“Like the goblin?”
“Ab-so-fucking-lutely not like your fruity little goblin. I really don’t know what the hell you’re talking about there, so let that shit go.” Grundish shakes his head in disbelief and sips down several fingers of scotch. “The thing that got to me, I mean really shook me, was when I started dreaming that I was in prison. I mean, I was dreaming about having to line up for count. I was dreaming about guards hurrying me in the mess hall to finish my meals and about having to be aware of what each and every person around me was up to. My entire existence, even in my sleep, was incarceration. I was becoming institutionalized. Something in me finally clicked and I realized that I had to make some changes or I would get to the point where I couldn’t remember what it was like on the outside. And that scared me. Worse than any sissy dream about knob-gobbling closet goblins. I promised myself then that I would never go back. And here we are in this fine mess now.”
“Excuse me, boys,” shouts Turleen from the kitchen. “Is anybody hungry for some steak? I’m cooking up some meals in here, I am. I can bring some out if anybody wants it.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Grundish and Askew shout back.
“Anyway,” says Grundish, “that’s that. And I don’t wanna talk about it no more.”
Turleen brings in a wooden cutting board with a T-bone steak on it, cooked to the point where it’s brown on the outside and still bloody in the middle. She clunks down a half-full bottle of steak sauce and two plates. Grundish and Askew sit back in their chairs and watch as Turleen cuts the steak into tens of little pieces for them with an impressive rubber-handled knife, slicing back and forth, cutting the meat with the top and bottom of the blade. Turleen, her red dress covered with an apron, expertly separates the fat and bone from the meat and slides the mouth-sized chunks onto the plates she set on the table for the boys. Askew sits back and ponders what Grundish just shared. Grundish sips at his scotch and admires Turleen’s knife skills. Without a word, Turleen wipes the blade on her apron and slips the knife under her dress, up by her thigh. She returns to the kitchen to cook more food. Grundish and askew sit without talking, staring at the muted television screen. Askew drowns his plate in the rust-colored steak sauce and uses his foot to fork pieces of dead cow into his mouth. Grundish sits still and silent, off somewhere in his own head. Askew finishes the meat on his plate. Like a statue, Grundish does not move a muscle nor does he speak.
“Tell me, Grundish,” says Askew, “like you done before.”
“Tell you about what?”
“About the ladies.”
Grundish snapped, “You ain’t gonna put nothing over on me. Come on, Bro, I’m thinking here.”
Askew pleads, “Aw, you come on, Grundish. Please. Tell me like you done before.”
“You really dig that shit, don’t you? All right, I’ll tell you,” Grundish gives in. “And then we fucking party.”
Grundish drops his voice to a soothing, mesmerizing tone. His eyes close and the words flow freely from his mouth, almost like he’s said them a thousand times before. “Guys like us, you know, the ones that work the shit jobs and scrape by, are the loneliest guys in the world. Can’t keep jobs. Don’t fit in. They work for a couple of weeks at some minimum wage job for a paycheck, then they go out on the town and blow their wad, forgetting about obligations, bills, shit like that. Next thing you know, they’re working another shit job and will prob’ly fuck that one up too. They ain’t got nothing to look forward to.”
Askew is delighted. “Fuck yes. That’s it, that’s it. Now tell how it is with us.”
Grundish continues. “It ain’t like that with us. We’re different. We still got a future. We got somebody to talk to that gives a damn about us, you for me and me for you, Buddy. We don’t have to sit in some shitty bar, bitching and moaning just because we got no other place to go. Those other fellas get thrown in jail. They can rot there for all anybody gives a damn. But not us. Not anymore for me and never for you...”
Askew breaks in, “...yeah, not us. And why? Because I got you to watch my back, and you got me to watch yours. And that’s why.” He giggles like a little kid. “Go on now, Grundish.”
“You know it by heart, you can do it yourself.”
“Naahh. I forget some of the shit. Tell about how it’s gonna be.”
“Okay. Someday we’re gonna get the loot saved up and we’re gonna buy a boat.”
“A real big boat,” interrupts Askew. “Like a yacht.”
“That’s right. Maybe bigger,” says Grundish. “And we’re gonna get a stable of hookers, and maybe some hydroponic equipment to grow weed.”
