Heaven, INC: Chapter 15: FUN AND GAMES WITH BIG ED WALKER

TACO SHACK PARKING LOT,
NORCESTOR AND IMPERIAL
9:28 AM P.D.T.

BIG ED WALKER STARED through the dirty windshield at a crowd of wetbacks gathering outside the police ribbon and a lot of cops and FBI fucks inside and saw the tall one, the pedophile fuck, talking with some little girl, probably wanting to diddle her or something, the perverted pedofile fuck, until the arrogant fat fuck, Big Mouth, came up and they started big-mouthing like he had something important to talk about, the self-important fuck.

“Look atcha, thinking you’re so bad. Like everyone’s gotta kiss your government ass cause you got a badge and you’re so much fucking better’n everybody else. Well, I got news for ya— you ain’t better n’ Big Ed Walker. No sirree, not by a long mile.”
Sipping whisky, Ed settled in to watch.

IT WAS ONLY FRIDAY of last week that Big Ed Walker strode out San Quentin’s front gate and into the first day of freedom in nine years to a high blue sky and a sweet breeze that blew in off the Pacific and in Big Ed’s opinion was God’s way of saying ‘Welcome back, son, and have a good time.” Not that God needed to remind Ed of that— ain’t nobody liked a good time more than Big Ed Walker.

From San Quentin, Big Ed walked far enough to catch a bus into San Rafael where, for three straight days, he chased cooter— strangely without success— before deciding he’d best get about his business. This, of course, following the fight with that pretty girl’s asshole bartender boyfriend, the ex-football fuck who thought he was so much better than Big Ed. Fact, truth of the matter is, the only reason Ed hadn’t gone back in there to finish the pussy off was on account of the girl’s smile, the one told Ed that while she’d miss him, and that it would never be easy, she’d somehow manage to shuffle along without him. So you see, it was really out of pity that Big Ed let it go. Well, that, and on account of the usual: cops out to harass a man just trying to have a good time.

Fucking cops.

Well after that, Big Ed had hot-footed it out of town by catching the last seat on a Greyhound bus next to some old migrant-worker on his way to meet a new daughter-in-law in San Diego or something, the old beaner had a terrible accent from San Rafael to Salinas, the senile old fuck talked non-stop about Caesar Shahfez, some Roman-Arab fuck who picked lettuce, blah blah fucking blah, and then for the next 50 miles, the guy talked about how excited he was to see his son’s new wife.

Ed got so pestered that by the time they pulled into San Luis Obispo, he thought his meth-swollen brain might finally explode. Like a medical emergency, so that it certainly wasn’t Ed’s fault— or the speed’s — that he was forced to beat the yapper senseless in the Men’s and steal his 432 bucks. The stealing, that Ed knew was immoral and wrong. Killing the yapper? Pure medical necessity.

After that and in a big ol hurry, Big Ed beat tracks to the AMTRAK and caught a train from San Luis Obispo to San Diego, drinking Budweisers in the bar-car while snorting meth in the Men’s. In fact, it was just three days ago that Ed showed up at ChemSteem looking for work, a place a buddy in the Brotherhood had told him would hire anybody with a pulse. No shit. After taking one look at the sorry bunch of losers in the ChemSteem shop, Ed knew it was only a matter of time till he was top-dog. And then yesterday, day two, the boss guy, Roscoe, he tells Ed how things are all screwed up and how Ed’s already getting promoted to his own van for the day, Van #3. Roscoe warning Ed about stealing from customers’ houses and breaking company equipment and shit, which made good sense, but then he totally leaves out any word about killing people and Ed figured he’d found a loophole. Not that he planned to use the loophole, you understand, just that the loophole was indeed there. And certainly, when Ed rolled out of the shop yesterday morning optimistic and fully intending to get his shit back together, he planned on working hard and keeping the meth to a minimum. Get a car, the cool pad and a girl. Then get married and have some kids. Ed figured it take about 90 days and maybe another month to take that asshole Roscoe’s job as Chem Steam’s General Manager. By Ed’s estimation, it’d take about 90 days. Well, except for the kid. That’d take at least nine months, ten if you included finding a girl part.


BIG ED MADE IT CLEAR through the first job and into the second before he fell off the wagon and nearly got through the third job before the real nonsense kicked in. By time Ed showed up at the homo hairdresser’s, Big Ed found himself dangerously close to the loophole and all over an ugly lamp the ass-fucker wouldn’t shut his mouth up about. And when Ed gave him an, ‘Aye-aye, Captain Turdburglar’, all bets were off. Now, that selfish goddamn fuck, along with the rich banker fuck and the squirrelly lawyer fuck, the fuckhead politician with the big mouth and the welfare queen thought she had it all over the world, all of em were in back and stinking up the van and where was Ed but back deep in the pudding with a bunch of dead fucks on his hands and what was he to do now but kill a bunch more people before he got himself killed? Shit. Wasn’t like it was Ed’s fault or nothing, just his shitty luck of the draw and how shit always turned bad for Ed, and he’d swear the mess was all bad luck and had absolutely nothing to do with the awesome amount of crystal methamphetamine he’d ingested over the course of the last week and the accompanying total lack of sleep.

Course, it would not have surprised Big Ed Walker one tiny bit to learn in less than twenty-four hours he’ have civilization on the very brink, see, because Mama always said how Ed was born with a mission in life. Ed’s mission just happened to be the destruction of the world as we know it.

But we’ll get to that part later.