by Robert Bevan
Zelda produced a pen and a small notepad from her purse, wrote down her phone number, and passed it to Bucky.
“I can't do the afternoon,” said Rainn. “I've got to run the shop.”
“Fuck the shop,” said Bucky. “You ain't appreciating the possibilities here. We're on the cusp of something big here. Imagine the publicity your shop will get once the papers catch wind of this.” A couple of beers had really brought back the optimist in him.
Rainn narrowed her eyes at him. “Says the guy who isn't willing to get up before noon.”
“That's different. I can't be chasin' no fuckin' demons without a full night's rest. I got –” Bucky looked quizzically at his phone screen, then up at Zelda, then at the number she'd handed him, and then back to his phone. After tapping the screen with his thumb, he put it to his ear.
“Hello?” … “Yeah. Who the fuck is this?” … “Oh shit, I apologize. Hang on.” He shielded the bottom of the phone with his fingers and whispered to the table, “I got to take this.” He walked out the front door to the smoking area, which Floyd took to mean he was expecting a long conversation.
Floyd took a swig from his beer. “I reckon Zabor might not be that active during the day anyway.”
“Is that what you reckon?” said Thorin. “I didn't realize you were so well-versed in demonology.”
“Ain't none of us here know much more than jack shit about demons. So I was using what I know about his current host body. Roaches tend to like the dark. They scatter when you turn the lights on. If his roach eyes work like regular roach eyes, the sun might be a little too bright for his liking.”
“That's very insightful,” said Rainn.
Floyd didn't know if she was being genuine or condescending, but her tone sounded different than Thorin's had. He gave her the benefit of the doubt. “Thank you.”
“I close the shop at seven,” Rainn continued. “That'll give us a little bit of light to start searching. Now let's use Floyd's logic to pick a place. Forget about the demon for now. Where would you go if you were a seven-foot-tall cockroach?”
Thorin smiled like a sideways ass crack. “If I didn't want to call any attention to myself, maybe here?”
“Ain't nobody beggin' you to stay,” said Floyd. “You don't like it here, you can get –”
“Here we are,” said Darla. “Two pepperonis. Careful now. They come out hot.” She put the pizzas down on the table and started back to the bar.
“This is supposed to be really good pizza?” asked Thorin. “Ow!”
Someone had kicked him underneath the table. From the soul-burning glare she was giving him, Floyd assumed it had been Zelda. Good on her, too. It's one thing to talk shit about a place between friends, but it wasn't cool to say that within earshot of Darla.
“Why don't you stick some in your mouth and see for yourself?” suggested Floyd.
“I'm not saying it's horrible pizza,” said Thorin. “I'm just saying it's nothing to get excited about. It's Tiny Tino's.”
“The fuck are you talking about?”
Thorin rolled his eyes. “They sell these in the frozen food section at Sid's, six for ten dollars.”
“I know Tiny Tino's, motherfucker. The factory that makes them is just on the other side of Hell's Titties. I'm just sayin' that being inexpensive don't make them...” Floyd paused to process a sudden revelation. “Awwwww shit!”
“What?” said Rainn. “What's wrong?”
Floyd grinned. “I know where to find him.”
“Who?” asked Mark, back with a beer for himself and another for Rainn.
“Zabor!”
“Where?” asked Zelda.
“Where the fuck else?” Floyd picked up a slice of the thin crispy pizza. “He'll be headed for the Tiny Tino's factory. This shit is like cockroach heroin.” He took a big bite. Delicious as fuck.
“Well, we do know it has a liking for junk food,” said Rainn.
Zelda smiled. “It’s as good a lead as any.”
Bucky strolled back to the table with a Heineken like it was his goddamn birthday or something. He grinned and spread his arms out. “I got it!”
The first thing that crossed Floyd's mind was negative paternity test results, but Bucky hadn't mentioned anything about that.
“You found Zabor?” asked Zelda. In retrospect, Floyd considered that to be a more likely explanation.
Bucky squinted at Zelda. “Who the fuck is Za– Oh, right.” The confusion left his face, and he was grinning again. “I got the job!” He straightened his daddy's clip-on tie. “Y'all sons of bitches are looking at the newest cashier at Texaco!”
