by Edward Lee
Jesus! Sergeant Lass thought.
The kid's nuts were hanging out of his dead dick, from tender threads tracing back through his peehole.
"Jesus!" Sergeant Lass said aloud.
Eventually the county coroner—who was also the county recorder of deeds, the county magistrate, and the county's official notary—would transfer the perplexing corpus delectus to the Office of the South Dakota Medical Examiner where it would be properly autopsied and found to have had the entirety of its brain aspirated through the right ocular cavity.
This unfortunate security guard would not only prove to be the most bizarre murder to ever take place in DeSmet, South Dakota.
It would be the only murder to take place in DeSmet, South Dakota.
Sergeant Lass glared at his two accompanying constables. "For fuck's sake! Isn't anybody gonna say anything? This guy's lying here with no eyes and his fuckin' balls hanging out of his dick!"
The first officer only stared, jaw jacked open. The second officer had already fainted.
Lass scratched his head, idly glanced up at the massive wooden sign erected above the cattle coves behind them. The sign read:
WELCOME TO THE LOHAN RANCH
««—»»
"Let me ask you something?" Ajax was examining the gold-plated trophy. "How much did you get paid to crank the horns out of bulls?"
"Steers, not bulls. And I didn't get paid anything. I worked on my father's ranch. It was just one of the chores, like taking out the garbage."
Ajax wheezed laughter, slapping his thighs. "Cranking horns off of magnificent spectacles of nature is the same thing as taking out the garbage?"
"You pansy city boys take out the garbage, farm boys crank horns," Dean elaborated.
Ajax continued to wheeze as they set down the case of Tsing Tao beer, which they'd picked up at the Ballard Market on their way over. Ajax was on an oriental-beer kick. Dean didn't care. He spat tobacco juice in the sink.
"That's the spirit," Ajax observed, then looked around the quaint split-level. "Guess you cleaned the place up since your wife had her conniption fit."
"Well, no," Dean said.
"But the place is immaculate!"
"Not really. It could use a vacuuming, and a dusting."
"Man, you are whipped. Daphne's turned you into a slave." Ajax cracked open two Tsing Tao's, passed one to Dean. "She should be doing that shit. I'll bet you even do the cooking."
"Yeah, but only because I like to cook."
"Um-hmm." Ajax wasn't convinced as he browsed around with his beer. It was a modest but nice new house, appointed in light tones and new furniture. "Decent crib," he approved. But when he turned back around, Dean was walking away up the dark stairs.
Some host. Ajax followed. "Ah, the love den," he observed when he found Dean standing in the bedroom. "So this is where you get it on with your beautiful wife... once a month?"
Dean wasn't listening. He rummaged for something in the opened closet, his back to Ajax. "You got me remembering," he murmured.
"What?"
Dean pulled out a moving box full of books, sat down on the bed with it. He swigged more beer, then began to search through the books.
"Let me ask you something," Ajax said. "How the hell can you chew that funky tobacco and drink beer at the same time?"
"Fifteen years of experience, that's how. Every day from age ten to twenty-five, I pinched a can a day."
"Back in the old days, huh?" Ajax grinned. "The horn-crankin' days."
"Any rancher with balls eats and drinks with a lip full of Skoal. Only pussies don't."
"I'm edified," Ajax remarked. "And what are you looking for?"
"Just... something... "
"You're acting weird, man. I like it." Something in the back of the closet caught his eye, something long that reminded him of a giant pair of pliers. He walked over, pulled it out, then weighed it heavily in his hands. Parallel steel handles, two-feet long, intersected at the business-end, sporting twin half-circles lined with sharpened serrations that interlocked when you drew the handles apart. "What the hell is this thing?"
Dean looked up, disinterested. "My torque-plier."
"What the hell's a—"
"My horn-cranker," Dean corrected.
Ajax' eyes widened on the tool as if knowing what it was gave it some strange heat. "So this is the thing you used to tear the horns out of innocent bulls."
