Goon

by Edward Lee

  The ring announcer’s voice jerked Straker’s attention back up. Then a wash of heavy-metal guitar riffs, like chainsaws buzzing in unison, cut through the air.

  “And tonight’s opponent, ladies and gentlemen, entering the ring accompanied by his manager—at six feet seven inches tall and weighing in a 350 pounds! Hailing from parts unknown! Gooooooooooon!”

  Straker shuddered at the crowd’s response: a deafening meld of boos, jeers, and cheers. A shadow which seemed immense lingered at the entrance, and Straker could only stare at its size. But suddenly Melinda’s hands were on him again.

  “Stand in front of me,” she whispered. “I don’t want him to see me.”

  “What? You mean you’ve met this guy?”

  “No, but when I finally do meet him, I want to be a fresh face. I don’t want to be just another rat he’s seen at every card.”

  Straker guessed she had a point. He stood in front of her, letting her essentially hide behind him. The line of ringrats opposite them actually recoiled when the shadow emerged. “Go home Goon!” one yelled and threw a cup. Another yelled: “Don’t you hurt Dare!” And another, “If you hurt Slick Dare I’ll kill you!” Straker’s brow rose at their seeming conviction; fake or not, these people were getting into this no less enthusiastically than if it were an NFL playoff game. But Straker’s brow arched even further when he got a look at…

  Goon, he thought. Holy motherfucking shit…

  Straker doubted that he’d ever seen a more physically awesome—or dangerous—human being in his life. The six-seven was no lie, and neither was the 350. In spite of the barrel belly, this was all muscle. Legs like carven tree trunks flexed beneath black full-length tights. Pectorals popped, the size of tortoise shells, and his arms were probably larger and stronger than the average man’s legs.

  Melinda peered from behind Straker’s neck. “He bench presses 600, and can squat half a ton. He cracks coconuts between his knees.”

  “I believe it,” Straker muttered. But scariest of all, somehow, was the black and red mask laced to his face. Deadpan eyes glared out through the holes. Teeth glittered in the tiny mouth slit. He looked like something more than human, or something less. I wouldn’t take that guy on with a five-shot Remington full of 10-gauge, Straker determined. This guy was a human meat-rack, a walking chassis of convoluted muscle mass and bone structure. Even his shadow seemed awesome; it trailed behind him like a wicked mascot.

  Melinda came back around once Goon stepped into the ring. The ring floor visibly wobbled under his weight. Dare strutted like a cocksure rooster, taunting Goon with drowned out braggadocio. Goon only opened and closed his ham-hock-sized fists and stared the champion down.

  Dare spun around, raised his arms to the crowd, then began to remove the Liberace robe. Straker could smell the “work” a mile away. With Dare’s back turned, Goon charged, lifted him up, and pulled a hard belly-to-back suplex. Dare howled at the impact. And for the next fifteen minutes, Goon and Dare went at it with mutual pile-drives, bodyslams, armbars, and attempted sleeper holds. Straker was amazed, next, when Goon—weight and girth notwithstanding—rose into the air and fired a drop-kick to Dare’s pretty-boy face. Dare flipped over the rope, landing on his back.

  “The finish’s coming up,” Melinda said. “Watch.”

  Straker watched, somehow fascinated in spite of the knowledge that this whole thing was a sham. Goon stood atop the ringpost and—

  “Holy shit!” Straker exclaimed.

  —landed square on Dare’s chest. Straker, by now, didn’t care how fake this was. Ten feet onto cement was ten feet onto cement, with Dare between the flying rock and the hard place.

  Goon jerked away, roared at the fans behind the rail, then snatched up a metal folding chair.

  “The, uh, the chairs are fake, right?” Straker hesitantly queried. “I mean, like, they’re plastic, right?”

  “No,” Melinda said.

  Just as Goon turned, though, Dare revived himself, to the approval of the crowd. He tore the chair from Goon’s grasp, and then—

  WHAP!

  —smacked the seat of the chair right smack-dab against the top of Goon’s skull. Goon teetered as Dare did a loud “Wooooo!” right to his face. In another second, though, Goon had dove under the ring, and when he came back up, he was wielding a two-by-four.

  The crowd shrieked. Dare backed off. Then—

  Goon ran after the Wonder Boy.

  The two-by-four made several audible swipes past Dare’s face. A final swipe, however, dangerously close, was caught by the 12-time heavyweight champion, wrested away, and then—

  “Kill him!” several ringrats screamed.

  Dare cut loose with another “Wooo!” and then—

  “Bust his head!” Melinda screamed.

  Women, Straker thought, are so violent!

