Hell's Titties

by Robert Bevan

  Sanderson. Come in and sit down. How are Mary and the kids? Where are we with the Goldstein merger negotiations contract? Are the Dow Jones interest rates looking profitable this quarter? By the way, help yourself to a drink.

  Having a drink at work was part of high-class executive culture. If Bucky wanted to be part of that world, he'd better start acting the part.

  Now he faced a new conundrum. How to pay? His wallet was bone dry, and he'd given way too much money to that goddamn Chinese food delivery guy. He was pretty sure his purchases at Walmart earlier in the day had come dangerously close to maxing out his credit card as well.

  Shit.

  Bucky set his mind to reasoning again. His employer trusted him with the store's money. That was quite a lot of responsibility, implying a certain amount of trust having been established between them. Besides, they knew he’d be good for it because they were holding his paycheck over his head. All the cards were in their hand, so Bucky couldn't see any reason why slipping an I.O.U. in the register would be a problem.

  Of course, he couldn't just leave an I.O.U. for one can of Coors Light. That told a story: Bucky had a beer during working hours. That's just unprofessional.

  But if he left an I.O.U. for a case of Coors Light, that tells a different story. At the end of his shift, Bucky bought something to go home and wind down with. And like a loyal employee, he bought it here at Texaco. A guy like that has a bright future ahead of him.

  In order to add just a bit more class to the scenario, Bucky retrieved a case of bottles from the beer fridge, rather than cans. Details sell the story, after all. He brought it back behind the counter and scanned it. While he was at it, he scanned a pack of Camel Lights and a small notepad so that he had something on which to write out an I.O.U. The total came to thirty-two dollars and sixty-one cents. He ripped a piece of paper out of the notepad and wrote the amount on the top. Underneath, he wrote:

  Dear Mr. Stonebaum,

  I, Bucky Wallace, of sound

  mind and body, do hereby

  authorize you to withhold

  this amount of money from

  my first paycheck.

  Sincerely yours,

  He signed the bottom, placed the note in the register, and popped open a cold bottle of Coors Light. As he drank back that first refreshing swallow, he looked at the clock on the computer screen.

  2:21.

  Bucky sighed and shook his head. This was going to be a long goddamn shift.

  Sometime about halfway through his beer, Bucky realized that he hadn't eaten anything since that bag of beef jerky on the ride here. It occurred to him that he should have included another bag of beef jerky on his I.O.U. He had two choices. He could write up another I.O.U. for the beef jerky, or he could cancel the first transaction and ring up a new one.

  Bucky considered his options. A separate I.O.U. for beef jerky alone looked kind of pathetic, but canceling a transaction had looked like a huge pain in the ass when Ron showed him how to do it. Then again, he supposed he'd have to figure it out sooner or later, and it was probably a good idea to figure it out now while he was alone rather than to wait until a customer needed it.

  Bucky felt a sense of pride as he poured what remained of the bottle down his throat. This was the New Bucky way, showing some goddamn initiative.

  He stepped outside into the cool night air and breathed in some sweet petroleum fumes. It smelled like success. Around him the Texaco forecourt sat like an island of light in a sea of dark. On the outskirts of the glow he could just about make out the neighboring playground, where a swing creaked listlessly back and forth. He shuddered and fumbled for his lighter.

  Summoning a demon was a fairly complicated process, but Bucky knew all too well that summoning a carload of assholes was as simple as lighting a cigarette.

  “Goddammit,” Bucky muttered in an exhalation of smoke as some rich punk pulled up in his daddy's Beemer. A fine looking piece of tail sat in the passenger seat while another young couple played tonsil tag in the back seat. Johnny Funtimes hopped out of the driver's seat and ran into the store. Bucky had one last drag of his freshly lit cigarette and tried to balance the remainder on top of the bricks under the window. Of course, it immediately rolled off and landed in a puddle.

  “Son of a bitch.” Bucky went back into the store ready to card this jackoff out of pure spite. The dumb motherfucker was already standing at the counter, empty-handed, his douchey face douching up the place.

