Cubesville

Focus your audio. Unhook your ears, Clyde. Stand by while I pad your skull. I don’t know how much of this is for real—I only heard it secondhand myself. But the fella who told it to me was creeped out—that much is for sure. I was late to the picture, and it’s a good thing I was cause nobody who was there was ever seen again—christmas cancelled—except for Socrates, and like I said, he got all buggy from it. Fuse blown, permanent.

I was heading out to the Flats. We used to play out there, break out like the measles. It was a good place cause it was all lunar and crazy and you could get away from the cubes. Salt Lake was squaresville. Strictly Podunk. But the Flats was berries.

So, like I was saying, I’m on the way out there on my scoot, amped up on airplane glue in the early brights, figuring the scene would still be going. I see something out on that salty psychocolor horizon, a fire ant on a cocaina sand dune, way out there on the salt checkerboard, squares as far as you could see, and that one spider out there, like, crawling.

I motor down there, a bit twitchy, wondering what’s up. As I get closer I can see it’s one of us. You can tell from a distance. Dark clothes, and that freaky aura. Turns out it’s Socrates. Normally his claws are pretty sharp, but I scoot up and he’s all wigged out. Out there in the salt among the glass puddles, biscuit snatchers clutching at his kneecaps, and some kind of yellowy goop on his sleeves and his shirt and his shoes and the backs of his hands. He gets spouty, in snatches, all out of order, but this is the sense I make out of it, some of it his words, some of it mine. Hope you got a lot of room in your ears.

It started out a dig same as anything else, out there on bennies and glue, bongos and bonfires, maryjane. Bikes and hotrods chrome and candy-apple-everything, resting out there on the salt cubes.

Willard read one of his poems. Yeah, I wasn’t there to hear it, but, I’ve heard Will often enough and he’s all

Cat with a spider for a heart

The man in a wheelchair of hypodermic needles

Spider spins a web in the frame of an hourglass

So there they are, all sitting around their fires and getting sweaty and slimy and smelly in their sleeping bags, rods and cones and mushrooms, or listening to Willard with his beat king’s jive and the racket coming from sax and bongos and axe. Swapping yarns and manifestoes and smoke and body fluids. Cosmic goo. Firelight fireflies trailing up into the night.

Then someone sees these orange lights in the sky. Casual like, like what’s that? Moving snarly orange against the purple night. Like, cool, pretty. What is that? Three lines squiggle and spark forward and backward. Mostly forward, closer. Some kind of crazy sputnik up there. And then they aren’t lines but dots. And then they aren’t dots, but these glowing spheres. Then they’re not glowing, but chrome, chromium, as the sun starts to eyeball that gang of gawking beats from the horizon.

Like it’s xmas, three silver spheres hanging in the sky. Ezekiel’s chariot. The comrades are starting to freak maybe a little. And one of the things lowers itself down, quiet like, real slow. So now there’s this big globe sitting on the salt like a chromium planet, not a dent on it, just a dark line down the middle, a groove. This thing is a slinky piece of homework. Sharp enough to shave. Nobody moves for a second, except maybe to stand up, step back a step, shuffle, eyeball each other, smoking ciggies. They tilt their heads. Is the thing, making a noise? Like, a whirring horror-flick sinewave. An inside out clanging. Bounce bounce bounce bounce clunk.

And then…something blasts out the top of it. Orange lightning. Blurts up all squiggly, jaggles around in the air for a while, wiggles out in different directions, a hypnogogic jellyfish, just spurting around, all sloppy. Then it sort of settles down. It has something in mind. It starts to, like, sniff around, first seven-eight tentacles, then more like just one, curly-queuing and doubling back. It sniffs at the crowded beats, who are now really getting freaked, but too freaked to make for it. This sparkly meat hook right in their faces, checking out one comrade and then another. After a few tics it gets bored with the humanoids and turns mostly to the hot rods and bikes arrayed all helter skelter on the salt, chrome green and exhaust pipes and spokes. It checks em out real close, then it stops to focus on one—Ben’s flatblack t-bucket. It looks at it like it got a bad smell. Then it, like, stomps it, squashing it a little and sending small parts tinkling off in willy nilly directions. Ben, he like, gasps. Then the x-ray sort of sparks and buzzes all up and down, from tip to where it’s extending out of the silver xmas ball. It inserts, what, a hypo needle maybe, into the t-bucket, and Ben’s Ford turns blue orange, then sort of melts and explodes itself inside out.

The buzzing white-orange tentacle thing starts to get pissy then, moving to another hot rod and another, then to a bike, blasting them and turning them fiery blue and orange and white and exploding them all over the salt, melting them, insiding them out. This goes on for a while, some of the beatnoids now turning tail and running. Sparky noises and explosions and parts flying and bouncing and metal sizzling and leaking, until it looks like there are no hot rods left. The squiggly raygun thing checks out all it did, like, pleased, swelling up like a poisoned pooch. But then one tentacle seems to catch a whiff that some of the comrades are escaping, running for all they’re worth—which aint much—as far and as fast as they can get from the glowing squid and all its nasty higgledly piggedly explosions.

The thing stretches out an orange tendon, elongatory, thinning, toward Joan, who’s huffing and puffing and swinging her arms, tight black pants and fuzz black sweater, glancing back all freaky from time to time. So this orange sputtery buzz chases her down, not going much faster than she is, and she lets rip a scream and starts pulling with all she’s got. In the end the thing sort of hauls back and pokes at her like a needle, and that’s all for her. Scratched from the big race. Turned her inside out, was what Socrates said—sputtered something about scattered little slimy bits.

Then the thing moves on—to Newman, and Jukie, and then Phillipa, and all the other beats who are in a state of mind what which they can run. Stops everyone in their skinny tracks. Socrates had a hard time talking about it, eyes shiny. Wasn’t pretty.

Then, dig the chromey globe thing. This platform slides out, slow like, even though there’s no crease for it to slide out from. Parallel with the ground, mostly. And now there’s this opening. It’s hard to get a sense of scale—the sphere is big.

Something—a bunch of somethings—start to squiggle down the ramp, like rats from a ship. The comrades are glazzing, getting spoogy now. Whatever these things are, they reach the end of the ramp—which isn’t really a ramp cause it doesn’t touch the ground—and walk right off it to plop on the salt. The beats back away in little half steps. One of the things patters up close to Socrates. It’s a blob of eyeball spheres—twelve, thirteen—with multi-colored irises, and lotsa rubbery grey tentacles curling out.

