Inflictions

by John McIlveen

  At least she won’t be spreading them around anymore, he thought wryly, except maybe to the undertaker.

  He retracted his hand and unmindfully sniffed his fingers. His bushy mustache rose on top of his irritated grimace. He coughed and spat a generous wad into the dirt and entered into the stuffiness of the noisy saloon. The good cheer ended immediately and a cloying silence descended over the crowd. The unaware pianist rattled on for a few, and then trailed off with a couple of off-key notes.

  Bubba, the portly proprietor who had been chatting animatedly with two local men, quickly placed an unlabeled bottle on the bar and disappeared into the back room. All eyes followed expectantly as Lucas walked to the bar. He breathed deep, smelling leather, sweat, spilled drinks, but mostly tasting the fear he so thrived on. He grabbed the proffered bottle of whiskey and kicked back four loud gulps as the four men closest to the doorway fled.

  Lucas surveyed the barroom. Twelve kerosene lamps spilled a wavering light over the patrons, leaving heavy shadows in the corners or the saloon. He looked at every downturned head and was slightly surprised to see a man staring directly at him. The man was donned in pure white; his hat, shirt, chaps, and even boots glowed like a specter in the dimness of the room.

  Must be a salesman or a preacher, Lucas concluded.

  “What’s yer name, boy?” Lucas asked.

  “Name’s Waggoner,” the man said, laying his spectacles on the table, “but you can call me Sir.”

  A murmur of disbelief spread through the barroom. Lucas delivered an astounding belch and accented it with an equally loud fart.

  “You’re disgusting,” said the man.

  The tension in the room tripled.

  “And yer stupid … Sir,” said Lucas.

  Lucas planted a bullet in the center of the man’s forehead. The salesman catapulted backward, toppling the beaten table and spraying blood.

  Lucas blew on the end of his gun and said, “I hate white.”

  He downed some more whiskey, serenaded by a symphony of terrified muffled sobs. He jammed his hand in his pants to continue scratching.

  “Gaw-damn critters!” he complained and looked to a table where a young man and woman sat. “Boy! What’s yer name,” he called.

  The young man’s shoulders tensed, but he didn’t look up.

  “That yer woman?” asked Lucas. “You’re fixin’ to earn her a third eye, boy.”

  The young man looked toward him fearfully, but his clear blue eyes never met Lucas’s eye.

  “I’m Tommy, Mr. McAdams,” he stuttered.

  He was thin as a reed but tall, and a hint of blond curls protruded from under his hat.

  “Show me yer hands, Tommy.”

  Tommy raised his shaking hands.

  “Good … long fingers. C’mere.”

  Tommy rose slowly as his young bride wept.

  “C’mere!” Lucas held open the front of his pants. “Scratch,” he said.

  “Huh?”

  “My hands are tired and I may need both of ’em. Scratch!”

  Tommy obediently reached in and scratched. His freckled face lit deep crimson with embarrassment, even through his desert tan.

  “Barkeep!” Lucas bellowed, and instructed Tommy to scratch harder, which he did.

  Bubba emerged timidly from the back room. “Yes, Mr. Lucas, sir.”

  “Not much in the mood for whiskey. Gimme a beer,” he ordered.

  “A Bubba Beer?” asked the barkeep.

  “Make it a Bubba Light.”

  “Yes, sir,” Bubba said and quickly filled a mug.

  Tommy scratched lower and Lucas felt himself starting to sprout. Tommy looked away from him.

  “Mind yer manners, boy,” Lucas warned. He turned to Bubba, who inched his way to the back room. “Not so fast, Bubba.”

  Bubba returned, sweat crowning his balding head. His two-hundred-fifty-pound frame looked much diminished. Lucas drew a sack of Bill Durham from his vest and laid it on the bar.

  “Build me a smoke,” he instructed.

  Someone shifted to Lucas’s right. Guns instantly drawn, Lucas glared at the man leaning on a beam, his legs tightly crossed. A mug of beer shook in the man’s hand, splashing its contents on a woman too afraid to flinch.

  “What’s yer problem?” asked Lucas.

  “I gotta pee.”

  “Hold it,” Lucas said and returned his deadly gaze to Bubba. Bubba placed a quirly between Lucas’s lips and lit it.