  Dare slammed the two-by-four in a vast arch and broke it with a crack! over Goon’s head. Goon fell, twitched once, then didn’t move. Dare whooped it up as the ring announcer declared him the winner.

  Two guys in phony paramedic suits buzzed out, hoisted Goon onto a stretcher, and whisked him back to the locker room.

  “Did you see?” Melinda asked. “Did you see how hard Dare hit him with that two-by-four?”

  Straker shrugged, the energy worn off. “It was a piece of Styrofoam with woodgrain on it.”

  “Yeah?”

  When Melinda bent over the rail, Straker could do nothing else in the entire fucking world except eyeball her derriere. I need to beat off again, he thought. Bad.

  But a moment later, the reporter was handing him one broken half of the phony two-by-four.

  Straker smiled but then—

  What the—

  Something in his gut plummeted. Yes, he’d seen how hard The Wonder Boy had broken that piece of Styrofoam over Goon’s masked head. The only problem was…

  This isn’t Styrofoam.

  Straker hefted the splintered wood in his hand.

  This is real, he realized. That fuckin’ guy just broke a real two-by-four over Goon’s head…

  ««—»»

  “Down near Cotter’s Field,” said one chain-smoking, beer-gutted Richard Kinion, a cracker, a rube, and, namely, the Chief of the Luntville Police Department. Cotter’s was an acreage of some of the finest soybean-planting land in the whole state, and Old Man Cotter and his boys sold it all to the Japs via some confalutin’ new trade agreement. Fine with the Chief, though, even though his own daddy’d had his leg blowed off in some big ass-whuppin’, fucked-up battle called Truk, some fuckin’ sam-amm-ur-eye drove his Mitsubishi plane smack-dab into the 40-mike-mike deck on daddy’s carrier, and daddy were one’a the loaders. Ain’t no way Chief Richard Kinion’d ever buy a car made by the same evil, slanty-eyed Shintu worshippin’ fucks that about wore our asses out in the big WW Two. “You buy yerdumbself a Dodge Colt’n—let me tell ya—you’re payin’ the same friggin’ compernee that made the friggin’ plane that tore ass on Pearl Harbor, that’s what’cher doin’,” the Chief could not help but prattle on a bit…

  But back to Cotter’s Field… “Cotter’s—ya know where it is, son?” the Chief asked.

  PFC Micah Hays cut a down-home shuck-and-jive hillbilly grin. “Shore do, Chief. Shee-it, Cotter’s? We used to call it Cotter’s Fuck Hole we did, ‘cos’a all the poontang we’se used ta bust out there. Yes, sir, all’s through high school all we hadda do is pick us up some white-trash splittail, a six-pack of Dixie, and next thing we know, Chief, we’se’re humping ourselfs some redneck box till Kingdom Come, and I’se do mean come!”

  Chief Kinion smirked as though he did not approve of such scatological verbosity from a fellow officer, but it was actually because he, in his younger days, was not so rewarded by any similar availability of women. “Just cut the dirty talk, son, and let me give ya the lowdown. Just got me a call from Tritt Tuckton, you know, that booger-eatin’ cracker from up past old Grandpappy Martin’s, and he says ta me he’s walkin’ down the Route ju
st pretty as you please, but as he come up on Cotter’s Field—”

  “Yes, sir!” PFC Hays could not help but intervene. “Cotter’s Field, shee-it! I’se laid me some peter out there, Chief, had my dick in dirty box more times than old man Cotter had his ass in a tractor seat! The dirtier the better, ya now, and praise God fer cracker gals, yes sir! If ya cain’t smell that dirty hole a country mile away, then what good is it, tell me that? Ripe, stanky pussy’s the best pussy. Grows hair on yer balls, yes sir. Leaves kind’ve a sheen on yer dick, lets ya know ya been fuckin’ like a man next time ya pull’r out to have a pee. That dirty cracker pussy stank waft up and like ta smack you in your kisser! Says in the Bible God gives good works ta men, and He shore do by blessin’ us country boys with feisty, dirty, box-stanky cracker gals, huh, Chief?”

  Chief Kinion’s stomach did a hitch, and his brow furrowed at this rather inordinate observation. In addition, he rather doubted that the Lord on High had cracker gals in mind when He thought to bestow good works upon men. Not that the Chief could very well relate to the young PFC Hays either way as he had not had his bone in any pussy—stinky or otherwise—for quite a spell. Take his wife Carleen, for example: a slim purdy pixie when he married her some twenty years ago but like most slim purdy pixies she shore as shit stopped puttin’ out about two days after she said “I do” on the altar of Grace Baptist Church. Turned to fat just as quick such that, now, Chief Kinion would often awake in the middle of the night and wonder why in tarnation there was a 1200-pound Berkshire hog snoring right next to him in bed, and farting and belching and what have you.