As all this is going on they hear a motor turn. So, there’s a hot rod that wasn’t exploded, and Milt is in there, trying to get it started. He’s got it going, he’s jockeying forward and back among the busted up parts and melted chassis. But it’s like the fiery tentacle thing hears it too, and it aint pleased. Not to trip you out too heavy with details, but, in sum, the thing fries Milt up together with his wheels, melting metal and burning old Milt and mangling the whole mess together.

Meanwhile the little squirrelly eyeball things are running around, getting closer to the bugged out beats. Scared like. The beats try to get skinny, peer around themselves.

Then Krebs, he pulls out a pistol. He’s a nickel rat, a two-bit porch climber, so nobody’s surprised he’s got a piece. Thing about Krebs is—a little aside—I’ve never seen him blink. Like, blink his eyes. You gotta blink right? Moisten your glazzies? But this cat, I never seen him blink.

So anyhow, Krebs starts taking potshots at the globey thing. The bullets just bounce off, ricocheting siren song silver streaks across the cubist flats. I’d like to say they don’t leave a dent on that chromium globule, but the truth of it is is—they do. Tiny dents on its shiny white surface.

And the little eyeball rodents, now they’re ganging up on people, attacking. Thing is though, these things aint that tough. People squash them under foot, under fist. Krebs shoots at them. They never seem to die, but they do lose the ability to ambulate, so they just wiggle around plastered in place by that yellowy goo. But Jeannie, she’s in shock. She aint fighting back like the other dopeniks, and a handful of these eyebally creepy crawly octopi got her by the scruff, by the collar, by the sleeve, by the hair, and they’re dragging her back toward that silver ball, toward the ramp what’s sticking out of it.

But there’s a hitch because the ramp—not really a ramp, per se—doesn’t touch the ground, so the eyeball buggers can’t drag her up it. The spaceship, cause that’s what it is, I guess, lurches up into the air and then down, crashing in the salt, gonging out hollow, making halfassed bonking attempts to get the ramp and the ground lined up right. Once it veers way diagonally left-right and Bug Phillips gets crushed under the thing. Ripe for the lilies. Socrates got choked up over that. Bug was a good guy, straight from the fridge.

Finally they—whoever’s driving—get the ramp lined up, but the opening the eyeball conglomerations came out of isn’t big enough for humanoids, so the eyeball things try to drag them through, screaming, like big beatnik pegs through a small hole. And all the while, thither and hither, there’s this battle going on between the eyeball rats and the beats. The eyeballs, crushed all over the place, writhing around, tentacly, seem to be losing, slated for crashville.

Then—tune me in—the second sphere makes an appearance. It descends from that dark and scary sky and cronks and bonks and settles on the salt. First it sits there. Then there’s that noise again, a sideways busted sax. It’s accompanied this time by a hole opening up, aligned trippy with the ground, tilted away from the staring, fighting, screaming beats. A big hole this time, like you could walk through standing up, and then some.

This part here—just telling you—this is where it starts to get freaky. Up jumps the devil, and something starts to like, excrete from the big hole. Transparent blue and tobacco jello, and there’s this…stuff in there. Don’t know what. It glip glops out, spreading and burping and plopping, shiny and droopy, swum through with prehistoric dragonfly nymphs, with cubist spiders, with cephalopod hearts and transparent steel bones, something out of some paisley cave.

It oozes and spurts out of that hole, toward the tripped out dopeniks, who are like, now what. It’s strictly horrorshow, surgical waste galumphing out and spreading, but—here’s the thing—it aint fast. The beats can outrun it, and so they peel off in all directions. The blob, it spurts toward them, but it’s like frustrated, too slow. The quarry’s getting away. But what happens then is, it starts to grow legs. Big angular thorny centipede legs, germinating and worming out, wriggling, anatomically configurating. So now it can drag itself along, spurt and puddle forward, sections of it almost running, dragging the rest behind, still drooling out and stretching.

The thing aint efficient, but it’s picked up some speed, and the beats, glancing back, huff and puff as best they can. It’s catching up. It slips and slithers right up to Gina, slowest of the bunch, and sorta plops onto her back and pulls her—screaming and wriggling arms and underpinnings—off her feet. She’s stuck there, like a fly on paper.

The thing creeps and crawls toward Mayfield, grabs him too, and Velvet, and Oscar, and one beat and another. The blob’s barely faster than the screaming comrades, and the whole proceeding takes a while, but eventually it’s accumulated all of them, except for Socrates, who somehow outruns it.

The thing stops short, backs up a bit, glares at Socrates—and Socrates glares back, just out of reach. The blob sort of shrugs almost, then rolls and plops and drags itself back to the ship. It sucks itself back in through that aperture, like backwards toothpaste—together with the shrieking, squirming beats.

The hole closes up behind them, and everything’s all quietlike for a bit, Socrates the only one left to see it. Then there’s a noise. An upside down creak, a screechy compressed explosion, and one of the globes, the one from where the eyeball spiders came, shoots back up into space. Split. No-tomorrow style.

Then the other globe starts making noise. A slithery crank, an ugly backfire, and then it takes off too. The silver ball gets smaller, passes that third chromey sphere, the one what never came down, then it’s an orange dot, then an orange line, and then it’s gone, with the blob. With all the beats. With the whole cookie factory.

Socrates stares up at the third sphere, which hangs there, maybe staring down at him. Wound up like an eight-day clock. The way he tells it, Socrates starts to howl at it: Take me. This place is cubesville.

And sitting here on the salt, covered in that yellow goop, after bumping his gums, telling me the whole story in chunks and ugly disjointed pustules, he starts screaming about it again, right here in front of me. Take me. This place is cubesville. Take me. Over and over. This place is cubesville.

Daddy, Daddy, Candy Eater

A woman she’d never met had been the one to name her Candy.

After her mother passed, a father she’d always loathed had tasted the candy, often.

She wrote Candace on her job application but her real name stuck. She was Candy to the office, especially to the men, and those men sampled the candy, too.

McMillan, Murphy and Collins, attorneys at law, enjoyed candy. Candy endured, not enjoyed, the attention, the gifts, the flowers, the sex. Every man who penetrated her smelled like her father, tasted like his cigarettes and beer, reeked of his sweat.

Candy murmured lies and pocketed the cash. Each month she examined her brokerage statement and thought to herself, “I’m a slut but a rich one at least. Thanks, Daddy…”

Mr. Gregory Solomon, Vice President of Finance, took her to dinner, a show and then to bed. On her way out, he patted her on the rump and put an envelope into her hand. She kissed his bald head, fondled him a last time and started for home.

Candy never spent the night with the candy eaters. Her father, now a decrepit old man, needed her help bathing, shitting, and eating. He still loved candy, but just the chocolate kind these days.