"Steers," Dean corrected. "A young gelding. They're not full-grown; the horns are pretty much just nubs about three to six inches long."
"And you just yank 'em out like teeth." Ajax hefted the tool in his hands. "Say, do you ever go back the DeSmet to defend your championship?"
"Hell no. They don't even have a state horn-cranking competition anymore. It's not like the old days now. Everything's automated. Now they have these mechanical things on rails that move down the cattle-gate line and extract the horns automatically. Just pops 'em out one right after another."
"Progress sucks, huh?"
Ajax put the torque-plier back. "Come on, admit it. You miss all that shit at least a little, don't you?"
Dean didn't answer.
"Come on? The old days on the ranch? Cranking horns and chewing Skoal? Humping any and all available pussy? Gettin' pissy drunk in the bars every night and slapping your bitches around?"
Dean didn't answer.
Ajax nosed around while Dean continued flipping through his books. He noticed a half opened dresser drawer. Hmm, he thought. Then—Oh, Christmas!
The drawer was full of lacy women's under garments a la Victoria's Secret. Tough stuff! Ajax thought. He ran his fingers over the smooth, shiny garments. A quick glance over his shoulder, then he deftly grabbed a pair of devil-red panties trimmed in black lace, and stuffed them in his pants. Hell, she'll never miss 'em. Then he plucked another pair out—cornflower-blue and crotchless—and held them up. "Holy shit, man. I can't imagine a prettier picture in the world than Daphne walking around in these."
Dean glanced over, shrugged, then got back to his books. "It gets dull after a while."
Ajax gaped. "Yeah, you're acting weird, all right. A woman with Daphne's bod walking around in these can never be dull. It's perpetual wood, man. It's Hard-On City."
"Let me tell you something, Ajax," Dean said aside. "Show me the best-looking woman in the world and I'll show you a guy who's sick of fucking her."
Ajax gaped. He almost choked on his Tsing Tao. "You're telling me... you're sick of fucking Daphne?"
"That's right. Sick to death. She's a bossy, prissy bitch. She never wants to have sex anyway and, between you and I, that's fine with me. I'd rather fuck a pumpkin than stick my cock in her hole again."
Ajax gaped.
"Ah, here it is." Dean pulled out a black-covered hard-back book entitled Incubi by some chump author named Edward Lee.
Ajax squinted. "What's that, a horror novel? Only idiots read that stuff. People who take drugs and shit."
Dean had opened the book. "Here's one box I never got sick of fucking." The inside of the book had been cut out, creating a secret compartment. Inside lay a stack of polaroids. He flipped through the photos, then passed them to Ajax.
Ajax... gaped. And got wood. The dozen or so polaroids showed different poses of the same girl. Beautiful. Stark naked. Pert breasts with nipples sticking out like rose-pink thumb-ends, long honey-nut hair and ocean-blue eyes, a tight flat stomach and a perfectly shaved—
"Man oh man," Ajax muttered. "This is the same chick you showed me at Anthony's. Your last ex in DeSmet."
Each lewd pose punched him in the eye like glaring pornography. Lying on a bed with her long legs straight up, fingers squeezing her cherry-sized clitoris. Hands and knees, grinning wickedly over her shoulder, perfect ass upthrust. Lounging on her side with a dildo the size of a gourd stuck up in her to the end. And much, much more.
"Arianne," Dean whispered.
Ajax was shaking his head back and forth over and over, pressed by disbeli
ef. "This girl's hotter than a rock in a campfire... and you dumped her?"
"Didn't just dump her," Dean reminded. "I cheated on her, treated her like shit, and beat the crap out of her. More times than I can count."
Ajax' gaze widened on Dean. "You're fuckin' nuts. This girl's even hotter than Daphne. Ten times hotter."
"And ten times hotter in bed. Arianne had a pussy that would suck your cock like a mouth. Every time we changed positions, she'd give me head. And she had an asshole so tight, you'd think you were fucking a puppy. She was the best lay of my life. She'd fuck my brains out every day and fall asleep with my dick in her mouth every night."
