Dangerously Derivative Dale

Chapter 1

"Tonight's the night..." he says softly, hands gripped tight on the wheel, watching the man through a rain soaked windshield. His blood was up. His senses tingled with little electrical impulses. He could tell that tonight was the nig--"

"Jesus, Dale. Really? Little derivative, don't ya think?" Hank asks him from the passenger seat.

"Derivative? What the hell does 'derivative' mean?" Dale asks him, looking at him out of the corner of his eye. He can make out that he’s wearing his cowboy hat. An affectation he’d started since they’d watched Yellowstone. Dale had told him it was stupid, but Dale's opinion didn't matter.

Hank was easier to see out of his periphery. For a guy who only existed in his brain, he was surprisingly hard to pin down. Clearer in the corner of the eye than straight ahead. But his voice was always crystal clear.

"Derivative. An imitation, usually a pale one, of another person's work or art. And usually frowned upon," Hank tells him in that slow southern drawl he’d adopted—odd, since Dale had never left the Midwest.

"So," he drawls out, "What I'm telling you is that this copy-cat Dexter thing you got going is kinda embarrassing."

"Fuck you, Hank. If you don't like it," he puts a hand to his head and mimes ripping something out of it, "then get out of my brain."

Dale lets two vehicles get between his and Tommy's car before he starts to follow his soon-to-be victim. That was one thing he could never get over in the show. Dexter always followed people so close. It just seemed like a weird detail you would've thought they'd-

"I wish I could. I'm literally stuck here," Hanks says, interrupting and then sighing dramatically.

"Then shut the fuck up," Dale says, fingers dancing an annoyed rhythm on the wheel. "Derivative," he mutters. "My ass. That's a stupid fucking word."

"Well, I pulled it from your head, so hate yourself," Hank sighs, like he was over the conversation.

Wipers beat the glass, filling the silence. Dale tries to compose himself, he'd been planning this night for weeks. He'd done the work. Made sure that Tommy Devine met the code. Made sure that-

"Can we at least put some music on?" Hank interrupts his train of thought—again. He had a habit of doing that. He’d been doing that for as long as Dale had known him. "For fuck sakes, no. I'm trying to focus," he hisses to the empty seat.

"If you don't stop, I'm going to cancel the whole thing. Do you want me to cancel it? Because I will.”

"I don't give a shit. I'm not the one that wants to kill someone," Hank tells him, crossing his arms, then pauses. "Well, I do. It does seem kinda fun. But this just seems so..." he flaps his arm around looking for the word, "gauche."

"What the hell does gauche mean?"

How Hank knew words that he didn't know was a mystery to him. Sometimes it seemed that Hank had a whole different vocabulary than. Which was one hell of a trick when you really thought about it.

"Graceless. Lack of class. Crude. Unsophisticated and socially awkward. It means-"

"Alright. Alright. Please shut up. I got it," Dale mutters.

He really needed to sleep more. Hank was always there—but when Dale was running low, he really wouldn’t shut the fuck up.

“Sleep is for pussies,” Hank mutters, staring out the window.

It was Saturday night, and Tommy had a routine you could set your watch to. Bad guy, sure—but disciplined. Type A. No shortcuts. Which mean Dale had to be careful and —

“You could really learn a thing or two from this guy,” Hank says, reaching for the radio. His hand passes through it.

“Fuck! I wish I could touch things,” he snaps, flopping back, sulking like teenager.

“I don’t even know why you try. You know you’re not fucking real, dude,” Dale says, distracted as he puts the blinker on and follows after Tommy.

“Am I not real? I feel. I have wants. Desires. I’m as real as the next guy,” Hank says, voice rising indignant.

“Except for the whole non-corporeal thing,” Dale says, flicking his eyes over at Hank and watching his form start to fizz out like static.

“Oh, boy. Look who know’s a big word after all,” he mutters, coming back into focus when Dale turns his eyes back to the road. Dale knew Hank was just trying to distract him, to keep his mind off what was about to happen--at least, he thought that might be what he was doing. He was the devil and the angel on his shoulders and you never could tell which one.

Tommy Devine was a pedophile and everyone knew it. He’d been in the paper for months. He used to be one of those ‘pillar of the communities’, whatever the hell that meant, before he’d had the whistle blown on him by multiple boys.

He ran a wrestling gym, had for years, and for years he’d been abusing his students and keeping them quiet through fear, bullying and blackmail. But finally, boys that had grown into men had found the courage to come forward and put a stop to it. It had been front page news, a shock to the community. People didn’t believe it when they heard it, but there had been too much evidence to ignore. Testimony. Recordings. All of it. Enough to put him away for the rest of his life.

But—the cops had hauled him in before they’d gotten a warrant. They hadn’t read him his miranda rights before the taped confession. The whole goddamn thing got tossed on a technicality and Tommy Devine walked free.

Public outcry was massive but legally… it was over.

“I can’t believe the sum-bitch didn’t move. I mean, the balls on this guy. Pack up your molesting boots and hit the road dude.” Hank says.

