Still, he had to play nice. “No,” was all Andy said. Charlie approached and stood next to his friend.
“Fucking right ‘no,’” Hank said, shuffling towards them. “I’m doing you sick little freaks a favor here. When you see what I’ve got, you’ll be on your knees thanking me I’m letting it go for only six hundred. And when I say on your knees…” He wagged his tongue and gave a lecherous grin.
Charlie winced as though smelling something awful. “You’re sick, dude.”
Andy’s face was of equal disgust. “Just show us what you’ve got, man.”
“You got the money?”
“Yeah.”
“Lemme see it.”
Andy didn’t hesitate. Unless Hank had a gun (he’d never shown them one before, and he was the type who would somehow find an excuse to brandish it in a “look how badass I think I am” kind of way), the idea that the fat bastard could snatch their money and run was laughable; he’d be winded before he even got back to the driver’s side door.
Andy pulled out the roll of cash. “Six hundred.”
Hank held out his palm. “Give it here, so I can count it.”
“No. Show us first.”
Hank dropped his thick arm to his side. He studied them a moment. In the past, he’d never been this tricky. Rude and crude, yes, but the transactions were always quick and neat.
Considerations flew briefly through Andy’s mind before settling on only one: what the rude, crude, fat bastard had in his trunk must truly be something special, otherwise Andy and Charlie would be coughing in a cloud of blue-gray exhaust right now, watching the tail of his shitty Oldsmobile pull away, transaction complete.
Andy fought to hide his eagerness. “How about I count it in front of you?” he asked. “Does that work?”
“Go on then,” Hank said.
Andy did. Finished, he said: “Satisfied?”
Hank nodded once, smiled, and said: “Follow me, girls.”
• • •
Hank popped his trunk. Inside, amongst the clutter that surprised neither Andy nor Charlie (bags of clothes, crumpled fast-food bags, porno mags, soda cans), was a large cardboard box, the top flaps folded, but not taped, shut.
“Thar she blows,” Hank said, gesturing to the box.
Both Andy and Charlie cautiously pecked their heads forward as though looking down onto something that was ticking.
“Thar what blows?” Charlie asked.
“Booty,” Hank said. “Booty for freaks like you, that is.”
Andy looked Hank up and down, stopping firmly on his gut. “Yeah, you’re not one to indulge at all.”
Hank’s upper lip curled. “At least my indulgences are sane.”
“So, what’s in the box?” Charlie asked.
“To be honest, I could only stomach two of them,” Hank replied. “The rest could be romantic comedies, for all I know.”
Andy and Charlie exchanged a curious frown.
“What the hell are you talking about?” Andy said.
“Want me a PlayStation 5 when it hits,” Hank said. “Except they don’t come cheap, you know. With the new enhanced VR they’re pimping, it’ll be goddamn close to a grand a console and worth it, too, from the advanced clips they’re showing online.”
Andy and Charlie exchanged another curious frown.
“You lost us, dude,” Andy said.
“I want that new PlayStation,” Hank said. “Money’s tight, though.”
Andy shook his head. “Dude, we told you; six hundred was the most we could scrounge—”
“So,” Hank continued, holding up a hand. “I thought of you freaks and those two psychos you’re in love with. Went back to that old house way the fuck west, near Pittsburgh, where I dug and found all that other shit you paid me for. The house where their mama lived. Place is still there, still all boarded up, if you can believe it. Don’t know why they just don’t bulldoze the fucking thing and build over it already.
“Either way, hurrah for me, because I decided to trek back and dig again. Really dig, I mean. I figured there might be something I missed the first time around, you know? I certainly found some goodies the police themselves missed, didn’t I?” He grinned. “Fifty bucks for a stale old pack of smokes that might have been theirs…” He shook his head and looked at them one at a time. “You fucking weirdos.”
“They were his,” Charlie said defiantly. “It was the exact brand Jim Fannelli smoked.”
Though neither of them were smokers, both Andy and Charlie had ceremoniously smoked one cigarette each—inhaling every single drag and fighting back the coughing and dizziness that followed—in honor of James Fannelli, before shrink-wrapping the pack and securing it alongside the rest of their memorabilia.
