by Edward Lee
The breasts were comely—firm and full of the vitality of youth... and ruined by tattoos. The right was a Smiley Face—black curve for a mouth, two circles for eyes, and a big pink nose—while on the left had been branded a great eagle and the words FREE BIRD.
The Writer could've groaned. How could you vandalize yourself like that? "Which, uh, one?" he asked, pen poised.
"Smiley!"
He scribbled his signature right over the "eyes."
"I cain't wait ta show my friends!" she squealed.
Terrific...
She gave the Writer a big wet kiss, running her tongue between the seam of his lips. My God... She just licked my lips with the same tongue that's licked UNTOLD dirty, hayseed penises...
"Just you git back to work now!" she said cheerily.
"Yes, yes, thank you. Have a great... night... "
"Nightie-night... "
The Writer closed and locked the door, leaning against it in the exhaustion of his ire. The realization didn't set well. Men will inseminate her tonight... over MY signature. Flustered now, he returned to the desk, lit a cigarette, and stared at the page in the Remington.
««—»»
Hours later, he was still staring at the page in the Remington. Now the page looked like this:
WHITE TRASH GOTHIC
CHAPTER ONE
There was a knock at the door.
Writer's block again! he screamed at himself. It's HER fault!
The ashtray had become a pyramid of butts. Through the walls he could hear muffled and distorted sounds: creaking, giggles, rapid footfalls and doors slamming. A whorehouse, he chided himself. I'm trying to write the most important American novel of the Twentieth Century in a whorehouse... He'd believed the grim reality of the place and people would alight his deepest creative visions—to saturate every page with human truth, but...
Just another subjective desert, a terra dementata not worthy of artistic interpretation. Or perhaps he was being too hard on himself. It was only his first night.
I pray God...
He needed to convert this experience into the genius of a Bergman film, with the insights of a Steinbeck novel, and the imagery of a Stevens poem.
He needed... something...
He opened the smudged shade before him, to be looked back at by a desolate night. A lopsided full moon hovered over the junkyard. He cracked the window to let in some air, then without conscious impulse looked at his watch.
It was midnight.
Outside, a wolf howled.
The Writer got up from the desk and sighed. I need a drink, he thought. Then he turned out the light and left the room.
(III)
Dicky stopped in his tracks at the Crossroads' front door. He looked up at the moon and could've sworn he heard a wolf howl. There ain't no wolves here... I hope... Inside, the loud bar was milling with ex-cons, fugitives, ‘shine-runners, alkies, and sundry redneck scum. Dicky felt at home. When he scratched his nose, he took an inadvertent sniff and almost gagged. Dang! Dicky had neglected to wash his hands after dragging the last of the clean rags back to the massage parlor. The redolence of old sperm and excrement seemed imbued on his palms. He wended through the overall'd mass to the bathroom and scrubbed up. Probably wastin' my time. Balls is talking big bullshit sayin' he's gonna give me the green fer my new trannie. On the wall someone had written: THE BIGHEAD'LL GET YOU IF YOU DON'T WATCH OUT, but Dicky scoffed at the backwoods myth. Beneath it someone else had written, much more recently, THE EMERGENT EVOLUTION OF NATURE DEVELOPS BY ELEVATING LEVELS OF SPACE AND TIME THROUGH MATTER, THE END RESULT OF WHICH EQUALS GOD.
Dicky read it as best he could, got a headache, and left the bathroom.
Doreen, one of the bar's working girls, attempted to entice potential customers by playing Nine Ball with herself. She leaned over extra-long to take shots, allowing her low-cut top to droop so that anyone looking could see her breasts, but nobody ever looked. Poor stupid gal just don't get it, Dicky thought. Her breasts dangled like two stuffed white socks, with a cow teat at the end of each. Another prostitute, Cora Neller, was rack-skinny from meth—and from the booze she chugged to take the edge off when she didn't have meth. Her legs looked like flesh-covered dowel-rods sticking out of her cut-off jeans. When she sat down and crossed her legs, patrons often groaned, for there was so much gap-space inside her cut-offs that her vagina could be fully viewed: flaccid lips surrounding a scary black hole, like a hundred-year-old man's agape mouth. "Hey, Cora!" someone yelled. "Don't'cha git too close to the pool table. Someone's liable ta mistake ya fer a cue stick!" The whole bar ripped laughter; in fact, Doreen laughed so hard, her dentures fell out and landed in the corner pocket. "Fuck all'a ya, ya queers!" Cora shouted back. "You's kin all suck my Daddy's ass-hair!"