  “Obliged,” said Lucas. “I’m looking for Bob …”

  “Oh, shit!” said the man leaning on the beam. Lucas buried two rounds in his belly as a dark patch spread from his crotch. The man landed on a table between two unwavering customers.

  “Oops, pardon,” said Lucas. “Betcha don’t gotta pee no more.”

  He holstered his dragoon pistols, tokens from a cavalryman unfortunate enough to be walking a trail alone.

  “Keep scratching, boy,” Lucas instructed. “As I were sayin’, I’m looking for Bob Lawson.”

  A collective sigh of relief nearly expanded the walls of the barroom, informing Lucas that the man he sought wasn’t here.

  “Doc,” said Bubba.

  Lucas hit the deck, nearly dislocating Tommy’s shoulder, his guns out and ready. He scanned the room. Seeing no danger, he rose again and placed the pistol barrel against Bubba’s bulbous nose.

  “You gamin’ with me?”

  Bubba shook his head vigorously.

  “What you tell me to duck for.”

  “I said, Doc,” explained the shaken Bubba. “Bob Lawson’s the town dentist.”

  “Yer sure you ain’t funnin’ me?”

  “Y-yes.”

  “Where’s this Lawson at?”

  “In his shop, I imagine,” said Bubba.

  “I know that,” Lucas said as if speaking to a child. “Where’s his shop?”

  Bubba pointed over Lucas’s shoulder. Lucas looked in the direction of Bubba’s finger. Through a window he saw a weatherworn building housing both the Mercantile, and a smaller shop with a sign over the door. It read, Bob Lawson—Dentist—Certified ADA.

  “Well, ain’t that slick as shit?” Lucas said. “That was easy.” He looked at Tommy, who quickly shoved his hand back inside Lucas’s pants. “Yer ridin’ with me,” he informed him.

  “Yes, sir,” said Tommy, forcing a sob from his woman.

  Lucas turned his deadly eye on the distraught bride, whose face was buried in her hands. All that was visible was her auburn mane.

  “Woman! What’s yer name?”

  She raised her head and looked at Lucas with startling green eyes. Her tears reflected the light of a nearby lantern and added radiance to her flushed cheeks. She was strikingly beautiful.

  “Katrina Cynthia Alicia Gwendolyn Beatrice Anna Louise Masters,” she said. Lucas squinted as if in pain.

  “Tommy calls me Kitty,” she added.

  “Well, Kitty. Stand up.”

  Kitty reluctantly stood. Although she was young, barely past puberty, her body was all woman.

  “Open yer blouse.” Lucas instructed.

  Kitty blushed violently and hesitantly opened her blouse, exposing her wonderful breasts. A lustful moan escaped from every man present … and a few of the women. Tommy recoiled slightly as Lucas’s member went full mast again. Intentions swept through Lucas’s mind like a winter wind, but even he had his limits. Kitty was too beautiful to destroy.

  “Quite a looker ain’t she?” he asked Tommy.

  A chorus of agreement rose throughout the barroom. Kitty’s blush deepened, but all nervousness seemed to fade as she proudly pushed her breasts forward to be fully appreciated. Tommy agreed wholeheartedly.

  “Well, if you ever wanna play with them titties again, you gotta behave. Maybe I’ll let you live once my I get rid of these critters. Understand?”

  Tommy nodded numbly, his sight still glued to Kitty’s perfect offering.

  Lucas grabbed his tobacco pouch, wheeled around, and h
eaded for the door, Tommy skipping awkwardly behind him, scratching all the way. Lucas felt the overwhelming release of pent-up anxiety from the folks behind him as he exited the saloon.

  “What an asshole!” someone commented from behind the swinging doors.

  Lucas spun and reentered the saloon. “Who said that!” he demanded.

  About thirty index fingers pointed collectively to the form of the piano player, who stood wide-eyed and shaking like an epileptic field mouse.

  “You like assholes?” asked Lucas.

  The little man appeared to weigh his options.

  “I am an asshole,” said Lucas, scratching his head as if a particularly itchy thought crawled around inside it. “Matter a fact, I was born in Boston and that makes me pure asshole. Do you like me?”

  The musician nodded.

  “You like those little puckered brown eyes looking at you?”

  He nodded again.

  “Good. Stand up and bend over.”

  Lucas shot the pianist in his favorite place.

