Smashed, Squashed, Splattered, Chewed, Chunked and Spewed

by Lance Carbuncle

  Pickles sighs. “Please stop it with that silly chanting, okay? You do have the right to remain silent. That’s your privilege. I’m not even going to try to take that away from you. If you don’t want to talk . . . well . . . okay. But put yourself in my position . . . ” he leans in toward me as if we are close buddies sharing a secret “ . . . suppose you found a dead body, already killed and raped, and you had to call me in and ask me about it. And suppose I start whining about lawyers and rights and saying I don’t want to talk to you. You’d think I was hiding something. And you’d probably be right. That’s precisely what I think about you and your friend. And so will everybody else. So . . . ” he rolls his eyes, sighing “ . . . I’m here, you’re here. Let’s just talk about this a little. And, hey, if you’re innocent like you say, why would you need a lawyer anyway? Why don’t you save yourself the money a lawyer would cost? All I’m looking for is the truth. And if you’re innocent and telling me the truth . . . then you can handle this by yourself and there’s no need for an attorney to be involved.”[11]

  “I . . . ” (the vein on my forehead twitches like a snake biting down on a live wire) “ . . . want . . . ” (my left eye is pulsing with almost unbearable pressure) “ . . . my . . . ” (OUCH! a rubber band snapping sensation in my brain) “ . . . lawyer.”

  • • •

  Half a foot in front of my face I awake to a large sweaty man. As I regain consciousness I note that his tie is wrapped far too snugly around his floppy, fleshy neck, like a shoestring tied around a bratwurst, as tight as is possible without breaking the casing. I imagine myself snipping the tie with a pair of shears and watching his neck expand to the width of his thick head. The man fastens a Velcro strap around my arm, makes sure it’s secure, and stands up. He has a black eye, more deep purplish really, and a chipped tooth, as if he’d recently been involved in fisticuffs. Contrary to my normally peaceful nature, I feel the urge to deal him a vicious beating. I want to finish the job that somebody else started on him.

  The Velcro strap around my arm has blue and black and yellow wires attached which run to a large piece of electronic equipment. The big fellow nods at me and exits the room.

  “Who was that?” I ask Major Pickles.

  “His name is Robert Paulson. He’s our polygrapher,” Pickles explains. “You are now hooked up to a polygraph machine, a lie detector. I’m going to ask you some questions and this here machine will tell me if you are being honest.”

  “I don’t want to speak with you. I just want my lawyer.”

  “No you don’t,” says Pickles, smiling as he waives a piece of paper in front of my face. “You signed this here waiver of rights form. You already agreed to talk to us. Now let’s stop farting around and get down to business.” I don’t even have enough time to read the paper that I supposedly signed. I see the word waiver at the top of the page and a signature scrawled out at the bottom that is not in my handwriting.

  “First I’m gonna ask you some preliminary questions to make sure that the levels are set right. This here’s a very sensitive piece of equipment,” Pickles explains, patting the machine with his fat little hand. “Now what’s your name, Boy?”

  “Puddin’ Tane, ask me again I’ll tell you the same,” I answer, trying my best to be uncooperative.

  “Alright, Mr. Tane, and what’s your address?”

  “2525 Fuck You Lane, Findlay, Ohio.”

  “Great,” says Pickles, almost as if he isn’t hearing my answers. “And, what’s your date of birth?”

  “I want to pop your eye out and skull-fuck your empty head, you fat bloated hunk of goat shit,” I answer, hoping to get a rise out of him.

  “Perfect,” Pickles says as he fiddles with buttons on the polygraph machine. “It looks like our levels are set and we’re ready to go. I’m going to ask you a series of questions. You are going to give me answers. If you’re lying, the machine will tell me with one-hundred-and-twenty percent certainty.” He looks down at the clipboard in his hand, takes a deep breath, and wipes his sweaty forehead with a handkerchief. “Now who is the man in the back of your truck?”

  “He’s my Daddy,” I try to explain again.

  “Well let’s just see what the machine says.” Pickles pushes a button on top of the machine. It starts grinding and beeping, lights on the side rapidly flash, and a standard eight-and-a-half by eleven piece of white paper pops out of the side. “Uh, I’m sorry, but I think somebody isn’t being honest here.” He shows me the paper with large, 72-font, bold black letters which declare HE’S LYEING.