"Yeah!" someone shouted back, "like you been doin' since you was four!"
This was the cream of the crop at the Crossroads.
Dicky plopped his girth on the stool right next to Balls.
"Hey, Balls."
"Shee-it, man. Yer late. Thought ya lost yer confer-dance in me."
"Naw, after I'se got off work 'bout six, I hadda take me a long nap—"
"Shee-it. All that hard work warshin' cum-rags at the jack shack's got Dicky all wored out, but you ain't gonna have to work there no more." Then Balls cracked a sneering smile and slapped Dicky on the back.
"You got it?"
"I tolt ya I'd git it, didn't I?" Balls slipped an envelope over—a fat envelope.
It took a few minutes but Dicky counted the money, his hands trembling. "Well shee-it in a picnic basket, Balls! I just cain't believe it!" There was twelve hundred dollars in the envelope, in mostly ratty fifties and twenties.
Balls nodded. "So's when'll you git'cha that new trannie?"
"I'll pick it up tomorrow'n have it dropped the next day."
"And then the day after that, you'n me'll be runnin' moonshine, right?"
"Right!"
"As partners." Balls shot Dicky a solemn glance. "Right?"
"Dang right, Balls!" Dicky was nearly crying in his joy. All that money in his hand? What a fine friend Balls was, and not three days out of the poky. That brand-spanking-new M-22 Rock Crusher would make his motorhead dreams come true. A 427 El Camino with a radical trans was just the ticket. That fucker will fly...
Dicky simmered down, as some logic seeped into the conversation. "Hey, Balls... If you're flat broke after gettin' out'a the joint... how'd you come up with twelve-hunnert bucks faster than shit through a buzzard?"
Balls grinned. "Aw, now, don't you worry 'bout that none, Dicky-Boy." Balls snapped his finger at an ancient barkeep in suspenders. He wore a ballcap with a patch that read: LIQUOR IN FRONT, POKER IN BACK. "Hey, bartender! I gotta stand on my head'n flap my balls ta git a pitcher in this joint?"
The barkeep frowned his way over. "You look like a con, son. I gots ta see some green first."
"Shee-it," Balls muttered through his grin. He snapped a twenty down.
Then the barkeep noticed Dicky. "Aw, shee-it, Dicky, I didn't see ya walk in. Damn shame what happened at yer place."
Dicky scratched his head. "My place?"
"Yeah. June's jack shack. Ain't that where ya work?"
"Uh, well... "
"I guess ya ain't heard. 'bout seven o'clock, some fella walked in there and knocked the place over."
"Ya don't say?" Balls offered.
"Shore as shit," the keep replied. "Took the whole week's till, he did."
Dicky was astonished. "Yer shittin' me. Man, I was workin' there myself earlier."
"The fucker had a big gun too, and terrorized the livin' shit out'a all them poor girls. Made 'em all strip nekit so's he could gander their pussies'n tits."
"What a scumbag," Balls offered. "World's goin' ta shit, I'll tell ya."
The keep nodded in earnest. "And before he left, ya know what he done? He put his gun to poor June's head and made her stick her finger up his ass'n jerk him off."
"Th
e lowdown bastard!" Balls offered.
"I cain't believe it," Dicky lamented. "And he cleaned the place out?"
"The whole week's till, like I said. Two grand's what June tolt me. Then he got clean away."
"Well, shee-it, with all them girls workin' there, they must've got a good description of the guy."
"Nope," assured the keep. "Dirty som-bitch were wearin a Wendy's bag on his head with eye-holes cut out. Don't that beat all?" and then the keep walked off to get them a pitcher.