  Lucas and Tommy stood on the boardwalk in front of Bob Lawson’s office, a small but well-kept affair at the intersections of Las Cruces’s two main streets. Lucas reloaded his guns, enjoying the strong breeze from between the buildings, rustled up by the currents of the nearby Rio Grande. It stirred up the late-August heat making the day nearly tolerable.

  Two figures approached them from between Bubba’s and the Mercantile, led by a man wearing a cranberry-colored suit and matching hat. He had a hawkish nose, prominent even in the shade of his wide-brimmed hat, and he stood so tall and thin Lucas thought a strong wind might snap him in two. His Adam’s apple bobbed as though he had swallowed a frog that tried to hop through the skin at his throat. His sidekick was an opposite in every aspect. He was short and fat with a nearly nonexistent nose peeking out through the corpulent flesh of his rosacea-stung cheeks. The only similarity between them was that their uniforms matched, they both wore badges, and they both had their guns aimed on Lucas.

  Lucas silently stared at them.

  “Lukith McAdamth,” lisped the tall one. His voice was high, restrained, and quavering.

  “Thath me. Are you the … uh … therrif?”

  “Yeth, and we will not thtand for any more violenth from you.” The sheriff was shaking so badly his gun looked blurred.

  “I thee. You won’t thtand for it?”

  ”Yeth!” The sheriff squeezed the word out between barely moving lips.

  “Then lay down,” Lucas said and shot him. He turned his wretched eye on the fat man. “And you’re the deputy, I suppose.”

  The man desperately shook his head in denial as Lucas’s gaze centered on the badge. He ripped the badge from his shirt and tossed it behind him along with his gun.

  “You sure?” asked Lucas.

  “Un-huh.”

  “What’s that on yer shirt?”

  The deputy looked at his chest and a bullet hole opened where his badge had been moments before.

  “These road trips play hell on my bullet expenses,” Lucas informed Tommy as he reloaded his gun. He looked to the northeast where the San Andreas Mountains majestically rose from the terrain. They were beautiful on any day.

  “I hate mountains,” said Lucas.

  “Why’s that?” asked Tommy.

  “They get in the way. They don’t fall when you shoot them.” He turned and entered Bob Lawson’s shop without further explanation, dragging Tommy passively behind him.

  “You’re McAdams,” accused a man standing before the front window.

  He didn’t make eye contact, but he wasn’t bothered by the gringo’s presence. He’d clearly been watching the happenings through his window and recognized Lucas by his actions. A surge of pride flowed over Lucas.

  “Reckon I am.”

  “Saw you pull in on your horse with Tommy running shotgun,” the dentist explained. “Took a shine to the boy, did ya?”

  Lucas whipped out a pistol and pressed it to the dentist’s forehead. “Whatcha saying?” he sneered.

  Lawson appeared untroubled. “Well, you wander over here with Tommy buried wrist-deep and scrubbing away at your business,” he said, pointing at Lucas’s crotch. “Didn’t look like any handshake to me.”

  Lucas reddened intensely. “I got me a case of the critters from a lady back in El Paso,” he tried to explain. “You see, I need both hands. It just won’t quit itching. Tommy has strong fingers. It itches.”

  Lawson nodded.

  “Get yer hand outta there, boy.” Tommy withdrew his hand and held it as if plagued.

  “What’s your concern with me?” asked Lawson.

  “I got a tooth that’s smartin’ like the devil,” said Lucas, exposing a beastly row of decayed and tobacco stained teeth.

  “I see,” said Lawson disapprovingly.

  “And this other matter,” Lucas said, indicating his crotch. He scoured it aggressively and asked, “You got some advice?”

  “For that,” Lawson said, regarding the afflicted crotch. “I suggest Doc Hanson in Alamogordo.”

  “Alamogordo?” roared Lucas.

  “Yep,” said Lawson.

  Tommy nodded.

  “That’s east of the San Andreas!”

  “Yep,” said Lawson.

  Tommy nodded.

  “East of White Sands!”

  “Yep,” said Lawson.

  Tommy nodded.

  “East of Tularosa Valley!”

  “Yep,” said Lawson.

  Tommy nodded.

  “That’s all Apache lands. Cochise shits there!”

  “Yep. Scared?” asked Lawson.

  “Yep,” said Lucas. “Wouldn’t you be?”

