by John Locke
Box
( Dr. Gideon Box - 2 )
John Locke
John Locke
Box
Introduction
I
“You’ve got an incredibly stressful job,” Pigface said. “But that doesn’t give you the right to engage in destructive, anti-social behavior.”
Pigface, my psychiatrist, knows about my gambling. Knows I’ve broken into people’s homes and assumed their identities while they were on vacation. Knows I’ve robbed wealthy donors while attending their parties. Knows about the random hookers, strippers, and lap dancers I’ve dated.
But she doesn’t know about the patients I’ve killed.
Not my own patients, of course. They’re more innocent than a virgin’s sigh.
I kill other doctors’ patients.
Not randomly, just those who treated me badly in the past. Maybe this one stole my girlfriend in college, or made fun of me in junior high. Maybe that one cheated on me or ripped me off. Years later they enter my hospital for a routine procedure. They don’t remember me, but shortly after I visit their room, they take a horrible turn for the worse.
They may not die, but they’ll suffer.
Just as they made me suffer.
Pigface doesn’t know about the patients I’ve killed, but trust me, she wouldn’t approve.
II
This is as good a time as any to introduce myself.
I’m Dr. Gideon Box, the top Cardiothoracic pediatric surgeon in the world. A fancy way of saying I fix kids for a living.
I’m extremely good at my job, but in real life I have issues.
I don’t get along with people. I’m antisocial. I don’t “mix well.” Beyond all that, I’ve had bad luck with women.
My entire life.
I live alone.
Big surprise, right?
So anyway, Pigface said, “Join an online dating service. Pick one that requires you to fill out a detailed profile, and be honest. Let the experts find suitable matches for you.”
She told me to seek women from small towns. Said they’d possess basic core values, be less shallow and self-centered than the women I’ve tried to date in Manhattan. Told me to take a week off and visit these women. Told me to be positive, keep an open mind.
“What’s the worst that can happen?” she said.
So I joined a dating website, spent two weeks narrowing down the candidates, and eventually settled on three small-town Kentucky women: Faith Hemphill, Zander Evans, and Renee Williams. These three seemed to possess the qualities Pigface recommended, as well as the one quality I seek in a woman: excessive horniness.
III
You think excessive horniness shouldn’t be a factor? Does the mere suggestion give you the impression I’m thoughtless, shallow, insensitive, selfish?
I fix kids for a living.
Broken kids.
Kids with congenital heart defects so severe, no other surgeon in the world would agree to operate on them. Kids so ill their own parents have given up all hope for their survival!
These are the kids they send me.
You think I’m selfish?
I give them everything.
Forty-nine hopeless cases have entered my operating room with zero chance of leaving alive. How many survived?
All of them.
So I’m good at what I do.
But like I said, I have issues.
I cheat death time and again, but not without substantial cost. Death takes a toll on me. On my life.
Death owns my soul.
It’s not what you think.
I haven’t made a pact with the devil, or anything like that. It’s just that I can’t stand being me. Can’t stand the stress. Can’t handle the pressure. Wish someone else could do these operations.
But there’s no one.
So four days ago I set out to meet these three women, starting with Faith Hemphill, who lives in Ralston, Kentucky. I flew to Nashville, rented a car, got within two hours of Ralston…
…And met a young waitress named Trudy Lake.
1
Trudy Lake.
I’m Trudy Lake. Folks here in Clayton think I’m wild.
They’re right.
I can’t help it. I’m eighteen, stuck in this raggedy-ass, dirt-poor country town, bored half to death.
I waitress here at Alice T’s, a teeth-optional greasy spoon located two blocks from Who Gives a Shit, Kentucky. Ninety-nine nights out of a hundred I serve shirtless rednecks in coveralls who smell like whatever they been up to all afternoon. Mostly they come here with fellow workers or drinkin’ buddies, in which case they’re a back-slappin’, nasty-mouthed bunch who take turns tryin’ to see who can fluster me most.
It don’t work.
I ain’t been flustered by man talk since I was fifteen, ’cause I’ve heard it all. These inbred snuff-abusers are mostly all talk, though some are mean as snakes. And them that are, need to be watched out for, since they been known to lurk in the shadows after closin’ time, hopin’ to grab a waitress or two.
Just last week, Carrie Miller survived an attack with no worse damage than ripped clothes and sore boobs, but Tootie Green weren’t so lucky. Two locals are currently servin’ six to ten at Eddy State for puttin’ her in a coma last year. Evelyn Sawyer claims she’s been raped four times, but I got my doubts, since the subject only comes up whenever she checks into the abortion clinic for what she calls a “tummy tuck.”
Evelyn’s cosmetic procedures aside, there’s often rude behavior to be found outdoors at night. That’s why Big Ed, owner of Alice T’s, routinely tells the women to holler out if somethin’ ain’t right when headin’ to their cars.
Case in point, last April, Kennon Carlson was gettin’ severely crotch bit when Big Ed heard her wailin’ out back and laid wood to Gus Wilson’s head to the point where Gus walks funny and drools uncontrollably, though he proudly wears the bracelet he made from Kennon’s snatch hair he picked from his teeth. Durin’ argument season, Big Ed points to Gus’s bracelet as proof Kennon ain’t a natural redhead.