Candy stopped in a convenience store and bought a box of chocolate cherries, her father’s favorite. The clerk commented on how much of it she bought. Candy smiled her sweet little smile at him while she paid.

Pulling into the driveway, Candy killed the engine and walked up the front steps of her house, reminding herself to take out the trash bin before she went to bed. Damned thing was overflowing with candy boxes already.

Once inside, she flipped on a light and made her way into the kitchen. Rummaging under the sink, she came up with some goggles and an industrial painter’s mask. Tucking the chocolate cherries under her arm, she closed the cabinet door, clacked off in her heels, and descended the stairs to the basement.

She unbolted the door at their bottom.

Even with the mask and goggles, the sharp tang of urine, feces, vomit and decay was enough to nearly overwhelm her.

Her father lay in a puddle of his own waste, chained to the opposite wall. Dozens of empty chocolate boxes littered the filthy floor all around him.

“Look Dad, I brought you dinner,” Candy said, tossing it just beyond reach of his pustulous, skeletal fingers.

Death By Committee

McCloud walks slowly into the bar, not limping, but the effort it takes is clear on his face. He slides into a seat with a grunt from way down in his throat. The bartender approaches.

‘Double bourbon, neat,’ says McCloud, settling onto his elbows.

The barman goes to pour his drink and he grimaces as he reaches into his jacket. When his hand reappears, it is holding a wallet and dripping splotches of red onto the bar.

‘Your hand’s bleeding,’ says the barman, waiting for his payment.

This gets the attention of the young man sitting a few stools down. McCloud throws a twenty on the bar and stuffs his wallet back inside his jacket. When he does, the young man to his right sees his shirt, soaked scarlet with fresh blood.

‘Jesus, what happened to you?’ asks the young man.

The barman turns to have a look and McCloud puts the whiskey away in one.

‘Give me another and keep ’em coming.’

The barman pours another drink. McCloud touches a couple of fingers to his belly and they come away bloody. He turns to the young man.

‘It’s a long story kid,’ he says, ‘not sure I’ve got enough time to tell it.’

He reaches around to his back, pulls a gun from his belt, and lays it on the bar.

‘Hold on a minute.’ It was Paul, chiming in as usual. ‘I thought you said we weren’t allowed to have guns,’ he said to Graham.

‘He doesn’t actually use it. It’s just a prop,’ I said.

‘Aye, but I wanted to have a gun in mine, but I left it out because they said no guns.’

‘Or sex,’ said Julianne, as if this was helpful addition to the conversation. There were murmurs of agreement from the rest of the group, who apparently felt the same way.

‘He is right, Ian,’ said Graham, who was supposed to be running the thing. ‘We agreed that for this exercise we wouldn’t have any stories involving guns.’

‘Or sex,’ added Julianne again.

‘Yeah I know that,’ I said, trying my hardest to ignore the silly bitch, ‘but the gun isn’t important. He doesn’t even use it in the story.’

‘Well then I would suggest it’s not necessary to mention the gun,’ said Graham. ‘Remember that old rule – if there’s a bomb in the first act, it should go off by the third.’

‘Omit needless words,’ said Richard, like he was some fucking literary sage, rather than just a bald, boring cunt quoting Strunk at a writing group. If Richard omitted needless words he’d never speak again. I looked around at the blank faces, waiting for my reply, and drinking this shit up. Some of them were taking notes.

McCloud finishes off his second and sits slumped, staring at the bottom of his glass. He looks at his watch.

‘Another?’ asks the barman.

‘Why not,’ says McCloud. The young guy beside him takes a swig of beer and waits patiently.

‘Okay then, what I meant is that the gun is important, but only in setting up the character,’ I said. ‘There is no gunfight, it’s just something he’s carrying. If the gun itself was the issue, then maybe his hat is also an issue.’

‘Is he wearing a hat?’ asked Paul, frowning. Everyone checked their copies of manuscript I printed for them.

‘I don’t think you mentioned him wearing a hat, Ian,’ said Graham.

McCloud reaches up and pats the top of his own head. No hat.

‘Musta got shot off in that gunfight I was in,’ he says, grinning in spite of his pain.

Everyone agrees that there was no mention of a hat in the opening. ‘Okay so he’s not wearing a hat!’ I said, ‘I was just making a point.’

‘I think the character description needs a lot more work. I can’t picture him at all,’ said Julianne.

‘I actually did picture him with a hat,’ said Stephen, and everyone ignored him but me.

‘Forget about the hat!’ I half-shouted. ‘What he looks like doesn’t matter that much.’

‘Actually you can give a lot of character information with the physical description,’ said Richard. ‘The guy is obviously involved in crime in some way, so maybe you could convey that in how he is dressed. Like a gangster, maybe.’

‘That’s why I mentioned the gun,’ I said.

‘But we did say no guns,’ said Graham.

‘Or sex!’ said Julianne.

‘What if we take out the gun and put the hat in?’ Graham went on.

‘What do you call those hats the gangsters used to wear?’ asked Paul.

‘Stetsons,’ answered Richard.

‘Yes, see, this is good,’ said Graham, uncapping his pen. ‘Take out the gun and have him lay his Stetson on the bar,’ he said, scribbling on his copy.

McCloud looks in surprise at the hat sitting where his gun used to be. He puts the hat on his head.

‘What do you think?’ he asks the barman.

‘Not as much use as a gun.’

McCloud sighs in agreement, takes the hat off, and tosses it away.

‘Okay so we agree that the hat can replace the gun?’ said Graham, looking around the room. They’re all nodding like cattle. I think about the other stories I’ve had to sit and listen to. Every one about an affair, or a marriage falling apart, or a marriage falling apart because of an affair. These people learned to write by watching soap operas. I once tried learning how not to write by watching a soap opera and didn’t even make it through for the educational benefit.

‘I never agreed to that,’ I said.

‘Kill your darlings,’ said Richard, always with a helpful quote. Pompous fucking prick.

‘I think the hat is better,’ said Julianne, ‘The gun is too symbolic. Too phallic.’ Julianne’s story had been about a woman’s husband leaving her for another man, and she thinks everything is a fucking phallic symbol. I decided to fuck with her a little bit.

‘That’s nothing, wait till I get to the part with the dildo,’ I told her, looking very serious.

‘We said no sex!’

‘Oh it’s not a sex scene, technically. The woman in the story almost gets caught diddling herself with a dildo up her ass but she hides it in McCloud’s underwear drawer. It’s an allegory for male rape and female empowerment.’ Everyone considered this silently.

‘That’s amazing,’ said Julianne, and she was being sincere. I don’t know why I bothered. At the last meeting, she told someone he had an Oedipal complex.

