Acquaro

by Trevor R. Fairbanks

  His penis was already solid when he collapsed onto the bed and took out the tiny jar of lubricant. He oiled himself up and turned the page.

  Usually Hector read the stories first. The lewd fiction and “letters from readers like you” normally eased him into the mood but he was already hard, so he skipped right to the good stuff. Two girls in the centerfold, kissing and touching. Hector looked at them and tried to find his rhythm, but the thought of the chupacabra and that kid behind the bullet proof glass was making him wilt.

  No. He would need to read a letter or two. Carefully he thumbed through the magazine with his free hand, while dipping two fingers in warm lubricant. The letters to the editor were lurid and strange, as if people really were still fucking in America. There were firsthand accounts of gang bangs and orgies and casual sex, as if the writers had no fear of AIDS or hepatitis or the clap or any other STD. According to this the world was still fucking. And he was stuck here in a dirty van beating off like a horny teen-ager.

  The petroleum jelly was warm on his circumcised penis. It felt extra slick around the head, as tiny drops of pre-come oozed out. He stroked harder and turned the page.

  The window shades were drawn. His naked ass was sweating on the bed. Oh, he was going to Hell for this, he knew it. When he got to Heaven they would show his life on a giant movie screen for all the angels to see and they would start laughing, watching him jerk off his little dick. He would be so embarrassed he would chose eternal damnation instead of an eternity spent with angels snickering whenever he walked by.

  Sixty dollars. He had spent sixty dollars on these damn magazines and was too embarrassed to return them. But he was too cheap to just throw them away. Much as he hated it he was stuck with this filth for the rest of his life. It was an addiction, plain and simple So he sat and jerked off, feeling self- loathing and disgust squirm in his mind.

  Pornography killed brain cells. It destroyed the emotion known as love. Look at enough of it and you will never be able to hug your mother again, Hector knew. Look at enough of it you will not be able to kiss your grandmother, Hector knew. Enough of it and your girlfriend will leave, finding you suddenly weird. Hector knew this first hand. He had a girlfriend once. He turned the page.

  And there she was. He knew her name, even though the magazine said she was Veronica. He knew she was Janet.

  He shut the magazine and hurled it across the van. The pages fluttered like a wounded pigeon before crashing against the windshield.

  “What can’t I escape you?” he asked her. “Why can’t you leave me alone?”

  In the picture she had long straight blonde hair, and her green eyes were elongated like a cat’s even though she was Asian. And she smiled seductively at him with that crooked smile, like the grin of a wayward nymph. She was so beautiful. And she was dead.

  Around him reality blurred. Then it started to vanish all together. In his mind they were together again, and he was touching her. He rubbed her soft silk skin and felt the moistness between her legs. In a fit of daring he shoved a finger into her, pressing his palm against her pubic hair. She groaned.

  In his mind he was licking that cleft below her pubic hair. It spread wide open and he could smell her damp female musk. She cooed.

  Now they were fucking. The foreplay was over, and he was ramming himself into her. In and out, feeling her hot breath all over the nape of his neck. Her body was so close, and she whined like a whore, whispering in his ear.

  “You are so big, baby. Shove it in me all the way. I like the way your cock feels in me.”

  In his dreams he made her scream.

  Why did he continue to do this to himself?

  Hector’s mind demanded an answer from the body. He was an awful human being. This was a disgusting way to live. It was the only love he knew.

  Hector grunted and shot off into a little snot rag. Now that it was over. Reality returned, so heavy he felt himself start to cave. Outside the Chupacabra was scratching at the door, trying to get in.

  “All right, all right!” he yelled and wiped the petroleum jelly from his cock. When it was as clean as it would get he returned the rag to its hiding place for use later.

  He let the Mexican goat-sucker in and got himself a beer. He lit himself a cigarette as if he just had sex. Suddenly he felt very dirty.

  The dirt was invisible, but it crawled all over his body, smothering him. He felt like a child again, sneaking into his father’s closet when he wasn’t home, looking through the old man’s stash of nudie magazines. He felt disgusting. He wanted to throw up. Maybe it was because of the warm beer. Maybe it was because he was sick. It made no difference.

  He drained the beer then got into the captain’s chair. His traveling companion whined, sensing he was drunk, but did nothing to stop him. He started the van, listening to it rumble and churn. The engine coughed and complained but it started. And it stayed started. Carefully he pulled out into non- existent traffic. The sun was coming up.

  “Damn it,” Hector cursed. He preferred to drive at night, when he only had the big rigs to deal with and the little van could slip across the country like a snake. He did not want to drive during the day.

  Luckily this was not suburbia. There were no houses here, only liquor stores and trailers parks. And one of the smaller parks jumped out at him. The Copacabana. It was right next to the liquor store. Perfect, he thought and pulled in past the open gate. Quickly he found an empty stall and shut the van off. The chupacabra looked up.

  The place was a Hawaiian nightmare. A giant Tiki God lorded over everything, covered in gang-tags and standing in a sparse field of grass where the dogs were walked. Concrete was everywhere, ending in a cinderblock fence that had been topped with barbed wire. If he had taken a closer look he would have seen crushed glass mixed in with the concrete.