Sometimes the menfolk show up with their wives and kids in tow. Mostly these wives regard me with mistrust, like maybe they think I’m gonna steal their warts and mustaches or somethin’. While some of the kids are cute in an Easter Island statue sort of way, an outsized number of them walk around town with a mutant, Children of the Corn look about them.
What I’m really sayin’, I don’t want to wind up like the people I wait on.
I’m still livin’ in the house I grew up in. A house so sorry you can fling a cat through any wall without touchin’ wood.
I want out. Want to get the hell out of town before the next bad thing happens, which is why I’m payin’ middlin’ attention to the nicely-dressed doctor at table sixteen on the far side of the room. I’m allowin’ him to flirt with me, though he’s not much good at it.
Partly it’s his age, which makes him automatically sound lame when he talks.
How old is he? Forty, at least. Maybe more.
Reason I know he’s a doctor, it’s the first thing he said when I brought the menu.
I said, “Hi, I’m Trudy. I’ll be your waitress tonight, if that’s all right with you.”
He said, “Hello, Trudy. I’m Dr. Gideon Box, from New York City.”
“Really?” I said. “What kind of doctor are you?”
“I’m a world-famous cardiothoracic surgeon,” he said, proud as punch.
“I guess you got Doc Blanchard beat six ways to Sunday,” I said.
“Is that your general practitioner?”
“Yeah, but his degree is in veterinary medicine.”
“You can’t be serious,” he said.
I asked, “Do you have business at the county hospital, or you ju
st passin’ through?”
He smiled a goofy grin and said, “That sort of depends on you.”
“Me?”
“I notice you’re not wearing a wedding ring.”
I said, “Neither are you.”
Then he looked me up and down and said, “I’ve met five women prettier than you.”
Like I said, he’s not very smooth. But I took it as a compliment since his eyes seemed to find a home in my boobs.
We spoke some words durin’ the drink order, and durin’ the drink bringin’, and the food order, the food bringin’, and now he’s stallin’, tryin’ to see if his charm’s workin’ on me.
I can’t decide if he’s interested in a relationship, or just lookin’ to get laid and move along.
If he’s truly interested in me, I’ll have to sort out my feelin’s for him.
On the one hand, he reeks of money, which makes him rarer in this town than a freshly-wiped ass. On the other, while he’s not even close to bein’ ugly, there’s somethin’ off-puttin in his manner.
What’s the worst that can happen by bein’ nice to him?
I’ll almost certainly get a big tip. I can live with that. In fact, he already asked, “What’s the biggest tip you ever got?”
I had to decide between tellin’ the truth and lyin’ to get more.
“Twenty dollars,” I said, stickin’ with the truth.
“That’s pitiful,” he said.
“Kennon Carlson got fifty dollars once,” I blurted out.
“Which one’s she?”
I pointed her out.
He said, “She’s cute. But she’s not in your league.”
I rewarded him with my best smile for sayin’ that.
If the worst is a good tip, what’s the best I can hope for out of this doctor?
Jury’s still out on that.
But he’s been workin’ hard these ninety minutes, struttin’ his wealth and worldly ways, flirtin’ hard, tryin’ to impress me.
It’s workin’.
I mean, I’m not stupid. He’s a man, and men want what they want. It’s a fact of life. The trick is makin’ them think that what they’re gonna get is as good as the thing they want.
It’s like that battle we studied in high school, where Robert E. Lee created a diversion. That’s what you gotta do when a superior force is about to make its move. And he’s a superior force ’cause he’s holdin’ all the cards. He’s rich, he’s worldly, he’s smart, and he’s got a car.
All I’ve got is my looks.
Around here, looks’ll get you any man you want, but Dr. Box is a famous surgeon from New York City. I read somewhere that one out of every ten thousand women is considered movie-star beautiful, and here in Frog Shit County, that’s pretty much me. But in New York City the ratio’s a hundred times higher, because women who look like movie stars don’t strive to live here.
I figure twenty thousand women in New York City are prettier and more sophisticated than me. So I’ve got to decide if what I’ve got can compete with what he can get with a phone call.
My advantage is I’m here, and they’re there.
Okay, so it’s a short-term advantage. Like a one-night-stand sort of advantage.
If this doctor’s my ticket out, I can’t let him turn me into a one-night stand.
If I let him pursue me, I’ll have to put his mind on somethin’ else. Somethin’ good enough to hold his interest, but different than what he’s hopin’ for.
2
Dr. Gideon Box.
I’m Dr. Gideon Box. Those who know me think I’m crazy.
That’s why it’s nice to get away sometimes, fly to a city I’ve never visited before, rent a car, hit the back roads, see if I can fuck a couple of the women I’ve been flirting with on social media for the past two weeks.
You do this often enough, every now and then you get a bonus.
