Monster Behind the Wheel

by Michael McCarty

  I looked around at the potbellied truckers, businessmen in loud blazers, and old ladies with dyed-black hair, and for a moment I wanted to turn and fly back out, but then the old man started pouring me a whiskey, so I decided to stay.

  “This one’s on the house, scout,” he said.

  So now I was scout.

  “I guess you must be all brokenhearted and all,” he said. “You and Ox must’a broke up, if you’re coming here by yourself.”

  “Broke up?” I said, taking a seat at the bar. “What do you mean by that?”

  The old man cocked his head. “Oh, that wasn’t your boyfriend? You two never talked to the ladies, so I figured you were queer for each other. No offense.”

  “None taken,” I said, “since Moose was never my boyfriend. We weren’t gay or anything. We just didn’t talk to any of these gals, because they’re old enough to be our grannies.”

  The bartender scanned the room, blinking. “By God, you’re right. They’re all my age, so I guess I figured they were still in their prime.” He leaned toward me and said in a gravelly whisper, “I’ve plugged each and every one of these old darlings. Yes indeed-ee-oh. They’re leather on the outside but silk on the inside, scout. Silk on the inside.”

  “So, what’s your name again?” I said. “I used to know it. I remember it was the name of some guy on TV.”

  “Gilligan,” he said with a laugh. “Yeah, I get about fifty jokes a day thrown in my face over that one. Usually fat-ass truckers who say they want me to be their little buddy.” He lowered his voice again. “I think they mean it, too. Them truckers, they get pretty lonely out on the road. I bet some of them look at my scrawny, bony ass and think I’m all silk on the inside, too.” He chuckled. “I’d be a major disappointment to those fruity-tooties. My poopchute’s filled with hemmy-roids. Hurt something awful. I once had me a hemmy-roid infection, and Lordy, I thought I was going to die screaming every time I tried to take a shit. Yeah, scout, I bet my poor old poopchute would be a pretty rocky ride for one of them fat old trucker dicks.”

  “Could we maybe talk about something besides your poopchute?” I said. I drained my glass and pushed it toward him. “Think I’ll have another.”

  “Okay, but you’re paying from this point on,” he said, pouring me a fresh one. “No more sympathy drinks for you, since I guess you don’t need any sympathy. Now me, I’m the one who needs the sympathy drinks. Got a letter from my ex-wife. The old bat wants to get back together. She says she may even stop in to say hi.”

  “Well, maybe you should give her a second chance,” I said.

  “A second chance. Would you give the devil a second chance to stick a red-hot needle in your brain?” He shook his head like a wet dog shaking off rain. “The woman was an insane she-devil, always bitching and moaning and whining and spending all my goddamn money on Mickey Mouse watches and other girly shit like that. Now, why would a harpy hatched in the devil’s own asshole want to wear a Mickey Mouse watch? I never got anything out of her except an ulcer and maybe them hemmy-roids. I think the doctor said those were caused by stress. And did I get any poozle to reward me for my generosity to that old bitch wife of mine? Hell, no. These days, I’m living a pious life to make sure I go to heaven, because I know she’s going straight to hell and I don’t want to run into her there.”

  “Unless it was with a car,” I said.

  Gilligan blinked a few times. “A car? In hell? You don’t say. You s’pose they have cars in hell?”

  “I’m pretty sure they do,” I said. “Yeah, no doubt in my mind.”

  I stayed for a couple more hours, shooting the shit with Gilligan and the rest, and then, idiot that I was, I decided it was time to hit the road, even though I was pumped to the gills with whiskey.

  I stumbled out to my car, and soon I was driving Monster. After a while I noticed that only one headlight was working. A cyclops sort of vision. It was dark and raining—

  Blood.

  I knew I had to be in the Land of the Dead. It’s the only place where the sky bleeds. The sight of all that blood pouring down sobered me up right quick.

  I turned on the wipers, but that only smeared the blood. My windshield was coated with a translucent layer of watery crimson slime. With only one headlight and a haze of blood surrounding me, I could barely see shit.

  But I did see something that made me slow the car down.

