Family Tradition

by Edward Lee

  “They’re like that mint commercial,” Sheree whispered. “Two, two, two fat dicks in one.”

  They followed Bob and Ashton into the bait shop. “Nice place,” Carol joked. “Just like the Club Med at St. Bart’s.”

  Sheree’s nose crinkled at trace odors. “Smells like a meat market in Chinatown.”

  “Come on, girls,” Ashton interjected on their sarcasm. “We’re out in the boondocks now. It’s a different life out here.”

  Yeah, and a stinkier one, Sheree thought.

  “In these parts, men live off the land. No luxuries, no frills.”

  Right, Tubby. No frills…just satellite tv.

  The bait shop looked like Jed Clampett’s shack in the leader for The Beverly Hillbillies. Bare, stained wood floors and walls, a couple of hand-made chairs, a throw rug that looked rotten. A pair of ancient white-enamel refrigerators occupied one side of the room, the other a long plywood counter and manual cash register that must’ve been fifty years old. A small display of lead weights, spools of trilene fishing line, and rigs and hooks hung off another wall. Magic-Markered signs tacked behind the counter informed: SLUGS, BLOOD WORMS, NIGHTCRAWLERS: ONLY A BUCK A PIECE!

  “A dollar for a worm? Carol complained in spite of her complete disinterest.

  Bob winked. “Out here’s what we call an isolated market.” Then he whipped out his wad of cash. “But don’t worry, Snuggles. We got it covered.”

  “Hey!” Ashton bellowed. “How about some service! You got customers out here!”

  Dust shook from the bait shop’s walls at the shout. But then further dust seemed to sift out at a series of slow, heavy thuds. Sheree’s heart jigged when a shadow spilled across the floor—a big shadow. And with the shadow came a…smell.

  From an adjoining room, out stepped a massive figure in grimy overalls and giant workboots. Between the full, chest-level beard and the explosion of fuzzed hair, the only actual skin that could be observed were the areas just under the eyes and a frighteningly broad forehead.

  But worse than the smell of the man, and his appearance, was the fact that, in one hand, he held a knife.

  Sheree, Carol, Ashton, and Bob just stared, unblinking.

  Then the overalled man, in a weirdly keening voice, pointed the knife right at Ashton and said, “I know you…”

  ««—»»

  When he awoke, Darren felt as though he lay in a puddle of living muck. Each blink of his eyes brought the recollection back closer. How long he’d been here he couldn’t remember. He knew that he hadn’t been a particularly good person in his life, but he supposed he hadn’t been that bad, either.

  Or maybe he was wrong about that last part.

  Maybe he’d died, and if so, what other place could this be but hell?

  Flowing streams of something like a dream unreeled in his head. He saw himself walking down a highway at night. It was teeming rain, and his car had apparently blown a head gasket. Bright light flashed in his eyes as he trod backward in the sheets of rain with his thumb out.

  A red blazer-type truck stopped and picked him up. Thank God! Darren thought. But this exclamation of gratitude was a bit premature. It was a big bulky hairy Northwest redneck who’d picked him up. “Where ya headed, son?” he asked in a soft, kindly voice.

  “Port Angeles,” Darren said.

  “Aw, well, see, that’s not exactly the same place I’m headed,” the man said.

  “Oh?” Darren said. “Well, it’s just a few more miles down 101.”

  “Yeah, but, see, we ain’t goin’ there,” he was told. “See, where I’m headed is right down the Hershey Highway,” and that was all that remained of the friendly discourse. A hand the size of a dinner plate choked Darren into prompt unconsciousness. When he came to sometime later, he lay nude and belly-down in the back of the truck and felt as though several pallets of mason blocks sat on his back and legs. The truck wasn’t moving anymore. There was only darkness around him, but he could hear the rain ticking on the truck’s roof and the windshield wipers thunking back and forth.

  With each thunk one way, something that felt like several gourds sunk deep into his rectum, and with each thunk back, the gourds pulled out.

  “I ain’t much for cunt, fella,” the hot voice grated behind him. “It smells kind’a pissy, ya know? I’d rather have shit on my dick after I come than a bunch’a pissy-smelling cunt juice. When yer done fuckin’ a gal, yer dick looks like it’s got shellac or somethin’ on it, ya know?”