‘Again, Ian, it seems like this story has a lot of material we agreed we wouldn’t use. The point of this exercise was to come up with a story that didn’t rely on sex or violence to keep the reader interested,’ said Graham.

‘Well if I can’t write about people fucking or killing each other, what should I write about? People just sitting around talking?’

‘Sure. Stories like that can be very interesting.’

‘Bullshit. No one would read a story like that,’ I said.

McCloud is slumped over the bar, blood pooling on the floor around his barstool. The young guy lifts McCloud’s arm and lets it drop, lifelessly, back onto the bar.

‘I think he’s dead,’ he says.

‘Shit,’ says the barman, ‘get me his wallet. He still owes for the last two.’

Imported from Addis Ababa

“Mommy, LOOK at THE MONKEY! He’s PLAYING with HIS —”

The little girl was going to say “pee-pee” until her embarrassed and shocked mother muffled her mouth and whisked her toward the concession booth for some cotton candy; her daughter loved the stuff, maybe the fluffy confection would erase the monkey’s abominable acts from her impressionable young mind…

But the mother was definitely in the minority; everybody else outside the cage was eating it up, a bunch of wide-eyed, salivating animals, pointing and cackling as the Gelada baboon jacked off for their weekend entertainment, pumping its big ding-dong with two hands, up and down, faster and faster and—

SPLOOOOGGGEEESPPPLUUUUURRRRTTTT!!!

“Whoa, man, get a LOAD of that LOAD!”

“SCREW the LOAD! Look at the COCK on that THING!”

“That CRAZY APE must’ve JIZZED a GALLON!”

Balls fully purged, the baboon flashed its hideous fanged grin before giving his audience the finger…

“Well, FUCK YOU TOO, you damned MONKEY!”

“UP yours, ya FILTHY APE!”

Somewhat reluctantly, the riotous crowd moved on, ambling toward the next zoological attraction as the baboon yawned and scratched his dirty pink ass.

***

“Okay, okay, Harry, pipe down. It’s coming, buddy…”

The zoo closed for the evening as the zookeeper, crate of field corn balanced on his shoulder, unlocked the cage. Harry was starving, screeching and dashing from corner to corner as his handler stepped inside. The zookeeper knelt, opened the crate, and tossed the green ears onto the concrete floor, one after another.

While Harry munched, the zookeeper plucked a fresh Roi-Tan from his shirt pocket and lit up, smoking, reflecting…

“—don’t smell like monkey shit either.”

“Baby, please, you know I can’t help that. I’m a zookeeper, after—”

“And he never COMES first! I mean, NEVER! He can FUCK for HOURS!”

“He’s a lot younger than I am.”

“You got that right!”

Jessica, the zookeeper thought, watching Harry’s gnashing fangs.

She had been one hell of a lay. They had met in the express lane at Mac’s supermarket where she worked as a checkout girl; he had forgotten the spicy mustard and she had been a good sport, dispatching a pimply-faced bagboy to fetch it, sparing him the hassle of returning to the crowded aisles.

That simple act of courtesy had touched him, infusing the zookeeper with a rare jolt of confidence; they’d chatted while the kid hunted for the mustard, and by the time he’d returned, the zookeeper had Jessica’s digits tucked in his shirt pocket alongside his ever-present Roi-Tan.

Thus began the best sex of the zookeeper’s life…

Jessica could never get enough.

And nothing was off limits.

She liked it doggy-style, cowgirl, reverse-cowgirl, old-fashioned missionary, every which way two people could fornicate. No hole or sequence of penetration was prohibited; she was especially fond of ass-to-mouth, introducing the relatively inexperienced zookeeper to the practice. Even now, he got a hard-on every time he used the ATM, each bittersweet transaction reminding him of Jessica’s desertion.

The heartless whore had left him for an eighteen-year-old produce clerk named Maurice. According to Jessica, Maurice could stand on one foot and juggle three coconuts. Also, Maurice had a twelve-inch cock and testicles the size of lemons.

Presently, Harry screeched for more food. Puffing on his cigar, the zookeeper tossed the remainder of the corn in his direction.

The plan was to go back to his apartment, swill just enough beer and smoke just enough dope to lower his inhibitions and/or fear of capture, and then procure Jessica as she finished her shift at nine. The zookeeper had been stalking her for weeks; he knew Jessica’s schedule backwards and forwards. Maurice worked days, so he wouldn’t be there; he would be back at her place, puffing on a jay, priming his twelve-inch pole and big nuts.

Sorry, Maurice, but there’ll be no nooky tonight.

Not for you, anyway…

The zookeeper watched as Harry attacked the corn.

That’s it, buddy. Eat it all. You’re going to need your strength for later…

He waited until Harry swallowed the very last morsel before pulling the tranquilizer gun from his belt. The darts were loaded with just enough azaperone to knock Harry out for a few hours. Sedation was necessary. Otherwise, the perpetually-horny baboon was liable to jack-off three or four times before he could do the job…

And that just wouldn’t do. Harry had to be at fullpotency for this.

“Sorry, Harry,” the zookeeper said, aiming the gun, “but you’ll thank me later.”

Then he squeezed the trigger.

***

Sitting behind the wheel of his twenty-seven-year-old Pontiac Fiero, the zookeeper’s knuckles whitened as he gripped the wheel. In homage to Ted Bundy, he had removed the passenger seat, affording him a nice flat surface in which to transport his human parcel to the zoo.

In deference to paying customers, Mac’s employees parked on the far fringes of the lot, a good distance from the store proper, so that’s where the zookeeper had parked, right beside Jessica’s royal blue Sunbird.

“SizeDOES matter!”

“Please—”

“And he’s HUNG like a GORILLA!”

“Baby—”

“And another thing!”

“Don’t—”

“He AIN’T been CUT!”

“You actually like—”

“I love me some UNCUT COCK!”

Each and every heated argument came flooding back, slashing the inside of his brain like knives. Then he saw her…

He hadn’t been waiting more than a few minutes before Jessica appeared. She was still wearing her bright red smock. With much pep in her step, she waltzed across the smooth asphalt of the parking lot.

Eager for Maurice’s cock, the zookeeper thought.

Well, baby, I’m afraid I have some bad news…

When Jessica spotted the zookeeper’s car, she stopped in her tracks, a split-second freeze in which she may or may not have considered turning around and returning to the safety of the store. But she didn’t retreat. She shook her head in dismay and kept right on walking as her ex waited.

The zookeeper didn’t emerge until Jessica was unlocking her door, popping up like a demented jack-in-the-box, leering at her over the Sunbird’s roof.

“Don’t you ever come to my job again—”

He brought up the tranquilizer gun, leveling it at her head.

