THUGLIT Issue Fourteen

by Scott Sanders

  Legalized weed in Colorado—at the moment, it's a cash-only business. You can't buy an eighth of bud with your debit card or write a check for a couple grams of shatter. The Federal Justice and Treasury departments make sure no bank will take your money, cockblocking any dealings with weed related enterprises. At the moment, for King Kush and his entrepreneur ganja buddies, we're their biggest problem. Poachers.

  Jeremy was too busy chucking stacks into his backpack to notice the rich aura of magenta that sucked me into the opposite corner of the closet.

  Sweet Jesus, it was tight.

  A six band spectrum LED rotary setup. Low profile mounting. Top level shit. A ferris wheel of herb doing slow revolutions around the ideal hue of electric plum light glowing in the center. The stacks of hundys Jeremy was chucking into his backpack, the cut that was mine, it would go towards something just like this. Low heat signature. No screwing with two-twenty. Cool and quiet and epic.

  In front of the wheel, sprawled out in hyper-OCD fashion, were tight joints lining the middle of a plate broken into compartments like a school lunch tray stocked with all the food groups: Molly. Blow. Smack. King Kush's recreational use didn't exclude much.

  Sparking up one of the blunts, I turned to our pal oozing all over the carpet, holding himself up on a curtain rod, clutching a top Liberace might call 'too gay.' Exhaling through my mouth slit, a most excellent hit, I said "Sweet rig, man."

  He smiled. Blood and spit seeping through shards of pearly stalactites and stalagmites clinging to his gums in a busted grin. Stoner code dictated that if I was partaking, it was only right to puff-puff-pass. When I'd nearly cashed the blunt I turned it around and trying not to get blood on myself, gave the guy a toke.

  The safe cleaned out, Jeremy pulled at King Kush saying, "Alright, sweetness, on your feet. We're doing the greenhouse."

  This was never discussed, the greenhouse out back part. Like I said, more details should have been hashed out. It's about then I felt my neck freezing over and threads of ice webbing up my brain stem.

  Then it was dragging the dude out back. Then the torch. The bubbling chicken skin. The singed hair. Then it's now, I think. But maybe I'm the wrong one to ask.

  Jeremy slams his boot into another lid, pulling out and tossing another plant on the stack, adding another busted tub leaking water everywhere. Through bloated lips, like he's loaded with Novocain, King Kush says "C'mon man, Jesus."

  There's more of them now, the ash snowflakes gently crawling all along my arms with their polka-dotted backs.

  Sloshing over to King Kush, the way he's pounding him with the steel tenderizing mallet, it's hard to know if Jeremy's aiming for unconscious or dead. Just hammering and hammering.

  Ladybugs! They're ladybugs. Like the ditty from Sesame Street, c'mon you know. One two three, four five six...

  And hammering and hammering…

  Seven eight nine, ten eleven twelve—at the ladybugs' pic-nicccc! A grower's little helper. They're here on purpose, to eat aphids. Released in swarms to chomp the spider mites that will set webs through your crops, jam you up big time.

  The splashing and screaming stops and there's the clink of metal on cement as the mallet hits the floor. Jeremy—his arms dead at his sides, his smiling plastic face locked on some party you and I aren't invited to in the glow of the lights. The tips of his fingers are dancing, twitching hard…

  …and there's no stopping it now.

  When his body deadfalls backward, cannonballing into the water, I'm supposed to be there. Like every time before, I'm supposed to keep Jeremy from flailing against sharp objects, rush to prevent him from chewing off his tongue. Regret to inform, however, 'rush' setting is currently unavailable. A saunter is all meat machine can pull together right now.

  Despite the rain of mallet blows, King Kush is still kicking. Chuckling with swollen lips peeled back over blank gums, the giggling building into full gut laughs.

  Left foot. Right foot. I'm en route towards Jeremy's thrashing body. ETA…whenever. By the dozens, the ladybugs are softly making my limbs their landing pads. Dozens turning into hundreds.

