The Killin' of Vince Kark

By Andrew Smith

It was Jeb Whitrow what first asked me about it. Him and Billy Crooder come up to me one night down at the joint and asked about it plain as day.

"We want you to kill Vince Kark" says Jeb.

"Yeah, we want you to kill Vince Kark" says Billy.

"Why, what'd Vince Kark ever do to you bums?" I asked.

"He done us wrong, Clyde" says Jeb.

"Yeah" says Billy, "He done us wrong."

"Why, that low down dirt bag" I said. "What's in it for me?"

"I got forty-six dollars right here" says Jeb.

"An' I got eighteen" says Billy. "Put that together an' I bet you got fifty."

"How much you wanna bet?" I asked.

"I'll bet the whole fifty" says Billy, "Now how much you gonna bet?!"

"You gonna kill Vince Kark, or not?" says Jeb.

"You sure he done you wrong?" I asked, not wanting to kill a innocent man.

"I'm pretty sure" says Jeb. "What you think, Billy?"

"Forty six an' eighteen is a hundred some odd dollars Jeb, if you carry the one. Are you sure Vince Kark is worth that much money?"

"He's worth every penny" says Jeb.

"Well, ok then" I said. "How do ya want me to do it?"

"We want ya to shoot him" says Jeb.

"A lot" says Billy.

"Shoot him a lot. An' then stab him."

"An' blow him up." adds Jeb.

"An' give him poison."

"An' stomp on him"

"An' drive over him."

"An' throw him off a cliff."

"An' drown him."

"An' hang him."

"An' shoot him again."

"Ok" I said. "Shoot him, stab him, poison him, throw him off a cliff, stomp on him, blow him up, drive over him, drown him, hang him, an' shoot him again. Anything else?"

"Yeah" says Jeb. "Make it look like an accident."

"That's right" says Billy, "an accident."

Vince Kark lived in a remodeled chicken coop just past the edge of town. By remodeled I mean that he'd got most of the chicken shit out, and got most of his furniture in. Oh, there may have been a couch, or a refrigerator, here and there out in the yard, and there might still have been a little chicken shit and some feathers stuck between the boards of the kitchen floor, but by and large, the place was a dump.

Most folks thought it was too dangerous for chickens to live in, let alone Vince. But Vince wasn't smart enough to be scared of danger, so the place suited him fine. It seemed like him and that place was meant for one another, and even when ya seen him out on the street it was like he was back home at the chicken coop. He had this certain chicken coop aura that seemed to follow him wherever he went. Most likely, it was just static electricity makin' little bits of chicken fluff stick to him, but whatever it was, it was hard to think of Vince without thinkin' of chicken coops.

Vince Kark was mostly a no-good cowboy bum, that spent his time mopin' around rodeos and taverns, tryin' to look sad enough to get some fool to take pity and buy him a beer. He was a tall, gangly kind of a cowboy, with a droopin' moustache that looked for all the world like a drowned squirrel. When he walked, he walked slow, and when he talked, he talked slow, and if he was talkin' to you, why by and by, you'd start noticin' a cloud of little tiny white feathers, driftin' down ever so slowly around him, like from Heaven.

Anyway, I didn't figure it'd be much trouble, or sin, to kill Vince Kark, 'cause he seemed to be at least half dead already.

Couple a days after I seen Jeb an' Billy, I loaded up my truck and headed over to Vince's place. I took my old double barrel shotgun, a huntin' knife, a hank of rope, a baseball bat, eight sticks of Super No-Stump dynamite, tape, wire, pliers, a quart of cyanide, a chainsaw, a hatchet, a shovel, a chisel, and a sixpack of pop on ice for refreshment.

Vince was sittin' out in front of his place on a ratty old plaid davenport when I got there, and he barely even troubled himself to look up and see who it was. I grabbed my shotgun, clumb out of the truck, and walked right up to 'im.

"I bet you're wonderin' why I'm standin' here at breakfast time with this shotgun, ain't ya Vince?" says I.