  “What the fuck is that?” I ask, incredulous. “What kind of sensitive piece of equipment is this? Lying isn’t even spelled right.”

  “It is spelled correctly,” Pickles mutters. “That’s the European spelling. You know, like how they put a U in color. Same thing. Now . . . why did you kill that man, who obviously isn’t your Daddy?”

  “I didn’t kill him!” I shout.

  Pickles pushes a button on the machine again and out shoots another piece of paper: HE’S LYEING.

  “Uh, Uh, Uh,” Pickles grins. “It seems that you did kill him. The machine doesn’t make mistakes. Now was this poor sucker your first victim?”

  “Once I shot a man in Reno, just to watch him die,” I answer, doing my damnedest to be a smart-ass.

  Pickles pushes the button on the machine and inspects the paper it spat out. He crumples the sheet up, throws it at the trash, missing the can by a good two feet. “Well, at least you’re starting to be honest with me now. We’ll talk more about your Nevada victim later. Have there been any others?”

  “I once killed an Arab on a beach and didn’t feel a bit remorseful.”

  Pickles reads another sheet of paper from the polygraph, crumples it up and throws it at the trash, missing the can. “Good, now we are really getting somewhere,” Pickles enthuses. “I’m glad you’re getting this off of your chest. We’ll have you make out a list later. Let’s talk about that feller in the back of your truck though. How did you do him in?”

  “I’m not going to answer any more of your questions,” I tell Pickles. “This is bullshit! I didn’t kill anybody. I was just yanking your chain. That machine is a piece of shit; it’s probably not even a polygraph.”

  “Oh, now that’s not so, Boy. This is an advanced piece of lie detection equipment, cutting edge and state of the art, on loan from a well-respected European university.”

  “No, it’s not,” I argue, raising from my chair, rounding the table and inspecting the machine. “It’s a fucking all-in-one copy/printer/fax machine.” I lift the lid of the machine and see a piece of paper sitting on the glass copying plate. The paper reads: HE’S LYEING. “You just keep hitting copy and it copies this piece of paper.”

  “No, no, no,” Pickles counters. “This is an all-in-one machine, but it also has an integrated lie detector.”

  I pick up one of the wads of paper near the trashcan and uncrumple it. Not surprisingly, the wrinkled piece of paper reads: HE’S LYEING. I raise my bushy eyebrows at Pickles, saying nothing further.

  “Alright, Buddy, you caught me.” He laughs a big dumb country-boy laugh. “Listen, I’m just trying to find out what’s going on. Are you going to talk to me or not?”

  It dawns on me that Pickles will believe nothing but that Denny and I killed Daddy. Daddy’s advice comes back to me: “This city’s bad. Go before there’s trouble. And don’t leave anything behind except for Denny, he’ll be okay.” I can see clearly what I have to do. I promise myself that I will come back for Denny as soon as I can.

  “Okay. Alright. I’m going to level with you,” I tell Pickles, doing my best to sound deflated. “I didn’t kill that man. But I do know what happened. That fellow that you have in there, he’s my cousin. He’s borderline retarded, obsessive compulsive and deranged. I was taking him to a clinic in Georgia for treatment. He did that man in a couple of days ago. And . . . yes, he did have sex with the corpse several times. He threatened me. Said that if I repor
ted him to the police he would do the same to me. I was so damned scared, even in here, that I didn’t want to talk. I’m willing to give a sworn statement, testify against that monster, whatever you need.”

  “Now we’re getting somewhere, Boy. Now don’t it feel good to get all of that out. Let me get a tape recorder so that we can memorialize all of this.” Pickles starts for the door . . .

  “Wait just a minute though,” I stop him. “I am more than willing to help. But you have to get me out of here and grant me immunity. I want a new identity, and some funds for starting over.”

  “Let me talk to the chief and see what I can do,” Pickles tells me as I watch his lumpy ass go out the door.

