Chapter 134: Handling the Body
"Have you thought about the future?" Frank asked casually.
"The future? At this point, I don't care. I just want to clean up this mess," Pinkman replied, taking a long drag from his cigarette. Leaning back against the couch, he exhaled a plume of smoke toward the ceiling. "Whatever happens, I'm not going to jail. That's all I care about."
"What about dreams? Anything you've always wanted to do?"
Pinkman hesitated, then chuckled. "Dreams, huh… You know, I actually used to want to be a comic book artist. Superheroes and all that. I even drew up a bunch of character designs." Maybe it was the drugs kicking in, or just the comfort of the topic, but Pinkman started rambling, sharing details about the superheroes he had once imagined.
Frank listened patiently, chatting with him deep into the night until Pinkman finally fell asleep.
Through their conversation, Frank came to understand what kind of person Jesse Pinkman really was.
There are two brutally honest ways to get to know someone: one is when they're drunk enough to be half-unconscious but still talkative; the other is when they're high.
Pinkman was simple—almost painfully so. A big kid, really. Insecure and starved for affection because of a messed-up childhood. Timid, kind-hearted, and lacking any real direction in life.
To Frank, Pinkman was just a boy—impressionable, easily manipulated, and without a strong sense of self.
"He's a good kid…" Frank murmured to himself, lighting a cigarette, his eyes thoughtful behind the rising smoke.
Suddenly—BANG BANG BANG!
A loud knock on the door jolted both men awake.
They had fallen asleep on the living room couch after talking late into the night.
"Huh?" Pinkman sat up, and something slid off his shoulders. Looking down, he saw a blanket. He blinked in confusion, then looked toward Frank, who was already heading to the door.
"You're here early. Not going to school today?" Frank asked, yawning.
"I took the day off. Got someone to cover my classes," Walter said breathlessly as he rushed into the room, eyes darting around. "Where's that car? The one that was in the yard?"
"We took care of it last night. And hey—why didn't you bring breakfast?" Frank grumbled.
Walter visibly relaxed at the news.
"Don't worry, Mr. White. We cleaned everything up last night. The cops won't be coming for us," Pinkman reassured him.
"What about Crazy Eight? What's his situation?" Walter asked.
"We gagged him," Pinkman replied.
After the previous night's talk, Pinkman felt noticeably closer to Frank—almost like family.
The three of them headed down to the basement to check on Crazy Eight. When they got there, they found him slumped forward, completely still.
Since he was tightly bound, Pinkman wasn't too scared. He walked over to check—then froze.
"I-I think he's dead…" he said, his voice trembling.
"Dead?" Frank and Walter rushed over to examine the body.
Sure enough, Crazy Eight had suffocated to death. The gag had restricted his breathing. Judging by the livor mortis (the purplish skin patches), he had been dead since the previous night.
Pinkman's hands turned cold. Even though he had mentally prepared himself, seeing a dead body—one he helped kill—left him in a daze.
This was different from the guy who died in the car—Pinkman hadn't been part of that. He was tied up at the time. That was on Walter.
But Crazy Eight? He and Frank had done this together. This was his first kill.
"Hey! Snap out of it!" Frank smacked his shoulder.
"Huh?" Pinkman jumped.
"Where's the key to that lock?" Frank pointed at the U-lock around Crazy Eight's neck.
"I'll get it!" Pinkman ran upstairs. His nerves were shot, and he stumbled multiple times, nearly falling down the stairs.
Compared to Pinkman, Walter seemed much calmer. He even helped Frank untie the ropes.
When Pinkman returned with the key and unlocked the U-lock, the body collapsed sideways onto the ground.
"That leaves one last problem—how do we get rid of these two bodies?" Frank asked. "I don't know this area. Is there a good place to dump them?"
"No way. Dumping the bodies is way too risky," Walter replied, lighting up a cigarette with slightly trembling hands. "But I have another idea…"
"What is it?" Frank asked.
"Chemical dissolution. Use strong acid to dissolve the bodies. No body, no crime."
"You're seriously suggesting we dissolve them? No. Do whatever you want, but leave me out of it. I can't deal with this." Pinkman ran into the bathroom and started vomiting, his stomach convulsing at the thought of the corpse downstairs.
Frank looked at Walter.
"No one's walking away from this. We all do this—together," Frank said wearily, sinking into the couch.
Lately, Frank had been feeling strangely exhausted, even though he hadn't been doing anything different. Food didn't taste the same. He felt drained all the time.
"I said no! I'm not doing it! This is my house! The car was here, the guy was locked up here, and now the bodies are here too! That's already too much! You guys handle the bodies!" Pinkman shouted as he stumbled out of the bathroom.
"We're all in this together now. We either make it through or go down together. Trust me—it'll be fine," Frank said, grabbing Pinkman and gently pressing his forehead to his, trying to calm him.
"So this chemical method… what do we need?" Once Pinkman had calmed down, Frank asked Walter.
"First, we need a large plastic container made of low-density polyethylene. The bigger, the better—big enough to fit a body," Walter explained.
Having agreed to do everything together, they all went out to buy the necessary supplies.
By noon, they had finally gotten a plastic drum that met the specs.
"Is this really going to work?" Pinkman asked as he hauled the drum out of the car. It felt flimsy—light and thin. He could press a dent into it with his hand. It looked like it could crack in half if he twisted it.
He was seriously doubting whether this cheap-looking container could withstand strong acid.
"This is the only type of plastic that can resist hydrofluoric acid," Walter said, coughing.
(To be continued)
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