This is the place where the dogs have sharp teeth, growl, and occasionally bite.
Here, fiction lunges against the kennel fence, never gratuitous, but always straining at the chain.
The Velcro Chasuble
This was a piece written for a competition where the word count had to be below 2000 words. The word count is 1916.
I started when I was six years old, with Fr. Albert. Lighting the candles, swinging the censor, helping with the Eucharist. The trouble with Fr. Albert was that he was old and liked to do shit in Latin. It was his great misfortune to be a priest during Vatican II, and that was the end of that. I was fourteen when the new priest came, a young guy with long hair and a tiny earring, smart-alecky, always acting like he was the smartest guy in the room, Fr. Rich. He couldn’t have been more than twenty-six. He’d always give us a fucking pep talk back in the sacristy and was forever brushing something off me. What needed brushed was always on my ass, or if the folds in my robe weren’t right, the problem was always near my crotch. Funny, right? He would let his hand linger, not enough to be creepy, but enough to be annoying—and obvious. What do you do, and who would believe it?
“Nick Reynolds?”
“Right here,” I raised my hand.
“They’re running about ten minutes behind with the interviews, but will get to you as soon as they can. Sorry about that,” she said with a smile.
“Hey, that’s OK,” I said, also with a smile. What else could I do? I’d just graduated from St. Pantaleon University and was now waiting for my seminary entrance interview. They had us backed up in the waiting room, some guys wore blacks and a collar, others had crucifixes hanging around their neck like liturgical bling, and one guy was there with his parents.
Christ.
That was a little over the top for me. It was an entrance interview for the seminary, not the fucking papal college. I wore khakis, a shirt, and a tie. I don’t know, maybe they thought if they rubbed their crucifix hard enough, they’d sail through.
We’d already done the psychological testing, and these guys waiting with me had passed.
That should tell you all you need to know about “psychological” tests.
Each interview would take about forty minutes. There were two priests, you could pick one—sort of a “good cop”—and you were assigned the other. I didn’t know any of the seminary faculty, so I didn’t make any choices. The guys around me were all talking about Fr. Bruce and what an ass he could be. I wonder what they thought parish life would be like.
They have your undergraduate class record, any reports from your professors, letters of recommendation, and a record of any disciplinary actions taken. Once that had been gone over, they could ask you anything they wanted. Each interview is scored from highest to lowest; they decide how many seminarians they want to take in the new class and draw a red line under that number. Those selected are sent letters, and they have three business days to declare their intent to attend. If they decline, the next person on the list is asked.
I’d already decided that if they asked me how I managed once the scholarship ran out, I’d tell them I tended bar. It wasn’t an outright lie, certainly bars and alcohol were involved in what I did, but I figured if I told them I worked the last eighteen months as a stripper in a male review, they might think I’d look for a chasuble with a Velcro back.
Christ, I felt like I was already editing myself for the Church.
“Mr. Reynolds? They’re ready for you, now.”
Just like being on stage: SHOW TIME BOYS! SHAKE THAT ASS!
And there he was: the infamous Fr. Bruce.
Both priests had their top shirt buttons open and their collars only in one tab; they looked as if they had sat at a bar all day and heard confessions from people who lived in bus shelters.
“How are you, Nick?” Fr. Bruce asked with a smile, looking down at his notes, “This is Fr. Martin, he teaches Latin at the seminary.” I said hello, and Fr. Martin nodded. It was clear Fr. Bruce was the stage manager of this production.
“Impressive academic record, Nick, no problems there. No disciplinary action—I never know if that’s a good thing or not, no one’s perfect, are they, Nick?” Again, that smile. I thought to myself that must have been the last earthly thing Grandma saw before the Big Bad Wolf devoured her.
Fr. Bruce paused.
It’s funny when I think of it now. Fr. Rich keeping his hand on my ass, or “accidentally” touching my crotch when he straightened the folds in the robe. For the last eighteen months I dressed in pull-apart costumes held together with Velcro, jock straps, and if it was a private party, completely naked, save for a black bowtie. Hands were all over my body as I danced, waistband pulled open, money deposited, a lingering look, a caress, then the SNAP, as it pulled back around my waist. None of that bothered me. I wondered if Fr. Bruce wanted to know any of this?
“Can you tell us about when you decided to become a priest?” Fr. Martin asked, in a sort of nasally voice, Latin would be a blast.
Some guys know from birth, good for them. My Damascus Road moment came about five months ago, when I was in jockstrap grinding my ass in a guy’s lap at a private party—he convinced me.
“Sure,” I said, in full-on bullshit mode. “I was working—”
“What is it that you did, Nick?” Fr. Bruce asked.
“I tended bar and helped out at a social agency.”
“An agency affiliated with the Church?” Fr. Martin asked.
“No,” I replied, “It was a private agency that did contractual work.”
It was a private agency, alright, we specialized in nudity for the sexually repressed, women who couldn’t get it at home, and guys who didn’t know what the fuck they were, save for drunk, high, horny, or a combination of all. But the beauty of dollar signs is that they don’t discriminate between drunk or sober, male or female. The funny thing about being a stripper is that you’re always surprised at who you meet…until you aren’t.
“I’m sorry. I interrupted you,” Fr. Martin said, “Please go on.”
Fr. Bruce’s eyes bored into me, as if he were Superman and had X-ray vision. What he didn’t know was that I’d seen eyes like those before.
“It was late at night, and we were getting ready to close when I saw him.”
That was true. It was late; I saw him, and I saw the fifty he was waving at me. I smiled and began to make my way over, stopping to spin at this table, hands above my head, gyrate at the next table, and ass thrust out for desperate hands to feel.
“He was sitting by himself, he looked as if he didn’t have a friend in the world, smoking some generic brand of cigarettes. He motioned me over. I thought he wanted to talk.”
He didn’t want to talk; he wanted a handful of ass and to pull the waistband of my jock open wide and have a good look. He reminded me of a guy who had been starving, then had a magnificent meal placed in front of him, and all he could do was lick his lips and drool. Fucking lust—isn’t that a deadly sin?
