“Why you calling me Wally, Grundish?”
“It’s a Leave it to Beaver thing,” says Grundish. Askew’s mangled face registers nothing akin to understanding. “Didn’t you ever watch that shit when you was a kid? You know, Beaver, Wally, Eddie Haskell? Ah, never mind. Let’s just check out the news.”
“All right, fine. But I was really hoping to watch Fistfuckers 5. The first four of them were masterpieces and I have no reason to expect anything less out of number 5.”
Grundish shakes his head and says nothing.
“Okay, whatever. Let’s watch the news. Maybe we can get appraised of what the cops are doing about Bumpy D right now.”
A pack of Blue Llamas and a Zippo lighter sit on the table. Grundish watches in awe as Askew grips the pack with the toes of his right foot, bumps it on the left ankle, taps out a smoke, grips it with the left-foot toes, and twists his leg up to bring the cigarette to his mouth. With the smoke wedged between his front teeth, Askew grabs the lighter with his right foot and flips the lid on the Zippo. The flint wheel drags against Askew’s ankle and throws a shower of sparks at the wick, which smokes a little but fails to ignite. He drags it across his ankle again. This time a small orange flame fires up. Askew twists the foot and the lighter up to his face and finally lights the cigarette. The sweat beads on his brow as he lies back in the reclining chair to catch his breath from the whole effort.
“Hey, buddy,” says Grundish, “do you think you could get me a smoke?” He sips on his scotch, smiling innocently at Askew.
“Go fuck yourself, ya rat bastard,” says Askew and sucks at his smoke. His lips, unable to fully close over the cigarette make a faint, wet, sucking sound as he drags in air through the left side of his mouth along with the vapor from the burning leaves.
“All right, be that way,” laughs Grundish. “I’ll just have one of Buttwynn’s Cubanos.” He snips off the end of a ringless cigar and torches it up with Askew’s lighter. They sit and smoke and wait for the day’s top news stories.
• • •
“Good evening. I’m Sallest Holeinback,” says the corpulent female news anchor of the BayNews Channel.
“And I’m Orlando Montenegro,” says the co-anchor in a voice so deep and mellow that he could be hawking fine Corinthian leather.
“And we’re BayNews 10 with your evening report,” they both say simultaneously through blindingly white dental veneers that mask years-worth of coffee stains, tartar, and rot. A bright sparkle briefly flickers off of Sallest’s cosmetically contoured front tooth facade and, almost imperceptibly, the sharp high-pitched chime of a tiny bell dings somewhere in the vicinity of her teeth.
Holeinback’s face, a pool of soft, oozing, fishbelly-white skin with close-set eyes, a fleshy wide nose, and lips recently enhanced with collagen treatments, stares at the camera with utmost seriousness and breaks into the top stories: “Stay tuned later, after our break, for a truly disturbing story. Our local investigator has uncovered information which may make you never want to eat in a restaurant ever again. The scenes which we will show you will be so shocking that you may vomit and possibly even have to call in sick to work tomorrow. Please make sure that children and the elderly are out of the room for this portion of our broadcast.”
“But, first,” says Orlando Montenegro, “our top stories. Police are seeking a pair of local men in connection with a murder which occurred in plain daylight as residents of the Knothole Mobile Home Park watched on in horror. A be-on-the-lookout-for order has been issued for these men, Leroy Jenkem Askew and a Mr. Grundish, first name currently unknown.” The driver’s license picture of Askew and a poorly-done and inaccurate artist’s rendering of Grundish appear on the screen. “If you encounter either of these men, do not try to apprehend them. Find a safe place and call the police immediately.”
“In other news,” says Sallest Holeinback, “a rash of burglaries has occurred recently in Riverview and Brandon neighborhoods. The Hillsborough County Sheriff’s Office believes the burglaries are all the work of one man and say that the burglar has a unique calling card.”
The video cuts to a spokesperson for the Sheriff’s Office who explains: “In each one of these cases, the families were gone from the home for several days and returned to find they had been burglarized. In each case, there does not appear to be any broken locks or windows. This man is clearly a professional. The perpetrator seems to like to take alcohol and frozen meats, among other things, from the houses. Finally, the person who is doing this leaves a distinctive calling card. We have dubbed the perpetrator the Turd Burglar because he defecates in the toilets of his victims and neglects to flush it.”
