Dastardly

by Lorraine Ray

The next night, several nights after I’d thought about my interest in horror, I break down and meet Rod at the Empress Bar and Grill. Rodney has been texting me to meet for drinks, but I’ve been too angry about the obvious flirting I saw Rod doing with Marsha at the writers’ dinner. Rodney and I disturb the regulars again with our peculiar appearances, especially me with my tats and gages and now a man-bun. After a few drinks I tell Rodney all about my ideas of what I think is important about my writing which is what I want to depict, the reality of deeds of bloodshed which drench the soil of Arizona.

  “Rodney, my amigo, life is a lot like a gang of cutthroats, an Indian raid, or a duel with Burnside rifles at a distance of forty paces. You know duels? Like guys used to have over women?” It’s the duel part I want to emphasize with Rod. Maybe Rodney will get the hint to stay away from Marsha!

  “Life is like a duel? You mean someone comes out dead?”

  “All the stinking time! Life has you by the throat and you have to be honest about it,” I assert, “and not try to prettify the world, to make a pretend place with unicorns and crap. I’m against all attempts to make the world seem a gentle, loving place full of unicorns and fairies.”

  “I’m with you on that. I personally am against all unicorns,” says Rodney, looking around the bar absent-mindedly. He seems to be looking for girls. Is this what he’d do if he and Marsha were getting close? Well, yeah, he actually would.

  I continue with my line of thought. “The world isn’t that kind of place. In my opinion it is a rough, tough, dangerous and dirty world. Most people don’t know that. People are living in bubbles, pretty bubbles of safety, constructed around them by the tough people of the past, but they ought to know the truth about the world. Like houses which save us from wild animals and weather, but most people couldn’t even construct a sound home for themselves if they had to.”

  “I confess I couldn’t do that, Vig. Are you saying you could?”

  “No. Only the guys who live under the interstate know crap like that. And they really know it.”

  “Um, Vig, I don’t think a guy living under the interstate knows how to construct a home. If he knew how to construct a home, well, he would make himself one. Do you see what I mean?”

  “Ah.” I chew my thumbnail. “Uh huh, that’s probably true.”

  “I think I’m right there.”

  “Well, or stuff about food, for another example. You see, insects want to fucking devour all our food, Rodney. We have to spray everything with pesticides to kill the bugs and the fungus that wanted to eat our fruits and vegetables. The battle is going on all around us for our food, but most of us are oblivious.”

  “Ah, after these Scorpions I do hope to be oblivious. At least that’s my plan.” Rodney feels around his pink Chubbie shorts for his phone. Those stupid shorts again.

  “That’s your plan for tonight? Oblivion? But what can I do to make my plan, my dream, come true? The answer is I have to keep searching for it,” I say mysteriously. Is Rod getting a text from someone? Maybe Marsha? I try to examine the screen of his phone surreptitiously.

  “Uh what? Plan? Searching for what? Did I miss something?” asks Rodney who finds himself trying to follow my line of thought. He reads a text and smiles.

  I try to lean over farther to see who texted Rod, but he shuts his phone off and puts it away before I can see anything. Fucking jerk.

  After an awkward pause, I explain myself. “I’m searching for the one perfect story. What I know about it so far is it has to take place in the Southwest, in the desert, and it has to have a stagy gunfight, or a stagecoach, or a giant heely monster and it will tell the god awful truth about the way things are for everyone walking around on the face of the earth, the way only someone living in such a deprived place could tell all the nasty truths. That means no prettifying. Stuff which stinks at the beginning of the story would still stink at the end.”

  “You seem to have decided to specialize in stink, Vig.” Rodney chuckles.

  I continue without a comment. “Things would appear as they are, especially people…with all their warts.” I eye Rodney significantly. “You would find out the truth about people in my best stories. Defects like lying and cheating would not be hidden.” I finish dramatically.

  “Sounds highly unpleasant. I think you have given yourself a distasteful assignment.”