  • • •

  Me and Pickles walk to the back of the police station and he directs me to a window. A sign that says Discharge hangs askew over the window. Pickles smiles at me. “Thanks a lot, Champ. With your help we should be able to put this sicko pervert away for life, at the very least. I want you to stick around here until we make sure we have the case put together against your cousin.” A slight twinge of guilt pulls at me for selling Denny out. I know Denny would not have done the same thing to me. And that’s the problem. We would both be in the Erwin jail for who knows how long. At least this way I can get out, get us attorneys, and change my testimony against Denny later. Perhaps I went overboard with the information that I gave Pickles, but I wanted to be convincing. Maybe I shouldn’t have said that Denny has a refrigerator full of severed heads that he likes to pleasure himself with. Perhaps the tales of him running through public places wearing nothing but a banana-hammock and knitted leggings were irrelevant. Maybe I didn’t need to make up the part about eels, PVC pipe and electric tape. But I needed to be convincing. And Pickles bought it. I’m getting out. I can make it up to Denny later.

  “Here’s one hundred dollars for you to live on here for a little bit while we work up the case against that . . . that . . . monster. Go get yourself a hotel and make yourself available because we are going to have a lot of questions for you,” Pickles tells me. “I have already contacted the prosecutor and he has granted you immunity. But you are going to have to cooperate one-hundred-and-thirty percent. Now I have to go get myself some lunch over at the Egg Hut; they are opening back up for lunch. Why don’t you come back to the station for more questioning in a couple of hours?”

  “Thank you very much, Major Pickles,” I say, mustering up all of the false sincerity that I can. “I feel a lot better since I came clean with you. I think that something needs to be done about Denny. He’s a predator and a menace to society. I’ll see you back here in a little bit.”

  Me and Pickles part ways, him headed to the Egg Hut and me turning around the corner of the police station and walking toward what I assume is the downtown area of Erwin.

  “Hey!” I look up at the side of the building to see who’s calling me. Denny’s face is smashed in between the bars on a second floor window. “Hey, how did you get out?” He yells down at me. “They told me that you said I killed your daddy.”

  “Shhhhh,” I whisper up at him. “I’ve got things worked out,” I say as softly as possible, sort of a shouted whisper. “I’m splitting, man. I’m getting out of here and getting us attorneys. I will be back for you with help.”

  “Hey, don’t leave me here!” Denny starts shouting. “They fucking execute elephants in this town. What do you think they’re going to do to me? Get me the fuck out of here before I end up dangling by my neck from a crane. Don’t leave me man.”

  Denny’s panic touches me. I feel great pangs of guilt and shame for selling him out the way that I did. But Daddy said it would be all right. And I don’t see any other way. “I’ll be back for you with a lawyer,” I tell him as I duck around the corner of the station.

  There is nobody behind the police station. The only thing back there is . . . great googley-moogley . . . it’s beautiful, almost unbelievable. I see it in a different light. It’s the moving truck—just sitting there, smiling at me, welcoming me. They must have used Denny’s keys to take the truck to the station. It’s a good thing that Mom gave us each a set of keys. She figured that we were both so irresponsible that at least one set of the keys would get lost. My keys were in my pants pocket when I was arrested. And, lo and behold, my keys were returned to me with my other belongings at the discharge window.

  Nobody is around. I open the back door of the truck. Everything is there. Everything. Daddy said not to leave anything but Denny behind. He must have known this would happen. It’s like it was predestined. I shut the back door and look around. Not a soul in sight. The entire police force is probably over at the grand reopening of the Egg Hut, gobbling down hash browns that I imagine to be slathered in bacon grease, mayonnaise, melted cheese, ham chunks and topped with ranch dressing. This is almost too easy. I unlock the front door of the car. Everything is in order. Quicker than you can say Mayberry, I turn the ignition, glance around once more to make sure the coast is clear and drive in the opposite direction of the Brahman and the Egg Hut. With the sun in the west behind me, I steer the truck out of town and weave my way up and down the meandering mountain roads, not exactly sure where it is that I am going but knowing that it is out of Erwin. I must be heading east. Without a map in the car the best I can do is move forward, towards the east coast until I hit Interstate 95 and then head south for Florida. I’ll get Denny that badass lawyer from Tampa, I tell myself, trying to suppress my feelings of disgrace for ditching him.

  I see things clearly as Erwin fades away behind me. Denny will be all right. I call Mom on the pay-per-use cell phone she gave me for my birthday. By the time I reach her, she is already in Florida, waiting for Denny and me. Mom flew down so that she could get the new house ready before all of our belongings arrived. Mom says she will get on the phone with the Tampa attorney and take care of things for me and Denny.