The picture returns to Sallest Holeinback’s grimacing fat face. “Oh my, what an animal,” she gasps. “What is wrong with people, Orlando?”
“I don’t know, Sallest. That is a pretty shitty story,” laughs Orlando.
“Orlando, you can’t say that. We’re on live television,” Sallest gasps again.
“Sure, I can,” teases Orlando. “We’re just fictional characters in some lame novel. I can say whatever I want. Watch this: Cuntlip, dogfucker, suck my balls and lick my asshole. Fistfuck. Bloody buttplug. And now watch this,” Orlando looks straight at the camera and makes a peace sign with his fingers, places it up to his mouth, and wiggles his tongue around between the fingers in a vulgar simulation of cunnilingus.
“Well, Orlando,” Sallest says, “if this is a novel, it seems to me that the author has just speckled it with bizarre characters, footnotes and profanity, hoping that the shock value will be enough to carry the story. But, the book’s most painful flaw is its lack of any thoughtfully crafted deeper meaning or unifying theme. The characters are outright unlikable and the author fails to provide us with a point as to what, exactly, he is trying to accomplish. To be fair, it also cannot be said that this book is completely without any talent or redemption. The editing is not awful. But...”
“Would you shut your fat cake-hole, you morbidly obese bucket of diarrhea,” shouts Orlando as he smashes his closed fist into the side of her head. “You are a pretentious, bloated, pompous bitch-hole and I’ve had enough of you. I should murder you!”
Before Orlando can do any further damage to Sallest’s hideously bloated head, a man appears behind the rotund woman. The man, a rather tall, attractive fellow with a shaved head and goatee, slinks behind Sallest without a sound. In each of his hands is a wooden handle. A thin wire runs from one handle to the other. The tall fellow quickly wraps the wire of the garrote around Sallest’s neck and pulls it tight, compressing the carotid arteries and jugular veins, while at the same time compressing Sallest’s airways. Orlando Montenegro does nothing to stop the man as Sallest thrashes violently about, air-hunger making her oversized corpus flail and fight for her life. The tall man stands firm, holding the wire tight around her neck until her floppy hulking corpse collapses on the anchor desk. The television screen abruptly cuts to black and a technical difficulties sign appears onscreen.[23]
• • •
“Holy Shit,” says Grundish. “Did you just see that shit?”
“Yeah, we’re fucked. The police have a pick up order for us.”
“No. I’m talking about the other story. How in the fuck can they call me the Turd Burglar? Why not something cool like The Nightstalker? I would have been okay with that. Or even just not naming me. But the fucking Turd Burglar? Man!” Grundish chugs the rest of his drink and groans at the indignity.
“Yeah,” laughs Askew, “it does sound kind of gay. Maybe you could call the Sheriff’s Office and get them to give you a new nickname. Maybe something tough sounding like The Rump-Ranger or The Ass Pirate.”
“Fuck you.” Grundish grins at Askew.
“Fuck you, too, Buddy,” answers Askew.
“You know we’re fucked, don’t you?” asks Grundish.
18
“Yeah, you’re probably right. We’re fucked. Definitely. But then again, maybe it’s a blessing in the skies,
” says Askew.
“How so?”
“Well,” says Askew, stroking his chin with his foot, “we trudge along through everyday, just trying to get by. We take everything for granite. Maybe all of this is a wake up call. Maybe it’s time that we look at our lives and ask, ‘what is it that we need to do to distinguish ourselves?’ Maybe now we’re truly free. I’ve been living my whole life doing everything I can to avoid going to prison. My heart has not always been my guide. I just made a promise to myself to break the family curse. And now I know that if we get caught, you know, we’re both going to prison, probably for life. That is if they take me alive. But you already made me a promise about that. So, now none of society’s laws apply to us. We’ve got nothing to lose. If I wanna rape somebody, I’ll just go out and do it.”
“You wanna go start raping people?”