  It was a circus, complete with rides, game booths, and a big top.

  In the middle of a graveyard.

  I had to get a better look. You know me—I just can’t get enough of carnivals, circuses, fairs, whatever. They have me on the edge of my Ferris wheel seat. If I fall out, not to worry, there will always be a pretty young thing to break my fall, even if it means breaking her spine.

  I pulled Monster into the necropolis, and as the rain died down to a little bloody spitting, the Barracuda died, too. It almost seemed like a bad movie horror cliché. A car dead in the cemetery. What next? Jason in a hockey mask? Razor-clawed Freddy? A Chuckie doll with a chain saw? Or how about a nice cuddly Godzilla, ready to scorch me to ash with his radioactive breath?

  Suddenly I heard the faint lilt of music.

  At first I thought it might be Monster’s radio. Then I realized it was coming from the big top. It was calliope music and it quickly grew louder, almost as loud as an outdoor heavy-metal concert.

  Five corpses shambled out of the tent. The zombies looked like insane clowns, with huge shoes, rainbow-colored mushroom clouds of hair, and big red noses with little black skulls painted on them.

  The leader of the clown zombies approached the car and handed me the string of a floating balloon. Inside was a moldy blue baby’s head, staring at me bug-eyed with a pink pacifier in its mouth. I sure as hell didn’t want it, so I let go of the string. It drifted off.

  “Need some car parts?” the clown leader asked, pointing to Monster.

  “I don’t know. I haven’t had a chance to look under the hood yet,” I said. “Besides, I don’t think any clown car parts would fit my Barracuda.”

  The zombie clown ignored me and opened the hood. The other clowns gathered around to inspect the engine.

  “Looks like it could use a new fan belt,” said a frowny-faced clown. He dug his hand through the rotten skin of his belly, rummaged around in his insides, yanked out his intestines, and tore off a section. He tied the slimy length into a loop and slid it into the car. “It takes a lot of guts to drive a muscle car like this.”

  “Needs another headlight,” said a dwarf clown. He pulled out one of his eyeballs, put it to his lips, and blew it up to ten times its original size. He stuck the bloodshot orb into the headlight socket. “There. Now you’ll have 20/20 vision.”

  “Needs a new stick shift,” said a tall hillbilly clown in black silk overalls. He unzipped his fly and reached in. There was a sickening ripping sound and he took out a rock-hard boner trailing tendons, strips of muscles, and other dripping tubes and tissues. He opened the door and replaced the old stick shift with his own.

  Another clown pulled off his glove and slipped it over the head of the engorged organ. “Better use protection,” he said with a chuckle. “You don’t know where that thing has been.”

  The clown leader kicked Monster’s driver’s side front tire, and the car roared to life. “Now get in and get outta here,” he shouted gleefully.

  So I did. I got in and kept driving until I fell asleep behind the wheel. And even then I kept driving, knowing in a crazy-ass dream sort of way that in the Land of the Dead, it was okay to drive while asleep.

  Maybe it was even safer.

  When I woke up, it was morning and I was in the garage, slumped behind the wheel.

  I checked out the fan belt, the headlight, and that dubious stick shift.

  They all had clearly been replaced with newer parts, all marked with flames and candy stripes and the same brand name.

  Cirque.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  STRANGER IN A
STRANGE CAR

  I walked into the house. Connie had fallen asleep in front of the TV again.

  “Get up,” I yelled. “I’m gonna fuck you like a whore from Babylon or South Dallas.”

  “Huh? What?” Connie stretched and yawned.

  “It’s fuck time.”

  Connie rubbed the last of the remaining sleep out of her eyes. “Frank?” she said dreamily. “Oh, Jeremy, it’s you.”

  “Get undressed.”

  She looked at me as if I were a ventriloquist’s act—Frank’s voice coming out of my body. It sure felt that way.

  “Get undressed.”

  Like before, she stripped on the way to the bedroom. I did the same.

  This time, she didn’t flop down on her back. She was on her stomach, and her legs were spread out much farther to make the way ready for me. I entered her up the ass and started pumping at a frantic pace.