“And tell me what we’re gonna do, Grundish.” Askew’s tone grows more excited. “Go on. Tell me about the hookers again. About the international waters. And the hookers, like how they’ll all have big fake titties, and they’ll never say no to us, ‘lessen they’re on the rag or something. Tell me about how I get to take care of the ladies. Tell me about that Grundish.”
“Why don’t you do it yourself? You know about all of it.”
“Nahh. You tell it. It just ain’t the same the way I tell it. Go on, Grundish, tell about how I get to tend the ladies.”
“Well,” says Grundish, “we’re gonna anchor that boat out in international waters, where we ain’t violating no U.S. laws. Just like those cheesy gambling cruises like to do. We’ll keep a stable of girls out on the boat and they’ll sell their asses, bringing in money for us. We’ll get rich.”
“Yeah, Grundish. We’ll live off the fat of their asses. Go on and tell it.”
“Well, we’ll grow weed, have hookers, maybe some other shit that ain’t legal here. Our clientele will be brought out to our yacht by boat or helicopter or something sweet like that. Then they’ll pay us to do all the shit that they want to do here but can’t. And we don’t have to do shit except for rake the money in, and maybe protect our girls once in a while. Mostly, though, we just party, have a different lady every night, maybe we fish, whatever we want. And you can take care of the ladies if you want. Damn.” He stops, picks up his fork and steak knife. “I ain’t got time for no more of this shit.” He scrapes half of his steak chunks onto Askew’s plate and keeps the other half for himself. They sit for awhile; the only sound is the open-mouthed chewing of Askew, a big, happy goofus grin on his face.
Grundish samples the steak and becomes silent again, staring at the muted TV. As he drifts off to sleep, Grundish smiles and thinks to himself, life ain’t so bad when I got Askew around. No, it really ain’t.
19
“Wake up! Wake up!” Askew jumps about the room, bouncing off of the furniture and shouting at Grundish. “The goat of day is butting dawn! No ifs or buts! Bang! Come on you girl! Pimp! Punk! Hangman! Run with Me! Let’s run!” Askew, drunk from sitting all night sipping at dark beer with a straw while Grundish slept, dances in front of the television in an outfit from Buttwynn’s closet not unlike the threads sported by Grundish. The red silk robe, too small and tight around Askew’s thick chest is left untied and open, revealing B-cup man-boobs and a hairy, rounded belly. The black dress socks are stretched over the thick calves, the elastic in the cheap socks pulled to the point of breaking, tiny white strands of snapped elastic thread sticks out randomly from the fabric. The socks, irreparably misshapen, only remain held up through the use of a pair of Buttwynn’s sock garters. The garters, a size too small for Askew, press deep on the skin of his leg, just below the knee, leaving a white ring of bloodless flesh just around the edge of the band.
“Wha? What the fuck?” His back, neck and shoulders ache from sleeping in an awkwardly twisted position in the chair all night. The fog of a fresh awakening clouds his thoughts. Grundish rubs his eyes and slaps himself lightly on the cheeks. “What time is it?”
“It’s time to dump your lumpy ass out of bed, Monkey Head!” shouts Askew, still leaping about, a grotesque rotund gnome of a man, scantily clad and jiggling obscenely. His chest heaves out and retracts quickly in a spastic
fit of hyperventilation, nostrils opening and closing like gills. He rips and roars and grits his teeth. “It’s morning. It’s light out. It’s time to get up.” Askew grabs a half-full mug of beer with his hand and chugs it.
Grundish eyes Askew suspiciously, watching him set the beer down and use his hands to catapult a Blue Llama up into his mouth. “I thought you were never going to use your hands again.”
“I never said I’d never use them again,” snaps Askew, still breathing heavily. “I said I wouldn’t use them until I mastered the use of my feet. Or something like that anyway. Besides, I took a shit this morning and I couldn’t for the life of me figure out how to wipe my ass. I tried unrolling toilet paper onto my heel and then squatting down on it and wiggling around but I just made a nasty mess. So, at that point, I decided I had mastered the use of my feet enough to begin using my hands again.”
“Good enough. I hope you washed your feet off.”
