by Kirk Alex
“Caveman had it mo’ better. When them homie what be livin’ in cave’ an’ shit be wantin’ some trim, they went and raped the hoe’; an’ there don’t be no mothafuckin’ law to say they can’t have none.”
The clerk turned. Facing Muck. The tone in his voice had changed considerably. “What is it that you are seeking, sir? What is it you are needing?”
“What I all the time be needin’: Piece of pussy. Yo, you ain’t got one of them A-rab ho hidin’ in the back somewheres? I sure could use me some tight A-rab culo.”
“I beg your pardon, sir, what is it you are needing to purchase?”
“Purchase? Ain’t got the coin to ‘purchase’ nothin’, me. I be needin’ a Band-Aid, is what I be needin’.”
He held up his hand. The gauze was far from clean, and a degree of blood had begun to soak through. It was an admixture of fresh and not-so-fresh blood, showing through and rather visible. Cecil had walked up to the counter at this point.
“I am sorry, sir, we have Band-Aids for sale. We do not have spare ones to give away. This is store policy.”
“Policy? Got policy, me. Know what my policy be? Yo. I don’t do no more shoppin’ here. That be my policy, Dawg.” On that, Marvin had tugged on his crotch and walked out.
CHAPTER 287
The television program called News As It Happens had segued from the “golden showers” episode to something about human remains having been discovered in Lopez Canyon. They had a different snatch holding a mic in her hand for this one and blathering on about it. The white-turbaned store clerk appeared immersed in the portable color set that he had sitting off to the side on the counter.
Biggs was close enough to catch the images on the screen.
The Middle Eastern guy in the turban kept doing things with his head, shaking it or something, pursing his lips, or maybe he wasn’t pursing them; he found it all incredulous, as he watched the small screen, bodies being carted away in green body bags on stretchers to a waiting coroner’s wagon—when he should have been tending to the customer instead.
“A motion picture crew had been filming a horror movie in the area and literally stumbled on human bones and limbs, some of which had been discovered in the sandy wash in back of us, and contacted police.”
Then they had the film’s director on. Mid-thirties. The requisite beard. Ford Hindgrind. Biggs thought he recognized the name as being behind one of the slasher flicks in his collection he had half-enjoyed. The flick had had moments, good kills, fairly decent acting, only some of the camera work had been sloppy. The bitch from the news station asked Hindgrind some questions. It appeared to Cecil that this Hollywood putz might be too eager to take credit for work he hadn’t been responsible for.
The flick guy was gone. The twat from the news station was back soloing it. Had to remind us about the scattered bones and limbs having been discovered in the wash in back of her.
“Sheriffs deputies had gone in with cadaver dogs and combed the area and uncovered several other shallow graves on the other side of that ridge. There were also signs of what appears to have been a Satanic ritual, not that the two are connected, that we know of—and authorities aren’t able to say either way. Satanic cult involvement? All avenues are being investigated.”
Yeah. Maybe your asshole should be investigated. He thought he’d like to drive wood up her tight shitter, assuming she had a tight shitter, then dump a full load of nutsack nectar down her phony, tv news throat.
Now they had a cop on. Dick in a suit. The “mandatory,” perfectly-trimmed Hollywood soap opera mustache.
Had nothing to say that Biggs wanted to hear. So long, Alice Phelps, he thought. No more visits to that particular place for fun and games. He would miss the Girlie he’d buried out there. Wouldn’t miss some of the others, but he’d miss her for sure. Nothing to be done about it. Only he wished he’d held on to the head, kept it as part of his trophy collection. Could have brought the head back and boiled it in water to get the flesh off and kept the skull, the way he’d done with the ones he’d held onto. He’d painted them gray to make them look like plastic models they used in his high school biology class.
Nothing he could do about it now. Too late. Coroner had her. It bothered him, too, that he wasn’t getting the credit. On the other hand, “signature killers,” more often than not, got bagged. It was small solace.