Butthere was something off about Fr. Bruce—like he knew me from somewhere or recognized me.
“Is that when you knew?” Fr. Martin asked. Fr. Bruce had stopped asking questions and sat watching me. Then I remembered.
Oh, I knew, Fr. Martin, I knew. I danced over in front of him, he motioned for me to turn around, and I did, I felt his hands on my ass, as I continued to move. I turned around, and he pulled my waistband out, and just looked, and looked, and looked. His eyes seemed to glow in the dark, almost as if he were reptilian. He motioned me closer, and I sat down on his knees, waistband pulled again, then I remembered: Fr. Fucking Rich. I ground my ass onto his knees, his hands on my hips, he leaned in to kiss me, but I leaned back and said, “Hello Fr. Rich—remember me?” That’s all it took; if the guy was hard, he wasn’t anymore.
“That’s exactly when I knew,” I said. “I’d never seen a person who needed as much help as he did.”
Had I never started stripping, I wouldn’t have given a flying fuck about the priesthood. But when I saw that pervert masquerading as a priest, the guy who had liked to stroke the ass and crotch of a fourteen-year-old, I decided. It wasn’t heroic, no blinding light or still soft voice. I just figured Christ had enough priests dishing out forgiveness; what he really needed was priests standing watch. He needed a Nehemiah to stand in the breach of the wall.
“I feel like I know you from somewhere,” Fr. Bruce said. Now I began to wonder. I did do parties where people wore masks—maybe Fr. Bruce wasn’t so fatherly after all.
“Maybe,” I said, “I tended bar at a lot of private parties. Some high-end, where all the guests wore masks.” I laughed, “I don’t suppose you go to any of those, but as you said, no one’s perfect.”
“Not even priests,” Fr. Bruce said, a smile never leaving his face.
So, I had a priest play more than grab-ass with me at a party. The same guy who decided it was OK to run his fucking hands up and down the body of a fourteen-year-old, and fuck knows how many others. This is the goddamn priesthood? And Fr. Bruce is gonna try and call me out on it? Fuck that. Self-righteous ass—yet another reason to become a priest. It’s hard to figure out what the Church needs more: prevention or redemption.
I made it through the seminary without ever wearing Velcro or a jock.
Never saw Fr. Bruce again. That’s fine. The church is full of dead people.
Near the time for ordination, each of us is invited to make a General Confession, which is the equivalent of a PhD dissertation of all your sins. Not just what you’ve done since your last confession, but everything. When you sign up for a time to make this confession, the slots are for an hour—a goddamned hour. I could have spent days in that fucking box.
I glossed over the Velcro years and did what most candidates for the priesthood do: make up enough shit so that you don’t sound sanctimonious (that’s a privilege reserved for the hierarchy), but keep the sin generic: swearing, maybe some porn, masturbation, not keeping the commandments, anger, lust, the sort of shit everyone does.
No one’s perfect-right?
I often wonder what a guy like Fr. Rich says when he goes to confession.
Oh well, it’s not like you can fail a confession.
I don’t want to be too hard on Fr. Rich, though; in many ways, he inspired me to become a priest. He was the perfect example of what the fuck not to be.
Revulsion is also a powerful motivator.
Prone on the cold floor of a cathedral, and BOOM—St. Isidore the Laborer Parish, Western Alleghenies, Diocese of Pittsburgh.
“The Lord be with you—“
And also with me.
Cowboys and Girls
This is the fourth piece in what I call the Rawhide Series. I decided not to enter it, and just to post it. It’s not for everyone, but of the four pieces, this is the ‘mildest’ of them. The word count is 5926.
They watch, endlessly spinning, smiling, locked in an embrace.
They see everyone who goes in, everyone who comes out, day and night.
Two rats below their Majesties, patrol parking lot. One alert, on hind feet; the other, neck-deep in a rotting banana.
They see it, for a moment, the plastic smile on the Cowboy’s face turns to panic, the Cowgirl’s plastic eyes swell—
Tears?
A mother opossum with joeys on her back runs across the road, hit by a coal truck, and tossed screaming into the air, lands on her back, broken, still breathing, eyes wide, panicked.
One joey survives, crawls to side of road, watches as his mother is picked to death alive by vultures.
Hears her screams, sees her tears.
Suddenly, the vultures smile at him —a soft caw-w-w-w-w-w —and then they pounce.
—
Far from the joey’s screams, nestled back amid the fragrant scent of tall pine trees, under an absolutely mesmerizing ultramarine blue, cloudless sky, sits a mass of concrete and steel. Sixty-four acres of razor wire, guard towers, massive fences, and steel doors. It sits, like a chancre on the face of the Alleghenies, belching steam from its generators and smoke from its kitchens into that blue, cloudless sky.
SCI Forest County.
Population: 2389
Maximum security.
Each morning, the antiquated PA system clears its static-congested electronic voice and plays Peer Gynt’s Morning Mood. At the same time, the high-pitched shriek of Warden Nisha Armstrong sings above the suite, in a descant, “Good morning, Forest County SCI, and together, let’s make this a great day.”
Mechanical sounds, locks disengaging, doors creak open, men peering out of their cells like fucking groundhogs looking for an early spring.
Hundreds line up, rubbing eyes and crotches.
Guards take their positions, and the music shifts.
Prokofiev’s Peter and the Wolf.
The line then begins to move slowly toward the cafeteria, men’s heads bob to the music.
Some smile.
Why not?
What’s another day in a life sentence?
It’s endless, like the Cowboy and Cowgirl spinning on their column.
Warden Nisha watches.
Smiles—noblesse oblige.
Then she sees him, 19768QLA, Nick Reynolds, or “Father” Nick, as his fellow inmates call him. He sees her watching, brushes his hand across his crotch, and smiles slightly. She smiles back and licks her lips, discreetly, of course.
The guards smirk: they know exactly what the Warden likes to eat.
Nick knows, too—and makes it a habit to feed her regularly.
—
Diesel smoke vomits into the air, and the suddenness of it causes the crows looking for well-seasoned roadkill to jump screeching into the air. Angry black wings fluttering, trying to gain lift before the thirty-seven-ton cement truck makes them into hood ornaments.
