Blog Me Deadly: Zack Virtue Stories, #1

BLOG ME DEADLY

Zack Virtue Stories

D. H. McKee

Copyright ©2024 by D. H. McKee

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without the permission in writing from the author.

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author's imagination and/or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Produced by D. H. McKee at ZuckerLoft Books

14 Peltz Ave., Kitchener, ON, CA, N2H 6A5

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Blog Me Deadly: Zack Virtue Stories

Ebook Version 1.0

Thank you for buying an authorized edition of this book. However, if you downloaded this or received it from a friend, remember that the author has received no compensation for it. Please consider purchasing a legitimate copy—it’s very affordable. It should be available from all major outlets. Thanks for supporting writers.

This collection contains references which may be triggering and/or objectionable to some readers. These include references to Post Traumatic Stress Disorder issues, sexuality, rape, suicide, and violent acts.

Ebook ISBN: 978-1-7750893-0-8

All that evil requires is an absence of virtue, where somebody didn't make a stand.

—Terry Darlington

For Roy. May there be hot coffee forever.

Blog Me Deadly:

Zack Virtue Stories

THE POSTMAN ALWAYS SINGS NICE

THE DRIVE

I’M NOT SURE if I can do this.

You’ll be fine. Five minutes of work.

I turned my gaze towards Erica Strong, the bailiff who was driving us to the job. She drove with a calm confidence, as if this was just another assignment for her. As if she was just going to the store for more cigarettes. The cab of her Ford F-150 was comfortable, but stank of smoke. Erica was one of those 35 people left in the world who still smoked, and riding with her was as unpleasant as being crop-dusted by Philip Morris. I figured I’d need to wash my clothes when I got home.

Still, it was nice to have a ride, especially since I didn’t currently own a car, and rentals were getting expensive.

I’m not even sure if I’m dressed properly.

Yeah, I was going to say something. What’s with the tactical turtleneck and black cargo pants? What are you, a covert operative?

I thought we’d be repossessing a car or something.

And that’s what you’d wear to repossess a car?

I, uh … I looked at my clothes and shrugged.

Well, what do you wear normally?

T-shirt, torn jeans. Flannel, sometimes.

"How very Canadian of you, she said. That would have been perfect."

Erica Strong looked and sounded like her name. She was an enormous woman. Tall, yes, but also broad shouldered, broad hipped, and had broad, meaty hands the size of dinner plates. I wasn’t a small guy, but Erica Strong was an Amazonian.

And yet, when it came to her job as a bailiff, some people didn’t take her seriously. Despite her intimidating physique, there were still those who stubbornly saw only a woman, oblivious to the looming danger that her size suggested. As if a woman wouldn’t kick your ass up and down the street. Honestly, even I was a little skeptical, but all the way in the other direction. She was intimidating, yes. And I wouldn’t want to pick a fight with her. But her cartoonish level of thuggery made it tough to see her as a real person. Imagine being intimidated by that villainous boxer from the old Bugs Bunny cartoons. Erica Strong kind of looked like him, if you squinted. But, don’t tell her I said that.

She gave me a last-minute pep talk before the gig.

Seriously, Virtue, we’re not stealing jewels from a museum. We’re repossessing shitty cars from shitty people. You might dress like you fit in.

Should I go back and change?

We’re not repossessing anything today. You need a tow truck for that. Besides— she said, a hint of a smile crawling across her broad face, —I’ve got an outfit all ready for you.

You do? I don’t like the sound of this.

It’ll be perfect for this job.

THE JOB

I CAN’T WEAR this.

I think you look great. Very sexy.

I shuddered a little. It’s not that Erica Strong wasn’t attractive. She wasn’t. She was an ogre. But that’s not why I shuddered.

I looked ridiculous in the outfit she picked. For starters, it was a little small on me. It made me look like a teenager in a child’s Halloween costume.

Also, it looked like a child’s Halloween costume.

I can’t wear this. I look like Sergeant Pepper’s Red Army Chorus. Or a male stripper. Was Michael Jackson the Postmaster General?

"You’re just delivering some mail. You’re a mail stripper. Try to get into character."

The outfit was baby blue satin, with gold stripes on the pant seams, and a double-breasted jacket. A mockery of 1950s postal carriers’ outfits.

Don’t forget your hat. She gave me a bright blue, gold-brimmed hat that looked like something a marching band leader might wear at a high school homecoming parade.