  Actually Darren didn’t know. At nineteen, he was a virgin and he never would have guessed that his first sexual experience would be…this.

  “But boy-cunt?” the voice continued. “I’ll take it any day. Shit wipes off. But that pissy pussy stink? Haunts ya fer days.”

  Each further plunge into Darren’s excretory orifice seemed to squeeze out more of his consciousness. Just as his aggressor was ejaculating into his bowel, Darren passed out again…

  …and woke up with his head sticking out of…a canoe.

  A canoe covered with sheets of tin. When Darren moved, he felt his body slog in warm sludge which could only be his own excrement. Twine lashed his ankles to a mooring slug while his hands had been tied tightly to the canoe’s seat props. Vague snatches of memory whispered to him like tiny devils, and he remembered some looming, reeking figure sticking a nozzle of some sort into his mouth and pumping warm mush into his stomach. The mush tasted kind of like creamed corn.

  I’m tied up in a canoe full of my own shit, the repellent reality came to him, and some redneck’s been pumping mush into my stomach.

  All he could think, rather reasonably, was: Why?

  And to make matters worse—if they could be worse—Darren was catching a cold, a fact his abductors seemed to revel in when they forced him to blow his nose into their mouths.

  Again: Why?

  No answer was forthcoming.

  Darren could feel worms squirming within the bubble bath of diarrhea in which he lay, and some of the worms, he could feel, were wriggling up into his anus and down his urethra. Little Shit Bugs were crawling all over him.

  Darren had always been an inquisitive, calculating person. And even in this fairly hopeless circumstance, his mind, however sluggish now, tried to comprehend these simple if not obvious questions: Why would men force him to blow his nose into their mouths?

  Why would men cocoon him in a canoe?

  Why would men pump creamed corn into his stomach with a fireplace bellows?

  There was one question, though, that would regrettably not occur to him, a far more important question. The question was this:

  How long can a human being live, or even stay sane, when trapped for weeks in a canoe full of his own slowly rising waste?

  ««—»»

  “Yeah, yeah, I know you!” the mammoth knife-wielding redneck exclaimed. The knife—a big knife—remained pointed at Ashton’s rapidly paling face.

  Bob held his hands up, stammering, “Luh-luh-look, sir. We-we-we’ll give you money, luh-luh-lots of it. Please, just duh-duh-don’t hurt—”

  Before Bob could finish pleading for their lives (and pissing his slacks), the rube put the knife down and clapped his hands together so loud, one might think he’d just won the Lotto. His matty beard bloomed into a grin of elation. “You’re Ashton Moronne, ain’t ya?”

  “Well, yes, but—” Ashton’s face fell open. “Have we met?”

  The rube belted a laugh. “Shee-it no, Mr. Morrone! Yeah, like someone like me livin’ on a dang island has met a FAMOUS TV STAR!”

  Ashton’s brain started up when he realized he wasn’t going to be murdered. “You mean…you’ve seen my show?”

  “Shee-it! Seen it? I’se worship it!” A fat, begrimed hand stuck out, which Ashton shook with some reluctance, then the slovenly redneck continued, “I’m Esau, sir. I’se live out here on the island with my brother Enoch. We run this here bait shop. But I got me a hobby, see? And—and, aw, shee-it, lemme show ya!”

  At o
nce, Ashton was being pulled into the next room. Sheree, Bob, and Carol, all looking widely at one another, followed them in. The bait shop’s fetor quickly changed over to luscious aromas. What they’d walked into was a small but complete kitchen. And on the walls hung—

  You’ve gotta be shitting me, Sheree thought.

  —four different posters of Ashton, from his show Cooking With Ashton. Over the range sat a row of Cooking With Ashton mugs, and above that hung a Cooking With Ashton calender. And from a peg on a closet door depended a Cooking With Ashton apron. Even more astoundingly, a small color television in the corner flickered with Ashton’s fat face—ANever simmer the shallots, sweat them, otherwise they’ll lose their sweetness by the time you add the langoste tails”—which seemed to be from the available set of Cooking With Ashton videos.

  Ashton stood impermeably stunned.

  Giddily as if meeting Brad Pitt, this filth-flecked Esau character huffed to show more of his devotion. “See, see, Mr. Morrone? I even got the mitt!” and then he donned the official Cooking With Ashton stove mitt.

  You’ve gotta be shitting me, Sheree thought again.