Marvin’s tag for him was one he liked, after all: Vagina Killa. He’d been tempted more than once to carve it into them. A simple VK would have even sufficed. Vagina Killa, or VK. Instead some satanic cult and that B-movie horrormeister Ford Hindgrind were getting credit for his hard work. It ate away at him.
He still had the Polaroids, though. Good thing he took plenty of Polaroids of her. Had her wristwatch, couple of rings, a gold necklace. It would have to do.
Look at the bright side: as a dumping ground Lopez Canyon had been too close to home anyway. He was relieved actually, had to be: the bust would keep him from going back to the hot zone. That’s what Lopez Canyon was now: Hot Zone. Buffoon cops were sure to keep it under surveillance. Fine. Let them.
CHAPTER 288
He placed the Ex-Lax on the counter. Looked about for the Wall Street Journal. Didn’t see it. They couldn’t be out of it? Or did they even carry it? Fucking greasy A-rabs.
He hated buying anything from them. That’s why he enjoyed stealing shit from these dirty cocksuckers. And speaking of “dirty cocksuckers,” the dirtiest nutsack lapper of them all was still shaking his head and staring at the television.
“How can somebody do something like that to another human being?” The clerk was speaking under his breath in what sounded like a thick, Middle Eastern accent. “It makes you want to weep uncontrollably.”
“What makes me want to ‘weep uncontrollably’ is when I can’t shit, or else when I’m experiencing a merciless attack of the runs and can’t stop shitting.”
“Sir, we are talking about a crime of genuine brutality.”
“To those of us with a conscience. Others might say it’s nothing more than Nature’s way of thinning the herd, dealing with over-population.”
The clerk stared at him. Unsure what to make of the callous observation.
“Life is a bitch.” Biggs shrugged. What can you do? “You carry the Wall Street Journal? Preparation H?”
“We are not carrying the Wall Street Journal, sir. If you do not see Preparation H on the shelf, we are quite possibly out of this product.”
“What about generic beer? Your name brands are too much.”
“Only what there is in the beer cooler, sir.”
Cecil hated to do it. Grabbed a six-pack of Schlitz. Cans. Slammed it down on the counter.
“Why is it whenever you A-rab Mohammedans buy a convenience market the place goes to hell and you can’t wait to jack up your prices?”
“Excuse me, sir, I am not Mohammedan, as you put it, nor am I Arab. I am from India. I am Sikh—and I am but employed here, sir.”
“They don’t have Mohammedans in India? Is that what you’re trying to claim?”
“Yes, we do have ‘Mohammedans’ in India, sir; however, I am not one. I am Sikh.”
“You’re sick? We all have our troubles, don’t we? Why not take the day off if you’re ‘sick,’ instead of taking it out on your customers?”
“No, sir. I am not sick as in ill—I am Sikh as in Hindu.”
“Like I said: We all have our problems. Let me have a Quick Pick Lotto ticket.”
The clerk did that. Rang up the Lotto ticket, the Ex-Lax. Biggs paid, and found himself unable to keep from adding what had been stated heretofore. “Why is it when you people take over a store like this it goes down the crapper in no time flat? Why is it it’s turned into the filthiest Turd-World hole-in-the-wall rat-infested outhouse? Grime everywhere; and your rates go up. Not to mention less than stellar service and lack of product.”
“I have explained to you, sir—”
“Two items you should never be wi
thout, Swami: the Wall Street Journal and Prep H, not if you want my business. I heard the other customer ask for Grey Poupon—and you didn’t have that, either. Your shelves are bare. This is America, Land of Plenty. There’s no reason for your shelves to be bare. It bothers me deeply to walk into a store that once was orderly and clean and stocked to capacity to find the shelves caked with grime and practically devoid of product. Explain that to the owner, sir.”
“My friend, I am not responsible for what we carry in the store, nor am I Mohammedan, as you put it, but Sikh. I am Sikh.”