Too late.
One down.
7 AM.
The Rawhide.
So early, even the Cowboy and Cowgirl haven’t started to spin yet, no neon chaps or glowing lasso, just the nakedness of the ordinary, wrapped in an early morning, translucent mist. But they still manage a smile, and why not? Plastic is always hard.
Crews begin to arrive, cigarettes are lit, coffee is poured, energy can tops popped, as the crew wipes the remnants of last night from their eyes, as the smell of cheap aftershave mingles with cigarette smoke. Orders are given, and the crews resume work on the addition to the Rawhide.
The back door of the Rawhide opens, and Michael walks out. Twenty-three years old, well-built, dark hair cut short, no tats, no piercings, just jeans, work boots, and a checked shirt. Smiles at everyone, stops, talks to the men, answers questions, looks over the blueprints, and checks the construction schedule. The addition is an exotic dance club, well, as “exotic” as you can get in the Alleghenies.
It’s called The Stables.
From the rats’ point of view, it’s just more fucking cars driven by drunks for them to try and dodge.
The crows have gotten over their anger, even though there’s one less of them now, and are watching the cement being poured and block laid.
They see her truck pull in.
Laura.
Twenty-five, tight leather jeans, silver clasps up the side, rodeo shirt, open, lace bra, tanned cleavage, blond, and cowboy boots. Her dad, the “Mayor,” owns the business.
The men watch her walk over to Michael, their eyes hungry. Michael smiles, slips his arm around her waist, pulls her into him as she kisses him.
“How’s the construction going?”
“Right on schedule,” Michael says as another load of cement is poured. “What’s your dad have to say?”
She smiles, “He complains about the numbers, then re-reads your projections, and smiles.”
“You going to be able to get the girls?”
Laura smiles, then feels his arm tighten around her waist, “Yeah, I’m going out to the Pines before the store opens today, to ask around.”
The cement truck rolls by, empty, headed out for another load. Across the front of the truck, a crow, black wings spread, stuck to the radiator, one eye open, dull and lifeless, the other closed, its feathers blowing in the wind.
Neon flashes, it flashes again, then finally comes on. The sound of metal creaking, as it aches to start the day, and the Cowboy and Cowgirl come to life—another day of spinning, smiles, and an endless embrace.
—
The Pines was a trailer park that sat in the shadow of an old strip mine, amidst stunted pines and an oily stream. Garbage flowed freely from cans and blew around single and double-wides, all sitting at odd angles, most with flat tires, some on cinder blocks, others with dents in the roof, broken railings on porches, and carports tipped the fuck over.
A human landfill.
The weak, it devoured.
The strong managed to tame it, but even they knew that all it took was a slip, a show of weakness, and the Pines would clean its teeth with their bones.
Michael had been strong; he grew up there, tamed it, and ruled it—for a while.
Laura had lived there; she knew the girls and once ran them. She became known as the “Queen.” Now Birdie ran the girls.
Rodney watched Laura’s truck drive slowly through the Pines, running over garbage in the road, and emptying the truck’s ashtray out the window as she drove.
Bitch.
He lifted his shirt and scratched the stoma where his colostomy bag was attached.
It seeps slightly.
Fucking Medicaid doctors.
His sweat-stained shirt is now slightly shit-stained as well. He’s overweight, missing his bottom teeth, and once ran the drug operation in the Pines.
Then Michael, fucking Michael.
Took over.
There was a small gang war, and in the end, Michael shot Rodney, but he survived and was given a colostomy bag as a gift. These days, Rodney lived off SNAP, Medicaid, and the few drugs he still ran. But no one took him seriously anymore.
He hated the Queen, but he hated Michael more.
Laura’s truck stops in front of a trailer that sits level, with a clean exterior, garbage in cans with lids. It’s her old trailer; now Birdie lives there, but before she can knock, Rodney calls out.
“Well, well, look who the fuck is here: your Majesty. What’s the matter? No one buying whips and handcuffs today?”
Laura, who hates Rodney more than he hates her, smiles, “Rodney, good to see you. If I’d known you’d be here, I would have picked up a strap-on for you. It must be a bitch trying to get that small dick of yours up, with a bag of shit attached to your side.”
Rodney lights a cigarette, pops a beer, and takes a long slurp. Beer drizzles down his unshaved face and onto his shit-stained shirt. He watches a rat run across the road and smiles. He can remember a time when he would have slapped the cunt, but—
“Tell Michael maybe I’ll see him around,” he says instead.
Laura, still smiling, said, “You know, Michael, he’s always ready to see old friends, especially you.”
Birdie answers the door, Laura steps in, and blows Rodney a kiss as the door closes.
Rodney watches as the sun begins to heat the aluminum steps of his trailer.
Hatred. Rage.
Emotions that the Pines thrive on, but are dangerous, especially where Michael is concerned.
No mistakes this time.
—
Birdie is in puffy pajama pants and a Superman tank top, no makeup, eyes swollen and red, her hair hangs in her face. She’s only twenty-two but looks rode hard and put away wet.
“You busy?” Laura asks; she knows.
“No, he’s gone,” Birdie replies.
“We’re adding a club to the Rawhide, and we want to hire some dancers. Got anyone?”
“How many?” Birdie asks, reaching for a pack of brightly colored pills, as Laura watches.
“Twelve to start, all clean, no arrests, no drugs,” Laura replies, pointing to Birdie’s pack.
Birdie smiles. “The doctor gave them to me—”
“Dr. Rodney,” Laura replies.
Silence.
“Anyway,” Laura continues, “They need to start next week. Michael brought someone in to teach them dance routines; they’ll make minimum wage, but they keep all their tips. But no fucking drugs. At all.”
Birdie smiles, “Michael running things now that Nick’s in prison?” Birdie knows Michael, and she also knows what happened to Laura’s sister.
Now it’s Laura’s turn to smile. She doesn’t speak; she just reaches for a cigarette, takes her time lighting it, looks out the window into the sunlight, no one’s around, Rodney’s gone. Exhales, still not speaking, walks over to the couch, sits down, and crosses her long legs.