  I reached under her, grabbed her big breasts, and squeezed them. I kissed the back of her neck, working my way to her ear, and started licking inside of it. When I came, I heaved a big sigh of relief and rolled off her.

  “Call Mr. Pizza,” I said. “Tell ’em I quit.”

  “Yeah?” Connie said. “You got another job lined up?”

  “Big plans,” I said. “A whole new beginning.”

  Exhausted, I went to sleep.

  I woke up in the dark bedroom. My bladder was filled to bursting, and I felt totally disoriented. The room was too dark for me to see anything. I stumbled out of bed, hitting a dresser or something. Connie was gone. I had no idea what time it was.

  I groped along the wall for the doorknob. I finally found it and walked down the hall to the bathroom.

  I turned on the lights and bellied up to the toilet for a piss. But I dribbled when I peed. I’d never done that before in my life. I made a fucking mess all over the seat.

  I glanced at myself in the mirror, then did a double—no, triple—take and got the shock of my life.

  The person in the mirror wasn’t me.

  I found myself looking at a complete stranger. It was like someone had taken my brain and popped it into a completely different body.

  The man in the mirror was in his fifties, about six feet tall, and probably weighed over two hundred pounds. He was bald, had dark brown eyes, and the nose looked crooked, like it had been busted a couple of times. The beefy chest had light brown hair on it and a snake tattoo.

  I had finally become Frank Edmondson.

  And based on my performance at the toilet, there was still something wrong with the waterworks.

  “What are you going to do?” I said to my reflection.

  Not “What am I going to do?”

  Wheels were in motion, but I wasn’t the one steering.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  HIT AND RUN

  Another Texas morning. I was lying between a pillow and Connie’s ample breasts.

  “It’s good to have you back, Frank,” Connie said in a soft voice. “That boy was a sweetie pie, but a girl can’t live off dessert, can she? I need meat.”

  The early morning’s light shone on my face, because the blinds next to the bed weren’t fully shut. I kept my eyes closed, but the sunlight was blinding me.

  “I still have that money hidden away, just like you told me,” she said. “It’s inside the pool table. Is this the new beginning? Lord, I remember when you told me you had this big plan—you were coming back and all. I thought you’d gone crazy. I thought it was the chemo talking. But you were right. You were always right.”

  I nudged Connie with my elbow, and she rolled over to the other side of the bed with her backside facing me. Her body blocked out the light invading the bedroom.

  I saw a vision. Not a daydream, more of a daymare, and an early one at that. Connie stood in front of Monster, and the car’s engine growled like an angry beast. It revved up again louder, like this was the final warning. Last call for alcohol. In other words, get the fuck out of my way. Don’t piss off the Monster.

  Connie started running. I guess she could tell the car wasn’t happy.

  Monster’s tires began squealing. The smell of burning rubber filled the air. The car lurched forward like a cheetah ready to bounce on a fat bunny. But no matter how fast the bunny runs, the cheetah will catch up. The Barracuda hit Connie’s midsection, crunching her against a brick wall. Bones snapped at the point of impact. Blood sprayed out of her mouth like water from a fountain.

  Monster backed up, and her limp body fell onto the bloody concrete floor. The car simply turned to the side and roared down the open road into a bloodred sunset.

  The next thing I knew, I was sitting at the breakfast table dressed in one of Frank’s robes.

  Connie and I ate breakfast in silence. The matter-of-fact silence of an old married couple.

  I finished my silver-dollar pancakes. Connie and the house were stifling me. I put on some clothes and grabbed my keys.

  Time for a drive.

  When we’re teenagers, cruising in cars is a major pastime. It used to be cheap entertainment, costing only the price of gasoline. But these days, with the way gasoline prices keep going higher and higher, it’s a pricey way to get your kicks.

  But what the hell. I had no destination but the open road.

  I drove past the Resistol Hat Factory, which was famous for its hats that J.R. Ewing wore on Dallas. It was the town’s time in the spotlight, providing a prop for a villain on a nighttime soap.