“He feels untouchable. The bastard is ‘coaching’ again,” Dale says, disgust in his voice. During his stalk he’d seen the new students coming out of the gym. Dale was crazy, he knew it. But he wasn’t a fucking pedophile. Tommy deserved to die and Dale had finally worked up the courage to do it.

This was part of Tommy’s routine. He’d eat dinner with his family, the same family that had supported him during all of this— they were crazier than Dale was, and then he’d take a drive over to his gym, doing God knows what.

“You didn’t wrap the room in plastic, did ya?” Hank asks him and Dale sighs.

“You know I didn’t. I would’ve if I could’ve. But you know that,” Dale says.

“Derivative,” Hank mutters.

Tommy’s car puts a blinker on as he pulls into the empty parking lot. Dale pulls into the fast-food parking lot next door. He’d cut the cord leading to the security camera two nights ago, and it was still cut, dangling back and forth in the wind. It had been Hank’s idea.

“You’re welcome,” Hank says, grabbing at the door handle, trying to get out, hand passing through uselessly.

“Not so real now, are ya?” Dale says and giggles. It was the giggle he started using whenever he was talking to Hank too much. A strange feeling rolled through him—like pinpricks of lightning starting at his scalp, crawling downward like liquid static. He takes a few deep breathes but the feeling is only getting stronger.

A car rolled past slowly on the street behind him and he tried his best to keep his face hidden. Suddenly, Hank is beside him. “Hey, calm down. If we’re going to do this, we can’t get caught. Act cool, be easy. You look crazy right now.” If a person only you can see is telling you that you look crazy, you should probably listen to them.

“Let’s go,” Dale says, quiet and intense as he starts to walk.

“Jesus. Walk normal,” Hank calls after him. Dale hears his footsteps behind him, boots clomping heavy on the asphalt.

“When did you start wearing boots?” he asks, glancing at him out of the corner of his eye.

“Awe. I’m glad you noticed. Two weeks ago. And Melissa says you never notice things,” he says. “You’re a true friend, Dale.”

Tommy always went in through the back-door and never locked it after himself. Tonight was no different. Dale pushes on the heavy metal, knowing that it wasn’t going to creak, he’d checked the previous night.

“We really should have figured out a way to scout the inside of this place,” Hank whispers in his ear.

“You don’t have to whisper,” Dale whispers back.

“Just seems right,” Hank says.

Dale doesn’t respond because he’s inside.

It was your typical office space, small tight hallways with doors on either side. There’s a bright fluorescent on, bathing the space in harsh light. Dale stops and listens, trying to get a bead on where Tommy is. He fingers the big knife handle he has strapped to his belt.

“We should’ve brought a gun,” Hank tells him, trying to turn the door knob of one of the doors.

Dale hears a noise above the muttered curse words Hank is spewing. It came from behind the door at the end of the hallway. He takes light steps forward, trying to control his breathing but finding out he can’t. He’s really doing it. He can’t believe he’s really going to do—

“It smells like ass in here,” Hank says in his ear, not a whisper, but a full volume exclamation. Dale jumps, surprised and almost bangs into the wall. He looks directly at him, fury in his eyes and Hank pixelates away again. He can’t see his face, but he imagines that it looks sheepish.

“My bad,” Hank says and backs away.

There it was again. That noise.

He creeps up to the door and presses an ear to it. Whistling. Dale can’t place the tune. He stands there, breathing slow, trying to wrestle his emotions into order. His body doesn’t feel like his own.

What would Dexter do?

He’d be cool. Calm. Collec—

“Wow. He’s a great whistler. We’ve never been good at it. You remember Steven Winx? That motherfucker could whistle,” Hank cuts in.

“Will. You. Shut. The. Fuck. Up,” Dale thinks. He doesn’t have to say it. Hank hears everything he thinks.

“I’m just saying, this is kinda boring. We’re standing here listening to a guy whistle. Let’s get in there already.” Hank claps his hands like a T-ball coach. “Let’s kill this perverted fucker.” He pantomimes an enthusiastic stabbing.

Dale takes a deep breath. Centers himself. And slowly—very slowly—pushes the door open.

He stops when the crack’s wide enough to peek through. Tommy’s still whistling—and yeah, Dale has to admit, it’s impressive. He cranes his neck, eye to the gap, and sees him. Back turned. Mopping the plastic mats. He was an old man. A big man—but decades past his prime.

“You’d think this place would smell better,” Hank says beside him. Dale ignores him. Focuses in. This would be his first. Something he’d always dreamed of. Something he’d always felt bad about and fought, but ever since the idea of a ‘code’ had been given to him—admittedly, by a TV show, it was something he’d accepted.

He was ready.

“Ooo, there’s the light switch.” Hank’s ghost-hand floats in front of Dale’s nose fizzing out of existence as he points. “Flick ‘em off, he’ll turn around, and then you hit him with a sick one-liner. Boom. Showtime.”

That was as good an idea as any that Dale had. He could’ve sneaked up behind the man, but he wanted to see the light go out of his eyes. He wanted Tommy to realize why this was happening. That he deserved it.

Dale quietly slips his shoes off, before opening the door further and letting himself in. The plastic mats looked like they would squeak against his new balances, and he didn’t need that ruining the surprise.