“Unless you want a dart in the eyeball,” the zookeeper said, “I suggest you shut the fuck up and come with me.”

She started to mouth off until he cocked his gun, and that’s all it took to convince her that he wasn’t fooling around. The zookeeper stepped behind her as she reached the passenger side of his car, opening the door like a true gentleman.

He then whacked her in the back of the head, knocking her unconscious as he pushed her in, rushed around to the driver’s side, fired up the Fiero and hauled ass back to the zoo.

***

The enclosure’s overhead lights rendered the tableau a sickly yellow. Wielding a water hose, Roi-Tan jutting from his mouth, the zookeeper stood in the corner of the cage, eyes glazed over with malevolent wonder as he took in and admired the scene.

Hands cuffed behind her back, a naked and groggy Jessica was sprawled out on the concrete. She had begun to revive, but was still not fully aware of her predicament just yet. As for Harry, was just about fully woken up, the azaperone having finally relinquished its potent grip.

Unable to delay any longer, the zookeeper activated the hose and blasted Jessica in the face. She coughed and sputtered, whipping her wet head around, slinging water in all directions as Harry ambled around her.

“LOOK ALIVE, KIDS! RISE AND SHINE! IT’S PARTY TIME!”

Then he sprayed Harry right in the kisser, and that sealed it. Baring his fangs, screeching and flailing his gangly arms, the baboon kicked into gear.

Jessica’s eyes bulged like Texas grapefruits—

“OH, MY GOD! NOOOOO! PLEASE, GOD, NOOOOOOOOOOO!

Her terror seemed to have an aphrodisiac effect on Harry. His cock sprang to life, swelling and pointing the way as he approached his new mate. The dart still buried in his flank did little to diminish his agility; in fact, he hardly even seemed aware of its presence.

“THAT’S IT, HARRY! GO GET IT, BOY! TAP THAT NASTY POONTANG!”

Jessica’s bowels cut loose then, spewing shit beneath her squirming, kicking form. But Harry didn’t care as he mounted her from behind.

He liked some stink with his pink.

The Midnight Call

Amy was half-asleep when the phone began to ring. She started, the movie she’d been half-watching still playing. It looked like it was nearing the end. She turned down the volume and picked up the phone.

“Hello?” It came out as a croak. She cleared her throat.

There was no immediate response, but she could hear breathing. It wasn’t heavy, wasn’t lecherous. It was light.

“Hello?”

Still nothing. Amy hung up.

She stepped away from the phone, stretched and yawned, decided it was time for bed.

In the kitchen she got herself a glass of water, keeping one eye on the television screen through the open door.

Amy lived alone. Her flat was in the middle of the block, on the seventh floor. Her neighbours were not too dissimilar to herself: they were young, mostly, had decent jobs, kept to themselves. There was no trouble. The nights were quiet, even at weekends.

The phone rang again.

Amy eyed it, ran her tongue round the inside of her mouth. She contemplated picking it up and putting it straight back down. Unplugging it. It was late. If someone was messing around, she wasn’t in the mood.

“Hello?”

The voice was quiet, but clear. Male. “Please don’t hang up.”

“Who is this?”

“It doesn’t matter who I am. I know who I’m talking to.”

“Well, you rang me, so I’m not surprised.”

“I could have the wrong number.”

“Do you?”

“Is this Amy Taylor?”

Amy said nothing, froze.

“I’ll assume from your silence that you are.”

“Who is this?” Amy said.

“I told you, it doesn’t matter.”

“Tell me who you are or I’m going to hang up.”

“Please don’t hang up.”

“I warned you.” She made her voice firm.

“Aren’t you curious?”

“About what?”

“Why I’m calling.”

“Why don’t you just spit it out?”

“If I do that, you’ll hang up.”

“I’m going to hang up anyway!”

“I’ll tell you, if you promise you’ll stay on the phone.”

“So tell me.”

“I want to fuck you.”

Amy’s jaw slackened. Her mouth was dry. She licked her lips, tried to summon some spit, looked to her door to make sure the chain was on. It was. She walked over, checked the handle. Locked.

“Are you still there?”

“I’m still here.”

“There’s no need to be alarmed. I don’t mean rape. If it’s not consensual it’s not worth it.”

Amy said nothing.

“How does that make you feel?”

“What? Who is this? What do you want?”

“I’ve told you what I want.”

“You’re not going to get it.”

“That doesn’t mean I can’t be honest.”

“Too honest.”

“Yet you’ve stayed on the phone.”

“I said I would.”

“Promises are easily broken.”

“I don’t break promises.”

“Not even ones made on the phone to complete strangers you can’t see?”

“You’ve made me curious.”

“You want to know who I am.”

“Yes.”

“You think you’ll be able to find out.”

“Have we met?”

“This isn’t twenty questions.”

“Then what is it?”

“It’s a conversation.”

“All right. Why do you want to fuck me?”

“Why wouldn’t I?”

Amy realised she was still standing. She turned off the television, took a seat. “Give me some reasons.”

“You’re very beautiful.”

“Are you only interested in looks?”

“We’re talking on a phone. What do you think?”

“That sounds like we’ve met.”

“I like how you wear your hair these days.”

Amy paused. “What?”

“Don’t get me wrong, I liked it when it was long, but it looks better short. It suits you. It shows off your face. Your eyes have always been your best feature, but now they really stand out. They look bigger almost. I hope you take that as a compliment. I mean it as one.”

Amy couldn’t talk. Until his description of her, she’d thought the whole thing was maybe just some joke. The voice was a mystery. It didn’t belong to anyone she knew. But he knew her, apparently, what she looked like, how she wore her hair, and how she used to have it.

She was scared.

“I’m sure many men tell you how beautiful you are. You’re generically pretty. Blonde hair. Blue eyes. But there’s something different about you. Something special.”

Amy opened her mouth, but nothing came out.

“You’re scared, aren’t you? You don’t need to be scared.”

Amy went to her door again, double-checked the lock.

“Are you still there?”

“Yes,” Amy croaked.

“You’re not talking.”

“You caught me by surprise.”

“Nothing should surprise you. I’m talking about you, after all.”

“Okay. Okay.” Amy took deep breaths, regained her composure. “So what makes me ‘special’?”

“That’s something hard to explain. It’s wordless.”

“Give it a try.”

“Okay. Well. Sometimes I worried that you would be one of thosegirls.”

“What do you mean?”

“The kind that look very nice, but when you talk to them you realise that’s all they are. That is the entirety of their being – the way they look. Inside, they’re empty. Vacant. They have no interest in anything or anyone other than themselves. It’s disheartening.”

“And that’s not me?”

“You know it’s not.”