“Naah. I didn’t feel like it.[25] I’ll shower tonight.”
Askew draws in a large drag off of his Blue Llama and inhales deeply. He tilts his head back and exhales a thick plume of smoke and laughs. The laugh, that of a madman, continues and mutates into a raspy, jagged, coughing spasm. Askew, his hands clamped over his mouth, hacks and chokes and gags almost to the point of vomiting when he finally settles into deep congested breathing and sits down into his seat to catch his breath. “Damn,” he says, looking down into his hand, “I ain’t never seen one that big.”
“What is it?” Grundish asks, half-afraid to find out.
“Look.” Askew holds out his hand. In his palm is an off-whitish lump, looking like an oversized yogurt-covered raisin drizzled with spittle. “They ain’t even usually half this big. I’m almost tempted to save this one and put it in a jar or something. Maybe call Ripley’s Believe it or Not, I don’t know.”
“I see it, but I still don’t know what it is.”
“It’s a lump of throat cheese[26], Bro. Ain’t you never coughed one of these up?”
“I ain’t never seen anything like that. It don’t seem right. You really ought to get that checked out. And like I told you before, you need to quit smoking.”
“Nah. Fuck that noise. It’s just throat cheese. I hork ’em up all the time. Ain’t nothing wrong with throat cheese except that if you smash it, it lets off a stench that’ll knock a buzzard off a shit wagon. Here, check it out.” Askew smashes the firm, slick nugget between his thumb and middle finger and waves it in the direction of Grundish.
The smell, like blood, halitosis, and fish, finds its way to Grundish, sticks its stinky finger into his mouth and touches the back of his throat, triggering a forceful gag reflex. “Urrrp!” The acid bile makes it just into the back of his mouth and Grundish manages to swallow it back down. “Get that fucking thing away from me or when I puke, I’ll make sure to do it on you.”
A hurt look washes over Askew’s mug. “Yeah. I’m sorry, Bro. I just got kind of wound up.” He flicks his hand toward the wall opposite him. The mucilaginous tonsillolith splats on the Buttwynn family portrait, a direct hit on Mr. Buttwynn’s face, and leisurely makes its way down the portrait, finding a comfortable final resting place at the point where the non-glare glass cover meets the frame. “Seriously, I don’t know what came over me. I guess I’m kind of delirious from the dark beer and lack of sleep.”
“It’s all right, Bro. Just keep your fucking throat cheese to yourself from now on.”
“You got it, Pal.” Askew smiles a moronic gap-toothed grin, relieved to be forgiven so quickly. “I’ve got something I gotta show you. It’s bad ass. Wait right here. All right? Don’t go anywhere.”
Askew leaves the room. Askew returns. Grundish is bent over with his legs straight and his hands flat on the floor. He returns to an upright stance, grabs his chin and the back of his head and twists it to crack the neck, making a sound like somebody stepping on bubble wrap.
“Check this baby out.” In Askew’s hands is a two-foot long flintlock rifle. The gun’s stock is cut off just inches below the trigger, leaving just enough reddish wood for Askew to wrap his hand around it. A thick barrel, flared at the end, is held to the ornately-carved wood stock and points in the general direction of Grundish. “It’s called a blunderbuss.”
“Where’d you get that fucked up gun? How do you know what it’s called? And stop pointing the fucking thing at me.” Grundish steps to the side of the gun.
“I found it in Buttwynn’s den. It was mounted above the fireplace. And chill out. It can’t be loaded if it was mounted on the wall, right?”
“I don’t know,” says Grundish. “Probably not. Just don’t point it at me though. Or I’ll take it away and beat you with it.”
Askew laughs and points the gun away from Grundish. “This here blunderbuss is bad ass. It had a little plaque beneath it on the wall that told all about it. This one was used by sailors and pirates. It was exspecially supposed to be used to clear the deck when the pirates would board another ship. They’d load it with rocks and broken glass and nails. The blunderbuss’ll fuck you up, Bee-yatch.”
“Put that thing down, Askew. You ain’t never held a gun in your life, and now you’re holding a fucking sawed-off shotgun on steroids. Give me that thing.”