At least it’s not a pillbox hat, I said, strapping the thing on my head, pulling the elastic under my chin. So, what’s the purpose of this?

Misdirection, hon. Do this as fast as you can, and you’ll catch him off guard. We’ve tried to get this guy three times already. It’s a matter of pride. We’re not even getting paid for this anymore.

"Will I still get paid?"

Sure, hon.

Okay, but this had better be some kind of embarrassing initiation ritual that all bailiffs have to go through.

Erica Strong smiled and winked at me. "Give him the personal service."

As I set off down the broken sidewalk, she stopped me and handed me a clipboard and a package wrapped in craft paper and string. Oh, and don’t forget your props.

Uh, thanks.

Break a leg!

Har har.

I hurried down a cracked and weathered fifty-year-old sidewalk towards a dilapidated structure that barely passed for a house. Even for the neighborhood, it looked shabby. Peeling vinyl siding; a gravel driveway leading to a dented garage door which didn’t close; a broken window, half-assedly repaired using an old Molson two-four box and packing tape. The yard was worse off than the house. It was littered with cinderblocks, old rusty metal bits, and enough car tires to fill a garage. The lawn was half overgrown and half bare, like you’d get if you let a large dog use it as a bathroom for five years, and you were afraid to mow it. Seemed like a nice place to live.

I approached the front door, remembering Erica’s advice: If he pulls out a gun, run away in a zig-zag route. There was no doorbell. No door knocker, either. Just a torn screen door, half off its hinges. I opened it, and it came fully off its hinges with a creak. I cautiously moved it to the side as delicately as I could with one hand.

The inner door looked much more solid. This one looked like it would withstand the first week of a zombie apocalypse.

I knocked on the door. No response. So I made a fist and slammed at it with the heel of my hand.

The door opened a crack and a guy a little bigger than Erica Strong looked through the crack.

Who the fuck are you supposed to be?

Special delivery! I sang.

Special what?

Delivery? I said, showing him the clipboard and package.

The door opened a little further, and he showed himself. He was definitely bigger than me, and being up a step only exaggerated his presence. Otherwise, he didn’t give off the impression of being overly muscular. I think I could take him in a fight.

What kind of delivery? he asked.

Your kind of delivery, sir! I said, and, looking at the clipboard, sang the words on the paper:

Now this is a story ‘bout a man named Ned

Poor deadbeat dad couldn’t keep his family fed.

Then one day, he was ordered by the Crown

To pay child support and stay outta town

Ta-da!

I smiled at him and gave a little jazz hands as a flourish. He just stared at me, mouth agape.

"Wait, you are Ned Sanderson, aren’t you?" I said, quickly, looking at the clipboard and handing him the package.

Yeah, he said, turning the package around.

Great! You’ve been served.

The big guy’s eyes went wide, and he lunged at me.

THE AFTERMATH

THE DRIVE BACK was a little tense. I was nursing a black eye. But I got in a few good punches of my own.

Erica Strong whistled nervously as she drove. She avoided looking at me.

Finally, she said, "I’m so sorry."

It’s fine, I said.

I didn’t think you’d actually break his leg.

It was an accident. There was so much crap on his lawn. Plus, the plan was confusing. I turned to look at her. Is this how process serving is done?

She cracked a smile, then gulped it back down. Not usually.

After a couple of minutes of silence, she stuck a cigarette in her mouth and lit it with a Bic lighter. She exhaled a long plume of smoke, which caressed the windshield and filled the cab with a wind from Flavor Country. And, if, by Flavor Country, you’re thinking Alberta Tar Sands, you’d be correct.

She looked over again. Look, I’ll level with you. The whole process-serving bit you see on TV isn’t entirely real. Truth is, as long as you can confirm the identity of the person, you can just drop it in front of them and walk away. In fact, she said, if you can confirm he’s got a valid address, you can usually drop it in the mail, or leave it by his door.

What? You mean I didn’t have to do all that song and dance?

"Well, yes and no. The property wasn’t in his name; it’s his brother’s place. We got a tip that he’d be there. Still, what you did was hilarious! Plus, it drew him out. The upside is now we’re both witnesses that the order was properly served to him in person."

So?

So, you get your fifty bucks.

Oh, well, I guess that’s pretty good.

But … she said, smiling. That costume’s a rental. And you’ve ruined it.

Oh, no you didn’t.

Erica Strong laughed and slapped the steering wheel. It sounded like a manatee’s mating call. I’m just pulling your chain! No hard feelings?