Wait a min... Dicky's head slowly traversed on his fat neck to look right at Balls. "You?" he whispered.
Balls' grin flashed like a switch-blade in the sun. He nodded, and gestured his waist. He pulled his T-shirt up for just a second, and stuck in there under his belt was a big-ass pistol, a Webley .455.
"Jimminy Christmas, Balls!"
"Shhh. Some piece'a work, huh? I knew my Daddy'd be good fer somethin' one'a these days. See, this piece under my shirt's about the only thing he left me worth more than a pack'a butt pimples."
Dicky leaned over, keeping his voice low. "You pulled a heist in broad daylight?"
"Why ya think they call me Balls?"
The keep returned with their pitcher. Balls filled two mugs and slid one to Dicky. "Cheers, buddy."
Dicky raised his mug with a great pumpkin grin. "To our new partnership! Man, we are gonna make some money whens I get my rod on the road!"
Their glasses clinked.
Three fat young men with buzzcuts sat on the other side. "Hey, ya old putz!" one shouted to the barkeep. "Git us another pitcher, and don't make us wait till we're old as you. And also give us an order of Redneck Steak Tenders."
The barkeep smirked. "Comin' right up... "
Balls seemed cruxed. "Hey, Dicky... what the hail's Redneck Steak Tenders? I ain't never heard'a that."
"Cheapest thang on the menu."
"Yeah? Well why not we'se git us some? I'se love a good steak, ‘specially if'n its cheap."
"Naw, Balls. Trust me." Dicky pointed to the keep, who threw a handful of soda crackers onto a paper plate. Then he shot a dash of A-1 Steak Sauce on each cracker. "There ya go, fellers," he said to the fat brothers.
"Awright!" one reveled.
"Yeah, I'se thank I'll pass on that," Balls said.
The barkeep wandered back over, and pointed up to the TV. "You boys been listenin' to this crazy shit on the TV? This feller in Wisconsin?"
"Naw," Balls said. "Ain't really seen TV fer a while."
Dicky rubbed his chin. "Ya know, I think I did hear somethin', some crazy guy or some such."
The keep leaned forward. "A serial killer they'se callin' him. Name's Dahmer, a queer-boy from up north. Kilt lots'a dudes they say."
"Kilt 'em?" Balls asked. "How?"
"Some'a the worst shit you can imagine, son. He'd go inta one'a these faggot bars and start swish-talkin' with some feller, and a‘course, the feller thinks he's gonna get a fudge-packin' like they do but, see, what this Dahmer dude did was slip mickeys in their drinks ta git 'em all disorientered, then he'd take 'em back to his place."
"Yeah?" Balls goaded. "And then he fudge-packed 'em?"
"Aw, yeah, he shore did but not ‘fore doin' a shitload'a sick shit first. Lotta times he'd just plain kill 'em, and then pack their fudge. And other times he'd cut parts off 'em, and then he'd cook it and eat it. Cops found heads in the fridge, body parts all over the place, pair'a ears in a bread box."
"Shee-it!" Balls exclaimed.
Dicky smirked with distaste. "And you say he et parts of these fellas?"
"Damn straight. Admitted it. Ate a fella's whole bicep, he did, and some leg-meat cut right off the bone. Broiled it. Ate some'a their brains too."
"Fuck!" Balls exclaimed.
"And ya gotta figgure, if he ate brains, and he was queer, you know damn well he must've eaten some'a their peckers, too."
"Bet he slapped 'em right down on a grill'n cooked 'em like hot dogs," Dicky speculated.
"Bet he did," Balls added, intrigued.
The keep wagged a finger. "But that ain't the worst, boys. Some'a these fruiters he'd pick up? He'd drill holes in their heads, to take the fight out of 'em so's he could butt-fuck 'em all night long—sometimes fer even days—and the feller couldn't do nothin' about it."
"Jay-sus," Dicky remarked.
The keep gave a curt nod. "Just goes ta show, boys. The devil comes in all shapes'n sizes," and then he wandered back to his beer taps.
Balls and Dicky stared up at the TV.