  'Trout Dance' has never been a more spot on name, Jeremy's torso bucking wildly out of the water.

  Almost there.

  There's blood leaking from his mouth slit. Guess it's goodbye tongue.

  Kneeling beside him, I tell him it's cool man, everything's gonna be cool. The water soaking me on the floor should be cold, but I don't feel anything. I squeegee the carpet of ladybugs from my arms, only to have them settle right back down.

  Still giggling and kicking his feet, King Kush says "You like that shit, man? Smokin' wet? You ain't never did that before have you?" Bugs are struggling to get loose from his sticky red face.

  You take good reefer. Natural, sweet cannabis sativa. Roll it up tight in a Zig-Zag paper and you're set. Good times will be had. You don't need synth cannabinoid. You don't have to kick up the high by soaking joints in embalming fluid or dusting it with coke. Only thugs smoke wet, smoke 'dippers.' Amp, fry—that's east coast hood rat shit. Blunts drenched in phencyclidine and dried out.

  For you down home stoners, that's PCP.

  It's important not to spaz. Stay centered. Remember your face is a fake. Clear plastic. Your skin isn't dying. It's not just dead meat hanging off your skull. Remember—it's not your real face caked with insects right now. Jeremy's ribcage bucks to the ceiling, splashes back down, it won't stop.

  I can talk myself back from this ledge. I just need the ladybugs to take their picnic somewhere else for just one minute. Maybe two minutes. Cool it with all the skittering legs. The tickling wings. The millions and millions of hairy flippers crawling around my…

  Meat hand is whipping the machete around me in erratic swipes, all the weight of my XXL torso twisting behind the swings. Skull pilot has initiated Ape Shit Sequence. I'm on my feet, smacking at myself, mashing ladybug shells that crackle and turn to paste under my palm. His Highness is laughing so hard, he must be pissing, his legs bicycling in the air.

  Throwing mad helicopter slashes, my ladybug body count is probably one in a thousand. I'm connecting with nothing. Air. Air. Air.

  Until it's not air.

  It's the strap holding up the light hood I've stumbled against.

  King Kush's belly laugh sucks back inside his lungs, all his air rushing in and held. Two hundred and twenty volts pushed through thousand watt bulbs diving into the kiddy pool Jeremy's made of the floor. A bath of pH balanced solution we're all standing in when the hood drops, exploding in sparks. This is the last thing we see. We'll ever see.

  And they all play games, at the ladybugs' pic-nicc.

  Blackout.

  There's blue at first, then a little orange. The remaining hoods firing back up, the fake sun rising after the abrupt sunset. Jeremy's chest has stopped playing rodeo bronco, and I'm sure he's dead until a wet gasp spurts from behind his mask. His Ganja Lordship is splayed out with the current of solution lapping against his head saying "Dumb shit... you... dumb...shit..."

  Skull pilot checks in with all limbs for damage control and receives half-assed responses all around. An important part, a crucial part, of rigging your room for two-twenty electricity is the breaker box where all the ballasts collect from your light hoods. The breakers that'll trip in the event your I-bolts holding everything up give out.

  Or an amateur burglar/kidnapper/weed grower goes berserk and chops the goddamn rigging in half with a machete.

  They're still here. One two three, four five six—fluttering back down onto me.

  The God.

  Damn.

  Ladybugs.

  It's a race to see whose arms and legs will reboot quickest. I just want whoever it is, if they can, if it's not permanently melted to my for real face…

  Please peel off this stupid mask.

  Desperation

  by Albert Tucher

  Diana glanced to her left. Tillotson was driving like a cop, aware of everything around them. T
hat part didn't surprise her, but everything else about this expedition did.

  She usually saw him across her kitchen table, where she poured him coffee in an endless stream. He never refused a refill. By tacit agreement, her rented Cape Cod was neutral ground. Roles sometimes got a little fluid there, but everywhere else he was a cop, and she was a prostitute. They weren't supposed to get along.