"Hardcore," Ajax muttered, still eyeing the pictures and pitching an uncomfortable tent. "Your wife ever let you take pix of her like this?"
"Aw, fuck no. That fickle cunt? She wouldn't be caught dead. If I even suggested it, she'd make me see a counselor. Look, I know you think Daphne's cheating on me, but here's why I know she's not. She's a fussy prude, she's frigid. I know I'm good in the sack. Just ask any girl in DeSmet. But Daphne? She could care less about sex. She acts like she's doing me a fucking favor every two months when she puts out. But I'll tell you, whenever I fuck that snitty hosebag... I pretend she's Arianne. Arianne was the ultimate hot number, and she really loved me. Christ, she'd fuck my balls dry, wash my clothes, clean the apartment, cook my meals—shit, she did everything for me."
"And you cheated on her, beat her up, and dumped her," Ajax added.
Dean solemnly nodded.
"You're whacked, brother. I don't care how good-looking Daphne is, this Arianne chick is hotter, and she didn't jerk you around. Daphne treats you like a bad dog."
At that moment, the phone rang.
"Aren't you going to answer it?" Ajax asked.
"Hell no. It's her."
The phone rang a few more times, then the answering machine kicked on. "It's me," Daphne said. "Just thought you might want to know that I got to Vegas safely. Obviously you're not home, probably out drinking with that dingleberry Ajax. Honestly, Dean, can't you cultivate some friends who aren't useless detriments to society? And make sure that goddamn house is clean when I get back, or there'll be hell to pay."
click
Dean and Ajax traded glances.
"Sorry," Dean said.
"I'm delighted to be so highly thought of by the lady of the house."
"Don't feel bad. She hates anybody I know."
Ajax finished his beer, set in on the dresser. "Look, I don't care if your wife thinks I'm a dingleberry and a useless detriment to society. My question is how can you let her treat you like that?"
Dean silently shook his head.
"That's love? That's respect?"
"No," Dean admitted.
"You gotta listen to shit like that till death do you part?"
"It's fucked up."
"So why the hell did you get married?"
Dean sat limp on the bed. "My old life... It just seemed wrong. That's why I cut bait and moved here. I felt I needed to change."
Ajax sighed. "Dean, seasons change, tides change, baseball lineups change, but people don't change. I am who I am, and you are who you are. It's not change you're talking about, it's adaptation. You're trying to adapt to Daphne's way of life because you think that's the right thing to do. You've got this idea in your head that the way you used to be was bad."
"It was bad," Dean countered. "Fighting in bars every night, hot-rodding, drinking enough beer and whiskey to fill Lake Union, and abusing the only woman who every really loved me? That's not the way it's supposed to be. I needed to change."
"No," Ajax said, "you needed to modify some aspects of your life. There's a difference." When Dean wasn't looking, Ajax slipped one of the polaroids into his pants. What the fuck? he thought. Then he continued, "You left your home and got married for all the wrong reasons."
"Yeah," Dean agreed. "I know."
"And there's a bigger problem right now," Ajax added.
"What's that?"
"This is a textbook gradual degradation of your every day persona." Even Ajax was astonished. "Non-REM Imagery Syndrome is one thing, but I hate to say it, buddy. You're displaying some far worse symptoms."
"Symptoms of what?"
"Full-scale multiple-personality disorder."
"That's a crock of shit," Dean sluffed.
"Is it? A couple of hours ago, you were making every excuse in the book for Daphne. Any time I've ever suggested that she's a lousy wife and treats you like shit, you cover for her, you deny it, you blame yourself for what's not right about the marriage. But now it's the absolute polar opposite. You tell me you're sick of fucking her, you tell me she's a ‘bossy prissy bitch' and a ‘snitty hosebag.' You're talking like you hate her."
"I don't hate her," Dean elucidated. "I'm just so goddamn sick of her that I could bend over and throw up all over the carpet I have to vacuum every day."