Birdie’s smile slowly fades; she worked for Laura once and knew what she was capable of. She shivered, but Laura saw it, “You cold, Birdie? You want me to turn the A/C down a little?”
Birdie recovered, “No, I’m fine—”
Laura’s smile fades, “Then stop talking about shit you don’t know anything about. Who’s running things is none of your fucking business, and if you mention Nick’s name in front of me again, I’ll give you more than just puffy goddamn eyes. Yes or fucking no, do you have twelve girls that want to work or not?”
Laura was now standing. She dropped her cigarette on the floor and put it out with the toe of her cowboy boot, grinding it into the carpet of Birdie’s trailer. She never took her eyes off Birdie.
Birdie wets herself, but just a drop or two.
“OK, when do you want them?”
Laura now smiles, “A week from today, and thanks.”
Laura gives her a quick kiss and is out the door.
She can smell Rodney before she sees him.
Shivers.
“What the fuck did she want?”
“Michael is opening a strip club behind the Rawhide and needs dancers.”
Rodney’s bottom lip folds in on his gum as he smiles, no bottom teeth. He begins to walk away and doesn’t notice that two flies have hitched a ride on his bag.
—
Oh, What a Beautiful Morning echoes from the concrete and steel chancre, out across the Alleghenies. The Cowboy, in his forever backless chaps with his forever topless girlfriend, hears it. Their spin becomes lyrical, as he seems to pull her closer. His plastic arm soars in the air as they spin, perched high on their column, as he shows her the vastness of the Alleghenies.
She smiles, ageless plastic tits still hard and pointed.
His ageless plastic ass still taut and tanned.
No neon yet, it’s too early.
The two rats are up on their hind legs, eyes blinking, whiskers twitching. They see the remains of the joey along the road, two crows surround it, looking for leftovers.
They peck.
—
The music fades as the giant steel cages open, and men emerge, shielding their eyes from the sunlight, choking on fresh air and the smell of real pine, not some fucking disinfectant.
The shrill, high-pitched voice of Warden Nisha slices through the air like a chainsaw through a tree.
“What a beautiful morning, SCI Forest County! Ninety minutes, enjoy!”
High fences, razor wire, just on the other side of it, tall, green pines, and the sparkling water of Spring Creek: The Promised Land.
Inside.
Black asphalt stained with piss and blood. Basketball hoops with no nets, weaponized too many times. Metal bleachers, hot from the sunlight, burned through the thin orange jumpsuits and into the asses of the men who sat here. Not shade, except for the thin shadows cast by the guard towers.
Not even a fucking bird.
Nothing worth scavenging.
Only the dead calm of futility and the promise that one day would be like the next and the next and the next.
One of the guards walks up to Nick and sits down next to him.
“Confession?” Nick asks with a smile.
The guard smiles.
“Word in town is that your boy is opening a strip club. His girlfriend, you remember her, don’t you? You murdered her sister—”
Nick smiles as he folds and unfolds his hands; he remembers.
“She was out at the Pines recruiting girls to dance.”
“How do you know?”
“One of the guard’s moms lives out there, she told him. Some fucking guy named Rodney who shits out his side was telling people, and she heard it.”
Nick knew Rodney, and why he shit out his side, he didn’t give a fuck, but he still smiled.
He closed his eyes for just an instant and imagined himself choking Michael to death, fucking Laura, then burying her alive. Still, though, he had to give credit where credit was due, and he admired Michael’s entrepreneurial spirit.
Almost wished him well.
Almost.
“Hey,” the guard nudged him, Aren’t you supposed to be working out? You know you put on weight and the Warden won’t want to fuck you anymore—”
Nick smiled, put his hand on his cock, and stroked it, “This is what the Warden likes.”
The guard stood, “There’s a package in your room. She wants you to wear it tonight.”
—
A fawn stands in Spring Creek, then begins to walk on unsteady legs toward the fence. The inmates see it and walk toward the fence. The fawn sees them, studies them, as if they’re animals in a fucking petting zoo. Sadly, the fawn has no food to toss to them and scampers into the woods.
An older inmate, another lifer, one tear.
—
The Cowboy and Cowgirl are now alive in neon and happily spinning on their column; the Rawhide is open.
Low light inside illuminates the covers of glossy, oversized magazines, all prophylactically covered in cum-resistant shrink wrap.
Gloves are in a box by the entrance.
Wear them.
People are inside, but a porn store is like a fucking library, only very low whispers—and the occasional moan. Deviancy requires discretion. Magazines bought, Social Security checks cashed, gear purchased, young people head across the street to the sleazy motel with DVDs, old timers head to parked pickups full of Kleenex and go to work.
Online orders come in all day, and Laura works on filling those in between taking care of customers.
Night comes, and the Cowboy and his girl shine even brighter in the darkness. The lone light in the parking lot goes on, but most who come in prefer the dark. Despite how warm it is, some vehicle windows are up and steamy.
Only one rat appears and sits in the shadows on a busted parking lot block. He can hear the low squeaks; his partner has given birth to seven pups. He watches for the cat, but sees a car parked along the road—no lights on, except for the soft glow of a cigarette. The car’s window is cracked, and he sees smoke escaping.
It’s almost closing time.
The phone rings in a large log cabin home that sits back off the road. Michael answers and hears, “Howdy, pardner.” He smiles; he knows it’s Laura.
“What’s going on, cowgirl?”
Now Laura smiles.
“I think I’ll bring my lasso home tonight,” she says.
Michael smiles as he feels himself start to get hard and slowly rubs his crotch.
“What time?”
“By midnight,” she says, “What are you working on?” She knew that Michael always worked.
“Some computer stuff for your dad, but now—” Michael’s hand dropped to his cock, “I was thinking of you and that lasso.”
“You got anything I can toss it around?”
Michael looks down at his crotch, “Yeah, you can’t miss it.”
Click.
—
Last customer exits the Rawhide as the Cowboy and Cowgirl grind to a halt. Their neon outline flickers once, then out. Now they smile naked in the moonlight. High heels sound a dull staccato on the wooden floor of the Rawhide as Laura, smiling, begins locking doors, taking cash to a safe, and turning lights out.