  “Exactly. For example, one story might open with the old chestnut: a dark and stormy night.”

  “Oh my god. Brilliant. These Scorpions are doing you no good,” says Rodney sniggering.

  “The reader sees him, a man…lanced, pierced in the neck, blinded with hot rocks, ravaged, outraged outrageously, flayed, beaten, whipped, slapped, scalped, slammed, kicked, beaten, stoned, hammered and tonged, whipped, pummeled, thrashed, beaten, knifed, stabbed, tossed from the highest precipice available, hit, brained bashed, cut, scraped, slashed, de-eared, and left for dead. This man who had been on the stagecoach crawled thirty miles in two hours, without water, living on cactus roots and he survives to tell his story…in a hoarse voice.”

  “Good grief! That has to be the worst idea for a story I’ve ever heard.” Rodney bursts out laughing and belching. “Except for some kiddie books about squirrel twins that I read as a boy. Those might have been more horrifying and awful than what you’re describing. That is why I’m writing children’s books, I suppose. To improve the genre.”

  I ignore Rodney’s negative feedback. “‘I’ve seen a snake fatally impaled on cholla.’ That is an example of a great opening line for one of my horror novels. This line would have great impact if some dude was saying that kinda callously to someone. But what’s the scene? Who’s the character? Is he bragging? Or telling it like it is? I should jot that in my little notebook which I keep with me at all times. I’ll get out my pencil and do it. A writer has to have some discipline, that’s for sure.”

  “If that’s a requirement, you might want to give up now.”

  “Even when he’s drinking Scorpions, and drunk, a writer has to be writing everything in a drunken complex fashion. Record everything of importance and know where it is for future reference, and refer to it when you need it. You have to have the filing and recall system of an obsessive-compulsive librarian.” I notice I don’t seem to be able to write anything, though. What am I going to write anyway?

  “Or marry one. I love librarians. Do you know any? Hot ones?”

  Oh, I know now he is trying to make me think he isn’t seeing Marsha by talking about other tassels. But I’m not falling for it. “Also, you must have faith that something will come to you if you collected things and wait patiently for an idea to appear to connect to it or build off of it, in the manner of blocks or dominoes.”

  “The writer is like a child playing with blocks. Finally this is something you’ve said tonight that makes sense,” replies Rodney. “I can see you and me as a children. With blocks. You happen to be bashing me over the head with them.”

  “‘The desert is a great hiding place,’ I want to write that somewhere, too, even if it isn’t strictly true, it is dramatic. So, you see, I’ll jot that down at the same time with a space in between the two phrases in case I have some sort of reaction later to each of these sentences.”

  “Wait a minute. Let me see that notebook. You have a lot of things written and no reactions in the blank spaces. This writing is also scribbly. I can’t read half of it.”

  I snatch my notebook back from Rodney. “But, the desert being a hiding place might be inaccurate, because bodies don’t rot away to nothing in the desert. They get freeze-dried, like the mummies in Egypt. I’ll have to think that one through.”

  “Give yourself an eon or two, will you?”

  “Well, you could say people don’t go out into the desert, especially not in the summer, and therefore you could hide something there.”

  “You seem to be obsessed with hiding and lost things. Have you noticed that?” observes Rodney.

  “Yes, chombolone, I have taken note
of my obsessions, but thank you for being a dutiful little psychoanalyst of me. Maybe the thing I should produce which will knock the socks off the reading public would be a dark tragedy set at a fucking desert well. Would people like that? Well, well, a good idea there—indeedy do. I’ve written the well story. Perhaps, that’s it, call it something a little more mysterious than my usual fucking titles. That could be the problem with my works which will explain why they’re not selling when I’m working pretty hard on them, using up all my spare time.”

  “Vig, it isn’t the title that’s the problem,” says Rodney groaning.

  “Sure, the titles aren’t subtle enough. Not fucking subtle at all. Don’t hit the reader on top of their teeny pointed Dumbo heads.”

  “Dumbo heads? If you think your readers are Dumbos that might explain your lack of success.”