  He gritted away the image, and belched himself then. Those jumbo barbequed ham hocks he’d socked down into his breadbasket for lunch were mighty fine. $1.99 a plate down at Miss June’s Diner, and he’s had three plates. Eerp. A man could tell a good hamhock from bad, by the belch. “Anyway, Hays, like I was saying, we got this call from Tritt, says he sawed something awful up at Cotter’s Field, said it were like a—”

  “Yes, sir!” PFC Hays slapped his knee. “I ‘member one time me’n Duke Caudill’n Harley Mack Reed was drinkin’ down the Crossroads, an’ in walks Sarah Sue Natter. About six months preggered she was, and we all knowed that anyways ‘cos it already were all over town ‘bout how she’d been fuckin’ her pappy since she were about two. Anyways, she walks right up’n tells us she’ll fuck us all she did, so we throwed her horny tush’n big milk-filled titties in the back’a Duke’s beat-ta-shit Chevy pickup, and drove straight ta Cotter’s Field we did, an’ Chief, we, I say we fucked that gal in the dirt fer hours, an’ she’s screamin’ and comin’ the whole time, and beggin’ fer more at the top’a her lungs the likes’a which I thought shore they’d hear her clear over in Big Rock. ‘Harder, harder!’ she kept yellin’ at us an’—shee-it!—we fucked that cracker’s poon hard, Chief, so hard you could hear the milk shoshin’ in them big hooters’a hers—big as a pair’a ‘lopes like you’d find at Grimaldi’s market fer half-a-buck apiece they was—an’ I’se swear we each put four loads’a the petersnot in that box—each of us now, no lie—this fiesty white trash bitch done drained our balls, Chief, but even after takin’ four squirts’a our nut up her hole—that’s four squirts each, Chief—twelve total—she’s still beggin’ fer more, an’ a’course we all knowed it probably weren’t too cool gang-bangin’ the funnelcakes’n wax beans outa gal while’s she were preggered but, hail, Chief! she just kept askin’ fer it so we thought it only gentlemanly ta oblige the lady’s wishes. So’s I’m on top’a her I is, humpin’ away on her box a mile a minute, lookin’ ta have me my fifth nut’a the night when—bam!—she up’n shriek ta wake all the dead in Beall Cemetery, an’ then I hear a sound like dry branch’a birch crackin’, so’s I’se git offa her and look down an’ I swear’s I was lookin’ at a pile’a roadkill comin’ out her pussy. Yes, sir, we fucked that dog-horny cracker so hard she up’n had a mistercarriage right plumb smackdab in the middle’a Cotter’s Field and all them soybean plants, she did! So’s I’m lookin’ in all that muck and I kin even see the little critter in there!”

  “Fer Gawd’s sake, Hays!” Chief Kinion fairly bellowed. A lurch in his gut and then a hard swallow. “This shit yer talkin’s about to make me upchuck!”

  “Ain’t shit, Chief, s’true,” Hays went on with his tale, “an’ a’course afterward me’n Duke’n Harley Mack, we felt a might bad ‘bout what happened—fuckin’ her so hard she hadda mistercarriage—an’ we told her so. But you know what she did, Chief, an’ I’se swear this is true. She git herself up from that big mess, brush herself off all smilin’ and then she say ‘Thanks, boys! Didn’t want that critter in me no ways—problee come out retart anyhow on account it were my daddy’s juice that made it. See yawl later!’ Then she up’n plumb walks away leavin’ that critter’n that big roadkill-lookin’ mess fer the possums ta eat.”

  Chief Kinion’s face felt bloated and hot from the imagery, and those pieces of hamhock in his breadbasket began to boogie. “Gawd Almighty, son, that there’s about the most disgusting thang I ever did hear,” he croaked, wiping his brow off on a shirtsleeve.