She’s got a date with a Cowboy and doesn’t notice that the car is still across the street, still the soft red glow of a cigarette, and still the exhale of smoke.
A second car pulls in and drives behind the building, slowly, lights off.
Another shadow —the rat sees it, knows instinctively —the cat, almost invisible.
Laura’s heels still echo on the floor, oblivious, other things on her mind.
The rat watches as the cat moves slowly to the old crate his pups live in.
Rodney gets out, crawls up to the front door, chains it to a parking lot light, walks back to his car, leans against it, smiling. Lights a cigarette, doesn’t care if he’s seen—his bag seeps.
The cat now waits in the brush, right in front of the crate, eyes glow.
The sound of heels stops in front of the window; lights out inside, Laura looks out, and now she sees.
Heart rate spikes, mild panic.
The rat knows what will happen—
The sound of giggling from the back of the store, like kids; trunk opens; metal hits the ground, and then the lovely hiss of propane spilling into the air.
From the crate, the sound of the pups squeaking, their mother frantic, running to the front of the crate and back.
Light flares in front of Rodney, an object in the air, glass shatters, and then a WHOOSH!
The cat jumps, frightened by the explosion, and charges the crate.
Laura at the door, pounding, shouting, fists against the glass.
The mother rat fights against the cat, biting wherever she can, screaming. The cat breaks her neck, takes two pups, and runs.
Rodney sees Laura in the window, like a fucking bee in a jar. Watches her collapse, flames now everywhere.
Hears Laura scream once more.
No one hears the rat scream.
Then just sirens and flashing lights.
—
1 AM and Laura’s not home yet. Michael tries to call the Rawhide, but the line rings busy. He can hear sirens in the distance and begins to wonder if something has happened. Grabs his keys and his 9mm.
You never know.
As he drives toward the Rawhide, the highway is full of flashing lights, and the sounds of sirens get louder.
Then he sees it.
A smoldering pile of melted rubber and latex, burned pieces of porn magazines, caught in the breeze, blow around the Rawhide like a snow squall. The inside is charred and black, windows blown out, and the parking lot is now covered in broken glass. Whips have melted to the wall, and dildos fused in a large, colorful pile of plastic resin.
The Cowboy’s ass slightly melted, and his girl has one less hard tit.
But Laura—
He asks the paramedic, who tells him she’s alive, burned badly, and has been airlifted to Pittsburgh.
Back in his truck, Michael starts the two-hour drive to Pittsburgh. When he gets on I-76, he stops at the first truck stop he passes.
Gets out.
Stands beside his car.
And SCREAMS into the night.
He falls to the ground, fingers trying to tear up oil-stained asphalt, howls like a fucking animal, clawing at the ground, trying to get his hands around something to rip apart.
At the fucking Pines, Rodney the King celebrates, tells everyone what he has done.
He’s a hero.
A legend.
An urban myth.
A leader. Again.
Does a line of coke, then shivers, just a little, thinks he hears something.
Faint.
Sounds like a wounded animal.
Or a Monster?
Then laughs.
Bag leaks inside his waistband.
Cockroach climbs out from under the refrigerator, watches.
Runs back.
—
At the hospital, Laura is in bed, surrounded by the brightly colored lights of the machinery keeping her alive; she almost looks like the Cowgirl in neon. The steady beep—beep—beep becomes the bass tone for all who enter the room. The gentle swoosh of oxygen, her chest expanding and contracting, side of her face and one arm covered in white gauze, nurses in and out, smile at Michael, who sits by the bed holding her hand, one tear.
The doctor enters and explains the wounds to Michael. She’s being kept sedated for her own comfort. She’ll need subsequent surgeries, but she’ll recover. Michael shakes the doctor’s hand, then steps out of the room, walks toward the elevator, goes down, and out the front door.
Walks along Ohio River, 9 PM, fingers dig into the concrete railing and he fucking howls again, expelling all the air in his lungs, but he goes on, until he’s coughing and gasping for air.
Tears.
Fists open and close.
Teeth clenched.
Then calm.
He knows what happens when he allows pure emotion to run free in him; tells himself, “Play the long game, Michael.”
Phone out, text sent to Clarion, Pennsylvania.
Detective Sergeant Yan, friend, also responsible for Nick’s imprisonment.
Walks back to hospital.
Phone signals, Michael looks down, message from Yan, smiley face emoji.
Two days later, Michael hasn’t moved. Laura stirs.
Eyes open slowly, Michael stands, her eyes need to focus, and for an instant, she thinks she’s back at her place, then she remembers. Sees Michael and whispers, “Howdy, pardner.”
Michael smiles, and before he can stop himself, he kisses her.
Not lustful but loving.
He whispers, “Who?”
He still has her hand, squeezes gently, she turns her head away.
Again, “Who?”
She looks at the ceiling.
Then.
One word.
“Rodney.”
This time, Michael’s smile widens, as if he’s anticipating something.
She shivers, grabs his hand hard, “Don’t,” is all she says, then drifts off to a drug-induced sleep.
Michael sits back down in his chair, still holding her hand.
Sees a text from Yan, two words:
“On way.”
Michael’s head nods.
—
The Cowboy with the melted ass, and a smile that now drops in one corner, looks over at his forever Cowgirl with one tit hard and the other melted. They survey their kingdom of melted sex toys and charred magazines, the glossiness reflected back to them in the sunlight. They watch the rat as he weeps for his pups and his wife.
They hear the music echoing across the hills, the faint slam of iron gates, as the prisoners at SCI Forest are allowed out of their cages, for all the animals in the forest to watch.
Nick finds a seat as a guard walks over.
“Heard there was a fire,” he tells Nick. “The Rawhide burned,” he continues, “and your boy’s girlfriend was airlifted to Pittsburgh.”
Now Nick is interested.
“Michael?”
“He wasn’t there, only her.”
“How do you know?”
“Same guy at the Pines.”
“Rodney,” Nick whispers and then begins to laugh. “Can you get me a pen and a piece of paper?”
“Anything for the Warden’s favorite fuck.”