  Tommy nodded.

  “Yep,” said Lawson.

  “Your critters bad enough?”

  “Yep,” said Lucas.

  Tommy nodded.

  “Now about that there tooth, I suppose we should yank it. Sit in that chair over there.”

  Lawson stood over Lucas and reclined the chair.

  “Don’t try nothin’ you’ll regret,” Lucas warned.

  “I’m not a foolish man,” said Lawson. “Now open that shithouse you call a mouth.”

  Lucas looked up the dentist’s nostrils as Lawson in turn looked into Lucas’s maw. Lawson lifted a large metallic cylinder and pressed a plunger at the top. A jet of fluid sprayed from what look like a saddle needle.

  “What’s that?” asked Lucas.

  “Novocain,” said the dentist. “It’s a pain-numbing fluid derived from cocaine.”

  “You can’t use that.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because Novocain won’t be invented until 1910.”

  “Oh. Okay,” said Lawson, unfazed. He tossed the syringe on his work table. “Now which of these hellish stubs is bothering you?”

  “Ayy agg.”

  “Way back,” repeated the dentist.

  “Ong a eye yiy.”

  “On the right side. Hmmm.”

  “Iyoon oos.”

  “Nah, I don’t see a wisdom tooth.”

  “Oog olyer.”

  “Look closer? Why? It’s clear …”

  Lucas grabbed the back of Lawson’s head and bit onto his nose. He ground his jaw in until he felt his teeth meet and blood run into his throat. Lawson struggled madly, and finally freed himself. He fell to the floor, whining in pain and cupping the cavity that was once his nose.

  “Gwind nyo ndo ndat?” asked Lawson, his shocked and confused eyes watering copiously.

  Lucas spit the hunk of flesh onto the dentist’s work tray and vigorously scratched himself. “What’d he say?” he asked Tommy.

  “He said why’d you do that?”

  Lucas sneered at Lawson. “I have a message to deliver. Kind of a poem, really.” He pulled a piece of paper from his pocket, and read. “You can run, but you can’t hide. This is for leaving me with a baby inside.”

  Lucas saw comprehension fill Lawson’s eyes.

 
; “Nandrinan!” the dentist cried. “Nyo nghud nda grung ngi!”

  “What’d he say?” Lucas asked Tommy.

  Tommy looked to Lawson and back to Lucas. “I dunno.”

  “Nyo nghud nda grung ngi!” Lawson repeated.

  Lucas shrugged. He aimed a gun at Lawson, making sure to look into his eyes, and pulled the trigger. As the bullet entered the dentist, a breeze stirred from where Lawson’s body lay. It increased momentum and a low rumble started from a point slightly above the dentist’s body. Lucas could see nothing, but he had no doubt something was there. A fierce wind with soul-penetrating iciness blasted past the two men and through the doorway. From outside, Nomad released a terrifying wicker.

  Lucas rushed to the door. “What the hell was that?”

  “I dunno,” said Tommy, looking back at the slumped form.

  Lucas went outside to calm Nomad who was braying and stamping.

  “Easy there, fella,” said Lucas.

  He grabbed the reins and patted the horse’s twitching flank until Nomad calmed. Within moments he was his old, unperturbed, asexual self again.

  “Well, I’ve never seen the likes of that before,” said Lucas.

  Tommy shook his head and glanced uneasily back into the dentist’s office. “Neither have I,” he said.

  “Ready for a trip to Alamogordo?” asked Lucas.

  “Do I have a choice?”

  “No.”

  “I guess I’m ready.”

  Four hours later, Lucas was regretting that he hadn’t prepared better for the trip. He hadn’t taken the time to refill his leather costrels with water, and his whiskey flask was now empty. The liquor not only hadn’t helped much in curving their thirst, it now had Tommy singing love songs in Lucas’s ear.

  Tommy. He was another matter. Four hours astride Nomad with Tommy holding on tightly behind him had greatly magnified the day’s heat. The sun was about to set and that would provide some relief, but Tommy’s fingers had Lucas nearly to the point of bleeding, but did little to reduce the itching. The whiskey’s effect on the boy was extreme, and an hour earlier his hands had started seeking another point of attention which, along with the love songs Tommy murmured in his ear, had Lucas responding in a way that could be humiliating.