  “Shee-it, Chief,” Hays rebutted, “that ain’t nothin’, ‘cos, see, there was this other time when I’se picks up Kari Jane Wells hitchhikin’ down the Old Governor’s Bridge Road, ‘an—ooo-ee!—she was lookin’ a might fine she was! Cutoffs crawlin’ up the crack’a her ass, and them big high titties on her stickin’ out ‘neath this yeller halter. Long blond hair down the middle’a her back and them long tan legs…shee-it, I’se gittin’ wood just thinkin’ ‘bout her. Anyways, I picks her up an’ first thing she does, she smiles at me’n says, ‘Micah Hays, if yore a real man you’ll drive us straight ta Cotter’s Field ‘cos I’se am a woman in some dire need!’” PFC Hays cut a grin. “Shee-it. I about come just by hearin’ her say it so a’course I drive ta Cotter’s, an’ we ain’t out there two minutes ‘fore we’se both rollin’ ‘round in them soybeans like buck nekit and my cock’s rock-hard’n ready ta tussle, yes sir! But just ‘fore I’m gonna spread them long tan legs an’ sink my pecker in her, she up’n say somethin’ like ‘Um, uh, I don’t thinks ya wanna put it there, Micah,’ an’ I say, ‘What’choo talkin’ ‘bout Kari Jane! A fella hafta be queer to not wanna put his bone in you!’ so all she say after that it, ‘Take a looky,’ and she spread them legs, Chief, an’ pointed ta her box, an’ I ‘bout blow chunks right there on Cotter’s soybean plants, ‘cos, see, Chief, Kari Jane’s poon, it were—oh, lordy!—it were like—”

  The Chief stolidly flicked a butt out the cruiser window. “Put a lid on it, Hays. I don’t thank I want’s ta hear no more—”

  “—it were like…infestered, Chief! I take me a look at that pussy on her and it’s all swollered up with pusserknots’n pimples’n vagereal warts’n these big red sores’n such. Shee-it, it were a cryin’ shame, Chief—good-lookin’ as she was but ya cain’t fuck her on account she got herself a pussy fulla disease! It looked like a pile’a crushed raspberries her poon did! Like ta wanna slap her right upside the head fer ruinin’ that box with all them infectsherins’n dieasers, an’ I’m hard as a fuckin’ rock, see, needin’ ta squirt’a load in a big way but—shee-it!—I weren’t stupid enough ta put my dick in that mess—”

  “That’s enough, Hays,” the Chief ordered, more imagery spilling into his head, more tremors in his gut.

  But Hays wouldn’t hear of it. “Fella’d hafta be crazy to lay peter in that, no matters how dog horny he is, so I’se say, ‘Well good gawd-damn Kari Jane! What’choo you bring me all’s the way out here ta Cotter’s Field just ta show me a pussy I wouldn’t fuck with a dog’s dick?’ But she just smile and git up on her hands’n knees, lookin’ back over that purdy shoulder’a hers, an’ she say ‘Ain’t got no diseasers in my ass, sweetie,’ an’ I’se kin tell ya, Chief, it were the finest ass I ever did see, an’, no sir, it didn’t have no sores’r pusserknots on it like her pussy did, so’s I did what any red-blooded boy’d do. I spit on my pole an’ popped�
�re right in there, Chief. Weren’t too tight, I must say, but I don’t ‘spect mine were the first crotch rocket ta go up her backside—but a nut’s a nut, hail. So I pump that tail hard, Chief, holdin’ her face down in the dirt while’s I’se doin’ it, and then I have me a good come, I did, popped my snot right up inta the middle’a her shit, yes sir! Ain’t drained my balls like that in coon’s age; I’se come so much, n’fact, almost felt like I was peein’!”

  “Hays, in holy blazes would you shut the fuck up,” Chief Kinion groaned at the wheel—

  But PFC Hays, regrettably, would not shut the fuck up, because when he had a story to tell, by God, he’d tell it through to its conclusion. What good was a story, after all, without an ending? The young officer chortled in his shotgun seat, even gave his crotch an errant rub. “I’ll tell ya, Chief, women, they can be downright dag dirty bitches when they wanna be. Act like little angels when they’se prancin’ the street but when they’se git their clothes off, none of ‘em ain’t nothin’ but a buncha fuck-pigs…and thank God for ‘em. ‘Cos see, Chief, after I blew that big nut up her ass, I’se pull my bone out, and she turn an’ push me back in them soybean plants an’ say ‘Don’t’choo thank yer gonna run off just yet, Micah Hays, ‘cos we ain’t quite finished yet. See, I’se gonna suck you clean!’ an’ I’se look down at my dick, ain’t enough time even passed fer me ta lose my stiffer, but I see—aw, lordy, Chief—my dick were just caked with her shit, see, and what’s even worser is this—”

  “Shut up, Hays! Just shut—”

  “—is that her shit’s got all this corn in it, ya know, but that don’t bother her none, I’se swear, an’ then she suck my dick just like she promised—got back a full stiffer an’ even came again I did, put another load’a my snot right down her yap! But that ain’t all that when down her yap, Chief, ‘cos when she’s finished I’se look at my dick again, it’s clean as a whistle, yes sir, an’ all that shit’n corn is gone! And then she look at me, Chief, and she smiles’n says ‘Micah Hays! That there was the best corn on the cob I ever had!’”