’t mind. I like rats. Given the choice of coinhabitants city life offers, rats I prefer to roaches. They’re mammals. You can understand their motivations. Charthouse’s heavy, uneven gait broke our rhythm. I hoped they weren’t going to make me take another suicide jump. A phone trilled. “Are you kidding me,” said Charthouse. Vincent held up his phone. “The wonders of the modern age,” he said. He was still dressed in a black suit. This time with a purple tie. He’d done that at school, too, I remembered. Even though you had to wear a uniform: blue blazer, gray pants, white shirt, and a blue-and-white tie. If you violate the law’s