  So it was cigarettes he was after. Bucky smiled to himself as he walked around him to the employee entrance behind the counter. It would be worth having his own cigarette ruined to be able to deny this dipshit a pack of smokes on account of him being under eighteen.

  “Welcome to Texaco, sir,” said Bucky. He was still working on his routine. “How may I assist you tonight?”

  The young man slid two boxes of magnum-sized condoms into the space under the glass. “I just need these.”

  “I seriously doubt that,” Bucky muttered to himself.

  “Excuse me?”

  Fuck. Bucky thought fast. “I said I need to see your I.D.”

  “Since when do you need to show an I.D. to get condoms?”

  Since I just said so, motherfucker. If you wanna park your pickle inside the girlie garage, first you gotta kiss Bucky's ass.

  Bucky shrugged. “I don't make the rules, Junior. I just abide by them.”

  The customer's gaze fell to Bucky's empty beer bottle, which he'd absentmindedly left in plain view. “Like drinking at work?”

  Bucky shoved the bottle out of view. “Mind your own goddamn business. You want the rubbers or not?”

  “Oh, I want them all right.” The cocky little shit stain slid his driver's license under the glass.

  Brad Walker. Even his name screamed, 'I'm a douche.'

  Bucky didn't bother doing the math to figure out Brad's age. He just wanted to get him out of his sight. He scanned the condom boxes. “Your total is $9.81.”

  Brad took his driver's license and condoms and slid a ten dollar bill under the glass. “Keep it. Next round's on me.”

  That cocky little shit. Bucky tried to think of a retort more worthy of his position than 'Fuck you!' before Brad walked out the door.

  “Twenty-nine cents ain't gonna cover it!”

  Brad was laughing as he got back in his car.

  Bucky reflected that his retort was stupid and his math had been off, then twisted the cap off another bottle of Coors Light.

  Chapter 22

  Floyd wasn’t a numbers man. It wasn’t that he didn’t understand math— in fact, that was one of the few subjects in school he didn’t mind. Rather, he just didn’t care for numbers. Not that he ever fully articulated it as such, but he felt that unnecessary quantification of a human experience removed one from the visceral enjoyment of it. That real-time analysis of an event automatically placed the participant one step away from it. In short, he’d stopped counting how many joints, miniature pizzas, and alcoholic drinks he’d had. He knew he’d had many, and that was enough to know.

  Had he stopped to really think about it, he’d have realized that he’d reached the peak and plateau of bliss that he sought from every social engagement. The barriers had come down, the everyday tension had dripped away. Jokes were funnier, music was sweeter, and people were more fascinating. He was having a great time.

  And so were his new friends. Were they all friends now? They were comfortably in the ‘You’re all right, man,’ territory of the night, but maybe still a little ways from ‘I love you, dude.’

  Even Thorin had lightened up, finding Floyd some Test Pilots of Sex on his fancy smartphone.

  Darlin, don’t you realize,

  I’m living in your walls?

  You can be my crawlspace loveeeeeeeeer!

  The only person who didn’t seem to be enjoying herself was Zelda. Because she’d be driving, she’d had to stop at a couple of swigs of beer, and now she wandered around the factory, idly swin
ging her sword. Floyd felt bad for her, but not that bad. He was having too much of a good time. Thorin had taken his shirt off at some point, and he was currently playing air-drums while Mark accompanied him on air-bass. Though the trio cried out for a lead air-guitarist, Floyd had spotted his chance to do something he’d been working up to all night.

  Rainn sat cross-legged in a corner, book open in her lap, spliff held casually between her fingers. There was always a chick like that at every party. The kind who just got more and more laid back as the evening went on, and you couldn’t even tell they were wasted until they were throwing up behind your sofa. So god-damned cool.

  Floyd sat down next to her. She looked up with red-rimmed eyes. ”Oh, hey, Floyd.”

  Floyd nodded at the open book. “Find anything interesting?”

  Rainn took a long puff on the spliff. “Kind of. The Zabor ritual— it’s not that unique. I mean, the ingredients are, but the actual...uh...process? I found a few references to it that have nothing to do with Zabor. Here, look.”