Ten minutes later, Nick writes:
Hello Michael, heard you had a bit of excitement over at Rawhide.
Glad to hear you’re OK, and Laura is hotter than ever.
The sun begins to beat down as two raccoons wander over to the fence and stand on their hind legs to watch Nick. He smiles, slowly stands up, and walks over to the fence. The raccoons don’t move.
Nick pretends to lunge at them, but they don’t move.
He growls and hisses at them, but they don’t move.
He gets angry now and shakes the fence at them, but they don’t move.
Enraged, he kicks the fence, but his leg gets caught, and he falls face-first into it.
One raccoon bends over, eye level with Nick, and smirks, then ambles away.
Who’s the animal?
—
At the Pines, Rodney has established himself as royalty amidst the squalor, the master of all the human trash he sees. When small voices shout out to him from under trailers or inside wrecked cars, “But did you kill Michael?” Rodney is careful how he answers and says, “What the fuck do you think?” The voices then giggle and fade back into silence.
For the moment, Rodney has bent the Pines to his own will.
But a car is pulling into the Pines and making its way slowly through Rodney’s kingdom, back to his palace on concrete blocks. It pulls up as Rodney is holding court from his front porch. He stops talking as all the eyes around him focus on the car when the door opens.
Yan steps out slowly, wearing a suit, slowly closes the door, checks his phone, responds to a message, laughs at another one, ignoring the king.
“Who the fuck are you?” Rodney says from the broken steps of his porch, but Yan is still checking his phone, ignoring the king.
“You fucking hard of hearing?” Rodney motions to some of his subjects, and they move toward Yan, who turns quickly, pulls out his pistol, and fires it into the air. The subjects scatter as the gun is slowly lowered to the level of Rodney’s chest and remains there.
A bit of liquid squirts into Rodney’s bag.
“Good morning, I’m Detective Sergeant Yan. Laura, you remember, the woman you tried to trap inside the Rawhide when you set it on fire, whispered just one word: ‘Rodney.’ And do you know who she whispered that one word to? Your old friend Michael.”
A low murmur begins among his subjects; they wonder if maybe their king isn’t so royal after all.
“And now, you’re coming in with me for questioning.”
“I’m not going anywhere; you got no proof. Laura’s a lyin’ bitch.”
“Suit yourself. Michael will be back from Pittsburgh this week, and you two can chat then.”
There’s a pause, Yan checks his phone again, sends a text, listens to a voice message, then calls Leone’s to order a sub for lunch.
No movement from Rodney.
“OK,” Yan says, “Have a good—”
“Wait,” Rodney says, “I’ll go answer your fucking questions.” Then he turns to what few subjects are still in front of his trailer, a two-year-old with no shirt on wearing a diaper, walking by with his sister, “I’ll be back goddamnit,” and the two-year-old just waves and smiles.
And drools.
One last text.
Michael’s phone signals.
Laura is now talking and awake most days. Her wounds have started to heal, but the doctors have told Michael she’ll be in the hospital for another couple of weeks. Michael has not been back to Marienville since the fire and has remained in her hospital room.
“You going to move in down here?” Laura asks with a smile.
Michael laughs, easy. “Getting tired of me?” He asks.
She squeezes his hand, “Never.”
“I have to go back to Marienville, but I won’t be gone more than two days. I need to take care of a few problems.”
“Michael, you’re not going to—”
“Kill Rodney?”
She nodded her head.
“No. Just a little come-to-Jesus meeting. I’m going to give Rodney the chance to admit what he did, then to convince me of how sorry he is.”
“Just don’t kill him, Michael.”
“For you, I won’t.”
—
The Cowboy doesn’t spin anymore; his forever smile slopes to one side.
The cowgirl with one pointed tit and one that’s melted still smiles, lasso dissolved into her side.
They stand, frozen in time, above the black remains and acrid smells of what was once the Rawhide, a pornographic emporium nestled in the Alleghenies.
This western duo now stands in darkness, their neon wardrobe shorted out by the fire, and for the first time in their epoxy-resin-filled lives, they feel naked. If the Cowboy could, he would lower his arm to cover the bare ass he was once so proud of.
—
The sun has set over the Alleghenies, but it’s still hot.
“Where the fuck are we going?” Rodney whines from the backseat of Yan’s car. “We’ve been driving for over an hour.”
Yan whistles and slows the car down to just below the speed limit.
“Come on, man! What the fuck! Ask your goddamn questions and let me out. You didn’t even read me my fucking rights!”
Rodney’s righteous indignation is lost on Yan, who continues to whistle The Battle Hymn of the Republic.
“What the fuck is that song you’re whistling?” Rodney asks.
Yan begins to sing softly; I can read His righteous sentence by the dim and flaring lamps…His day is marching on.
Then to Rodney, “Sing it with me, Rodney: Glory, Glory, hallelujah…”
But Rodney doesn’t sing; he begins to moan.
The car stops, Rodney has dozed off, and suddenly opens his eyes. He can’t see where he’s at.
The rat walks lazily in front of the cat, stops, looks at the cat, and pretends to limp away.
“Get out,” Yan says, opening the back door. Rodney smells; his bag has leaked on him.
The cat begins to follow the rat, slowly. Why hurry? He’s faster than the rat anyway.
London Excavation, the place Nick worked, there’s a light on inside, and as Rodney walks through the door, he sees—
The rat trots along down near the edge of the river, pretending not to notice that the cat is following, a bit quicker now, the rat knows, but the cat doesn’t—
Michael.
A trapline.
“Hello Rodney, long time no see, take a seat.” Michael points to a chair covered in clear plastic, in case Rodney has an accident.
The rat turns suddenly and stops as a muskrat trap slams shut on the cat’s leg.
Yan, wearing gloves, dutifully tapes Rodney to the chair, shirt removed. There’s a soft pop, then a hiss, as an acetylene torch ignites. Rodney screams, stupidly, “You can’t fucking do this to me!” But Michael just walks closer, torch in hand.
The cat now realizes what has happened and begins to hiss and growl, lunging at the rat, trying to pull itself free, but the stake in the ground holds tight, while the rat sits to watch, just beyond the cat’s reach.