  “How’s Idjit?” I ask, figuring everything is okay.

  “Well . . . Baby . . . ” (hesitation) “ . . . he’s fine. Just get on down here with the truck, okay.”

  “What’s up, Mom? I can tell something’s wrong. Do you have Idjit with you?” I begin to shake. Panic floods my system at the thought that something may be wrong with my best buddy.

  “Baby, he’s here, I just had to . . . uh . . . board him while I’m getting the house set up.”

  “Mom! You know he doesn’t do well in jail. You need to spring him and have him there ready to greet me when I show up.” I can’t believe that Mom would do such a thing. I knew that she had other things going on, things that she feels are important. But to put the Galoot in a kennel is not like her.

  “Baby,” Mom pleads in her gravelly, lifetime-smoker voice. “You know that I need to focus on Barney’s parole hearing right now. Idjit will be alright. Just come on down with the truck. I’ll take care of everything else. Okay?”

  Barney is the reason that we are moving down to Florida. Ever since Daddy passed on, Mom has been true to him. Until recently, that is. I guess that after a while the loneliness was more than she could bear. Sure she had me and Idjit around to keep her company. But we mostly hung out in the basement, drinking beer, smoking whatever we could get our hands on, and eating deviled eggs. I guess she needed more. Mom started dating local men a couple of years ago and found that she just wasn’t connecting. Everybody she saw was either divorced and brought along all of the issues from previous marriages, widowed and still in the grieving process, or lifetime bachelors (which she says actually meant closet gays). Nothing worked out for her until she became pen pals with Barney Obusek, Florida Department of Corrections number I04988. Mom and Barney hit things off immediately and are now engaged.

  Barney’s serving a life sentence for armed robbery. Mom says that he isn’t a bad guy. He realizes the error of his ways. He’s found Jesus Christ while incarcerated. Specifically, he found Jesus somewhere within the walls of Everglades Correctional Institution in South Florida. That’s what Mom says anyway. She met B
arney on a prison pen pal website. I looked up his posting on the website and couldn’t believe Mom would fall for his shit. His ad looked something like this:

  Hi there, sexy. How are you? Fine I most certainly hope. Please allow me to introduce miself. I am Barney. I have a loving Body that ripples with sinewy mussles. I am single, available and looking for sexy friends and pen pals. I am willing to try anything once and expect the same of my lady friends.

  I am an inosent man who was wrongfully coherced into entering a guilty plea to a criminal act. My attorney told me that adjudification would be witheld and I would get probation. Instead I am in prisen for life. I am looking for someone to share beautiful thoughts and experiences with. Age and race unimportant. I care about what is inside.

  Barney wrapped up his posting with a flowery poem about birds flying free, caterpillars turning into beautiful butterflies, and something about the breeding habits of the Florida Panther that I really didn’t understand.

  Mom told me that Barney used to have a drug problem before he found God in prison. Barney was addicted to crack and was brought up in a broken family. In the midst of the mother of all drug binges, Barney and a cohort of his used a BB gun pistol to rob a Girl Scout cookie stand outside of a Piggly Wiggly supermarket. After snatching up a cash box containing $56.84 and an armload of Peanut Butter Patty boxes, Barney and his accomplice attempted to carjack a minivan. Unfortunately for Barney and his friend, the van had a manual transmission and neither of them knew how to use a stick shift. The van convulsed and jumped a couple of times as Barney popped the clutch, trying to drive away. A gang of Piggly Wiggly bag boys converged on the sputtering minivan, dragged Barney and his friend out, and beat them soundly, holding them down until security arrived to take them into custody.

  I tell Mom that if Barney ever gets out and comes to live with us he better treat us good. He writes me and signs the letters “Dad.” The letters have yellowish stains and give off a vapor of cheap cologne. He’s not my Dad and I don’t want him to be. I tell Mom that if he ever hurts her he better watch out because I have a Kaiser blade[12] and I will whack him smack-dab in the forehead with it if I need to. Momma says not to talk like that. She says Barney is a changed man and she hasn’t met anybody as sweet as him since Daddy. I tell her maybe he’s so sweet to her because Mom keeps replenishing his canteen account and sending him care packages. Mom says that’s nonsense. She loves him and she would do that for anybody she loves, including me.