By now, Ajax almost wished he hadn't dropped out of his psych major. "You're two different people, Dean. You're Good Dean and Bad Dean. Good Dean is the subservient pussy-whipped butt-kissing wimp I've known since we first met. But tonight Bad Dean has finally stuck his head out of the sand, chewing tobacco and bad-mouthing his wife. And what's the catalyst? Me asking you details of your past. You're longing for your past, and your inability to retrieve it is what's causing these manifestations."
Good Dean, Bad Dean... Dean thought about this and felt flustered as a result. "But I hate my past. I was disgusted with it."
"That may be what you consciously believe, but we're talking about the subconscious, and that's a different animal. It's what we were talking about yesterday: strictures. Social strictures, environmental strictures, strictures based on experience, and then all the potential counter-strictures too." Ajax seemed intent, urgently focused, which was unusual for him. Evidently, some of his past was coming back too: the collegiate interests that he'd later dumped to become a slovenly envelope-stuffer. "We're talking about Freudian denial mechanisms, unsystematized causal demand characteristics, and full-blown personality transposition."
Dean looked askance, irritated. "I don't want to hear a bunch of high-brow California psycho-babble." Then he spat a stream of tobacco juice on the plush beige carpet. "I just want to know why I'm so fucked up all of a sudden."
Shocked, Ajax looked at the indelible stain on the carpet. "That's what I'm trying to tell you!"
"Fine. What's the bottom line?"
"Like I said. You need to see a shrink. But in the meantime, you should probably look into some therapy of a more available sort."
"And what would that be?"
"Have another beer," Ajax advised to the best of his clinical expertise.
"Sounds like a good idea." Dean followed Ajax out of the bedroom, but before he fully left, he eyed the framed wedding photo of himself and Daphne.
And spat tobacco juice on it.
CHAPTER FOUR
In this modern age, the fabric of decency was not safe even in down-home rural America, the land of hard work, an honest buck, and apple pie—towns such as DeSmet, South Dakota. In fact, even here, that same fabric had become as sullied as the ass-rag of Babylon's Whore. Dwindling was the notion of the American Work Ethic, replaced by welfare. Scarce were the wise grandmothers in front-porch rocking chairs, replaced by barred windows. And gone was the universal ideal that honesty was the best policy, replaced by meth labs and domestic brutality. Indeed, even the once-quaint DeSmet had spiraled downward into the domain of Jerry Springer.
And worse.
Little Scotty Nash was only ten years old by the time he'd had sexual congress with four girls—not including his Mom—and though this was clearly sexual congress of the forced variety, Scotty was too young to know the actual entails of the crime called rape. All he knew was that if he dragged a girl behind the school and put his wiener in her, it would feel good. He liked it. He'd learned how to do it just by watching his step-daddy and Mom. These were grown-ups, and Scott
y wanted to do what grown-ups did. He wanted to be a Man, just like his step-daddy. He wanted to punch girls in the face and stick his diggler in 'em, lots of 'em. That's what girls were for; the music said so.
The girls he'd done this to never ratted because they knew they'd get whupped, and they'd all been broken in anyway, probably by their daddies. Plus, he told the bitches he'd kill 'em if they told, he'd bust a cap in their heads. He'd pull a Boo-Yah on the bitches!
Scotty's Walkman headset blared the latest rap: "I'se got demons in my semen, yo white bitch! You'll be screamin' while I'm reamin', how ya like the itch!" Scotty listened to Schooly D., Tupac, R.U. 2 Kuul 4 U., and Badd Blacque Busta Kapp, even though his face was as white as the Lincoln Memorial. He loved the lingo: duh bitches, duh ‘hos, kill duh poe-leece. "Hey White boy, what can I say? Gonna kill yo' white ass wiff my AK." Scotty got the rap and dressed the scene, in unlaced pump-up Nikes with blinking lights on the heels, a backward Yankees cap, and pants ten sizes too big for him.