The torch swings close to Rodney’s bloated stomach, just above the bag, but not touching the skin. Chest hair is singed, and stinks. “What did you do, Rodney?”
Rodney screams.
Yan softly continues, Glory, glory, hallelujah! Glory, glory, hallelujah!
The cat, now tired from trying to escape, sees the bone of his leg, fur and skin torn, begins to weep, to plead with the rat for mercy, forgiveness.
Rodney sobs. His bag begins to fill. He swears he didn’t mean to hurt anyone; he was just trying to scare Laura!
Pathetically pleading as Yan sings softly, I have seen Him in the watch-fires of a hundred circling camps…
The rat is unmoved; he remembers what the cat has done, black eyes blink once, then steady. Sees what the cat doesn’t, begins to back up.
Finally, “OK! OK! I did it! I fucking did it! I hate you! I’ve always fucking hated you. Since the day your goddamn mother dropped you off at our trailer, I’ve fucking hated you. You fucking bastard. You’re a goddamn monster!”
Cries.
Tears.
Slobbers.
Pause.
Michael nods, “I am, but you forgot.”
There’s a pop, the torch goes out. Yan cleans Rodney up, still singing softly, Oh, be swift my soul to answer him! be jubilant my feet…His truth is marching on.
The cat.
Alone, senses something, growls faintly, sees flash of grey, eyes wide—the fox.
Crunch.
—
The Cowboy falls face-first from his spinning column into the back of a large truck full of burnt wood, glossy magazine remains, and melted plastic sex toys. His forever girlfriend with one tit, falls on top of him, cowboy hat snapped off, and lies beside her. A large frontend loader rumbles to the side of the truck and dumps its bucket of debris on top of both of them.
Buried.
Forever.
The rat watches from his lookout on the concrete parking block as a truck pulls in.
Michael gets out, then helps Laura out. They look over the damage.
The carbonized remains of the Rawhide, surrounded by the jaws of frontend loaders taking mouthfuls of debris out—
And
The skeleton of the Stable being erected in the back, untouched by Rodney’s mischief. The smell of new lumber being cut, the sound of nail guns, saws, and air compressors.
A symphony of death and rebirth, destruction and construction.
Michael gives his phone to one of the guys walking by and asks him to take a picture of him and Laura in front of the Rawhide. He does.
“What’s that for?” Laura asks, her arm around Michael.
“Christmas cards.”
“Let’s go home, I’m tired.”
—
Back at the log home, Michael helps Laura undress, burns up one side of her leg, past her waist, ending under her arm. Wounds are almost healed, but scars will remain.
In bed, sex has a gentle ferocity. When they finish, Michael kisses her wounds slowly, and they start again.
The cat watches them, bored; he’s seen this movie before, tail wraps around his body, eyes closed.
Michael sits up on side of bed, naked. Laura is curled around him.
He lights a cigarette, hits it, and passes it to her; she coughs.
Michael smiles, “You got used to pure oxygen at the hospital.”
She smiles.
Cigarette in ashtray, Michael now lies down facing her.
No preamble.
“I love you,” he says.
“I know,” she replies.
It’s enough.
—
Nick has come back from a night with the Warden, and she’s given him an envelope. His footsteps echo in the metal corridor as he is escorted back to his cell. He hears his name being called over and over again:
“Fr. Nick! Fr. Nick!”
He turns, sees Rodney being marched down the opposite hallway, carrying blankets and his kit. Nick sees a shit stain forming already on the bright orange jumper Rodney is wearing, and it looks as if Rodney’s jumper is also stained with a bit of urine.
Nick laughs and waves.
In his cell, he opens the envelope. In it is the picture of Michael and Laura in front of the Rawhide. The message is written very neatly:
Sorry to disappoint. Say hello to Rodney. Be careful, though, his bag leaks, especially when he’s scared.
Love Michael.
—
He has sounded forth the trumpet that shall never call retreat;
He is sifting out the hearts of men before His judgment-seat…
The music fades.
Giant steel cages open.
High fences.
Razor wire.
On the other side of it, tall, green pines, and the sparkling water of Spring Creek: The Promised Land.
—
End.
Red Rover, Red Rover
This is one of those pieces that deals with themes that are a little ‘different.’ The word count is 1332.
Lovely early fall afternoon, cool out, but warm enough for the kids to have a dip in the pool. My son was 5, and my daughter was 4.
I hated both of them. I didn’t mean to, it just happened. After she was born, I gained weight, despite the injections. Hips widened, belly fat, and ass with a slight sag. Oversized T-shirts now, sweatpants, or baggy shorts. He said he still loved me, but it took him longer to get hard, no matter how hard I sucked.
It didn’t matter; the water in the pool was warm, little flares of sunlight across the water. The kids were splashing away. I was out there with them, tossing them up in the air, lifting up on the slide, watching them sail down into the water, and listening to them squeal in delight.
Then, a simple tug. The sound of a bubble popping, 1 Mississippi, 2 Mississippi, 3 Mississippi, and done.
Sara.
“Hey, mom-what’s wrong with Sara?”
“She’s just floating, Bobbie. Want to see?”
Then, a simple tug. The sound of a bubble popping, 1 Mississippi, 2 Mississippi, 3 Mississippi, and done.
Bobbie.
Up on the deck, I lay in the chaise lounge, top off, and felt the sun warming my breasts. I almost began to massage them, drowning them made me horny. Later, I’d give him the surprise of his life.
Flashing lights.
Sirens.
The police.
Ambulance.
Neighbors.
Alligator tears.
Hugs from him.
The priest.
Doing my best to keep a straight face…and my hands out of my crotch. If I knew murder was such an aphrodisiac, I would have considered a career as a serial killer instead of a romance writer.
He didn’t want to fuck, wasn’t sure if he was “up” to it, given the death of our children.
I smiled.
“Sit back, baby, let me drive.”
Funerals. Burials. Prayers. Incense. Tombstones.
I had a novel to finish.