Tommy was walking backwards, swinging the mop back and forth in wide arcs, little sprays of water flecking the mats when Dale killed the lights. And realized, immediately, that he had a problem.

“Goddammit, Dale. Real smart. We can’t fucking see,” Hank yells out from across the room, exasperated.

“This was your fucking idea!” Dale screams back.

“Who the fuck is there?!” Tommy hollers, deep baritone voice sounding stronger than Dale would’ve thought.

“Well, turn the lights back on and stab the fucker,” Hank says, now next to Dale. “Say something cool though.”

Dale grits his teeth, contemplates running out the back and decides against it. He’d come here for a reason. A purpose. And he’d be goddamned that he wasn’t leaving till he had blood on his hands.

He flicked the lights back on, revealing a terrified Tommy, spinning around in place with the mop held up like a baseball bat. He stops twirling when he spots Dale standing against the wall. Fear crosses Tommy’s face, making Dale’s blood hum with excitement. He was scared. Of course he was. He should be. He deserved—

“Hope he doesn’t know how to use that mop,” Hank says, interrupting.

Dale looks his way and says, “Now is not the time. Let me focus. Please.”

Tommy looks where Dale is looking and then looks back, confusion replacing the fear. “Who the fuck are you talking to?”

“Don’t worry about him, Tommy. I’m here for you.” He takes the knife from his belt sheathe, a big bastard, ten inches of stainless steel. Holds it up to the light, lets Tommy get an eyeful of it. One-liner time.

“You got off on a technicality. I’m here to correct the paperwork.”

There’s silence after he says it. Awkward silence. Tommy’s brows furrow, mouth open and grasping for an answer until he finally says, “What?”

“Good Lord, we need to work on that,” Hank says. “That was bad. Like. Bad.”

Dale lets the knife drop down to his side and he spins to confront Hank who puffs away and reappears in his periphery. “Fuck you, buddy. And I mean it. I worked on that line. It’s got structure, man. Motive. Irony. Clarity.”

There’s another silence, but Dale can feel Hank’s judgmental eyes. “I’m just sayin, the lady doth protest too much. I think you know it sucked.” Dale starts to reply, almost forgetting that he had a murder to commit.

“WHO THE FUCK ARE YOU TALKING TOO?” Tommy yells.

Dale doesn’t get a chance to answer before Tommy surprises him by rushing him, moving faster than he would have thought possible.

The bastard was old, there wasn’t any denying that. But fuck, he was still big. A wide, solid, shoulder hits him right at his waist and drives him backwards while bigs hands reach down and rip his legs up and away, sending him crashing down to his back and the knife spinning away. His head slams down hard on the ground, sending colorful lights flashing across his vision. His lungs wheezed empty, the air being crushed out of him.

“Oh, fuck!” Hank says. “We forgot that he can wrestle! Fight back, Dale! Don’t get your ass whipped by an old pedophile!”

“Not helping,” Dale wheezes out, just trying to get air in his lungs again.

Tommy wasn’t doing much other than physically holding him down, but Dale was still woozy and the lights were still flickering like Christmas lights in his vision.

“Elbow! Elbow his fucking face in!” Hank screams out, pantomiming elbow strikes. It seemed like a good idea, so as soon as he could see straight he used his hands to push himself up against the wall, gaining a little bit of distance between them. Tommy was a big man, but Dale was bigger and stronger still.

Tommy tried to reposition himself, tried to gain control of Dale’s hands and rip him back under his control again but Dale reached back—hard to get much distance with the wall right there—and drove his elbow into the side of Tommy’s skull. There was a satisfying thunk that sent a shiver all the way up his arm and left it feeling numb like he’d just hit his funny bone.

Tommy groaned and the crushing pressure he’d been putting on Dale eased up for a moment, giving him time to bring his knees up and kick him off, flipping him ass over head. Dale scrambles, hands pawing the floor for the knife—but it’s gone.

“It’s over there,” Hank says, pointing to Dale’s right. And sure enough, there it was. He stands up on wobbly legs, head still ringing and the world trying to float away as he uses the wall for support. He tries to hurry, he can hear Tommy getting up, he’s so close. Just another step. He bends down, handle solid in his hand and turns around as Tommy tires to tackle him again.

He does tackle him— there was no ‘try’ about it.

Tommy slams him down, Dale’s skull bouncing hard off the floor. Lights explode behind his eyes—more elaborate this time.

“Dale. Quit letting him tackle you, for fucks sake… wait.” Hank says then pauses. “Yeah. Dale, he’s dead. Or dying.” He hears another noise, a shaky rattle, a pained groan, and looks down. Tommy had tackled himself onto the blade, driven deep into his chest, blood pumping out and covering Dale in a sticky slick.

Tommy looks up, light fading fast from his eyes, and Dale can feel himself starting to fade out too. He was going to pass out. He could feel it. “Back to back concussions can do that to a man,” Hank tells him, concern in his voice. “You take a nap, and I’ll wake you when you’re ready. We can clean this place up and get out of here.”

“That was for the kids, you sick fuck,” Dale tells the dead man on top of him, then he looks at Hank, groaning out. “Fuck you, too. I told you. Tonight’s the night.”