  “Sure. Call it. Umm. ‘Well and Truly Dead’. What a good title that is for a story about a well.”

  “Yikes,” is all Rodney adds. He tries unsuccessfully to catch the bartender’s attention.

  “An image. Shazam. A new story. A small boy stands on a sidewalk crushing worthless sour oranges. He’s enjoying crushing them the way some local tribes liked to crush their enemies’ heads. Squishing them open like berries. The kid pops these oranges open… and it’s like he’s shattering the skull of his enemies with a rock and propelling out the brain tissue. Now, what could I do with that?”

  “Try to pry that disgusting image out of your head?” suggests Rodney hopefully.

  “Did the boy enjoy it so much that… what happened? Well, snap, the best thing to do is to write that fragment and collect it for future reference or something, that’s what I shall do, damn idiot person that I am. Don’t waste a single idea, Rodney. Time’s a wasting, don’t you agree, dude. Times a something-er. Preserve the images. Write everything and preserve it in amber or something. Forever.”

  “I would discard that one, personally.” Rodney succeeds in signaling the waiter to order two more Scorpions. “Everything you think of isn’t worth keeping, preserving in amber, you know. Or even saying in polite company for that matter. You need a better editor.”

  “Damn fine Scorpions. Damn fine. Thank you for thinking of these instead of beers. I’m working well with it coursing through my veins. Fine drunken state for some smooth fucking talking. Fine, fucking, fine. Going to enable my creative fiber to produce the material of my needing, like fine spinning yarn. Terrible analogy. I am degenerating.”

  “Yes, you are.”

  “Rum and brandy, buzzing my brain until the lower self can think like a reptile and emote. Does a reptile emote? Seems unlikely, uh well, it’s happening to me.”

  “I would hesitate to characterize what is happening to you.”

  “Next. Yeah, yeah, remember it. The dreadful details of the Wickenberg Massacre. Have to use it somewhere, somewhere special, yeah. I will write that. Special. Sure, and tell them how the sheriff carefully washed excrement which one murderer had left at the scene. Oh, add while waiting for the stage to come by. Fact was the murderer defecated behind a tree. What kind of tree?”

  “Does it matter?” says Rodney darkly.

  “Yes, amigo. That is an example of a telling detail. The problem is I can’t tell that telling detail. Fucking hell. Unknown type of unknown fucking tree located somewhere in Arizona. Bejeezuz, I mean I don’t know anything and Marsha was right.”

  “So fucking right,” Rodney chips in. “Marsha is wonderful. Let’s drink to her.”

  “To Marsha,” I agree, clinking glasses with Rod. But WTF! Did Rod say Marsha is wonderful? The fucking jerk. What’s he doing praising my Marsha? Oh, damn. But maybe he doesn’t know I babysat for Bailey the day before, maybe he doesn’t know that. I vow I won’t say a thing about it. I have to hold things close to my vest or my chest or something. “How can I write about anything when I don’t know anything and have to look up every fucking thing all the time? It slows the flow of words which are supposed to gush out of you like some kind of goddamned stream or something in the stream-of-consciousness field of crap I’m supposed to know about. So my stream will be stopped up if I have to look up crap constantly. Look that tree I need up on google, will you? It was easily determined to be human poop. Readily. I’ll change it. And that poop had contained pumpkin seeds. That strange fact neatly proved the Mohave Indians guiltless. Mexicans ate pumpkin seeds, the Mohave Indians never did. Innocence proved by reason of excreta. A novel ending to a fucking novel novel. Ta da!”

  “Do not write that,” Rodney admonishes me. “You will not be successful with that.”

  “Think of a funny western alliteration, Rodney, will you?”

  “Ah...dastardly deeds were done,” says Rodney slowly.