  I pulled onto Fascination Street and drove into the neighboring town of Mesquite, one of the fastest growing cities in the Lone Star State. I was thinking of catching a race at the Devil’s Bowl Speedway. You gotta love a racetrack called Devil’s Bowl. Sounds like something Satan would cook spicy chili in. Ultimately, I didn’t want to watch a race. I wanted to be in one so I kept driving.

  I kept driving, just letting the time and miles fly by. I cruised downtown Dallas. The skyline sketched by the towering buildings: Hartford, Landmark Center, White Swan, Reunion Tower, Renaissance Tower, and the other dinosaur-tall steel structures set against the red sky.

  The road’s mad excess of cars slowed me down. A 426 Hemi engine in a ’70 Barracuda is built for speed, not rush-hour traffic. I got onto John W. Carpenter Freeway and was in Irving. Monster was teetering on E. I pulled off the freeway and onto Regal Ridge. I saw a 7-Eleven, so I drove in and filled up the tank. I paid the clerk, who could easily pass for Gramps.

  “Anything else you need, junior?” the geezer asked.

  “Junior?” I screamed at him. “I’m not your son, you decrepit old fuck. Are you senile? What the hell’s your problem?”

  He didn’t say a word, but his eyes read sheer terror. I heard a splashing sound and smelled the sharp tang of old-fart pee.

  The sorry bastard had pissed himself.

  I left the store laughing.

  I slammed Monster’s steel door and squealed my tires as I drove the fuck out of Irving.

  I hit a few bars, saw some sights, made a day out of doing nothing.

  The sun was starting to sink below the horizon. I pulled onto the John W. Carpenter Freeway and headed home.

  I saw a hitchhiker on the side of the road. She was young, dressed in cutoff jeans, a loose white muscle T-shirt, no bra. Her long blonde hair fluttered like a flag in the wind. She held a sign with a message scrawled in red, Darwin Died for Your Sins.

  Well, wasn’t that precious. Young hitchhikers in Dallas or the suburbs are an all too common thing. Too many runaways.

  I slowed Monster down and pulled off the road slightly ahead of her.

  She ran toward the car, lugging a backpack. She opened the door and got in. “Thanks,” she said.

  I steered back into traffic. “A sign like that can get you in trouble here in the Bible Belt,” I said.

  “We’re not in the Bible Belt or even in the Land of the Living.” She now had a sign that read, Don’t Fight Destiny. She put her cold hand on my shoulder. “It’s me. Fiona Bloom.” />
  I looked at her again. She was indeed the dead blue lady I knew. I was no longer in Irving but back in the Land of the Dead.

  “You must not let Frank take over, Jeremy. Try to fight it.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “He has already taken your body. Don’t let him take your soul, too.”

  I glanced in the rearview mirror and saw a fiftyish man with young eyes.

  I had taken those young eyes off the road too long. The road was covered with blood now, so I started skidding. I was afraid the car was going to flip off the road and keep rolling. I held the steering wheel with all my strength.

  The car kept fishtailing. I slammed on the brakes, and the car spun completely around and came to a complete stop.

  I was back on the side of the John W. Carpenter Freeway.

  “Freak,” the blonde hitchhiker said, slamming the door.

  I was in the car alone again.

  “Time to go home and pay the fucking fiddler, boy,” crackled Frank’s voice over the car speakers.

  “Where are you?” I said. “In me? In the car? In the Land of the Dead?”

  “Boy, I am like all-seeing God,” he said with a dry laugh. “I am everywhere, I see everything, and I have a plan. Best you go along with it or suffer the consequences.”

  At that moment I felt like heading north to Kansas City or Boise or the Twin Cities and never looking back. But you can’t stop destiny. It pulls you like metal shavings to a magnet.

  I don’t even remember the ride home. I was on autopilot.

  It was night and I was pulling up Connie’s driveway. And Connie was carrying some black plastic bags to the garbage pickup point on the other side of the garage. The truck would be round to get them in the morning.

  “Run that fucking bitch over,” Frank screamed through the speakers. “She held down the fort like a good little bitch, but now we’re done with her. Move it. Move it. Move it.”