  It took Floyd a few seconds to focus on the pictures in the book. Three bald men stood in a circle, penises in hand, while another man appeared to raise from the floor within a pentagram. No, not from the floor, through the floor.

  “Are there any magic rituals that don’t involve jerking off?”

  Rainn laughed. “I’m pretty sure they just work it in there as an excuse to get their rocks off.”

  “So, what’s with this guy?” Floyd pointed to the man emerging from the floor.

  “That’s what’s interesting,” said Rainn. ”That’s a demon.”

  “He don’t look like our demon.”

  Rainn nodded. “Right? Zabor looks the way he does because of the host, but in this ritual, there is no host. The demon just appears in a chosen form.”

  “Chosen by what?”

  “I don’t know; that part’s not very clear. It makes you think, though.”

  “Does it?”

  “Yeah, about what Zabor was doing in the woods.”

  “Wanking?”

  “A ritual. It had to be a ritual, right? The fires, the pentagram?” She pointed at the picture again. ”Look, it’s just like these guys.”

  “Well, nothing happened, right?” said Floyd. ”Whatever Zabor was doing, it either didn’t work or else we messed it up somehow.”

  “Yeah, maybe.”

  At that moment, the music came to a crescendo, and Thorin and Mark wrapped up their rendition. “Hey, Floyd, we were thinking about making a weed pizza, is that okay with you?”

  Several cravings awoke within Floyd at the same time. “Yes, that is very cool with me.”

  Rainn waved her dwindling spliff at him. “Could you roll me another while you’re up?”

  “Sure!”

  Zelda sighed loudly enough to get everyone’s attention. “I’m going to take a run out, you guys want anything?”

  “Beer.” Mark and Floyd said at the same time.

  “Where you going to?” said Thorin.

  Zelda scuffed her sneaker back and forth on the concrete floor. “I don’t know. Maybe the Texaco?”

  “Oh cool,” said Floyd. “You can say hi to Bucky. Maybe he can give you some kind of discount?”

  Thorin folded his arms. “Yeah, Zelda, maybe he’ll give you a discount.”

  “Whatever,” said Zelda. “I’m just going to get some air, maybe a couple of sodas.”

  “Wait!” said Floyd, running over. “You should probably take a Super Splasher with you, just in case.”

  “Very thoughtful of you, Floyd. Where is it?”

  Floyd frowned. “Say, Mark, where’d we leave our water guns?”

  Mark walked over with the two guns, a sheepish look on his face. “In the freezer.”

  Zelda grabbed one of the Super Splashers and unscrewed the reservoir. She tipped it upside down and something like poison slushy glopped onto the floor. “Well, we’ve fucked up our ammo. No way we can shoot this shit.”

  “Speak for yourself,” said Thorin, smugly indicating his own water gun, which he had tucked into the back of his jeans.

  “You guys are fucking idiots,” Rainn called over, casually.

  Floyd felt his heart sink. Zelda smiled at him. “It’s no big deal, I bet the Texaco’s got some Raid or something. I’ll take these and fill them up there.”

  “Well, you should still have something to protect yourself.” Floyd unhooked the bug bomb from his belt. “Maybe you should hold on to this. I gotta admit, it’s been a little while since I read the instructions on this, and I’m kind of paranoid I’m going to blow up my pants.”

  “Very sensible,” said Zelda. She took the bug bomb and the two Super Splashers and squeezed under the shutter. They heard the rattle and wheeze of the van’s engine coming reluctantly to life. Thorin huffed and stormed off into a corner.

  Mark and Floyd exchanged a shrug and retreated to the break room, where they began preparing the weed pizza.

  Floyd cleared his throat. “Thorin’s got a thing for Zelda, huh?”

  Mark snickered. “Yeah, it’s messy. Kind of an elephant in the room thing.”

  Floyd nodded and coughed once again. “You know, you guys are all alright.”

  “Thanks, dude. You too. You’re an okay guy.”

  “So I...uh...” Floyd wondered how to put it delicately. “I wanted to…uh...assure you that I’m no threat.”

  “What?”

  Floyd swallowed and held his chin up high. “You and Rainn seem like a solid couple, and I got no right trying to come between that just on account of our history together.”