“No. But you’re missing the point. If I wanted to, I could. I’m fucking free, man. If I wanted to go out raping, I could. I could rape somebody’s dog, so long as my heart says it’s okay. If somebody pisses me off, I can kill them. Like old Mr. Buttwynn. If he were here, and he gave me a twenty-five cent tip, I would bust his head wide open. And he’d deserve it.”
A look of concern settles on Grundish’s scruffy face. “Bro, let me stop you. I’m seeing a different side of you that don’t seem quite right. All this violence, it ain’t you. It kinda’ worries me.”
“You’re being hypocratical, man. You just went and attacked an entire community of people with frozen meat and you’re worried about me being violent. Come on, Bro.”
“You know I can be a nutcase,” says Grundish. He puts his cigar in the ashtray and turns it with his fingers to knock the ashes off to a tapered burning tip. “But, I ain’t never seen you talk the way you’re talkin’ about busting heads. It don’t sit right with me. And, tell me,” Grundish looks Askew in the eyes and holds the stare, “what happened when you got your face all messed up?”
Askew giggles and doesn’t know how to answer. He just giggles and looks at Grundish. “I don’t know what to say.”
“Well, what happened that you needed to fight several people without the use of your hands?”
“Well,” says Askew, “I didn’t really have words to explain it at the time. It was really just more of a feeling. But, uh, you know how you’ve been talking about the Fuckers?”
“Yeah. I know all about the Fuckers.”
“Well. These guys was them. They was the Fuckers. I mean,” he grits his teeth and clenches his fists, “if you could’ve seen them, you’d agree that they’s the Fuckers. You should’a seen the way they was eyeing Turleen. She’s an old lady and they was looking at her in a way that wasn’t right.”
“So what’d they say?”
“They didn’t say nothing,” says Askew. “It wasn’t about what they said. It was the way they was looking at her. They was Fuckers all right.”
“Okay,” say Grundish, “so they started giving you a hard time and you kicked the shit out of ’em.”
“Yeah, kind of. I could just tell that they was trouble so I guess I kind of cut out the middle man, so to speak, and didn’t wait for them to say something. I just took care of them. I kicked the shit out of them because they had it coming.”
“How many were there?”
“Three that stood their ground, a couple backed off. But, three that came at me.”
“And who won?”
“I look bad, but they gotta look worse. One of ’em was out cold on the ground when we split.”
Grundish sighs, starts to say something, and then stops again.
“What?” asks Askew.
Grundish shrugs his shoulders and says nothing.
“What?”
“I just want you to chill out a little bit,” says Grundish finally. “You never been in a fight in your life, and now you’re all ready to start tearing people up. It’s like you got a taste for blood or something. Just chill out a little bit. We’ve gotta lay low and don’t need no more trouble. I need to figure out our next step.”
“I’ll try. I’m just saying to you that now I’m not worried about losing my job or getting evicted or anything else at this point. There is nothing worse they can do to us when we’re caught unless we’re executed. And that ain’t gonna happen. And you made me your promise, so, well, I guess I ain’t gonna go to jail or prison either. We’re free, man, that’s all I’m saying.”
“Aw,” scowls Grundish, “don’t go talking about that stupid promise I made to you back in high school. We was just kids. You don’t wanna hold me to that now.”
“Damn straight I do,” Askew’s volume increases. “I wasn’t kidding then, and I ain’t kidding now. You promised.”
“Yeah, but...”
“But nothing. You promised. You swore.”
“I know...”
“My god you’re flustrating the shit out of me. I don’t mean to get all loud and voicesterous, but, you gotta keep that promise. You gotta renew your vow. Say it.”
“All right. All right.”
“All right what?”
“I promise.”
“Good. Now you’ve got me all worked up. Can you get me a drink?” Askew sighs as he grabs his Blue Llamas with his feet and extracts another cigarette. The first cigarette is broken. When it’s broken by the filter there’s a trick Askew found. He just breaks it all apart and turns it around. He slides it in easy and twists it in tight and then he gives it a light. But with his vow to master his feet, the cigarette-fix trick is out of the question. He shakes out another smoke, this one unbroken, grasps it with his toes, and brings it to his mouth with ease.