“Maybe those girls don’t either.”

“Probably they don’t. But that’s how they are.”

“You know so much about me, but I still don’t know anything about you.”

“Tell me what you want to know, I’ll see what I can do.”

“What’s your name?”

“You’re being too ambitious. You know I’m not going to tell you that.”

“Okay then. What do youlook like?”

“You wouldn’t be interested in me.”

“That so? How can you be sure?”

“I’m sure.”

“Why’s that? Are you deformed or something?”

“Maybe.”

“You’re not giving me much to work with here.”

“I didn’t say I would. I said I’d see what I could do.”

“So what will you give me?”

“Would you feel more or less inclined to continue talking to me if you thought I was handsome, or grotesque?”

“You said I was special. You tell me.”

“Then let’s say I’m hideous. Let’s say I’m hunchbacked, my fingers are webbed, half of my face has been horribly scarred in a fire. I lost an eye in that same fire. The left one.”

“That’s a great deal of misfortune. But your voice doesn’t sound like you’ve been so badly burned.”

“How does my voice sound?”

“It sounds deep… it sounds…” Words failed her.

“Does it sound sensual? Strong? Handsome? Smart? Sexy?”

“Yeah, okay. I suppose it does.”

“It kept you on the phone.”

“Possibly. Maybe. I don’t know. It could have been part of the reason. You made me curious. You sparked my interest.”

“If a woman called me out of the blue, claimed she wanted to fuck me, it would spark my interest, too.”

“Then we’re on the same page.”

“Mmm. Do I scare you?”

Amy hesitated. “I don’t know.”

“I won’t hurt you. I won’t even ask to meet you.”

“Then how do you expect to fuck me?”

“I don’t expect it – I want it. Go to your window, open the curtain.”

Amy looked at the drawn curtains but didn’t move. “Why?”

“Go to it. Look outside. You won’t see anything. You won’t see me.”

Amy prised the curtains open. “Well?”

“Wider. All the way.”

She did. There was another block of flats directly opposite, similar to her own. In some windows lights were on, but mostly they were in darkness. She tried to look at each one, searched for faces, but there were too many to check so quickly. “Are you there?”

“I might be.”

“Where else would you be?” She leant forward slightly, looked to the roof.

The voice laughed. “I’m not up there.”

She straightened up, looked the windows over again, eyes drawn to the lights though she knew they were the least likely.

“I don’t know anyone that lives in that building.”

“And yet I know you.”

Amy raised her hand, waved.

“I’m waving back.”

She dropped her arm. “Where are you going with this? Put your light on, let me see what you look like, who you are.”

“Take your clothes off.”

“What?”

“You heard. Take your clothes off. Let me see you.”

“I’m not going to do that.”

“Yes, you are. You will take your clothes off, you will stand naked, and you will let me see you.”

“Why?”

“Because you want to show me what I can’t have.”

“You want me to tease you?”

“No, I want you to show me. And you want to be admired.”

Amy bit her lip.

“Don’t be shy. It’s just you and me.”

“It’s a whole building.”

“Nobody’s looking.”

“You can’t be sure.”

“Does it matter? Take off your clothes.”

Amy hesitated. She kept the phone to her ear.

The voice was silent. Patient. Waiting.

Still holding the phone, she slipped off her cardigan, one sleeve at a time, let it fall to the ground. Paused. She took off her jeans next, most of her legs concealed by the wall below the window. Then she took off her t-shirt. Her clothes lay in a heap at her feet. She kicked them to one side and stood there, presenting herself.

“The underwear, too.”

Though she hesitated for a moment, Amy unclipped her bra, let it fall. She stared straight ahead. She’d given up on trying to pinpoint his location by now.

“Everything,” he said.

She lowered her knickers, stood back up.

“You’re very beautiful.”

“Thank you.”

“Touch yourself.”

“I’m not going to–”

“You weren’t going to take off your clothes. You know you’re going to do this. Close your eyes. Listen to my voice. Imagine me there, with you, behind you, my arms around you and my mouth at your ear.”

Amy did as he said.

“Now, touch yourself.”

The phone in her left hand, still at her ear, she slid her right across her stomach until it was between her legs. She stroked herself slowly. She was already moist. She rubbed at her clitoris, gasped into the phone.

“Are you…” She swallowed. “Are you doing the same?”

“I’m there with you, my hands upon your waist. I kiss your ear, your neck, your back. My hands cup your breasts. My fingers stroke your nipples until they harden. I spread your legs.”

Amy gasped. “Yes…”

“I go to my knees, put my face between your buttocks, tease you with my flicking tongue. I press it hard against you, taste you. I send tremors through your body. And then I stand again, slide it in.”

She dropped the phone, put her hand against the glass, kept her eyes closed. She slid her fingers in and out, ran the tips around her labia, stroked herself until she felt her orgasm begin to build. Her strokes grew shorter, more vigorous, her breathing harder. Cries she didn’t know she was making escaped her lips.

When it was over she stood and caught her breath, both hands upon the glass. She slowly knelt down and picked up the phone.

“Are you still there?”

“I’m here.”

“Did you… did you like what you saw?”

“I liked what I saw. Did you like what you heard?”

“You know I did.”

“I’ll have more for you tomorrow.”

And with that, he was gone.

Amy stood at the window, still naked, still exposed, Her orgasm still coursed through her limbs, tingled in her toes and her stomach.

Slowly, her heartbeat calmed, her breathing returned to normal.

She closed the curtains.

The Wilted Hipster

The last fat bitch I fucked made me cum after thirty minutes of slippery penetration. That’s what I like about fat women; you can truly enjoy yourself instead of busting a sticky load within two minutes. Sexy women just make me cum too quick, and I’m out for longevity.

Her name was Mandy and her colossal panties smelt like Chinese food. When life becomes redundant, I often take solace in the scent of her panties. Usually, afterwards I order wu-tang chicken as I bitch and rant on my blog. The food is never delivered on time.

I’ve been running my blog for two years now with barely any interaction whatsoever. People on the web just don’t give a fuck about what I have to say. I never would’ve thought that people worldwide could be as callous and pretentious as they appear to be. To tell you the truth, I’m kinda inspired by it.

My phone rarely rings, but when it does it’s either a bill collector from a third world country going by the moniker of John when their English is atrocious, or it’s my girlfriend Gina. I better answer that.

“Hello.”

“Hello, Vito. I’ve been trying to get a hold of you for hours now. What the fuck?”

“Sorry, Gina. I’ve been busy on my blog, and waiting for Chinese food. It still hasn’t arrived.”

“Oh, that’s great. Obsessing over your stupid blog instead of sticking your dick in my poor lonely pussy… There is no reason someone as sexy as me should have to resort to masturbation.”