Thorin and Mark glanced at each other.
Thorin waved a fist weakly in the air. “Yay.”
Zelda kicked him again, but not as hard, and she was covering a smile with her hand.
Bucky was too excited to notice any of that. He gulped back half his Heineken before coming up for air. “I start tomorrow night.”
Floyd put his tongue to his lip as he examined the complex cocktail of emotions he was feeling. He was still a little exasperated at Bucky’s sudden hard-on for the working world, but he was also a little amped-up from their demon encounter, and a little goofy from being in Rainn’s company. All in all, the world felt like a positive place. He raised his bottle. “I'm proud of you, Bucky. You follow that dream. I'll run up to Sid's tomorrow and pick up some more Raid and Super Splashers. Then I'll train the rest of these folks on some of the finer points of Super Splasher tactics.”
Rainn looked less than thrilled by Bucky's news. “What about all that shit you gave me about opening my shop tomorrow?”
“That's completely different,” said Bucky. “Think about it. A bookshop closes, some shitty kid has to wait one more day to find out if Harry Potter ever sticks his wand up Harmony's hoo-ha.”
“You mean Hermione?”
“Who the fuck ever. But what if Texaco shuts down because I can't be bothered showing up for work? Folks can't get gas. Truckers can't haul goods. People can't go to work. Firefighters gotta tell people, 'Sorry, your house is just gonna have to burn the fuck down because we can't get there.' Civilization crumbles down around us. At that point, what are we even fighting the demons for? They've already won.”
Rainn shook her head. “You are so full of shit.”
Chapter 17
It was already shaping up to be a long morning for Roger, and after a long night, that was the last thing he needed. He’d been called out to at least three ‘monster’ attacks the previous evening, and not a one of the callers had been sober enough to make a coherent statement. Now it seemed he was dealing with a similar kind of nonsense.
“Mrs. Dunleavy, you’re not going to tell me your husband was kidnapped by monsters, are you?”
Mrs. Dunleavy had a puckered, squinting expression that put most people in mind of a monkey shoving its head through an asshole. The fact that she was still only dressed in a mercilessly revealing night dress did not make her any easier to look at. “Hell no, not a monster,” she said. “He was kidnapped by some big-tittied ho.”
Roger put his fingers to his tired eyes and quickly caught himself. He didn’t want Mrs. Dunleavy to think he was tried. She might invite him into her doublewide for coffee. He shuddered as he reconsidered the phrase ‘invite him into her doublewide.’
“I’m not sure I understand you, Mrs. Dunleavy. You say your husband was—”
“Out on the porch, drinking, like he usually does. Next thing I know, he’s walking away hand in hand with a real-to-life supermodel, and she ain’t wearing a stitch.”
“So, your husband was drinking?”
“Yup.”
“And had you been drinking?”
“Hell no, I haven’t touched a drop in years. Not the hard stuff, anyway.”
“Mrs. Dunleavy, is it possible that your husband…uh…merely left with a sex worker?”
“A whut?”
“A…uh… lady of the night?”
&nbs
p; “A whut?”
“A whore, Mrs. Dunleavy. Did your husband just wander off with a whore?”
Mrs. Dunleavy cackled. “Not unless he won the lotto without telling me. This weren’t no local dick bait, Roger. This lady had class. Looked like one o’ dem skinny California bitches from the music videos. She looked like a million dollars, and that nine hundred thousand of those dollars had gone straight into her tits.”
Roger pretended to take notes in his pad. “So, what makes you think this was a kidnapping?”
“Honey, I keep my fella’s stomach full and his balls empty. He ain’t got no reason to be sniffing around elsewhere.”
Roger smiled politely. “I tell you what, Mrs. Dunleavy— seeing as your husband hasn’t been missing for forty-eight hours yet, I can’t file an official missing person report. But I promise I’ll have the boys keep an eye out.”
“Thank you, Sheriff.” Mrs. Dunleavy ran a hand seductively up and down the doorframe of her trailer. She leaned in close, and Roger caught a whiff of cigarettes and Lysol. “Sure I can’t persuade you to come in for some coffee.”