  “My…goodness,” Ashton remarked. “I’m flattered.”

  “Shee-it, Mr. Morrone, I live to watch yer show. See, we got one’a them fancified dish-things in back, gets all the cable shows, and my brother Enoch, he didn’t bitch much ’cos he likes ta watch WCW rasslin’,—Sting and all that Goldberg nonsense—but most other times he’ll bitch like a housewife ’bout spendin’ money on account’a we don’t make much, but anyway, I watch all the cookin’ shows—Great Chefs of the World, Epicurious, Carlo’s Creations, Kinion’s Seafood Wonder Kitchen—and none of ’em ain’t dog-doo compared to yer’s, sir.” The rotund and quite malodorous redneck rambled on, visibly shaking with nervousness. “Ya see, sir, I’m a chef too, just like you—er, well, not like you, on account you’re the finest chef in the whole dang world.”

  Ashton flashed his big white teeth. “Well, maybe not the finest in the world. I think maybe Wolfgang Kissler and Andrew Puck might have half a leg up on me,” he admitted with a chuckle.

  Esau wouldn’t hear of it. “Those dang idjits? Shee-it, they cain’t flip burgers! They don’t know the difference ’tween julienne leeks and Julie Strain. I could kick both their asses with one hand and whip up an plate’a mocha tartufo with the other!”

  Ashton went red in the face honking laughter. Eventually he introduced everyone else and explained that they’d come to fish.

  “You want good fishin’, Mr. Morrone,” Esau guaranteed, “well Harstene Lake’s got it. We got shad, we got walleye, we got bull trout, brown trout, and blue trout. We got the bridgelip sucker and the greengill sunfish. Shee-it, Mr. Morrone, we got it all!”

  “Well…Esau,” Ashton attempted to pronounce. “That sounds terrific. We’ve got our Winnebago and boat on the other side of the lake, so—”

  Ashton’s words stopped short like a cartoon character screeching on brakes. His big nostrils opened when he sniffed. “What’s that you’re cooking? It smells great.”

  “Aw, just some mushrooms for a quick duck-savior flan. It’s for my Grandpa. He loves it.” Esau extended his dirty hand toward the butcher block table where a small pile of black shriveled things lay.

  Ashton’s eyes narrowed in his bulging face. “Mushrooms? Those look like…Perigord truffles.”

  “Yeah,” Esau casually confirmed. “They grow all over the island, big as coffee saucers. But if ya ask me, sir, the Gleba truffle is much better than the Perigord. Same flavor but no sting on the palette.”

  “What the fuck are they talking about?” Carol whispered to Sheree.

  “Tree fungus,” Sheree informed. “Tastes just like mushrooms from the grocery store but the stuff they’re talking about costs hundreds or dollars per pound, wholesale.”

  Carol’s nose skrinshed. “It looks like a pile of shit.”

  But Ashton was staring at the indecorous rube, floored by his knowledge.

  “I agree,” he admitted. “But I hope you’re sweating them in—”

  Esau smiled proud. “Cottonseed oil, never olive.”

  Ashton and the rube continued their banter while Bob smoked cigarettes. “We’re gonna take a walk,” Carol announced to no response, then grabbed Sheree’s bare upper arm and guided her out.

  “Can you believe that geek bullshit?” Carol said once they were back outside. “They’re in there talking about tree fungus the way most men talk about football and Playboy.”

  Sheree lifted a nonchalant shoulder. “That shows you where Ashton’s mind is at. All the fat fuck gives a shit about is food.”

  “And all Bob cares about is money.”

  Sheree snorted a laugh. “Well, I hope Bob gives you more action than Ashton gives me.”

  “Don’t make me laugh!” Carol nearly squealed.

  For some reason, Sheree felt inclined to confide. “Think you can guess the last time Ashton actually fucked me?”

  “I don’t know. A couple weeks?”

  “Try eight months. Usually he just asks for blowjobs—”

  “Says he’s too tired or stressed out to fuck, right?”

  Sheree looked at her friend. “Yeah. How did you know th—”

  “Look, look!” Carol suddenly squealed, pointing down over a wooden ramp rail on the side of the bait shop. “See it?”

  “What?” Sheree asked.

  “Right there! It’s a widget!”

  “A…what?”

  “A widget! Right there! Lean over the rail! It’s right there!”