“Look Gina, I’m gonna have to call you back. The Chinese food finally arrived, and I’m starving. Don’t worry, my eager cock will be there soon.”

“It better be. I’m all hot and worked up over here. I want you inside me. I miss you. I love you.”

“I love you too, honey. I’ll see you soon.”

If she only knew I fucked fat bitches on the side. Wow. That would be devastating. It might even drive her to suicide. What a dick thing to do. Cheat on your super sexy girlfriend with fat bitches. I should feel ashamed, but all I feel is hunger. I’m gonna go vigorous on this wu-tang chicken.

Gina’s small apartment is located in the nicer part of town, in Dormont. The cheap beer flows like the Allegheny river, the town drunks are all cordial, and most of the residents wanna fuck my sexy girlfriend.

Jesus Christ… I enjoy fucking fat bitches.

Here we go again. Another predictable night.

I knock twice on the door, and Gina answers it wearing nothing but my old Manic Mike And The Mood Stabilizers T-shirt. She must be excited to see me. Her rock hard nipples are damn near piercing through the T-shirt.

“Vito! Come on in, grab a class of Chianti. Take your clothes off, spend time with me…”

I’m treated like a king with a giant platinum scepter for a penis. I don’t deserve this treatment, but I kindly oblige. If it wasn’t so fucking predictable, I’d probably be content. Every day seems like a rerun.

Even the whole fat bitches thing is staring to get old.

My ice-cold Chianti isn’t going to be cold for long. I didn’t even have time to drink more than a sip before Gina slid my average-size penis down her throat.

She’s slurping away and making a pig out of herself, just like she always does, all the while with a twinkle in her eye. I’m fondling her perky C-cups and thinking how lucky I am to have such a hot, determined fuck tool by my side. I throw her sexy ass on the bed and slip it in, doggy style. Three minutes later I bust my load on her pretty little face.

I tell her I love her, then focus on my blog as she sleeps. Her snoring problem gotta go.

Still no action on my blog.

Well, ain’t that predictable. Bunch of antisocial media motherfuckers! All these dorky fucking assholes can fuck off! I’ve wasted years on this blog with no fucking benefits! I’m shutting this fucker down. This blog and redundant lifestyle are finished! It’s over!

In the morning I go to Marrotti’s Coffee to get my fix. This seems like a good place to relax. A good place to ponder the possibilities, and hopefully a good place to empty my asshole.

“Hi, I’d like a triple shot of espresso with a side of seltzer water, please.”

The hipster nerd with his red glasses and his pointy beard says, in a condescending manner, “You sure about the seltzer water? People never order that with espresso in this shop. Most bona fide bean enthusiasts relish in the aftertaste of espresso.”

“Well personally, I could give a fuck about what your other customers are enthusiastic about. I didn’t come here to engage in contentious conversation over fucking coffee, bro. I came here to figure some things out, and take a healthy shit.”

“I’m sorry sir, but we don’t permit people who chase their espresso with seltzer water to shit on the premises.”

“You fucking hipster piece of shit! Go and get me the goddamn manager, right now!”

“I am the manager, seltzer boy.”

And that’s all it took for me to feel alive again. A new life experience. I’ve never hit a man with glasses, but once I finally did, it felt better than any of the times I fucked fat bitches or any of the times I shot cum in Gina’s pretty little face.

This belligerent hipster fuck went flying into the espresso machine. He whimpered like the little bitch he truly was. Those stupid fucking red glasses were broke into pieces, and the pieces of my life were put back together.

Miraculously, I avoided jail. Maybe that fucking hipster had it coming. People around here are sick their shit. The whole demeanor of a hipster is that of a contemptuous know-it-all asshole. It’s a free country, do what you want, just don’t do it around me. And shave that ridiculous beard.

I told the story to Gina, who offered me her asshole for the first time as a celebratory gift. Her untouched, bleached-out asshole is finally mine! Something new! Can’t be mad about that. We stunk up the bedroom and she shit out my seed as I created a new blog called ‘The Wilted Hipster.’

It’s doing great. I’m finally getting the recognition I deserve.

Fine Diamonds Gentlemen’s Club (366 Parsecs From the Sturgeon-Clements Galaxy) In the Year of Our Lord 2033

I watched Ruby gyrate on stage, her ass swinging like a pair of churchbells. Long, high-heeled legs carried her from the pole to the half-dozen mooks huddled before her, shimmying in one of six pre-programmed routines. Heavy rock music smothered the whirring of rotors in her hips, her neck.

In red neon she looked bathed in blood.

The mooks whistled and hooted, tossing dollar bills at Ruby’s feet—old habits died hardest in titty bars—but otherwise behaved themselves. Until they grabbed her or stuffed money into her bald box I left them alone.

I went back to my poem.

“Hank! Are you even paying attention? Jesus, do something!”

Ruby had unhooked her bra, flung it behind the stage, and continued reaching to unhook it again. The mooks found it hilarious, whooping each time her tits strained upward.

Sometimes the girls’ circuits got stuck in a loop and it’s no big deal. Ruby, though, had shredded the MetaFlesh between her shoulder blades; it hung in flaps, revealing the steel column of her spine.

I dropped my pencil, uttering a curse, and shambled to her.

This was why a lot of clubs had switched to holochicks.

I looked like an asshole, dragging my bulk onstage. The mooks taunted me accordingly. One of them told me to shake it, baby, and threw a dollar. I pocketed it.

Heath didn’t like it when I worked on girls in the open—spoils the illusion, he said, like the illusion wasn’t the goddamn point—but Ruby had torn herself up good, and he hatedspending money on repairs.

Heath’s the owner of Fine Diamonds. He’s a cocksucker.

Ruby was an easy fix. I tinkered with a few knobs under the plate on her back and she resumed grinding and humping like she was supposed to. The tear in her flesh needed patched but could wait.

When I returned to the bar Joe had an earful for me.

“The fuck do we pay you for, Hank, to write your little love notes? Keep that barstool from getting cold?”

Joe managed the place. Most nights he sat with his buddies from the Satan’s Pilgrims. Joe used to ride with the Pilgrims until his ticker acted up; a couple of his boys remained on hand for security. I called them Motherfucker #1 and Motherfucker #2. Not to their face.

“Sorry, Joe.”

“Go grab another case of Yuengling, Shakespeare, Nikki’s almost out.”

The beer was heavy and carrying it hurt my back; I’m not a young man anymore. I plunged bottles two at a time into the ice chest, thinking how good one would feel sliding down my throat.

“He’s only putting on a show for his biker pals, you know.”