The kids ended up being worth more dead than alive, but then what kid isn’t? He put on a sad face daily, after all, grieving is a societal norm. Me, I just wanted him to fuck me hard, pound my ass into the mattress, bang my head against the wall.
Make me scream.
I wore him out.
Each day he came home, I had something new on I picked up.
I began to lose weight.
From sweats to yoga pants.
From baggy tops to fitted tees.
From plus-sized panties to petite thongs.
But.
Minuteman.
He doesn’t need Cialis, he needs to kill someone.
$300k, that’s what we got for the kids.
He asked about more kids, but given his capacity to stay hard, I didn’t think it was possible.
The old routine settled back in: up early, write, keep the agent happy, keep the publisher happy, keep the cash flowing in.
Then it happened.
In the beginning, I laughed.
Looking back.
I should have screamed into the fucking void.
I spent the night trying to blow up a tire that had a hole in it.
Downstairs.
Laptop.
Who wrote it?
“Mom, why?”
I wrote: “Because I hated you, that’s why.”
Fuck ghosts, spirits, bad dreams, screams.
I see those words, and now I laugh at myself.
Delete.
Fuck them.
Novel.
Write.
Bullshit.
Bullshit.
Bullshit.
Bullshit.
Bullshit.
Bullshit.
“He lifted me up into his arms, naked and hard. I could feel him throbbing inside me—”
Words across the screen.
“Why?”
“What did we do?”
“We see you.” Giggling. Snickering.
Shut up! Shut up! Shut up!
Goddamnit, shut up!
“Into the bed he pushed me, burying my face in the pillows, I could feel his thighs thrusting, and all I could do was to moan—”
“Listen, mommy, do you hear it? The bubble popping? POP! And I was gone.”
“POP! And Bobbie was gone.”
“Be careful, mommy, there may be a POP for you.” WHISPERING. Whispering. whispering.
“Remember? 1 Mississippi, 2 Mississippi, 3 Mississippi, and done.”
No matter what I did, no matter how hard I screamed, no matter how hard I was fucked, how many drugs I took, how far I ran, how hard I banged my head against the door, how many reboots I did, how many times I hit “Delete,” I couldn’t stop their fucking voices.
Still, though—I laughed.
They caught me.
Who knew?
I despised them, but now I respect them.
They were beating me at my own game.
Haunting me-it was almost funny. Trying to drive me crazy.
Gaslight?
They were dead.
Or were they?
Now I could hear them laugh, giggle, then harder.
Laughing at me.
I could see them pointing their withered, drowned fingers at me. Their blue-skinned mouths laughing, and exhaling a bubble of water. Eyes wide. Staring. At me.
Gurgling.
Not in pain.
But in mockery.
I laughed too.
Give credit where credit is due.
I thought I had gotten rid of them, and all I had done was to make them stronger.
But.
Were they strong enough?
They didn’t know my rage, my hatred, how desperately I wanted them gone, they were not—
Their laughter.
They’re giggling.
Then “1 Mississippi, 2 Mississippi, 3 Mississippi, and done.”
Then the chant-
“Who’s afraid of mommy now?”
“Not me.”
“Not me.”
Why not? I screamed.
The chant, mocking-
“We’re already de-ad, we’re already de-ad, we’re already de-ad!”
1 Mississippi, 2 Mississippi, 3 Mississippi, and done.
Oh my God, I laughed and laughed and laughed.
I met him at the door, in my newest Victoria’s Secret.
Pushed.
Shoved.
Slapped.
Ripped.
Tore.
Bit.
Sucked.
And still.
Their laughter.
Even when I rode him, eyes closed, all I saw was them.
Blue.
Floating.
Withered.
And the echo: “Who’s afraid of mommy now?”
“Red Rover, Red Rover, send mommy right over.”
Laugher.
Giggling.
Soft chatter.
And again.
“Twinkle, twinkle, little star—”
“Now I lay me down to sleep—”
“…and deliver us from—mommy.”
Laughter.
Giggling.
I could feel their withered, blue fingers pointing at me.
“Who’s the boss? We’re the boss.”
Laughter.
Laughter.
More laughter.
Could I beg?
Could I ask for forgiveness?
Could I ask for an end to their torment?
“No one hears you—except for us,” giggling, “And we don’t care! 1 Mississippi, 2 Mississippi, 3 Mississippi, and done.”
“Ring around the mommy, pocketful of—”
I couldn’t stand their laughter.
Then I realized.
They enjoyed it.
X’s and O’s?
Tic Tac Toe.
Right foot in.
Left foot out.
“Come on, mommy, do the Hokey Pokey and turn yourself about!”
Each day.
Just a little more.
Messages on my screen.
A picture of two dead kids drawn, floating in a pool.
A picture of me pulling Bobbie under-POP!
A picture of me pulling Sara under-POP!
Stick figures.
My hair straight out.
Stick figure fingers that grabbed Bobbie.
My face, a smile, animal-like teeth.
A wave on top.
Hangman. Me. Letters crossed out underneath. “MOMMY” spelled.
A silent scream.
No.
Not a scream.
A fucking howl.
For mercy.
For deliverance.
Forgiveness.
All that was there—laughter.
“Red Rover, Red Rover, send mommy right over…the water is warm.”
There’s a beauty in surrender.
And a sadness.
I didn’t hate them any less.
I didn’t regret what I did.
They played the long game.
And won.
“He tore my panties off—”
Words I had written.
“We tore her skin off—”
Words they had written.
“Listen, my children, and you shall hear—”
Their eyes were on me, smiling, elbowing each other in anticipation, whispering, smirking.
Telling each other to be quiet.
“Tie it tight, mommy,” they squealed.
Tight.
Tight.
Tight.
Around my neck.
Step off.
Do the Hokey-Pokey.
I did.
Shit in my yoga pants.
Urine-soaked thong.
The laughter of my children.
And the pull of their teeth, tearing at my flesh.
Their little, withered, blue hands were tearing at my clothes and hair.
Little piranhas.
Exposed.
“Who will want you now, mommy?”
Giggles.
More hands pulling.
Then none.
“Welcome to hell, mommy.”
No fire.
Only memories.
But they burn hotter.
Fiction Worth Barking About 