“Him and a million other folks,” Hank said, still grinning and shaking his head. “Still, I went digging the other night. Dug long and hard—”
Wait for it, Andy thought.
“—that’s what she said.” His grin was prideful now, as if he’d been the first to come up with the banal one-liner.
Face and voice flat, Andy steered him back. “You went digging the other night…”
Hank nodded. “Went digging and found these beauties here.” He gestured towards the cardboard box again.
“And is there any chance you’re ever going to tell us what they are?” Andy asked.
Hank stuck out his lower lip, considering his reply. He eventually settled on: “Tutorials?”
“What do you mean?” Charlie asked.
Hank finally opened the box. Inside were a bunch of VHS tapes, maybe ten or so. Andy had seen VHS tapes before in pics online, but never in person. Why would he? VCRs were relics; VHS tapes, accessories to relics.
“VHS tapes?” Andy said.
Hank raised an eyebrow. “Check you out.” He grabbed a tape from the box and held it up. “Would have thought I’d have to explain these things to you young’uns. Some of the best damn porn I ever seen was on good ol’ VHS.”
Charlie flicked his chin towards the black plastic tape in Hank’s hand. “So, is that what those are? Porn?”
Hank frowned. “Hell no. If it was porn, I’d keep it for myself. No, it’s just like I said it was: tutorials.”
Andy was growing impatient. “And just what the hell does that mean?”
Hank put the tape back in the box, closed the cardboard flaps, and then tapped the box with his thick finger. “In this box here, boys, are actual home movies your psycho heroes made, chronicling all of their fucked-up exploits…I shit you not.”
• • •
Hank recently gone, cloud of blue-gray exhaust dissipating, Andy Franklin and Charlie Hall had stood dazed in the empty parking garage, a cardboard box filled with VHS tapes in Andy’s arms, a battered VCR with cables dangling from it in Charlie’s. They stood dazed…and they stood barefoot.
With no more money to spare, and no clue how they might find themselves a VCR tonight—and they damn sure were going to watch the videos tonight—they’d traded their shoes to Hank for the VCR he’d brought along in his trunk. The slippery asshole had counted on the boys needing one, and since they had no more money to spare, Hank had stated that their shoes might fetch him a decent price, certainly enough to cover the expense of the crappy VCR.
And so for a good minute, neither of the two boys spoke. They didn’t even look at one another. This particular autumn in Philadelphia seemed to be in a hurry to get to winter, yet the unforgiving chill of the concrete beneath their bare feet went unnoticed. It was as though they’d acquired some supernaturally powerful artifact that granted them immunity from the elements.
And this was not far off from the truth, at least as far as they were concerned. If the remaining tapes in the box (while Hank certainly didn’t have the crappy VCR wired up in his Oldsmobile, he did have his own system wired up at home, and he’d had the presence of mind to film snippets of the two tapes he’d watched on his smartphone when they demanded some sort of confirmation before for
king over the six hundred) contained what they were supposed to contain, then Andy Franklin and Charlie Hall had acquired the goddamn Ark of the Covenant.
When the spell broke, and they finally looked at one another, there was no giddiness, no smiles. Only a devout sense of purpose on their faces. As though after years of worship and toil, they had finally been granted the key. Several keys, in fact, each of them encased in a small black rectangular box to show them the true way.
The future was blindingly bright.
3
Caleb Lambert had his first wet dream at thirteen. He wept after. Ignorance as to what had physically transpired with his developing body was not the cause of his distress. He knew about wet dreams.
What had terrified Caleb was the psychological component that had fueled his unconscious ejaculation. He’d dreamt about strangling a woman.
• • •
When Caleb Lambert was seventeen, he lost his virginity. It had not been his idea. Quite the opposite, in fact. Katy, his longtime girlfriend, nearly had to beg him to do it. Beg him to do anything sexual, in fact.
