Don't Be Cruel

by Mike, Argento,

  Spew burst through the door. Then, he backed up abruptly and wiped his feet on the welcome mat. Smith followed Spew into the house.

  He didn't wipe his feet.

  "Grandma! It's Shane!"

  No answer.

  Spew checked the kitchen and Grandma's bedroom. She wasn't there. He knocked on the bathroom door. No answer. He cracked the door and said, "Grandma?" He peeked in. She wasn't there. He stumbled back into the living room and sat on the floral print couch with his face in his hands.

  Smith, standing in the middle of the room, would have sworn Spew was crying. He didn't blame the guy. It was his Grandma.

  "Shane, it's OK, man. It's your grandma and all."

  Spew looked up at him, clear-eyed.

  "I was just thinking," he said. "When the cop, Coyote, or whatever his name is, called and got Grandma on the phone, he talked to someone he called 'King.' "

  Smith knew what that meant. He grabbed Spew's sleeve and dragged him to the door.

  "Let's go to church."

  Eddie grabbed Kathy and told Sid, "Tape up her legs with that duct tape."

  Sid held up his broken arm.

  "And how do you expect me to do that with one arm, shithead?"

  "Well, shit, you're going to have to do something. I can't do this all by myself."

  Sid gripped the end of the roll of tape with his teeth and pulled. He fumbled with the roll for a moment and dropped it on the floor. It rolled under Papa's desk.

  "Jesus," Papa said, "I guess I have to do it myself. I thought I hired you assholes to do this."

  Sid held up his arm. "I got a disability."

  As Sid and Papa started working with the tape, Kathy figured she had to make a move before they incapacitated her. She reached down and tried to grab Eddie's balls, thinking a sharp squeeze of his perforated penis and scrotum would convince him to let her go.

  Her hand found something hard.

  "A cup," Eddie said. "Just in case shit-for-brains gets any ideas about finishing the job on my balls."

  Sid watched as Kathy grabbed his brother's crotch and it made him jealous. She should be grabbing my junk, he thought. And then, he was overcome with his feelings for her and gazed at her like a clinically depressed puppy.

  He was brought out of his reverie by a roll of duct tape hitting the back of his head.

  "Are you just going to stand there looking like a fucking idiot or are you going to do this?" Papa asked.

  With Papa's help, Sid was able to bind Kathy's ankles and wrists.

  Kathy started yelling. Her cries, though, couldn't be heard over the strains of Fleetwood Mac's "Don't Stop" throbbing through the wall. To be safe, Papa wound some of the tape around her head and over her mouth.

  They dragged her to the basement.

  "I'm sorry about this whole thing with the tape and all," Sid said. "I mean, unless you're into that kind of thing. I'm not really into it, but if you are, that's like totally cool. You just stay here and Sid'll be back real soon."

  "Mmmmrgphffrrr," Kathy said.

  She was trying to say, "Take your fucking time, sheepfucker."

  Then, everything turned black.

  Grandma squinted at the apse and Elvis on the golden toilet. Then, she leaned back and gave Elvis a quick glance. Then, she squinted at the apse again and then, another quick look at Elvis.

  "Something wrong, ma'am?" Elvis asked.

  Grandma shook her head. "Well, it's all right," Elvis said. "This must be a little strange for you."

  It was. The Lutherans had finally gone around the bend, she thought. Grandma kept looking at the apse and the man seated next to her in the pew.

  "You know, young man," she said, "you're the spitting image of Jesus."

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Smith circled the parking lot behind the First Church of Elvis, Scientist. It was empty. He saw a few cars parked out front, but he didn't recognize any of them.

  "I don't know," Smith said. "It doesn't look like anyone's home."

  "Elvis lives there?"

  "What?"

  "You said, it doesn't look like anyone's home. I thought Elvis lived in a big mansion, not some broke-ass church in a shitty neighborhood."

  "It's an expression."

  "Oh, you mean, like don't scratch my balls."

  "I think you mean, 'Don't bust my balls.' "

  "You're going to bust my balls?" Spew asked, covering his crotch with both hands.

  "It's an expression. Forget it. Let's take a look around."