“I should make you do it with your feet,” scowls Grundish, still sore at being badgered. “What do you want?”
“Just a beer,” says Askew. He struggles with his feet on the Zippo and finally manages to light his smoke.
• • •
“Here,” says Grundish, returning with a frothy mug of darkish beer. A fluorescent pink bendy straw leans against the rim of the mug.
“You’re not gonna let me go to prison, right, Pal?” asks Askew again.
“I’m not gonna. I promised you. But, you just gotta chill out a little. Now, will you drop it?” snaps Grundish.
“And you ain’t never going back are you?”
“I’ve already told you,” explains Grundish, “I’m never going back. No matter what. I made a promise to myself last time I got out. I gave myself my word, just like I done with you, that I ain’t going back. I can’t go back.”
“Why not?” asks Askew. “What’s so different for you this time?”
Grundish just shrugs his shoulders and says nothing.
“Come on. Just tell me what it was that changed in you the last time,” prods Askew.
“All right. One time.” Grundish holds up an index finger and stares Askew down. “One time I talk about this and then you don’t ask me about it no more. Agreed?”
“Yeah, Buddy, agreed.”
Grundish mutes the television and refills his tumbler with scotch. No water. No ice. Only room-temperature scotch to just above the top of the glass. The surface tension holds a slight bubble of the liquid just above the top of the rim. He takes the lighter from the coffee table and relights his neglected cigar. The scotch is sipped at, lowering the level of the fluid to just below the rim. The cigar is smoked. Grundish says nothing. Askew waits, smoking the cigarette that is wedged between his front teeth.
Just when Askew is about ready to say something, when the silence is killing him, Grundish speaks. “There’s a saying in the joint. The guys in there say that you ain’t in prison when you’re sleeping. Does that make sense to you?”
“Uhhh, not really,” says Askew as he bends down to sip from his pink straw. “I’m not like, you know, a neucular scientist or something. Just tell me without asking me to think too hard.”
“Well, let me put it this way. Whenever I was down, I slept a lot. Because when I slept, I dreamed. And I
always had dreams about getting pussy and smoking weed and driving fast cars. Sometimes I just dreamt about sitting out on the beach at night, maybe fishing for catfish that I’d just throw back, but fishing for ’em anyway. I’d catch some big ugly bastards in those dreams. And it was nice. Real nice. Sometimes I’d dream about having a dog and just walking him or taking him to a park to play Frisbee. Other times I dreamt that I was somebody special. Not necessarily famous or anything. Maybe just a successful guy with a hot wife and a couple of kids. You know, a guy that took a different path in life than us. A guy that other guys would like to be.”
“Yeah. Yeah. I get it now. You ain’t in prison when you’re sleeping because it’s like you go somewhere else in your head.”
“Right.” Grundish nods. He sips at the scotch and stares at his fuming cigar. “Well, the more I was down, the more I slept. And I guess I kind of got to the point where I could control what happened in my dreams. I was flying and looking through walls with x-ray vision. Every damn night I was having a threesome with a set of identical twin babes that had three boobs[24] apiece. That’s six boobs in my face at one time. I didn’t care that I was in prison because my dream life was better than my real life. But this last time I was sent up, it was like I used up all of my good dreams. I started losing control of them and having bad ones.”
“Like fucked up nightmares?” Askew grunts. “I hate that shit. I have a reoccurring one where there’s this little female goblin thing in my closet and I open the door and go in. And she’s there. And, I can’t explain it, but she scares the shit out of me. For some reason, I start fucking her mouth. And then I wake up all freaked out. You mean shit like that?”
“No, you little fruit,” scoffs Grundish. “I don’t mean anything like that. It started off with just stupid stuff. I would dream that I was at home and my alarm would go off. I would drag myself out of bed and go through my morning rituals, and you know how I hate to get up in the morning. And then they would wake me up for real and I’d have to go through waking up all over again. This time in prison. And my dreams all were in black and white, mostly shades of gray. They say that everybody dreams in black and white, but not me. I always dreamed in color. But when I started losing control of the dreams, they just got all gray and staticky, like watching old shows on a TV with bad reception. And they started getting worse.”
Grundish and Askew Page 9