No, that wasn’t exactly true. Caleb happily serviced Katy in all the ways he knew how. At first Katy had thought she’d died and gone to heaven, high school boys being the notoriously selfish lovers they are. Except before long, Katy began to descend from her cloud, the weight of her descent caused by a constant theme in their physical relationship: Caleb would never allow her to return the favor. Countless times she would reach for his penis while in the throes of passion, only to have her hand caught by the wrist—gingerly, though; never rough—and guided away. And the excuse was always the same when she asked him why. “I’m fine,” Caleb would tell her. “I want to make you happy.”
Katy had expressed her concern to some of her friends. At first she was scolded for looking a gift horse in the mouth. A guy who insists on going down on you with nary a touch in return? The horror! Except as weeks became months became a year, no one could deny that it was now indeed a mystery. Gay? one of Katy’s friends had jokingly suggested. A small dick? another had quipped. Each, Katy thought, seemed as possible as the other. Secretly, however, she hoped it was the latter and not the former. Gay was unsalvageable. A small penis wasn’t. She loved Caleb; she could make it work.
When the time did finally arrive—the night of their senior prom—she would find, to her great surprise and delight, that she had been very wrong. Caleb was anything but short-changed below the waist. Did that leave gay? Could have fooled her. Unless he was fantasizing about men, there could be no other explanation for his rigid manhood throughout.
Only there was another explanation. Caleb had been fantasizing throughout, desperate to please the woman he truly did love. In order to maintain his erection (it had initially surfaced without trouble—he was a teenager, after all—it was the maintaining that was tricky), and then, agonizingly, in order to climax, Caleb had to think about strangling Katy while “making love” to her.
And when it was over? When Katy rolled to her side of the bed, heart pounding, staring up at the ceiling dazedly with the smile to end all smiles? Caleb had wept. And when Katy rolled over to him and had asked what was wrong, Caleb lied. Told her he was simply overwhelmed to the point of tears. Told her he was happy in love; it had been worth the wait; and so on. Old-fashioned, yes. Maybe even a little corny. But his words still moved Katy. She too was happy in love.
Caleb up and joined the Marine Corps the very next day, never once contacting Katy after.
4
Marine Corps Base Camp Lejeune
Jacksonville, North Carolina
Caleb Lambert, seated on his bed, swigged hard from the bottle of whiskey, handed it back up, and said: “No.”
Private First Class “Swan” (freakishly long neck) took the bottle from Caleb and exchanged looks with Private First Class “Beet” (complexion like a Scottish sunburn), the three of them the only remaining Marines in their barracks, the others already in town, getting an early jump on the weekend.
“Fucking told you,” PFC Beet said, snatching the bottle from Swan and taking a pull. “Could have left earlier. Now we’re gonna have to wait in line and listen to everybody give us shit about getting their seconds and thirds. Fucking told you.”
Swan ignored Beet. “You don’t have to get your oil changed if you don’t want,” he said to Caleb. “Meet us out for drinks after.”
Caleb shrugged, pulled a magazine out from under his bed, stretched out, and started reading. “Probably will,” he replied, eyes on his magazine.
“He’ll probably stay here and change his own oil,” Beet said. “Probably to one of them guys in that magazine there.”
Caleb laid the mixed martial arts magazine flat to his chest and looked up at Beet. “Come again?”
“Maybe I’d have had the chance, if we’d left earlier.”
Swan, playing peacemaker as he always did, still had to chuckle at Beet’s wit. “Whatever, Beet. Not like you’ve got enough money to pay for a second time anyway.”
Beet pointed a finger at Caleb and said to Swan: “He don’t know that. For all he knows, I got enough saved to be rubbed and tugged ten times.”
Caleb picked his magazine back up. “I never asked you guys to stay behind for me.”
Beet flicked his chin Swan’s way. “Was that idiot’s idea. Like it is every damn time. No idea why he thought tonight would be any different. It’s pretty damn clear you prefer the pole to the hole.”
Now it was Caleb who chuckled. He laid the magazine flat to his chest again. “What?”