“I do, too, know how to handle this bad-boy. You just pull the cocking thing back.” He half-cocks the flintlock mechanism, points it at the wall, and shouts “Blam! Blam! Blam!” He pulls the trigger, releasing the half-cocked hammer. The hammer gently clicks against the flash pan lid and does nothing more. “See, I told you it ain’t loaded.”
“You don’t know shit. Acting like you fired it three times in a row. It ain’t no fucking semi-automatic handgun. It’s like a muzzle loader. You have to reload it after each shot. Give me that thing. You freak me out with it.”
“Here you go, ya’ party pooper.” Askew lobs the blunderbuss at Grundish, who catches it in front of himself with both hands. “Come on, I got more to show you before I crash.” Grundish notices that Askew’s words are becoming more and more slurred.
In the front of the Buttwynn residence is a formal sitting room with an oversized picture window facing the street. Askew pulls back the curtains. Grundish looks out and growls softly.
“Does that look familiar to you?” Askew asks, a cloud of his beer and cigarette breath enveloping him. A devilish grin forms on his face.
Out the picture window, Grundish feasts his eyes on a yellow minivan. The Tampa Bay Buccaneers vanity license plate reads 2GUD4U. “That’s the van,” Grundish mutters. He growls low, like an animal. “That’s the fucking van. The one with the kids who throw shit at me.” His teeth grind, making a sickening scraping sound. His hands clench and unclench, fingernails leaving pale crescent imprints in the palms of his hands. “That’s the fucking van.”
From the front door of the house across the street exits a teenage boy. He shouts back over his shoulder into the house: “I know, Mom. Do you think I’m a flippin’ retard?...I know!...Jeez, don’t you trust me?...Don’t be stupid, Mom!” He slams the door and walks to the minivan. Inside the house, the mother counts the days until her son reaches the age of majority. She secretly hopes that her son ends up learning a little lesson about disrespecting people. She doesn’t want him to get hurt, but maybe just scared by somebody that isn’t going to put up with his shit.
Grundish stares out the window, staying mostly behind a curtain, and watches as the yellow van pulls out of the driveway and then squeals its tires in front of the Buttwynn’s house. The van is gone but Grundish glares at the space that it occupied, his hands still clenching and releasing, his teeth grinding off enamel. Minutes pass and he silently simmers.
“All right, Buddy,” says Askew, putting his hands on Grundish’s tensed shoulders. “It’s time to move it along. Nothing to see here anymore. Let’s go in and eat some of the breakfast that Old Turleen’s been cooking.”
Slowly, with the guidance of Askew, Grundish moves from the picture win
dow and allows himself to be guided into the kitchen. In the kitchen, a feast of breakfast foods covers the counter. Turleen limps around the kitchen in her red dress, stirring pots on the oven, sprinkling spices on the various dishes and sampling the food here and there. “Well, good morning,” she says to Grundish. “I wondered if you were ever gonna wake up, I did.”
20
For Grundish the morning is spent eating the smorgasbord cooked by Turleen. She had been mixing and stirring and blanching and grilling and parboiling and chopping and mincing, frying and cooking, stuffing, stewing and searing, infusing and basting and fricasseeing in the kitchen almost the entire time at the house, only taking a brief period of time to doll herself up in Mrs. Buttwynn’s clothes and stopping now and again for a catnap or a glass of wine. On the counter, beside a mostly-empty wine glass, a lit Romeo y Julieta cigar is spiked on a meat thermometer. A trail of smoke wafts from the stogie and mingles with the scents from the foods, giving the room a comforting aroma.
“Turleen,” says Grundish, “not that I don’t appreciate it, but, why are you making all of this food? It’s not like we’re gonna be staying here for more than a day or so.” He cuts a thick chunk of country ham away from the round ring of bone and crams the salty meat into his mouth.
“I’ll tell you something, I will,” says Turleen, pointing a wooden spoon dripping with batter at Grundish. A trail of smoke blows Turleen’s way and stings her eyes. She rubs the incipient tears with her forearm and inhales deeply through her nose. “I ain’t had the opportunity to cook up a decent meal for a hungry man since Uncle Hank was kicked in the head by a pony and his brain swelled up too big for his skull.”
Grundish and Askew Page 10