"No I ain't, Clyde" says Vince. "Billy Crooder told me you'd be here. Said him an' Jeb Whitrow asked you to come over an' kill me."

"What?" I said. "They told you about it? They change their minds?"

"No," says Vince "you're still s'posed to kill me."

"Well, then why'd they tell you about it?"

"I dunno" says Vince. "Me an' Billy was havin' a beer, an' he asked me if I wanted to know a secret. You know how Billy can't keep a secret."

"Boy that makes me mad!" I said. "I been lookin' forward to tellin' ya myself all mornin'. Well, hey Vince, if ya knowed I was coming to kill ya, why didn't ya up an' run away? I mean everybody knows you're a no 'count lazy bum, but there ain't nobody so lazy that they wouldn't get up an' move to avoid bein' shot."

"Well, it did cross my mind," allowed Vince "but I got to thinkin' on it, an' you know my dog died, an' I ain't had a woman in ever so long, an' I'm plumb tabbed out at every bar within a hundred miles a here, plus I need new boots, an' anyway, I figured it'd be better for everyone if you just went ahead an' killed me."

"Are you foolin' with me, Vince?," I asked "'cause if ya are, I'll kill ya."

"No" says Vince. "I been sittin' here most of two days waitin' for ya to show up. Actually I was beginnin' to think you all was foolin' with me."

"This ain't no foolin Vince" I said, and I cocked one barrel to show him I meant business."

"Good" he says. "Go ahead an' shoot."

"Close your eyes" I said. So he closed his eyes, and I put the barrel up against his head, and pulled the trigger.

"Click" went the hammer, and Vince opened his eyes back up.

"Nuts!" he says. "Bein' dead is just like bein' alive."

"Aw durn it!" I said. "I forgot to bring my shells with me. You ain't dead Vince; the gun warn't loaded. Dang it! I'm sorry. Now I've got to drive all the way back home an' get my shotgun shells. You just wait right there Vince. I'll be back in a jiffy."

"You mean to tell me, Clyde," he says "you come all the way over here to kill me, with a empty gun?"

"Well, I didn't know it was empty" I said.

"Moron."

"Who you callin' a moron, Vince? All you gotta do is sit there an' be killed. Meanwhile, I got all the work. I got to make the plans, have alibis, make a gettaway, plus remember the shotgun shells. It ain't easy, Vince. Now just wait there, an' I'll be right back."

"Hang on" says Vince. "I got some shells in the kitchen cabinet."

"Really?" I said. "Can I borrow one? I can pay you back."

"Help yourself" says Vince. So I run into the house, and sure enough, there was a pile of rusty old shotgun shells in the silverware drawer. I loaded up, and went back out to the couch. He closed his eyes again, and I put the gun against his head, and pulled both triggers, and this time the gun went "click, click."

Vince opened his eyes again, and looked at me kinda annoyed like, and he says, "Did you remember to load it this time, Clyde?!"

And I said, "Yeah, but where'd you get these shotgun shells, Vince?"

"I dunno. I hooked a huntin' vest last spring when we was catfishin'. I think them shells are from it."

"Well Vince, they're no good" I said. "I can't kill nobody with these shells. Now what am I gonna do?"

"Well, I dunno," says Vince "but ya better hurry up an' do something, 'cause I'm gettin' a mite hungry."

So I got out my list, and looked it over once or twice, and discussed a couple options with Vince. Of course, I shoulda known that bein' a cowboy he'd look favorably upon hangin', which is what he did. First, he wanted me to hang him from the ol' pine tree, but we couldn't get the rope over none of the branches, 'cause they were too far from the ground. And all the other bushes in the yard was too short.

"Well, I knowed a man who hung himself in his kitchen" I said, so we decided to do that. We went in the kitchen, and I throwed the rope over a beam, and Vince got up on a chair. Him bein' so tall and all, he pretty much had to squat down on the chair so his head wouldn't touch the ceiling. I tied his hands behind his back, and put the rope around his neck. Then I said, "I'm gonna kick this chair out, an' then you're gonna swing, you varmint", and he nodded, and I kicked the chair, but all I did was hurt my foot, 'cause not only is Vince tall and gangly, but he's heavy too.