I laughed. The monstrous laugh was contagious. It’s cool. I’ve been hit harder!

Yeah, you have! And, with a closed fist, she swung out and smashed me in the solar plexus, knocking the wind out of me. Oh my God, are you okay, Virtue?!

I gulped and breathed out slowly. Fine, I whispered.

Maybe this kind of work isn’t for you, she mumbled, rolling her cigarette to the other side of her mouth.

… Maybe, I said. Not gonna lie—there were tears in my eyes. Probably from all the smoke.

BLOG ME DEADLY

9:15 A.M. SEPTEMBER 12

HI THERE. MY name is Zack Virtue. Yes, that’s my real name. It’s Scottish, I think. I’ve never really looked into it.

This isn’t going to work.

Okay, okay. Let’s at least give it a try.

My name is Zack Virtue.

The problems began earlier this year. I got out of a bad relationship. Bullets were involved. I met someone new. It was nice for a while. Then more bullets were involved. We both got better, but it was too much of a shock to our relationship, so she said goodbye, and I haven’t heard from her since.

The summer dragged on, and the art commissions were drying up. I was assembling some submissions when other problems came forward. The stress of it was affecting my personal and business relationships, and I needed to find something to distract me. I also needed some fast money, so Vijay tossed me a couple of jobs. One involved bailiff work. One involved working security. Both were a little annoying.

Bullets were involved.

I’m writing this from my balcony, overlooking Victoria Park in Kitchener-Waterloo, Ontario. My neighbor across the street is out on his own balcony. Right now he’s looking at me suspiciously. I smiled and waved at him, but he gave me the finger. I wonder how long before he calls the cops. None of us need that kind of hassle. The cops, especially. Probably, they’d just send over Lacroix, and I’m getting sick of looking at him. He’ll want to come over and play video games, or something. Drink some Red Bull. Yeesh.

For reference, Lacroix is a buddy of mine. And a cop. I think. He doesn’t act much like a cop. He’s rude and childish, and … well, I don’t want to offend any cops who might be reading this, so I’ll just stop.

The park looks nice today. It’s sunny out, a little cool. The leaves on the trees are finally turning that yellow and orange that they do. I’ll bet it’s beautiful up north. If you’re ever in Canada, visit during the fall. Right around Thanksgiving. Canadian Thanksgiving. It’s in October.

I’m writing a blog. A seven-day intensive journal, she called it. My therapist said it might be a good way for me to visualize my inner monologue. That’s what she said. Like I’m some kind of narrator.

Oooh, four paragraphs in, and already I’m breaking the fourth wall.

Seriously though, it’s either write a few blog entries or go on some kind of mini-vacation at the local psych ward. Maybe I should get a new therapist.

I know, I know. Sounds ridiculous. Why can’t I just talk out my problems like everyone else? Apparently, I don’t enjoy talking about my problems in front of a shrink.

Well, I suppose I should tell you a little about myself.

I’m an artist. Sort of. I like to pretend I’m an artist, but I don’t make a lot of money at it. I did for a while, but the well dried up. Not many people buying paintings these days. And when I do sell a painting, something invariably goes wrong with the sale. Maybe the customer changes their mind before it gets delivered; maybe they don’t have enough money for the sale; or maybe they get murdered before they can take possession of the painting, and their children try to block the sale. You know how it is.

Keeping the rent paid means having a varied skill-set. I used to be a janitor … but that wasn’t a very sexy job, and I got laid off as soon as my boss sold the company … and then got murdered. I have some excellent computer skills, but everything seems too specialized now. Even in a city full of high-tech companies.

So, I do a lot of odd jobs to keep the money going until I can sell art full-time. I do the occasional security or investigation job for a buddy of mine who runs a private investigation firm. Sometimes, I work as a consultant for the local cops. Once, I helped the RCMP. That was kind of fun.

I could work for the government, but what have they done for me lately? See, I used to be in the Army. I applied right out of college, thinking it might be fun to see the world. Long story short … they sent me to the Middle East. I got shot, transferred, stabbed, and had to come home.

I get shot at a lot. A surprising amount, since I live in a place where handguns are restricted. Criminals always seem to find ways to get guns. That’s neither a criticism nor an endorsement of current gun laws in Canada. It’s just an observation I’ve made … while getting shot.

But enough of introductions. My therapist says I have to write this stuff down to quell the voice in my head. And maybe stop narrating while in public.