  Hector got out and lit himself a cigarette. The goat-sucker decided to stay in the van which was understandable. Chupacabra’s do not like the light of day.

  “Well, howdy, stranger!” An older balding man walked over. He had an automatic camera wrapped around his neck that merged with his khaki shorts, Hawaiian shirt and fisherman’s cap to create the perfect image of a tourist. Underneath his face had the consistency of day old mush, and his green eyes blared out of focus in the sun, as if they were filled with cataracts. For people like him, Hector knew, the world was only in shades of gray. “Are you planning on being a new resident, or are you only passing through?”

  “Just looking for a place to spend some time,” Hector said, breathing deep on his cigarette and leaning against the side of the van with an awkward sigh. Suddenly he was embarrassed. On the sliding door a very well-endowed Pegasus was fucking a Unicorn, and both appeared to be in agony, or ecstasy. It did not matter. His father had spent a weekend painting the side of his van. Back then he thought it was so cool. Hector always thought that his father had lead a wasted life. The man should have been an artist.

  But now it was embarrassing. The painting was white trash to the max and made him feel stupid, but the old man did not even seem to notice. If he did it was not showing.

  “The Copacabana is just the place for you,” the old man said and stretched out a hand to shake. “I’m Mr. Torne, the proprietor. I guess I’m the guy you pay.”

  “Hector,” he said. “Nice to meet you.” And he shook the old man’s hand, hoping Mr. Torne didn’t notice the traces of lubricant between his fingers like translucent cobwebs.

  “We have a small community here, Hector. Only three of us, total. But you’re welcome to stay as long as you like.”

  “This place pretty quiet?”

  “Very,” Mr. Torne nodded. “We mostly keep to ourselves. Varmint Ranch is a small town. People only stay when they get stuck. That what happened to you?”

  Hector shook his head. “No. I’m just passing through.”

  “Of course,” Mr. Torne smiled grimly. “Of course. Here, let’s get you set up for the night.”

  Together they plugged the
van into a campground socket and affixed a hose to the back that would feed fresh water to a faucet that did not work. Mr. Torne told him that he could even empty his toilet in the septic tank, but Hector assured him it wasn’t necessary. The toilet didn’t work.

  “That’s why God invented trees.”

  Mr. Torne laughed and somehow managed to convince Hector to come and meet the others, even though it was the middle of the morning and most people should be at work. Hector did not want to meet the others but Mr. Torne, Hector discovered, had a way with words.

  As noon came on they walked through the mobile estate. Hector noticed all the empty spaces. If a trailer park could possibly be a ghost town, he had found it. Towards the back they came across their first trailer.

  “Ah, Miss Felony lives here,” Mr. Torne said proudly, and Hector could hear a faint trace of lust in his voice. That Miss Felony, Hector thought, must be a hot number if she could get that old guys blood to boil so.

  It was a dark trailer, all the lights switched off. Inside he could see the flickering of a television. The blue glow strobed out the window.

  “She’s the town librarian. Probably at work right now. Which is for the best, I guess. Young thing, doesn’t like to be bothered much. She has two kids to look after, you know. They’re both adopted.”

  “Right,” Hector agreed and immediately felt a strange connection with Miss Felony. They both had a lot of secrets.

  The second trailer was double wide, with two bedrooms, and lurched to one side as the struts collected rust and threatened to give out. Inside Hector could hear the staccato sounds of a happy typewriter, humming away. Outside there were no decorations, but the porch light was on, even though the drapes were pulled shut.

  “And this trailer belongs to Leonard Samson. Have you ever heard of him?”

  “The writer?” Hector asked.

  Mr. Torne’s eyes narrowed with suspicion. “You read the sort of magazines he writes for?”

  “Uh? yeah,” Hector stammered. Leonard Samson wrote for Warren Falconer’s magazines, and sometimes faked letters for Daily’s smut. Most considered him to be the top porn-literature peddler in the country and his weird tales always got Hector in the mood.

  “I see,” Mr. Torne nodded but let his perversion slide. “Well, he doesn’t like to be bothered, either. The only time he ever leaves that damn trailer is at night. I try not to come by too often. Best to leave artists alone, I’ve always found. But every time I do I hear that typewriter going. Yes, sir. We have an honest celebrity right here at The Copacabana.”

  “Nice.”

  The last trailer was closest to the wall. Unlike the other two, this one appeared to be inhabited. The shade was out, hovering over a picnic table complete with bug lamps that had yet to be lit. A man sat with a young woman, eating lunch off paper plates. He was balding slightly and what was left was coarse and black. A beard that sagged around the edges with gray completed the character.

  “Now here is someone who likes to meet people,” Mr. Torne said loudly as Hector followed him over. He was already drawn to the woman, who was dressed for a funeral, something that Hector was perverted enough to find erotic. A dark veil covered her face, along with a matching dress. Under that her body was slim and youthful. Even with the veil Hector could tell that she was way too young for the likes of him. “Hector, this is Mr. Opus.”