So after awhile I said, "Vince, why don't ya just jump." And he did, but he landed on the floor, 'cause the kitchen ceiling is only 6'1", where Vince is at least 6'3". So he stood there awhile lookin' at me, and then he said, "This hangin' is a mighty slow death, Clyde."

Not bein' ones to give up easy, we went out in the living room where the ceiling was higher. Vince got up on the chair again, and I tied up the rope tight, so he'd be sure to swing. I gave him the thumbs up signal, and he jumped to his doom.

Apparently the roof on that old chicken coop wasn't none too sturdy, and it's a good thing we found out about it before someone got hurt. Vince swung on the end of his rope for maybe two seconds before there was a terrible creaking sound, and the whole shebang came down on our heads. I could hear Vince coughing and cussin' over behind the coffee table, and I knew he hadn't been killed, so I suggested we try hangin' him in the bedroom, where maybe the roof was sturdier. But it turned out that one of the fallin beams had given him a nasty knot on the head, and consequently, hangin' had lost favor in his eyes. I reckon it took us twenty minutes to find our way out from under that mess.

I was afraid Vince might be gettin' discouraged, and change his mind, and want to live, but he was as optimistic as ever.

"Maybe you could blow me up" he suggested.

"That's a great idea, Vince!" I said. "I got eight sticks of Super No-Stump out in my truck. Hell, that'd blow you right through a fine mesh screen door! How about I wire your pickup with the dynamite, then you get in, an' 'Kaboom!!'?"

Well, Vince took to that idea even more than he did to hangin'. He'd always liked explosions, and he was jumpin' up and down like a little kid at the mere thought of gettin' blown into microscopic bits. It was good to see him so excited about somethin' for a change. I went and got my stuff while he ran to find the keys for his pickup.

I put all the dynamite pretty much right under the driver's seat, and then slid underneath the truck to connect all the fuses, and wires, and such. Vince came running back with his keys, and jumped into the front seat. That made me a mite nervous, so I said, "Vince, don't start that truck until I tell you, alright?"

"Alright. Now?"

"No. Not till I tell you."

"Alright. Now?"

"No."

"Now?"

"No. Don't touch anything. You hear? What was that sound?! Vince! What was that sound?!"

"Can I play the radio?"

"Get out of the truck Vince! Get out of that truck right this minute, or we're not going to blow up anything! I mean it."

"But Clyde."

"Out!"

"Oh, alright."

Finally, I got everything wired up right, and I said, "Jump on in Vince, she's all yours."

"What time is it?"

"About ten to. Why?"

"I always listen to Paul Harvey at lunch. Can we wait a few minutes?" So we waited until it was noon, and then he climbed into his truck. He put the key into the ignition, and waved goodbye.

"Bye Vince" I said.

He pumped the gas and turned the key, but nothing happened.

"Oh Hell" I said. "The battery must be dead."

"Can't be" says Vince. "It's pretty near new."

"Are you sure?"

"Hell yeah! Billy Crooder gave me a case of beer for it the day before yesterday. And you know Billy Crooder don't give nobody nothin' unless he gets the better end of the deal."

"You mean, you gave your battery to Billy Crooder?"

"Yeah" says Vince. "We figured I wasn't goin' to need it, seein' how you was goin' to come an' kill me."

"Well Vince, how'm I gonna...Damn! Aw, never mind, just forget it."

"How come Paul Harvey ain't on?"

"Forget it Vince. Just come here. I'm gonna have to stab ya Vince. It's primitive, an' it's messy, but at least it works."

"Ok. Where ya want me to stand?"

"I don't care. Anywhere. Just don't move. You ready?"

He stood there stock still with his arms at his side and his eyes closed. I pulled out my Bowie knife and poked him right in the chest.

"Ow!" he says. "Hey, that hurt!"

"Well, it didn't even go in!" I said. So I pulled back, and jabbed him a couple more times.