  Flummoxed, Sheree leaned over the wooden rail, peeling her eyes.

  “I don’t see anything,” she admitted.

  But by then it was to late. Sheree had fallen for it. When she’d leaned over the rail to see the “widget,” Carol pressed her open hand firmly up against Sheree’s crotch, then gave a few slow rubs.

  Sheree froze, as much from the shock as from the sudden spark of pleasure. But then she stood back up and looked right at Carol.

  “Fooled ya.” Carol shot a vulpine grin. “I just didn’t want you to forget…”

  Carol pressed her lips to Sheree’s, drew her tongue out and sucked it. At the same time, a slim hand slid up under Sheree’s haltertop, squeezed a tit like testing a melon for ripeness. Next, her nipple was pinched. Hard.

  Sheree gasped.

  Carol gave Sheree’s tongue one last firm suck, then their lips parted. “Tonight I’m gonna suck your pussy,” Carol said. “If you’re game.”

  Sheree could only look back into Carol’s light-emerald eyes. Her sex twitched at the mere words. “I’ll think I’ll be game and then some,” she promised.

  — | — | —

  Chapter Five

  “Are we still going to do it?”

  “Yes.”

  “Aren’t you…scared?”

  “No.”

  “Really?”

  “We’re going to do it!” Bess shouted, pumping the oars of the small blow-up raft. Bess sat astern, which might explain why the raft’s bow lifted several inches out of the water.

  With my luck, the damn thing’ll sink!

  Bess—chestnut hair and beautiful autumn-leaf eyes—weighed 240 pounds. At five-foot one, that was a lot of gal. Her friend—her only friend—Mavis, sat aloft at the puny raft’s bow. Mavis had chestnut hair too, and eyes more caramel-brown than autumn leaf. At 85 pounds, she looked like a skin-covered skeleton in baggy shorts and X-Files t-shirt. Just before Bess had picked her up, she’d posted her suicide note on David Duchovny’s message board. He was just…so dreamy.

  “We’re both outcasts!” Bess shrieked in reminder. “We’re both misfits! Nobody at school likes us! I’m fat, you’re skinny! We’re never going to have dates! And we agreed! We’re going to kill ourselves.” Her eyes inadvertently glanced at the Remington pump shotgun on the raft’s vinyl floorboards amid several empty packages of Suzy-Q’s and pork rinds. She’d stolen the shotgun from her father, who was a
lways saying to her at breakfast: “I guess the diet starts tomorrow, huh, honey?” Fuck you, she thought. The shotgun, she knew, housed five rounds. The first she’d discharged into Dear Old Dad’s face right over his plate of syrup-and-butter-drenched Eggo waffles and two glistening breakfast links.

  “Enjoy your breakfast, prick!” then WHAM! The Remington 16-gauge round had turned her father’s face into a splat of meat balls and sauce. His brains flew out the back of his head and hung on the wall in curiously colored lumps, and even more spectacular was the way his toupee popped off his head. She’d dug Dad’s keys out of his pants and driven the Caddy straight to Mavis’, but not before snitching those two hot, greasy Jimmy Dean links off Dad’s plate.

  Bess and Mavis were best friends. They both hated themselves and hated everyone else who happened to inhabit the earth. Seventeen, juniors at Anthony Eden High in Port Angeles, and virgins—neither of them had been on a date, neither of them attended the junior prom, and neither of them had ever kissed a boy.

  Never even close.

  Together, they were the Freak Show of Anthony Eden. They were the Girl Nerds. They were the female dorks with whom not even the horniest boy in school would copulate with even if he were drunker than William Holden on a typical day of filming. Bess and Mavis were anathema.

  Though they both would’ve loved to kill everyone in school, like those two dweebs in Colorado, Bess deemed it would be too much trouble. Too messy, and too logistically complicated. And what they hated more than everyone who’d ever teased them and tormented them and laughed at them, they simply hated life.

  So today, they decided, they would end it.

  Bess rowed onward, toward the middle of the lake. Yes, it was best to just kill themselves and get the shit over with.

  “fter emptying her fathers’ cranial vault, Bess had had the presence of mind to similarly empty his wallet. Several hundred bucks in cash, not that they’d need much of it. She’d filled the car, bought the raft, and proceeded to the lake.

  She could see no other destiny for either of them.