Roger hoped that his smile adequately masked the terror in his eyes. “No, thank you, ma’am, but I got plenty to look into today.”
Mrs. Dunleavy leaned over conspiratorially. “You talking about the monster?”
Roger sighed. It looked like the local rumor mill was already grinding away. “I’m sure I don’t know what you’re talking about, Mrs. Dunleavy.”
“Well you best get informed, boy,” the old lady snapped. “Some of us aren’t safe in our beds!” She slammed the door, leaving Roger standing gratefully alone in the midday sun.
Chapter 18
Floyd waited by the roadside, his head protected from the late afternoon sun by a “Make America Baked Again” trucker cap. He finished his cigarette and scrunched it into the pavement. Then he lit another.
He’d started the day full of new energy, not even needing his alarm to get him up at noon. He’d woke up with a spring in his step and a song in his heart and the kind of morning wood you could chop down a tree with. Yesterday, he’d had no further ambition than tending his crop, selling his crop, and smoking his crop, but today he was on the hunt, and alongside his high school sweetheart no less. It was a good day.
Bucky was long gone by the time Floyd had got his shit together, off to start his cashier training, but he’d left a supportive note taped to the fridge. It said ‘go fuck shit up, you bastard’ and had a crude stick-figure picture of Floyd stamping on a cockroach’s dick.
Bucky may have had a bug up his ass lately (ha! bug) but he still knew how to inspire Floyd when it counted.
The rattle of a poorly maintained diesel engine grew louder as Zelda’s creepy black van approached and pulled up alongside the sidewalk. There was a waft of hot metal and stale chips as the side door opened to reveal Mark’s smiling face beneath his bright green hair. “Hop in, big guy.”
Floyd grabbed the two bulky backpacks by his feet and hauled them into the van, where they crunched on top of some discarded energy drink cans. Mark slapped him a high five, Zelda grinned widely from the driver’s seat, and even Thorin managed a half-hearted wave.
“What’s in the bag?” said Mark, poking a backpack.
Floyd clapped his hands together and rubbed them vigorously. “I managed to get a little shopping done today, and I got us some supplies. First, I got a killer deal on a twelve pack of Raid, and Sid even threw in a bug bomb too! Said he was sick of it lying around.”
Thorin nodded. “Handy if we want to smoke it out, I guess.”
“Uh...yeah...smoke it out. My thoughts exactly,” Floyd mumbled. He’d thought that the bug bomb was an actual explosive for killing bugs. He was glad he hadn't said that out loud. He brightened. “I also found a couple of old water guns some kids had left outside their trailer. We got enough for one each, nearly.”
“We’re stealing from kids now?” said Thorin.
“Hey, man, this is for the greater good,” said Floyd. “You want America’s children to grow up in a world full of giant masturbating cockroaches?”
Thorin frowned. “Wow. When you put it like that…”
“What else did you bring, Floyd?” Zelda pointed at the other backpack.
Floyd unzipped it. “Sandwiches!” he said, triumphantly. “Mostly cheese whizz and salami, but I put a couple of egg salads in there in case you guys are vegan or some shit.”
“Vegans can’t eat eggs.”
“Really? Weird. What can they eat? I mean, I’ve got some canned tuna back in the trailer.”
Zelda sighed. “Is anyone in this van a vegan?”
“No.”
“No.”
“Nope.”
“Then who gives a shit?”
“Fair enough,” said Floyd. “Hey, I also brought a little something extra.” Floyd produced a sandwich bag stuffed to bursting with shredded green leaf. “Ta-da!”
“Holy shit, dude, that is a lot of weed.”
“Uh-huh. From my own personal crop. I figured we might be a little while staking this place out so…”
“You thought we’d get fucked up?” suggested Zelda.
“Well, yeah. Also, you know, it’ll help us keep calm.”
“But it’ll mostly get us fucked up.”
“Yeah, mostly.”
Mark nodded. “Yeah, sure, why not?”
“You’re serious?” said Thorin. “We’re going after a demon here!”
“Exactly,” said Floyd. “You want to handle that shit sober?”