  “Please, call me Joseph,” Mr. Opus said, reaching out to shake his hand with a smile that glistened white under his black beard. “And how are you on this fine day, young man?”

  “Er, just fine,” Hector mumbled, trying to remember how to be social.

  “Mr. Opus is my best tenant,” Mr. Torne nudged him in the ribs. “Always pays his rent on time, no questions asked. I never have to knock on Joseph’s door. Not once. Never.”

  “And you’re the boy with the van,” Mr. Opus nodded with an even wider smile. “Hey, nice ride you got there. Oh, this is my fiancée, Marget. And you are ...”

  “Hector,” he said. “Just Hector.”

  “Unfortunately, Hector won’t be staying long,” Mr. Torne cut him off. “He strikes me as being a young man on the move. Lots of world to see.”

  “Well, you might be surprised,” Mr. Opus said. “The Copacabana has a way of growing on you.”

  “Uh, sure.” Hector nodded.

  “And what sort of work do you do, Hector?”

  “Drift, mostly. Like Mr. Torne said. I sort of scrape by.”

  “Well, I happen to be a pharmacist myself,” Mr. Opus said proudly with a wink. “You need anything, boy, anything at all! you just come and see me.”

  “I will.”

  “I know what kind of drugs you kid’s like,” Mr. Opus continued. “In fact, I got some free samples for ...”

  “Oh!” Mr. Torne suddenly cried out, making them turn. “And here’s someone I know you’ll want to meet.”

  She was dressed in a pair of shorts and a cotton shirt. Her legs were long and sharp bangs glistened in the afternoon sun, framing an oval shaped face. Long reddish hair fell about her shoulders in straight razor blades, and her face was freckled by the sun. She was also holding a camera, like Mr. Torne.

  Hector wondered what she was taking pictures of. There was nothing around that anyone in their right mind would want to document.

  “Hector, this is my daughter Lila.” Mr. Torne wrapped a possessive arm around her shoulder. He showed her off proudly, like a choice cut of meat. “And Lila, this is Hector. He’s the one with the van that rolled in this morning.”

  “Oh, hi!” she said in a nasal sweet voice, dripping with honey. She reached out to shake his hand. “Cool van. I love unicorns. You might have to take me for a ride sometime.”

  Quickly he wiped the excess lubricant off on his jeans and took her hand in his own. It was soft, and he could feel her sweat. He could feel her pulse. “Uh, sure. Any time.”

  “Lila ...” Mr. Torne groaned, noticing the innocent flirting.

  “I’m sorry,” Hector stammered, trying to change the subject, letting go of her hand as if it was a snake. “It’s nice to meet you. What are you taking pictures of?”

  “Shadows,” she said with a smile. “Father and I love to take pictures of shadows. It’s our favorite hobby.”

  “And one day,” Mr. Torne said, quickly snapping a picture of Hector’s shadow. “I will find the perfect shadow. You see, boy ... I like to look in to the darkness. There are things there that the mind can only imagine.”

  “Don’t I know it,” Hector agreed.

  “But its late, boy. You probably want to turn in for a nap.”

  “I do,” Hector told him and ambled towards his van.

  “I’ll see you later then,” the girl called after him. That made Hector smile.

  The Bull

  Something was creaking in the night. Something that lived. Something that breathed. Something terrible and it was there, waiting and watching with ugly awful eyes.

  Something disturbed the silence.

  The fathomless dreamer awakens and comes up for air. He takes a deep breath, but the air is stale and sick with his sweat. The stench is strong, and he realizes how foul he smells, of urine and gastric anomalies and rotting teeth and everything else disgusting that the human body could emit. It was the scent of a child’s fear and the stench of a putrified soul. It was his stench.

  Jamie looked about. The trailer was silent and still. He chastised himself for feeling fear. He was too old to be afraid of the dark. He was too strong to be afraid of the things lurking under the bed and in the closet. He was a man in the body of a little boy and he was brave.

  There was nothing irregular, inside or out, Jamie told himself. He rolled over in bed and sat close to the window. A slight breeze slipped inside through a crack in the cheap frame, chilling everything to the bone even when the space heater was turned on. Outside he could see a single light burning through a hole in the curtains. It was like a sentry, that porch light. It hovered in the air li
ke a floating fairy to keep him safe.

  Miss Felony needed to get that hole fixed, Jamie thought. The curtains were old. They would let people in. It would be far better not to allow some Peeping Tom to peek inside this trailer. What they saw inside would frighten them to no end.

  Jamie shivered a little. Lines of uncomfortable sweat ran through his soft black hair and trickled down his bare body. That hair had bangs that drifted around his eyes, the type of mask a little boy would hide behind. He begged Miss Felony to cut it so, pleaded with her until she had no choice. And it was necessary. It protected him from the demons outside that haunted his darkest thoughts and dreams.

  Through this follicle web his eyes scanned the room, searching for the monster who would not be silenced. “I’m not afraid,” his mind began to think. “I’m not afraid.” His body tried to relax.