Nikki looked sympathetic. She was real but had enough piercings to be practically half-metal. She used to dance before Heath brought in the robots, still had the legs and ass to show for it.

“Yeah, I know.”

She slipped a Yuengling into my palm.

“On the house, writer man.”

“You’re a good gal, Nikki. Why don’t we sneak back to the VIP room? I’ll give you the ol’ blue-veined behemoth.”

“Maybe when you’re rich and famous, Hank.”

Fine Diamonds had some nice scenery—Sapphire, Emerald, Jewel, they were some well put-together robots—but Nikki was the best thing about the job, blueballs notwithstanding. On the worst nights I could watch those legs—real skin, not that MetaFlesh horseshit—or her too-short skirt filled out just right.

I’d written at least twenty poems about her, published most of them. She had no idea.

The poem I’d been working on had turned to vapor in my absence. I tried summoning the next line, that beautiful next line, but it was gone.

Fuck. I sucked my Yuengling and brooded.

I’d expected working in a titty bar would be fun and Christ, had I been wrong. When it was dead, time moved so slowly not even writing could curb the ennui. Busy nights, you got to watch other people enjoy themselves, scrambled to restock the bar or prevent the clientele from damaging the merchandise (whether she’s flesh or steel, some men just loved seeing a woman broken by their hand). And the VIP room? Jesus.

The job made sure I had booze and books, gave me a tiny room above the Korean market, and was about all I had left in me to do. God help me, some nights I wished I was back in the post office.

The egg timer at Joe’s elbow chimed.

“Hank, go tell Sapphire her fifteen’s up.”

The VIP room—little more than a glorified closet—occupied a dark corridor in back of the club. Thumping bass from the DigiJuke drowned out most incidental noise, as intended.

I rapped my knuckles on the door. “Time’s up, Sapphire. Let’s go.”

I gave it half a minute. Some guys aren’t finished when the timer goes off. Usually I cracked the door—not enough to embarrass anyone, but to deliver the message fifteen minutes meant fifteen minutes.

The doorknob didn’t move.

“Who the fuck told you it was okay to lock this door?”

I pounded hard, like a cop.

“Sonofabitch, if I gotta break down this door—”

The knob clicked, turned. The door creaked open a hair. Pissed off, I kicked it the rest of the way.

Some scrawny college-looking prick yanked his pants over a pair of bony hips, still wearing the rubber he’d just shot into. Behind him, on the cracked vinyl loveseat, Sapphire sat in re-dress mode.

“Goddamn, Grandpa, I just wanted some privacy.”

“Think that sign doesn’t apply to you? Next time I’ll bend you over the bar, stick a beer bottle up your ass. We’ll talk privacy then.”

He scurried off. At least the prick used a rubber. Lots of guys don’t, even though it’s club policy.

I gave the loveseat a once-over, raised the cushions with my foot and scanned for wadded tissues, condom wrappers, anything left behind in the throes of passion. Once I knew no one would plop into a stranger’s love juice I sprayed some deodorizer (the air reeked of fucksweat) and corralled Sapphire into the dressing room.

There I rinsed out Sapphire’s mouth, cunt, and asshole, again grateful that the college twerp had bagged it. Then I swabbed her down with a disinfectant cloth, careful to get into her navel, behind her ears, her cleavage. Places where men liked to drool.

This part I didn’t mind so much. Sapphire was built fair-skinned and willowy, even had a small patch of cinnamon-colored pubic hair I thought was real sexy.

I sent her into the club. Ruby passed us on her way to the VIP room. With her stood a pudgy fella that I’d seen sitting alone by the stage.

“Half an hour,” Ruby said.

I sat at the bar and waited for something to happen. The night was winding down—a couple of mooks would want a turn in back, asking twenty minutes before closing time, the bastards. I’d never left this shithole on time.

One of these days my luck had to change. The writing would finally bring in some real money, at least enough I could afford to quit.

The music thumped on.

When the egg timer dinged I headed to the VIP room. Knocked.

“Come on, does every sonofabitch need an engraved invitation to move their ass—”

I threw open the door.

“Aw shit. Shit. Joe! HEY, JOE!”

Pudgy Fella sprawled on the loveseat, vacant eyes stuck toward the ceiling. His mouth locked in the O he’d tried screaming through over the DigiJuke. Blood spilled over the cushions, pooling on the floor.

Ruby crouched in the blood, head bobbing over his groin in slow, pre-programmed rhythm. She’d gnawed the cock that had been in her mouth to gristle.

“Jesus-fuck, Hank, what happened?”

Joe stood behind me, flanked by Motherfuckers #1 and #2. He looked pale.

“Hank, watch the door. Anyone shows up, tell them we closed early.”

“Right.”

“He come in with somebody?”

“No. And he’s wearing a wedding band. Probably didn’t tell anyone he was coming.”

“Good, that’s real good. We’ll take care of it from here, Hank.”

I didn’t argue. I took Joe’s spot at the bar, watched the door like I was told. Prayed this wouldn’t be the night Heath showed up to count the till.

Nikki asked if I’d seen a ghost.

“Wish I had. Gimme a belt of Wild Turkey, will you? Extenuating circumstances.”

Joe came back not too long after. The color returned to his cheeks. The Motherfuckers were nowhere to be seen.

“We got it under control, Hank. My boys are taking care of the mess.”

“All right.”

“You’re a team player, ain’t you, Hank? You’re not gonna fuck us on this?”

Joe smiled, but I knew a threat when I heard one. I was about to learn just how much he minded having me around.

“I think it’s time we talked promotion, Hank. Got you invested in the business.”

“Christ, no! I can’t stand it here as it is!”
“That’s because you’re not part of the team. You’d have our back, we have yours.”

He grinned again, his eyes spelling it out. The Motherfuckers could handle two stiffs as easily as one.

“Okay, so let’s talk benefits.”

“What’d you have in mind?”

I told him.

“Absolutely not. Heath would hang my balls on his mantle.”

“I’ll bring her back, of course. C’mon, Joe, I thought you trusted me.”

Joe lit a cigarette. “Fine. But you know which one you’re getting, right?”

***

After we closed, Joe escorted me and Nikki to the parking lot. The girls had been hung in the dressing room on their charging hooks, except for Ruby. I’d cleaned her up and put her in street clothes, walked her to my car.

“Have fun,” Nikki said. “Don’t fall in love.”

“I won’t.”

Joe said, “See you tomorrow, Hank.”

Maybe he hoped Ruby would malfunction again, make me a problem he wouldn’t have to worry about. Maybe I hoped the same thing.

I laid Ruby in the backseat and pulled out. Above us the night sky yawned wide, infinite, gleaming with a million stars.