“No, I suppose not, now that I think about it…”
Zelda sighed. “Let’s go get Rainn. She says she’s found a couple of books that might help us out.”
She floored the accelerator and the van farted and burped its way down the street.
“I gotta say, guys,” said Floyd. “I’m real excited about this. It feels like when my Uncle Regis used to take me hunting.”
“Oh, really?” said Thorin. “What did you hunt?”
“Rats, mostly.”
“Rats?”
“Yeah. Uncle Regis used to be in pest control. They let him go, but old habits die hard. We spent many a fond summer sitting in abandoned parking lots with a six pack and Uncle Regis’s old service revolver.”
Thorin and Mark exchanged a wordless glance.
The van lurched suddenly as Zelda hit the brakes. She tooted the horn and Floyd looked out to see that they had arrived at Rainn E. Day books already. His heart jumped in his chest a little as he watched Rainn leave the shop, laden with an armful of bulky-looking books, and struggling to lock the door behind her.
She got into the van and flashed Floyd a quick, distracted smile, that nonetheless washed over Floyd like a warm ocean wave. Floyd tried very hard not to look at the way her breasts filled out her Iggy Pop t-shirt. He’d didn’t want anything with Iggy Pop’s face on it to give him a hard-on. He wasn't sure he could deal with that.
“Hey, Rainn.”
“Hey.” Rainn shuffled in next to Mark. “Check out these books! Binding Rituals of the Wiccan, A History of Transcendental Magic, Necronomicon Abridged. I’ve highlighted some shit that might be useful.”
Thorin shook his head. “I can't believe we’re actually putting our faith in magic.”
“Speak for yourself,” said Zelda, patting the hilt of the sword that had the passenger seat to itself. “I’m putting my faith in Chelsea here.”
“I’m not saying I’m going to start launching fireballs from my hands,” said Rainn.
Floyd tried to mask the disappointment he felt. “Oh? Oh.”
“Yeah, but there’s something mystical going on here,” said Rainn. “I mean, we’re all on the same page there, right? Talking cockroach demon? Maybe something in these books can help us understand it.”
Thorin nodded solemnly. “Knowledge is power.”
Floyd nodded solemnly. “A bird in the hand is worth two in the bush.”
“What?”<
br />
“Oh, nuthin', I just thought we were saying stuff.”
Rainn frowned. “Are you holding a giant bag of weed, Floyd?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“We thought that it might help get us in the right frame of mind,” said Mark.
Rainn nodded. “Oh sure, that’ll work.” She drummed her fingers on the cover of a book. “You know, we’re a good ten minutes away from Tiny Tino’s. Should we roll one up now?”
“I thought you’d never ask,” Floyd said, grinning.
Chapter 19
The collar itched something awful on Bucky's new shirt. The shirt he'd worn yesterday had grown dirty beyond being able to pretend it wasn't, so he'd had to make the ninety-minute drive to the nearest Walmart to find something respectable to wear. He didn't mind that so much in principle. After all, if he wanted to wine and dine with the fat cats in corporate America, he had to look the part.
But he'd gotten a late start and was forced to change clothes in the Walmart bathroom. Even then, he was racing against the clock to get back to Hell's Titties to be on time for his first shift.
“Goddamn,” said Bucky, scratching at his neck. “Some chigger-infested hobo probably tried this on. That's fuckin' great. I'm gonna pull into a classy place like Texaco, crawling with goddamn –. The fuck is this?” He felt something hard under the collar. He gave it a tug and it came right out. A piece of cardboard obviously meant to hold the collar up.
“Shit, I fucking broke it already. Cheap motherfuckin' made-in-China piece of shit.” He hoped at least the rest of his shirt would hold together until his shift was over. Tomorrow afternoon, he'd storm back into Walmart and give their customer service department a piece of his mind.
He flicked his cigarette butt out the window as he passed the bullet-dented sign reading Crawford 18. That's what was wrong with the world today. Hell's Titties was Hell's Titties, whether the state liked it or not. Government don't have no business telling folks what they can and can't call their own town. And for what? You can change the road signs. You can change the maps. Hell, you can even change the name of the goddamn high school, at least until the next Friday rolls around and the local graffiti artists change it back.