It’s late, you’re driving, hungry. You stop at a little hole-in-the wall called Alice T’s, in Bum Fuck, Kentucky, whose sign promises “Good Country Cooking!” You go in, expecting the worst, and someone pops up right out of the blue, someone who was never on the radar, someone who turns out to be better than what you were hoping to find in Ralston, Kentucky.
Like the young waitress lingering at my table.
Trudy Lake.
“Nice watch,” Trudy says.
I glance at my wrist.
She’s right. It’s a helluva watch.
“What is it, a Rolex?”
“Piaget.”
She nods. “I like it.”
“Thanks.”
I like it, too. That’s why I stole it from Austin Devereaux while attending the party to celebrate his daughter’s successful operation.
There’s a story here, a great one, but you’ll have to take my word for it, since I’m still flirting with Trudy, who is not the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen.
That’s not to imply she’s ugly.
It’s just that two weeks ago I was in the same room with the two most beautiful women currently gracing the planet Earth: Callie Carpenter, assassin, and Rose Stout, surgical nurse. I’ve known three other truly gorgeous women: Miranda Rodriguez, courtesan, Willow Breeland, con artist, and Dublin Devereaux, billionaire socialite.
In a group comprised of these five women and Trudy Lake, my waitress, Trudy’s sucking hind tit.
Having said that, she’s still the sixth most beautiful woman I’ve ever laid eyes on, and absolutely worth whatever time and effort might be required to separate her from her panties tonight.
She’s not very worldly, which works to my advantage. Can’t even tell the difference between a Rolex and a Piaget!
I have other advantages. Trudy’s a backwoods pony-tailed waitress, I’m a renowned surgeon. She’s poor, I’m rich. She appears to possess average intelligence, I’m off-the-charts brilliant.
I know what you’re thinking. I’m full of myself, right?
Not true.
I’m a mess.
I’m petty. Mean-spirited. Vengeful. I have a rotten personality. No friends. And a bad track record with women.
I’ve been flirting with Trudy the better part of an hour. She ignored me at first, but my persistence is paying off. She’s appraising me.
“How old are you?” she asks, going straight for the jugular.
I frown. Besides my personality, my age is my biggest weakness. I’m forty-two. She can’t be more than…
“How old are you?” I ask.
“Eighteen.”
Shit. The last eighteen-year-old I dated turned out to be a seventeen-year-old identity thief.
“Eighteen?” I say. “You’re sure about that?”
I’d go after older women, but those north of twenty see me coming a mile away.
“Eighteen-and-a-half,” she says. “Almost nineteen.”
Going the extra mile to make herself appear older tells me she might be interested. But I’ve been wrong before. In fact, I’m wrong most of the time.
I know one sure-fire way to find out.
I focus my eyes on her chest, and keep them there a long moment before looking up. In my experience, it’s fifty-fifty she’ll either be flattered or offended. Of course, my success rate is padded by strippers and hookers. What I’m saying, my social skills are so lacking I’ve offended half the strippers and hookers I’ve flirted with.
But Trudy’s expression reveals nothing.
She looks at her chest.
“Have I spilt somethin’?” she says. “Or are you just bein’ a guy?”
“I’m just being a guy.”
She nods, but shows no anger, disgust, or any other emotion I’ve encountered when blatantly fixing my gaze on a woman’s chest. Her nod seems to say, “It is what it is. Girls have boobs, guys have eyes.”
Maybe country girls are more worldly than I thought.
“What time do you get off?” I ask.
“Ten.”
“An hour from now? More or less?”
“You’re the one with the fancy watch,” she says, then tosses her hair, spins, and heads for the kitchen.
Five minutes later she comes out with a gleam in her eye, looks from side to side, lowers her voice, and says, “Want to do somethin’ wild?”
3
I have no idea what a backwoods rural beauty like Trudy considers wild.
Greasing a pig?
Shooting a pig?
Fucking a pig?
“What do you have in mind?” I say.
“Scooter Bing just pulled up out front.”
My eyes grow big. “Seriously? Scooter Bing? You’re shitting me!”
She looks puzzled. “You know Scooter?”
I laugh. “I’ve been in town ninety minutes. I don’t know if Scooter’s man, woman, or beast.”
“He’s two of those things.”
“Which two?”
“Man and beast.”
“And is he gainfully employed?”
“Sir?”
“Does Scooter have a profession?”
“He’s our big, fat, deputy sheriff.”
“I see. And is there some significance to him having just pulled up outside?”
She laughs. “You talk like a TV lawyer.”
I smile, hoping that’s a compliment.
She smiles back, waiting for me to say something.
It strikes me how much I love watching her beautiful, expressive mouth form sentences and smiles, and adore how she mangles the English language with her sexy southern drawl. She has a way of taking a monosyllabic word like “Hi!” and making it sound like a full sentence. On the other hand, her conversations require great patience, since they aren’t driven by the need to make an actual point. Coming from most other mouths, this round-about style of speaking would annoy the shit out of me. In Manhattan, people say as little as possible and move the fuck along. I like Trudy’s world better, where conversation moves slower, and seems to require two people. But it will take some getting used to, and I’m impatient to hear what’s wild about Scooter Bing pulling up in front of the restaurant.