"Damn," Balls muttered. "He drilled holes in their heads. That's some cool shit, ain't it?"
Dicky looked aghast. "Cool? Balls, that's some right sick-in-the-head shit is what that is."
Balls raised a brow but said nothing, still staring up at the TV.
"But ya know what I don't git, Balls?" Dicky ventured. "What's a fudge-packin' murderer got to do with cereal?"
"Hmm. Don't rightly know. Maybe that's what he fed these fruiters after he took the zing out of 'em with the drill."
A voice to their right cut in: "Actually a serial killer is a modern law-enforcement label that's used to differentiate from mass-murders and spree killers. The individual will kill a series of persons, generally over an extended period of time, functioning normally in between victims. It's not uncommon for serial killers to work everyday jobs, own homes, and even have families."
Balls and Dicky looked over at the guy who'd related the information: a clean-cut guy with brown hair, glasses, and a white shirt—a nerd. He was drinking beer by himself.
"But ain't they all crazy?" Balls asked.
"Sometimes but not exclusively. Some serial killers even have high I.Q.'s. The frightening part is they tend to not stand out. The average serial killer is typically a white male in his twenties or thirties, and he commits his crimes, often undetected for years—like Ed Gein or Henry Lee Lucas—to live out a deep-seated sexual fantasy born in some mode of dementia."
Balls leaned over to Dicky. "Wow, this fella knows some big words."
"That he does—"
The guy continued, "The term was dubbed by FBI Agent Robert Ressler in the ‘70s, during the plethora of national news coverage about Ted Bundy, who raped and murdered women and children in at least five states. He's right up there with Gein and Lucas, the Green River Killer, John Wayne Gacy, but this guy here—Dahmer—he may wind up being the most grotesque of the bunch."
"Dang," Dicky said. "There's some fucked up folks in this world."
Balls leaned over, to face the guy in the white shirt. "Hey, buddy? You seem to know a lot 'bout this kind'a stuff. Any idea why they do it?"
"They all have essentially the same answer," the guy said. "They do it because, to them, it's fun."
Balls leaned back down, thinking.
"Fun? Fuck all that shit, man." Dicky was growing ill at ease. "Eatin' folks, drillin' holes in their noggins—shee-it. Let's not talk 'bout it no more—it's givin' me the willies. Just let's us think about all that cash we'se gonna make when we's runnin' ‘shine in a big block 427 with a Rock Crusher trans."
"Yeah," Balls said, but he seemed preoccupied now.
"And weren't there somethin' you was gonna tell me tonight?" Dicky reminded.
"Huh?"
Dicky lowered his voice further. "You said you had some score next month."
"Aw, yeah. Early September, right." Balls shook out of his bizarre daze. "It's pretty righteous and a shore thing. In fact, it just might be so good that we won't have to run no ‘shine after that."
"The hail?"
"Dicky-Boy," Balls whispered. "This score could be so big that neither'a us'll have to worry 'bout cash again. Ever."
"I don't know, Balls."
"Bullshit, Dicky."
"A heist, ya mean?"
"Well, yeah, kind of. And it's risk-free, man. Now don't tell me you ain't in with me."
"Shee-it, Balls. It's your score. Ya don't have to cut me in."
Balls looked taken
aback. "What'cha take me as? We'se partners. And we'se'll need yer ‘Mino to pull the U-Haul."
"You gotta U-Haul?"
"No, but I will once I steal me one. Only a fool'd pass this up. You wanna be a fool?"
Dicky hemmed a bit. "Risk-free, you say?"
"Damn straight... "
Dicky's shoulders lowered. "All right, tell me about it... "
They huddled closer, Balls whispering. "The score's about this old guy named Crafter, gotta old house ‘tween here'n Crick City, but it's like way out in the woods somewhere."
"Crafter," Dicky chewed on the name. "Ain't never heard of him."
"That's 'cos the guy's, like, a loner, don't go out much. And he's got a real fucked up first name, too," and then Balls took a slip of paper out of his wallet and read off it. "Ephriam Crafter. Ain't that somethin'? Ephriam? And he lives off some place called Governor's Bridge Road—"