Note to self: Stop monologuing out loud. Especially in the therapist’s office. I think she’s beginning to suspect something.

It’s supposed to be helpful for my PTSD. I don’t really have PTSD, just a few bad dreams now and then. Once a week, maybe. Comes from my time in a war zone. It’s funny … other vets get prescribed medical marijuana for their stress. I have to write a blog. Sometimes, life is so unfair.

4:20 P.M. SEPTEMBER 13

MY THERAPIST LIKES what I’ve written, except for the parts where I complain about my therapist. I honestly didn’t think she would be reading this. I thought this was supposed to be therapeutic, not something that was going to be examined by anyone. Though, in retrospect, maybe I shouldn’t have put it up on the Web.

I’ll try not to reference my therapist any more. I’ll try to be serious about the entire process.

Having said that, why shouldn’t I be allowed to talk about my therapist, especially if it helps me through my issues? Let’s see what she says about that.

I live in Canada, in a medium-sized city called Kitchener. Or Kitchener-Waterloo, if you put the two cities in the same name. They’re very close together. They call it the Tri-city if you include Cambridge to the south. Pretty confusing, eh? Wikipedia tells me Cambridge was formed in 1973 by the amalgamation of three smaller towns named Galt, Preston, Hespeler, the settlement of Blair, and a small portion of surrounding townships. So, three cities. And a bunch of small towns and villages. All of it sits somewhere between Toronto and Detroit, if that helps any. I’m sure people who can look at a map can find out where I’m talking about. It’s not pertinent to the story.

I’m not really writing a story. Just talking about things that are happening in my life right now, and what I’m going through.

Some of you in the comments appear to think this is a story. Some of you think it’s a bad story. Welcome to my life.

Let’s set the scene. I’m sitting in a Williams Coffee Pub, in north Waterloo. I took the bus up here and went to the mall for something to do. There’s an art supply store there, or there was. It’s gone now. In its place is an engraving shop that also sells knick-knacks. I don’t need anything engraved. Like, ever. So now I’m grabbing a sandwich and a coffee at this restaurant. My sandwich of choice is a BLT. This one comes with cheese and avocado. Maybe they call it a CLABT or something. Not very catchy.

The events that necessitated this blog happened just two weeks ago. I was doing a job for my buddy, Vijay, who owns a private investigation firm. As I said, I do a little work for him, when he needs the help. I’m technically an employee of said firm (with the option of being partner, if I want real work, according to Vijay), and as an employee, I’m covered under their health plan. That’s why I’m here today, writing this blog instead of doing anything else. The firm’s health plan covers the therapy sessions, and I have to complete them and have the shrink sign off if I want them to pay for it.

So, that’s why I’m seeing a therapist. Well, that’s how I’m seeing a therapist, and why I’m writing a blog. As to why I’m seeing a therapist, well …

9:00 A.M. SEPTEMBER 14

THERE’S THIS TIM Hortons near King and Shanley St. in Kitchener. It’s busy today. One employee is attending to the counter while the drive-thru is keeping the rest of the staff busy. There’s a lineup right now, so I’m sitting at a table in the corner. It’s all windows, so I’m having a hard time figuring out where to sit. I like to have my back against a wall for reasons I’m not going to get into here. Okay, it’s for safety reasons. Whenever possible, I try to sit with a view of the room, and without a gun pointed at my face.

When I began writing this blog, I started brainstorming ideas for names. You know, you name the blog something interesting; it gets people interested in the story. I’m a bit of a noir film nut, so here are some ideas I came up with:

Out of the Blog

I Wake Up Blogging

The Blog Sleep

The Blog Dahlia

Shadow of a Blog

So Dark the Blog

Bury My Blog

Blog Me Deadly

For You I Die, Blogging

The Woman in the Blog

I laughed out loud at a couple of these, and a few of the other patrons looked up at me, and now I feel self-conscious. Oh well.

Let’s start with the bailiff job.

Vijay owed a favor to a partner who did some bailiff work in Ontario. He hooked me up with them. I wasn’t licensed, so I just served as the intimidating muscle guy. I’m not very intimidating in person, but I can kick the crap out of someone if I need to. It’s one of the many skills I picked up on my journey. To compensate for my regular appearance, I dressed as intimidating as I could and acted like a tough guy.