“It’s all the same to me.” Biggs was on his way out. “Buncha bullshit. All of it: Christianity, Judaism, Islam, Hairy Krishnas, Moonies, Loonies, Mormons, Hindus, Agnostics, Catholics, Scientologists, Budhists—buncha sorry ass-wipes.”
“Just a minute, sir. You are not right to make such outrageous statements to someone you do not know. You are being disrespectful, sir. Furthermore, not only are you disrespectful, but clearly ignorant as well. No true gentleman would dare make such inflammatory remarks, sir—”
“Kiss my ass.” Biggs got the last dig in without turning. He walked to his van, grumbling to himself. “Fuck them all. Pile of dog turds.”
CHAPTER 289
He reached down to scratch his balls. Had the itch. Sweat caused it, heat. The itch wouldn’t go away. His butt needed scratching, too, but he didn’t dare. Stay clear of the ’roids. Always. You got some Prep H now. Apply it when you get back to the house. Well, one thing he felt pretty good about: he’d saved enough money by not having to buy the stuff. Always felt good about that. It was one way of getting some of that cash back that he’d wasted on Tillie Marie and her family. She’d leeched plenty out of him and continued to squeeze him for more; and that goddamned wedding in the Philippines; money spent on plane fare. It hurt to think about it. Plenty. Without so much as taking a real close at his books and going over what it was costing him to have the haunted house locked up.
You’re cutting corners. Keep cutting corners. Every little bit helps. Muck might think it’s funny, only because the fool is just plain ignorant. It’s not his money that pays for things. Never is. There it is. Right there. Watch your pocketbook. Man can go broke real quick, no matter what he was worth. That was the truth.
He had the door open. Fresh air made him aware of the odor inside, odor caused by the mattress and blankets, and who knew what else? Ordinarily, because he was around it so much, he hardly noticed. You lived with it. Got used to it. It became part of your life—because it was your life. Ordinarily. You took it for granted—unless too much time was spent in the basement, the walk-in, in particular, being around the honey buckets or the storage corridor. Other than that? Took it in stride, accepted it—until hazy Valley air smacked you upside the nostrils and you were reminded of the difference—even then it was not always easy to tell that there actually was a difference.
Instead of getting in the van, he walked in back of it. Looked around. There he was: Muck. Urinating against the dumpster. To the right of the store. In the back a ways. Dumbass. Pissing in public. In broad daylight. Can’t teach the idiot anything. About as dimwitted as Norbert Fimple. Just about.
Biggs climbed in the driver’s seat. Noticed the clerk look at him, then walk down the medicine aisle. Here we go. He watched him return to the counter and pick up the phone. Trouble on the way. Maybe it meant nothing. He didn’t like the looks of it. Marvin was taking his sweet time, too. Cecil could see him through the passenger side window. Muck watered the dumpster. Biggs sat and waited. Nothing else to do about it.
He emptied his pockets and jammed the items under the mattress in back. Returned to his seat. Rolled his window down to help him stay alert, stay aware of his surroundings, in case a squad car appeared, or a pig on a motorcycle, for their daily fix of joe and doughnuts, as well as to better hear should something take place with Muck. One never knew. Had the IQ of a fly.
CHAPTER 290
A battered Toyota pulled into the parking space on his left. Two punks in their late teens stepped out. Noticed what Marvin was up to and started chuckling. Then they looked at Biggs sitting there in his van, and before the driver took a single step in his direction Cecil knew what they were after, what it was they wanted. Smokes. Under age slackers needing someone to buy cancer sticks for them.
“Hey, mister.”
This one had the purple hair and had on a baggy, worn sweatshirt and baggy jeans half a dozen sizes too large for him. Made it around the front of his car. Walked up to Cecil’s window. Biggs took in the scuffed black oxfords that must have survived better than three decades of wear-and-tear, in fact, both jokers wore ill-fitting “in” rags that had survived decades of usage. It was the latest fad. Grunge look. Adhered to by brain dead know-nothings.
The other one’s hair was brown, except where it was bright orange, in blotches, clumps. Cool punks. Looking like dog vomit. Nothing more than a different (albeit slightly) version of zeroes Ace and Felix and that bag of snot with the Mohawk a foot in the air, namely Wilburn Flinger.