"Hey, quit it!" he says. "That hurts!"

"Why, look at this knife" I said. "It's as dull as a rollin' pin."

"Good thinkin" says Vince. "My pop always told me a dull knife was more dangerous than a sharp one."

"Mine did too" I said. "But it don't seem to be workin' that-a-way. Hey, how many shirts you got on, anyway?"

"I dunno. Six or seven."

"Aw Vince," I said "This ain't workin." So we sat down and had a couple pops, and I looked over my list for some more ideas.

"It says here, I'm to throw you off a cliff. You know where there's any cliffs, Vince?"

"Why, gosh yes" he says. "There's a huge cliff out where I got my cows. Man, I'd hate to fall off that thing! One time a ol' blind heifer ran off of it, an' I'm tellin' you, there was parts of her all the way over in the next county! I mean splat!"

"Really?" I said. "Why, maybe we should go out there."

"Why, yeah!," says Vince. "I got a new mineral supplement to mix in their water, an' I got to give 'em some hay anyway. Hang on, I'll be right back!"

So Vince run in the house and got his stuff, then we jumped in my truck and headed out to his pasture. He poured a jar of stuff in their water, and opened 'em up a new bale a hay, and they all came by to eat and drink. He said goodbye to all of them, and it was real sad, 'cause it turned out it really was the last time he seen any of them in this miserable life.

We drove on then to the cliff, and it was just like he said; tall, and certain death, with no warnin' at all until you was standin right there. I stopped the truck a good ways away, seein' how things had been goin', and we got out.

"Well, this is it, Vince" I said. "There ain't no gettin' out of it this time. You want me to throw ya? Or you goin' to jump?"

"Oh, I ain't gonna jump" says Vince. "I'm scared to death of heights. Why, you couldn't push me off this cliff. Why, just look how far down it is to the ground!" And he leaned way over the edge to look.

"Vince, be careful."

"Oh, I yaaaaaaaaaaa!!!!!" Sure enough, the stupid fool fell right off the cliff before I even had a chance to push him. So I stood there a moment, ponderin' what I'd done, killed a man in cold blood, but it's a tough world, and only the strong survive. Vince woulda been alright if only he hadn't done Jeb and Billy wrong, but he did, and then he had me to deal with.

I turned around to get in my truck, when all the sudden I heard this voice from on high callin', "Clyde! I'm all right!" Naturally, I figured it was an angel, but, of course, it wasn't. It was only Vince. He'd landed in fifteen foot of water, and it broke his fall, so the only damage he incurred was getting his moustache wet. I went to the edge of the cliff, and there he was, a hundred feet below me, up to his tits in water, grinnin' and wavin'.

"Try an' drown yourself, Vince!" I yelled, but he hollered back that he'd already tried, but couldn't on account of he was holdin' his breath.

About a half hour later he finally made it back to the top of the cliff, and we climbed in the truck for the trip back to town. I was gettin' in a foul mood, for there didn't seem to be no way to get rid of Vince, short of killin' myself. I told him I was mighty sick of this whole endeavor, and disappointed in him, and how he'd let me down as a friend. He hung his head, and said he was real sorry about it, and to let him know if there was any way he could make it up to me. I thought about that, and got out my list and read it over again, and all the sudden one word jumped out at me; and that word was POISON.

"Why, hell yes you can make it up to me Vince, ol' buddy!" I said. "Hell yes! I got a whole quart jar of cyanide sittin' right there 'tween your feet, that'll knock you deader than a crash test dummy. Drink that, an' I'll just forget about the rest of this foolishness. What d'ya say pal?!"

Well, he allowed that that was fair enough. So he took the jar, and unscrewed the top, and took a big, long drink.

"Yeachh!" he sputtered. "This stuff tastes horrible!"

"Yeah, but it don't taste horrible for long. Drink up." So he grimaced, and bit by bit, he drank near that whole quart jar of cyanide. The last little bit he poured out the window when he thought I wasn't lookin', but I reckoned by then he'd already had enough to kill a New York city block, so I didn't ride him about it.