I think bailiffs in Canada are a little different from those in the U.S. Here, they’re the ones who serve legal orders and papers, take back properties, and even evict tenants when necessary. They handle many related tasks in the legal and property world. They’re the jerks who repossess your car or serve you warrants. Bailiffs also provide security for witnesses and escort prisoners to and from courts. And I wasn’t an official one, but I was helping out.

I helped serve warrants, changed a few locks, intimidated a few people, but I genuinely hated doing that stuff. It didn’t even pay all that well. So, after a couple of weeks of it, I asked Vijay if he had anything else.

He gave me a security job. It was a cushy one; something I could do forever. It was a night shift, so I had to sleep during the day, but I’ve done shift work before. I did a whole summer on nights at a factory that made boxes. I was just about to make some kind of boxing joke, but I could feel the groans from commenters all the way over here.

The night shift was a lifestyle change, but something I could adapt to. The job was at a bank, so there was some legitimacy. It was great at first: I got to sit in front of a wall of monitors and work on my sketching. I did nothing the whole night, and by the end of the week, I’d filled my sketchbook. The money wasn’t bad, and it was consistent. There wasn’t much for me to do.

Then someone robbed the bank. Broke in during one of my shifts. I noticed them right away and called the security company and the police. But the response time was too slow, and I got impatient, so I went down there with a telescoping baton and … I wasn’t supposed to have a telescoping baton. The company didn’t issue me a gun, and policy dictated that if a robbery took place, I was supposed to call the police and sit on my hands.

Also, some things may have exploded, but nothing they could trace back to me. I’m still not a hundred percent sure what they were after. Money, I guess.

I captured the robbers. They were doing a pretty lousy job of it, and I ended up breaking a few bones. The cops seemed happy enough, but the bank’s people were a little cagey in their response. On the one hand, they were glad to not be robbed. On the other, I apparently interfered with their insurance claim by foiling the criminals. They didn’t want me back after that.

Interestingly, the bailiff did want me back. But I’d already burned that bridge.

I again asked Vijay if there was something for me. He gave me a job that was more … how do I say this? More in the private investigator wheelhouse. Something that involved a little snooping.

11:23 A.M. SEPTEMBER 14

I’M AT THE Tim Hortons in Belmont Village. I walked back home, then up the Iron Horse Trail from Victoria Park. It’s an enjoyable walk, and I got some sun poking through the heavy green canopy of the trail. Once you clear the park area and get near Gauge St., there’s a short railway overpass. They paved the trail with asphalt all the way from the park up to where the trail ends.

There was a time when I was a kid, where smoking was allowed in restaurants, and I grew up with a very specific idea of what a Tim Hortons smelled like. It wasn’t bad, per se, just different. Then, sometime in the 1990s, smoking was banned in restaurants, and all the Tim Hortons shops began to smell like bakeries. It was nice. A little jarring, perhaps, because of my memories of the way they used to smell. But nice.

This Tim Hortons smells a little like the old days because someone outside is smoking. Every time the door opens, second-hand smoke wafts in. I get nostalgic every time someone enters or leaves. It’s a weird feeling.

I’m drinking a large black coffee. Tammy, the overly happy teen behind the counter, kept wanting to put cream in it. I used to get what’s called a Regular, which is the equivalent to one cream, one sugar, regardless of what size you get. But I haven’t ordered it that way since I was in school.

Most people use the drive-thru at this Timmies. There are about a half dozen other coffee places in Belmont Village, but this is the only one with a drive-thru. As such, most of the staff are preoccupied with the window in the back, and only one person, Tammy, is serving the people inside. And there are a few of us.

There are two women in the corner. They look like they’re on their way to yoga. Both are wearing fitness clothes, and have those rolled-up orange mats. There’s also this old guy with a beard and what looks like an old German-style combat jacket—the ones with the hoods, like what the Mods used to wear back in the ’60s and ’70s. I’m thinking of the film Quadrophenia. He’s also got a grey knit sport coat underneath and torn jeans. Looks like how I dressed at university. Cool. Dated, but cool. There are also three construction workers at a table, enjoying coffee and a box of a dozen donuts between the three of them. Maybe they’ll take the rest back to the crew, but from the look of them, there won’t be many left.

Okay, back to the story. Vijay asked me to do some snooping. He had me working on a potential divorce case. I needed to provide the wife with evidence her husband was cheating.

I asked (half-jokingly) if the bailiff job was still available.

I met with the wife at their house in Kitchener. It was a medium-sized