  Mark laughed loudly, causing Floyd to flush with embarrassment.

  “What’s so funny?”

  Mark slapped Floyd’s shoulder. “Dude, Rainn is my cousin! I mean, I’m from the South, Floyd, but I’m not from the South.”

  “You’re cousins?”

  “Yeah, we used to hang around together all the time as kids. Hell, we were practically brother and sister ’til my parents divorced and we had to move towns.”

  Floyd frowned as long-dead synapses in his brain sparked. “You know, that does ring a bell. I do seem to recall her— Hey, wait a minute. When I asked if you jizzed on her titties, she didn’t mention you were her cousin. She just said for me to mind my business.”

  “I’m no expert on women, Floyd, but I’m going to suggest that ‘mind your own fucking business’ is maybe the standard expected response when enquiring after what a woman does with her own boobs in her free time.”

  “Yeah, I guess. So. Does this mean Rainn’s single?”

  “She’s a free agent.” Mark chuckled. “But maybe think twice before charging on in there like a bull with a hard on? You ain’t teenagers anymore; a little respect goes a long way.”

  “I thought you said you weren’t an expert on women?”

  “Well, not women, but that doesn’t mean I don’t know a thing or two about relationships.”

  Floyd frowned. “I’m not following.”

  “I’m gay, Floyd.”

  “Oh? Oh.” Floyd meticulously smooshed a few pinches of weed into a handful of mozzarella.

  “That a problem for you?”

  “Heck no, me and Bucky used to hang around with Gay Pete all the time in high school.”

  “Gay Pete?”

  “That’s what everyone called him, on account of...uh...”

  Mark laughed. “Yeah, I get it,” He licked some ketchup from his fingers. “You know, when I first saw you and Bucky, I had you pegged as a couple of redneck losers who couldn’t tell their assholes from their faceholes. And... I don’t know, maybe it’s the weed talking, but you’re a good guy, Floyd. I like you.”

  “Thanks?”

  “So, if you do go after Rainn, don’t be a dick about it, okay? She deserves better and so do you.”

  Floyd tried to think of something grown up and magnanimous to say, but at that point, they heard the loud rattling of someone banging on the shutter door.


  “Okay, guys,” came a voice. “I know you’re in there. Come out where I can see you, please, nice and slow.”

  Mark paled. Floyd had been having such a good time, he’d forgotten they were illegally trespassing.

  “Who’s that?” said Mark.

  Floyd swallowed. “Fuckin’ Roger.”

  Chapter 23

  The door's chime roused Bucky out of near sleep. He scrambled to hide the eight or nine empty beer bottles from public view. Goddamn did he need to piss.

  “Welcome to Texaco!” he said while grabbing the bottles three at a time and carefully placing them on the floor.

  A familiar chittering sound sent a chill up Bucky's spine.

  “ASTAD RAMUL ZABOR.” It wasn't bellowing like before. Its tone sounded more like the impersonal stock greeting of someone whose mind was preoccupied with something else, but it was no less chilling.

  No fuckin' way.

  Bucky put his back to the wall and slumped into a crouch. His heart pounded and his bladder threatened to burst.

  “Get your shit together, man,” Bucky whispered to himself. “You got this. Just think it through.”

  The grainy image on the security camera monitor confirmed that there was, indeed, a giant cockroach monster in the store, but didn't reveal much in the way of clues to its purpose. Judging by what he could hear, its purpose was just to make a goddamn mess.

  Bucky mustered up his courage and slowly raised his head to peek over the counter. He was fairly confident that if the glass could stop a bullet, it could hold its own against Zabor. He was less confident about his bladder, though, should Zabor attempt to test the glass.

  Fortunately, the demon wasn't facing his way when Bucky finally raised his head high enough to see. It was gobbling the shit out of white powdered donuts. The floor around it was littered with torn boxes, and its face looked like Tony Montana's.

  It laid waste to the Twinkies and Ho-Hos and Ding Dongs and –

  R-R-R-R-R-R-R-R-R-R-R-R-R-R-R-RIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIING

  Bucky grabbed the store phone with both hands and hugged it against his chest as he dropped to the floor.