  “Shit, man, do you realize that’s great? Jeez, that’s one of the world’s greatest fucking great words, dastardly, but I am the only one who recognizes how great that word is. You didn’t recognize that? I know! Dastardly. I am gonna write it and underline it and put that it was given to me by Rodney, my best friend. Underline it twice in my notebook to show the true worth of it. That word is the best word in the world and if you use it right it could rule the world. I could rule the world with such a word, shit, everyone would bow to me if I only command them with that word. Well, am I drunk? What a stupid question. Yeah, drunk on the word dastardly.”

  “I don’t think it’s interesting, frankly.”

  “Shit, it’s a great title—Dastardly. It has the power I need, the power to control the reading public. Bailey helped me think of a good story the other day when I babysat her.” Damn, I had spilled the beans. What I had told myself not to say was what I said. Why didn’t I mind my own admonishments? It was ridiculous the way I was telling Rod everything he didn’t deserve to know.

  “Oh yeah? Sheesh.”

  “I have to press my ear close to the past in order to hear the words on the lips of victorious Indians. What are their words? What do I hear?”

  “Whoopee?” offers Rod.

  “No, no, wait a minute. What the fuck am I thinking? I am drunk, bombed out of my mind. Those are loud war whoops. Victorious Indians! They aren’t whispering anything, wait a teeny, tiny, fucking minute. Why would I have to press myself close to the past to hear the loud words of the victorious Indians?”

  “Did you do peyote again before I picked you up?” Rodney opens his astounded otter eyes even wider than usual. “Because if you didn’t, you are on a crazy roll.”

  “No, Rodney.” I hold still a moment with a freckled finger in the air. “That is total crap. Wait, what I wanted to say was about the losers. Who are the losers here? Oh, yeah. Yeah, the dying cavalry or troopers. Press yourself close to the lips of the dying cavalry officer. From the past. That’s it. That’s the thing. The blood and thunder era of the past is my natural realm. I’m writing that.” I scribble with an illegible hand in my small notebook.

  “If I am ever interviewed, I will say I was there when you imagined of all this brilliant crap.”

  “Shazam. Profound.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Now, the hairbreadth escape of a man pinned down in rocks with fire coming at him from all directions, goddamn, shit, dodge it, go; he chews tobacco and rubs it in his eyes to stay awake and props up hats for the Indians to use their supply of ammunition on. Bam, bam. Bam, bam, bam, take that, you Apaches, you fiends. And, when the trooper thinks he’s safe, slowly, the horrible vampire descends! From the roof of the cave where the trooper is hiding. Oh, god, this is a great idea! Why haven’t I thought of this before now? These Scorpions are doing the trick. Rodney, thank you for inviting me to imbibe with you. Glowing red eyes. Ahhheeyyyyeee!, yes, yes, the Apaches come in for the kill. But the trooper is already dead, and deathly pale as he lies sprawled across the boulders at the mouth of the cave. The vampire retreats and waits, clinging to the roof of the cave again, and he watches the bewildered Apaches as they inspect the white soldier. What has happened to him? When they scalp him, n
o blood appears in the wounds. Of course, he doesn’t have any! The Apaches suddenly jump up, but it’s too late for them as well. The vampire descends again! He sucks them dead, too. Damn. God damn. Great idea. I’m a genius! Vampire kills the pinned-down cavalry officer. He kills the Apaches when they come in after the cavalry officer. Hell, it’s great. Sucks em dry. They don’t see him coming from the roof of the cavern. Cool. Sure. A sure-fire winner. Wait, what if the vampire propped the dead cavalry officer’s corpse up on some rocks to lure the Apaches into the cave. I don’t know what the vampire does in the end, though. What could top that or round it out? Vampire does what? Flies away, laughing fiendishly? Goes back to the roof of the cave? He’s been living there since early times? Should he be dressed like someone from 1600 though? Suppose he attacked the Hohokam originally! That is why there’s no more Hohokam. Get it, the ‘used-up’ people. They were sucked dry by a vampire! Maybe he was a Roman vampire or something.”

  “Don’t get caught up in details,” Rodney advises.