  Spew parked next to the church's back door and he and Spew got out. Spew tried to open the door. Locked

  "Let's go around front," Smith said.

  "Nah," Spew said, "I got a key."

  He went to the car and dug through his duffel bag, retrieving a tool that looked like a small gun. He stuck it in the keyhole, pulled its trigger and jiggled it around, and the door popped open. Smith thought maybe Spew wasn't as big a fuckup as he led him to believe.

  They crept into the church and made their way through a dark hallway. They checked the office. Nobody there. They checked the choir room. Empty. They made their way to the door leading to the sanctuary.

  Smith pushed the door open an inch and peeked through the crack, spotting Elvis and Grandma Spew sitting in the front pew. He flung the door open and leveled his gun at Elvis.

  "Jesus Christ! Put that fucking thing down!" Elvis screamed.

  "Step away from the old woman," Smith ordered.

  Spew rushed past Smith to his grandmother's side. "Grandma, are you OK?"

  "I'm fine," she said. "I was just having a nice talk with Jesus."

  She lowered her voice, "He's really let himself go."

  Smith poked Elvis' belly with his gun. It was like poking Jell-O.

  "You don't have to rub it in," Elvis said.

  Smith rolled his eyes.

  "No, dumbass, I meant move."

  "See you, Jesus," Grandma said.

  Smith led Elvis to a pew on the other side of the altar and shoved him into it. He sat next to him, keeping the gun leveled at his gut.

  "Look," Elvis said, "all I know is Papa told me to pick up the old lady at her house and bring her here and wait for a call."

  "That's all?"

  "Yeah."

  "You sure?"

  "Positive."

  Smith looked at him, believing that he could tell whether he was lying merely by looking at him. He couldn't.

  "Here's what's going to happen: You leave and tell Papa that everything went according to plan."

  "But I don't know anything about any plan."

  "Don't sweat it. You just tell him everything's fine."

  "You can tell him yourself. He's standing right behind you."

  D'Onofrio picked up the phone on the second ring.

  "Where's your detective?" the head fed asked.

  "Fuck do I know. I'm not his momma," he said.

  "Look, he was supposed to come down here to brief my people on this case an hour ago. I haven't heard from him. He doesn't answer his cell. Your dispatchers don't know where he is. We need him to come down here. Now."

  "If I see him, I'll tell him."

  The fed paused.

  "Also, major, we'd really appreciate if you'd come down here. We need to talk."

  The only thing worse than your wife uttering those words was hearing them from a fed. It meant they were poised to crawl up your ass and not stop until they could chew on your eyeballs.

  "What's this about?"

  "Well, major, frankly, we have some real concerns about Wiley's intelligence and his investigation into this matter. We believe there are some issues that may require further exploration and development."

  "Well, you aren't the first person to have concerns about Wiley's intelligence."

  "I didn't mean it that way."

  "I did."

  The fed sighed. Everyone has to be a smartass.

  D'Onofrio said, "So what you're saying is you think my detective is
full of shit."

  "In a nutshell. We've been working the Hussein suspect and we're beginning to suspect that he had nothing to do with anything. Some of the guys thought his story didn't mesh and decided to check it out. Turns out during one of the bombings, Hussein was driving a bunch of drunk Japanese businessmen to the airport. We just got the DNA tests back…"

  "I'm sure there's an explanation. But I don't have it. You'll need to talk to Wiley."

  D'Onofrio's office door opened and a lieutenant walked in. The major held his hand over the phone's mouthpiece and mouthed the words, "One minute."

  The lieutenant said, "This can't wait a minute. It's Wiley. His car exploded at the 7-Eleven over by Green Acres. He's dead."

  D'Onofrio thought about that for a second. He heard the fed yelling into the phone.

  "Are you there?"

  "Yeah, I'm here."

  "Look, I'm not screwing around with you. You and Wiley need to get down here within the hour to clear this up or we're going to have some serious problems."

  "Um, that might be a problem. At least for Wiley."

  "Hiya, Eddie," Papa said. "Been a while."

  "Sorry I haven't dropped by to chat. It's been a busy few days."