Beet showed Caleb his palms. “I’m all right with it, man. Corps says faggots are cool now, then I’m cool with it too.”
“Don’t say that word,” Caleb said.
“What word?”
“Faggot. Don’t say it.”
“Why the fuck not? Your kind still get offended by a little word?”
“A: I’m not gay. B: My uncle is. It’s a derogatory word. Would you call Sunshine and Potluck the N-word?”
Beet frowned. “Hell no. They’re my brothers.”
“I love you too.”
Swan continued as peacemaker. “All right, so that’s a definite ‘no’ then?” he asked Caleb.
Caleb picked his magazine back up. “I’ll meet you guys out later.”
Swan started for the door.
Beet stayed put. He took another heavy pull from the whiskey bottle. “So, if you’re not a fagg—if you’re not gay, then what is it? You a virgin or something? You scared about your first time?”
Caleb felt his temper start to flicker like a bulb trying for life. And that was okay. Flickering was okay. He’d been taught in therapy to keep the light flickering, never allowing it to fully shine. Because it had before, and the results were…unpleasant.
It was only the knowledge of Caleb’s tragic past and two very empathetic parents who were willing not to press charges after what Caleb had done to their son. Charges that would have sent Caleb to juvenile detention center until his then-fifteen-year-old self was old enough to be tried as an adult. Charges that were tallied up in the amount of a broken jaw, nose, arm, and collarbone, in addition to some fine jack-o’-lanternly dentistry work.
And such an incident had not been an outlier. There had been plenty of others, the charges accrued simply less staggering, the victims—some out of schoolyard code, some out of fear at the prospect of something worse to come—never pointing the finger Caleb’s way.
And now, a different sort of finger was pointing Caleb’s way. Pointing right at him. Challenging him, insisting on knowing why he refused to indulge his impatient hormones like the rest of the barracks. To the simple-minded Beets of the world, the answers were simple. Caleb was either gay or scared. And Beet’s simple-minded world was partly correct this time. Caleb was scared. But not because he was a virgin, no. His reasoning ran far, far darker than anything Beet might possibly comprehend. And Caleb certainly wasn’t about to share it with him—though his fist
s might.
“I’m not a virgin,” Caleb said.
“And you say you’re not gay…”
Caleb didn’t deign to reply this time.
Swan grabbed Beet by the shoulder. “Come on, man, let’s just go. You were the one who was complaining about getting seconds or thirds.”
Beet shrugged him off. Took another swig from the whiskey bottle. “So then what is it? You too good to go to a washy-wash like the rest of your brothers?”
“So I’m your brother now?”
Swan grabbed Beet’s shoulder again. “Would you come on?”
Beet shrugged him off again and drilled his gaze into Caleb, studying him. His simple world had ruled out gay. It had then ruled out fear due to virginity. That left only one thing. Superiority. Like the abusive father who cuffs his ambitious son behind the head and barks, You think you’re better than your old man?, so too was Beet now all but cuffing Caleb behind the head, asking him whether he thought he was better than the rest of his outfit. And God help Caleb if he was. Gay and scared could be laughed off and ridiculed, both of them statuses incapable of challenging even the most hollow of egos like Beet’s. But superiority? Better than him? It was dick-measuring 101. And men like Beet had big fucking dicks, by God. No one would or could ever tell them otherwise.
“Is that it, Lambert?” Beet went on. “You too good for the rest of your outfit?”
Caleb looked Beet in the eye, firm but nonthreatening. “Absolutely not.”
“Well, what is it then? Why won’t you just say why you don’t want to go? Why you never wanna go? Your dick broke or something? You got some kind of—what do they call it?—fetish? You need some kind of fucked-up shit to get it hard?” Beet laughed at his own wit.
The bulb did not merely come to life but exploded with a surge of power too strong for it to contain.
Caleb remembered little of the insanity that followed. No one, in fact, remembered. Both Beet and Swan were rendered unconscious, their memories fractured, Beet’s far more severely, Swan’s a result of trying to intervene, attempting to soothe the beast that destroys indiscriminately when its rage is full-tilt.
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