  “Sure, details are crap…no, details are not crap. Telling details tell stuff. Death at the hands of different tribes. That’s the best. Maybe I can try my hand at some non-fiction about various tortures? For a magazine. They’re mostly bankrupt, though. I hate that work. Well, it isn’t what I like to do. I doubt I’ll get paid much, either. Death at the hands of something. What is it I want, Rodney? Come on and help a little. Well, I’m not sure, but how about massacres perpetrated happily. Yeah, these are good phrases. I’ll write that on the side. Good phrases for a work which involves tribes and vampires or some kind of horror.”

  “Rustled cattle,” says Rodney listlessly.

  I tap my pen to my teeth. “Rod,” I say quietly pointing with the pen, “you are a genius. What if a character says, ‘You’ve reached the end of your rope, compadre.’ Funny line upon hanging someone accused of rustling cattle. Hey, what if a guy hangs another guy for rustling and the first guy is…a fucking vampire?”

  “Again? Another fucking vampire?”

  “Yeah. Another great idea to write up right away before I lose my inspiration. And the vampire comes alive slowly as he swings on the end of the rope, sort of dances himself up to the tree or something. Cuts the rope himself and swoops in to suck the blood of the man who lynched him. Wow. Shazam! The Ox-Bow Incident or Incident at Owl Creek Bridge except with a vampire added. That’s a great idea! This good rum and brandy is giving me dastardly great ideas. You know Bailey told me a writer is like a spy peeking through a little window and seeing stuff. I feel like that tonight.”

  “Okay. I’ll play along. What about tales of. Tales of what…ah…strange dances with snakes and…fabled gold caches...” says Rodney.

  “Oh! Suppose a guy is dancing around a big heaping treasure box, yeah, all full of nuggets and gold flakes, brimming out of the box and these snakes slowly wiggle out or something. Yeah, or scorpions or something sting him and he’s a goner in a few minutes and the horror, the horror, shit, I think that would be pretty good. But do scorpions ever kill people? Have to google that and it seems….scorpions don’t kill people often, sadly. They would have to be injured already. Well, I can arrange that, I suppose, not too hard to work that into the old plot device there, have him fall off a cliff before and he is out in the wilds and maybe dehydrated, sure. Wouldn’t be too hard to believe he could die from that after a day or so if no one finds him...Details about him are that he lives above a tire store in the south side of town. Rebel Garage with its cocky gray-hatted Confederate. But the words in Spanish were worn off the orange paint.”

  “I’m telling you those are not important details,” Rodney observes.

  “But they are. Details matter. And I’m thinking of something else. What I’m thinking of is these horrid long greenish-yellow cactus needles. Those were used for tattoo by some of the tribes. Wow, that’s neat. Tattooing needles favored by certain Indians. I’ve heard of desert animals driven by hunger, first sniffling, and nibbling, and finally devouring the green flesh of the cholla cactus. But sometimes they got a nasty surprise. Instead of a nourishing meal, the interlocking thorns stitch their lips permanently shut. The more the thing struggles, the tighter the mouth trap get. They’re tormented in death as they slowly starve.”

  “Entitle it ‘The Last Supper,’” suggests Rodney, giggling horribly.

  “Yeah, yeah. That’s a good idea. Enough tonight of the stories, dude. Back to real life, dude, though. Well, you know Rodney I’ve been thinking. What you said last time we got together might be right. Maybe I did play it up badly with Marsha, maybe I have laid it on too thick with the goddamned pneumonia story and now I’ll have to keep embellishing on that fake thing with her and maybe I’ll never get her to forget about it. But at least I got the dough. Ten hundred dollar smackeroonies. Sure, she is gonna be easy to take dinero off.”

  “Lovely. Oh, Vig you are lovely.”

  “She helped me, yeah, with my rent. I can use her like a game of fucking Canasta. Marsha? She fits together with me like a pack of dominoes. No. Well, what? What is a better analogy?”

  “There is no analogy between you and Marsha. You two do not fit together. One last Scorpion? Why not?”