  The Hatfield brothers had wandered in and stood behind Papa holding shotguns, one aimed at Smith and the other at Spew and Grandma.

  "Shane, are these boys more friends of yours?"

  "Shut up, Grandma," Sid spit.

  "Young man," Grandma said, "that's very rude."

  "You can't talk to Grandma like that," Spew said, standing up.

  Sid leveled the shotgun at Spew's head, balancing it in the crook of his cast.

  "OK, I guess you can," he said, returning to his seat beside Grandma.

  Papa sat beside Smith.

  "Elvis, take a hike."

  Elvis took a hike.

  "Well, let's talk."

  "You know, I was just thinking that. We never talk anymore. We should get together real soon. But right now, it's just no good for me. So if you'll excuse me…"

  "OK. You don't want to talk, that's fine with me. It doesn't really matter. Fellas, why don't you take these boys fishing?"

  Smith and Spew were jammed between Sid and Eddie in their new pickup truck. The sticker was still in the window. Papa bought the truck, an F-250 with the double rear wheels, to replace their old truck. After he plunked down cash for the truck, the Hatfield brothers were so overcome by emotion, they told Papa what had happened up on the mountain. Eddie even went as far as to tell Papa, "My dick still don't work right." Papa thought it was a wise investment. He'd get the truck back when the Hatfield boys were gone.

  Sid and Eddie didn't speak much. Eddie was still a little sore about his brother shooting his crotch. And Sid was still pissed off that Eddie would try to fuck his stripper girlfriend. Nothing like a woman and a load of birdshot to the scrotum to come between two brothers. It was almost Biblical, had Cain shot Abel in the balls with a shotgun and Abel wanted to fuck Cain's girlfriend.

  The truck bounded down a rutted dirt road, through some thick woods. Soon, they came to a clearing on the shore of a large man-made lake – Lake Tuplehocken. The lake was named for an Indian tribe that had lived on the land that was now under water. They had all died out not 10 years after the white man appeared, bearing whiskey, smallpox and syphilis. Their suffering was honored with a lake where white men could get drunk and fish.

  "Out," Eddie said.

  They all climbed out of the truck.

  "Over there," Eddie said.

  They walked in the direction he pointed his shotgun, toward a dock where a small bass boat was docked. The Hatfields had boosted the boat, a sleek fiberglass model powered by a huge Mercury outboard, from the fishing club across the lake.

  Eddie motioned for Smith and Spew to climb onto the bow. He sat behind the wheel and told his brother, "Get the lines."

  Sid stood on the dock, not making a move for the lines.

  "Why don't we just shoot them right here?" he asked.

  "You dumbass," Eddie said. "The guy said take them to the lake, ice them and dump them in the water. Weren't you payin' attention?"

  "We're here at the lake," Sid said.

  Eddie shook his head.

  "That's why the old guy talked to me and not you. You can't even follow simple orders and shit because you're a fuckin' idiot. When they handed out brains, I don't know what the fuck you were doing. Out takin' a leak or jerkin' off to some stripper skank. Or something."

  "Yeah, but when they were handing out dicks, I got a big one."

  Eddie laughed. "Brother, I hate to break this to you, but God fucked you."

  "Fuck you."

  "You got all your brains in your dick. You see some nice titties and you get all retarded. Now, are we going to sit here all fucking day or are you going to get the fuckin' line?"

  Sid stood his ground.

  "It's my turn to drive the boat," he said.

  "Just get the fuckin' lines and get in the fuckin' boat," Eddie said.

  "You drove the truck down here. I get to drive the boat."

  "You can't drive the fuckin' boat. You need two arms to drive the boat."

  "Fuck you do. I can drive the boat with one arm."

  "I ain't gonna debate this with you. Get the fuckin' lines and get in the fuckin' boat."

  Sid got the lines, mumbling under his breath.

  "What'd you say?" Eddie demanded to know.

  "I said I should'a reloaded and shot your balls clean off."

  Eddie gunned the boat and it shot from the dock, leaving Sid behind. Sid's cry, "Fucking asshole," faded as the boat skimmed along the surface of the manmade lake toward its center. When they were sufficiently far from shore, Eddie cut the engine and coasted. Now, all he had to do was shoot Smith and Spew in their heads, chain their bodies to cinder blocks and dump them in the drink.