"How ya feelin', Vince?"

"A mite sick."

"Good. Won't be long now."

We rode for a ways more, and I asked him again how he was feelin', and he says the same, and then I asked him again, and he says a little better.

"Better?!" I said. "Vince you ought to be dead three times over by now. Let me see that bottle. Why, holy cow Vince, no wonder you ain't dead! This here says Bovine Mineral Supplement on it. You drank your own dang cow juice!"

"Why, no wonder it tasted so bad" says Vince. "I didn't think poison should oughta taste that bad. Well then, I wonder what happened to that cyanide you had?"

No sooner had Vince said them words than we bumped around a corner and seen for ourself what had happened to it. For there, layin' dead on the ground, was Vince's own prize herd of 41 red angus cattle, each of which had eaten a mouthful of hay, and then went to get a drink of water.

"Aw crap" says Vince, and then he starts to cry. "Them cows was like a family to me. I ain't got no one else on this earth that was closer to me than them cows. Ol' Bossie, an' ol', uh, whatever her name was, the brown one."

"They was all brown Vince."

"Well, that's true" he sniffed. "But, oh, the times me an' them cows had together.The memories!"

"What kinda times you talkin' about Vince?"

"Well, not so much past times, as future times, you know, things we was gonna do together! Sniff."

"Well, like what?" I said. "What was you gonna do with them cows?"

"Well, I was gonna take 'em to the slaughter house next week, but now we'll never get to go! Sniff! Oh, this is horrible. I can't take livin' no longer! You're gonna have to kill me, Clyde. Go on, put me out of my misery!"

"Vince we been workin' on that all day already, an' I think I'm closer to killin' me, than I am you. I give up."

"No, you can't!!" he says. "You're my only hope. Kill me!"

"How Vince? I tried everything I know. I don't have the faintest idea how to kill you anymore."

"Drop a tree on me!"

"What?"

"There! Look at that big ol' pine tree. You got a chain saw. Cut it down, an' let it fall right on my head. Smash me to a bloody pulp! Come on, be a sport, you can do it!"

"Well, I guess that'd sure enough kill ya" I said. "Alright, you're on."

"Oh thanks Clyde; you're great."

So, I parked the truck, and Vince stood where he was pretty much guaranteed to get smashed by the tree, and I commenced sawin' away at the stump. It was a huge ol' tree, and it took me quite a little while to get all the way through 'er, but finally I did, and she let go.

It ain't no pretty sight when a body gets hit by a 80 or 90 ton tree. You pretty much just all come unglued, and your parts end up flyin' every which way, which is exactly what happened when that tree hit my truck. It landed dead center on the cab, and all the wheels, and both front doors went shootin' off to the sides some thirty or forty yards. One of the doors almost hit Vince, but he ducked in the nick of time, and saved his neck.

"That was close Clyde" he says. "I bet you wish you'd parked further away, huh?"

"Vince" I said. "I seen the light, an' I ain't gonna sin no more. You wasn't meant to be killed, an' no amount of killin' will get the job done. What's meant to be, is meant to be, an' that's all there is to it. You have opened my eyes to the truth, an' if you'll walk back to town with me, I'll buy you a beer."

"Really Clyde?" he says. "You'll buy me a beer?"

"I'll buy you a dozen beers, Vince. I'll buy you beer till you pass out if you want me to. 'Cause whatever side it is you're on, that's the side I want to be on. From now on, I'm you're friend."

"You mean that Clyde? You're my friend?!"

"I mean it."

"Well, if I got a friend," he says "especially a friend that can buy beer, why then maybe life is worth living after all. Maybe I ain't got to kill myself."

"I reckon not Vince. Shall we go?"

"Lets."

So we set out for the nearest tavern, but it ended up I had to drink that beer all by myself. For we hadn't gone no more than two steps, when I heard this whooshin' noise, and right out of the blue sky a meteor lit out of the heavens, and drilled Vince right through the skull, back to front.

And that's how I killed Vince Kark.