You could never obliterate enough of these rectums, no matter what you did.
“We’ll give you five bucks if you’ll buy us a pack of Marlboros.” The turd nearest him did the talking.
“I don’t contribute to minors.”
Biggs did not bother to turn his head to look at them. He stared straight ahead, eyes on the clerk inside the store. Wondered what was coming up with the turban, what he was up to. Had to be up to something. And Marvin was still screwing around at the dumpster.
“It’s against the law.”
“Come on, dude. Don’t be an ass.”
Biggs reached for the small canister in the holster on his belt. Held it up in his hand for the punk to see what it was.
“Ever been exposed to pepper spray?”
“Nothin’ to it.”
“Give me a reason.”
“Eat shit, then.”
CHAPTER 291
They walked off. Entered the store. Cecil could see them pulling IDs to show the clerk, who was far from impressed. Then he saw the purple-haired one gesture with his hand in the direction where Marvin was watering the dumpster. This spelled impending hassle. It made him restless.
Come on, Muck. Hurry it up, asshole. An SUV drove up on the far side of the Toyota with a turbaned character in it. Just what they needed: another Jihadist. The driver stepped out. The face looked familiar to him. This was the guy who worked the counter when the other clerk wasn’t around.
Biggs watched him enter the store. It didn’t look good. Made him uneasy. He could see the guy talking with his Jihadist co-conspirator behind the counter. There was a heated discussion going on in there, to be sure. Then the clerk reached down for what looked like a truncheon or ball bat, and both emerged from the store, jabbering.
The fatwa was on. The young dicks in the grunge wear followed them outside, mugging and snickering. Life was a sitcom. The SUV driver had four fingers up, gesturing. This was the number of Prep H boxes Biggs had stuffed in his jacket, the number missing from the grubby shelf. Ayatollah knew his store.
They jabbered in some foreign tongue. About the only words Cecil could make out were Preparation H and Grey Poupon. The gesturing, jabbering went on. The clerk pointed at Biggs, sitting in the van, then at Marvin, who seemed to be finishing up. About damned time.
They yelled at him. The one with the timber approached Marvin, who was doing his best to hurry it up and was shaking his member, while the other, evidently the owner, or at least someone in authority, walked toward Biggs’s van.
“Excuse me, sir. Would you like to empty out your pockets?”
“No, sir, I would not like to empty out my pockets.”
“We have reason to believe that you have been thieving; you and your associate over there who is urinating in public, on my property.”
“You can believe what you want. This is America. There’s no law against it.”
“Yes, but there is clearly
a law against thieving from an establishment such as this one and urinating in public. That is not proper behavior, sir.”
“Why should that bother you? They shit in public where you come from. They shit on sidewalks, don’t they? Cows and people. Am I right? Furthermore, I don’t know that ‘infidel.’”
“You are clearly waiting for him.” The man’s accent was thick and Mid-Eastern. “Otherwise you would not be sitting here all this time.”
“He needed a ride. I offered to help him out after I did my shopping.”
The clerk, bat raised and practically on Marvin, was shouting something about mustard sandwiches and Preparation H. “You tell me fairytale about mustard sandwiches, when you are a working team of thieves. You are two thieves, working together. You have stolen from this establishment. And now you are urinating on private property and exposing yourself in public, sir. You cannot do this.” He yelled back to the other guy to call Valley PD. The turbaned head who had pulled up in the SUV, store owner, or whoever/whatever he was, walked inside his store to get to a phone.
Marvin did his best to be done with it. Hurried away. Got some urine on his pants and sneakers. Cursed. Attempted to zip up. The zipper was stuck, his pecker caught in it. He yelled, cursing some more. Got his zipper unstuck. Shoved his groin inside.
“Fuck you, smelly-ass A-rab.”
“I am not Arab. You have no right, sir. We are not Arab. We are not Muslim. We are Sikh.”