  "You don't have to do this," Smith said. "We can make a deal."

  "We made a deal and I still have a hundred holes in my dick."

  "You had the hundred little holes in your dick before we made that deal. I didn't put the hundred little holes in your dick."

  Eddie thought about it. Smith was right. His brother tried to shoot his balls off before he even met Smith. The insult to his scrotum had nothing to do with Smith.

  Still, he had a job to do and it didn't look to him that Smith had anything to deal with. Money talked and Smith was a mute.

  "I think we're about done talkin' about my dick," Eddie said.

  He reached for his shotgun. It wasn't beside the captain's chair. He looked behind the chair. It wasn't there. He scratched his head.

  He turned his attention to the shore, where he saw Sid standing on the dock, holding a shotgun over his head.

  "That fucking asshole. I'll kick his ass."

  Eddie cranked the big outboard and spun the boat around, picking up speed as it raced to the dock.

  Smith turned to Spew. It was no use trying to speak over the screaming Mercury outboard. He made a hand gesture intended to mean, "Jump out of the boat." Spew didn't understand and responded with his own hand gesture that meant either "I don't understand" or "She had a rack like you wouldn't believe."

  The dock was coming up fast. Smith had no choice. He grabbed Spew by the collar of his Tshirt and lunged over the side of the boat, pulling Spew into the water, where they rolled, flipped and generally damn near drowned.

  As he gasped for breath, Smith thought, maybe this wasn't such a good idea. It felt like someone had hit his chest with a sledge hammer.

  A second later, when the bass boat slammed into the dock, propelling Eddie head first into Sid's face, he reconsidered.

  When he climbed to the shore and examined the remains of Sid and Eddie, he was sure he had made the right decision.

  Smith was standing over the bodies when Spew walked up behind him, still coughing water out of his lungs. Spew took a look at the Hatfield brothers and said, "They look like Siamese t
wins."

  "The correct term is conjoined twins."

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Kathy wasn't sure how long she had been out. When she regained consciousness, she was bound and gagged next to a stack of beer in the basement of The Happy Beaver.

  She struggled against the tape, tensing her entire body. Her restraints didn't budge. She tried to scream, but it wouldn't matter even if she wasn't gagged. There was no way anyone upstairs would hear her screams over Fleetwood Mac's "Tusk."

  She rolled onto her back and stared at the ceiling. She never thought she'd die in the basement of a strip joint. She never thought she'd ever set foot in a strip joint. But here she was, half naked and bound in the basement of one. Some people might enjoy this kind of thing. She didn't.

  She thought about what brought her to this place. She needed the money. Money wasn't the root of all evil. But it was a serious pain in the ass, she thought. One day, she would never have to worry about it. She was just hoping she would live to see it. She was just hoping she would live to see anything other than this basement. The parking lot, for instance, would look like the Elysian Fields to her right about now.

  She was looking forward to seeing it. And she looked forward to seeing Smith again. She wasn't sure what it was, but the guy was growing on her. Fungus also grows on people, she thought. She had to stop thinking and start working on getting out of the basement.

  Or else she'd have to see her hillbilly suitor once again.

  Fortunately for her, Sid never did come back.

  Unfortunately, Papa did.

  "You're awake? Good. That'll give us a chance to talk."

  Papa sat down on a case of Miller Lite.

  "So, what do you want to talk about?"

  "Mmmmrrrfg."

  "Sorry. I didn't catch that."

  Asshole. Kathy thought.

  "I know what you're thinking," Papa said, inspecting his nails. "You're thinking I'm an asshole."

  Kathy's eyes widened.

  "I'm pretty good at reading people," Papa said. "But I guess I fucked up with you. I thought you had what it took. You seemed like the mercenary type, the kind who understood business. I mean, shit, you were going to be a lawyer. Everybody knows lawyers have no souls or consciences and would fuck over their mothers if it meant making a buck. And you were working as a stripper. Jesus. I mean, how perfect was that? At least, from my perspective."