  So far he hadn't told her the reason for venturing out of their safe space. It wouldn't involve a demand for a payoff or a freebie. That wasn't his style. But they were obviously headed for his jurisdiction, the neighboring town of Lakeview. Other cops in his town knew what she did to pay the bills. If he brought her into his own territory without putting the cuffs on her, it might raise some eyebrows.

  "I need your expertise," Tillotson said.

  She had heard those words from him before. They helped her relax.

  "The Britney Loya thing, I'm guessing."

  He didn't look impressed, but she knew it wasn't much of a deduction. What was any local cop thinking about, other than the disappearance of a twenty-four-year-old woman on her way to a party?

  "So we're retracing her steps," she said.

  Now it made sense. They couldn't do that in her kitchen.

  "As far as I can tell. This is the most direct route from her apartment to the party. And she left right around this time, according to the roommate."

  The darkness was complete, reminding them that it was only April, despite the recent warm weather.

  "I'm always glad to help, but what do I know about it?"

  "Maybe nothing. I'm grasping at straws here."

  She considered making a crack about liking desperation in a man, but a look at his face told her that this wasn't the right time.

  "From what I read in the papers," she said, "it was a costume party, Saturday night." This was Tuesday. "She lived in Driscoll. Like me."

  "Let's say 'lives' for now."

  "And she was going to Lakeview."

  "Right. What the papers didn't say is, she was going dressed as a hooker. How people think a hooker dresses, anyway."

  "Which I don't."

  She shouldn't have needed to say it. He knew that women who worked at her level of the business dressed to blend in. Diana usually went to her dates the way she was riding with him now—in business casual pants and a conservative top. If she broke that rule, it was usually to go full corporate.

  "That's not why I thought of you. Basically, you're my go-to young single woman. I used to know some young women, but somewhere along the line something happened."

  He looked her way for a moment.

  "To them. Not me."

  He smiled in that way that crinkled the skin around his eyes. The effect went well with his graying temples. It was a nice save, and she smiled back.

  "Anyway, you know how to keep your eyes open. I'm hoping something occurs to you."

  "Okay, the roommate," Diana said. "She wasn't going to the party?"

  "The roommate's a he. A nursing student with a big exam the next day. He was invited, but he didn't have time."

  "A male roommate. That's interesting. You checked him out?"

  "He took the test and passed it. That suggests he was home studying, but it's not proof."

  "They're just roommates? Nothing more?"

  "He says he's gay. For now, we believe him. Or don't disbelieve him, anyway."

  The Lakeview Middle School appeared on their right. Stark lighting made the one-story building look like a correctional institution.

  "We have a possible sighting of her car right here," said Tillotson. "Which is why it's my case. The witness can't say for sure, though."

  "You searched the school grounds? There are places to hide a car, especially out back."

  Looming behind the school was a patch of the old-growth forest that had once covered all of Sussex County, New Jersey.

  "Nothing," he said.

  "Night custodians?"

  "Good point. A few years back the district contracted maintenance out to one of those companies that pay minimum wage and no benefits. Which means they hire a lot of ex-convicts to work with school kids. Brilliant, right? But we eliminated the four who were on duty that night."

  They reached the lake. Tillotson stayed with the shore road for a quarter mile, and then took a left that climbed straight up the mountainside. The grade was steep enough to make his Crown Victoria work a little. He crossed four intersections and then made a right. In daylight they would have enjoyed glimpses of the water below.

  All the roads surrounding the lake were paved but narrow. Cars that couldn't squeeze into a driveway parked half on the road and half on someone's front lawn. Most of the houses dated from the 1970s. In Driscoll they would have cost a quarter of what they did here, but Diana had never understood the appeal of the location.

  "I have clients up here," she said.

  She knew that she didn't have to worry about Tillotson making use of the information.

  "If somebody throws a party, it's a real mess. Hard to squeeze by."

  "I know," he said. "Emergency vehicles have had problems with that."

  He stopped in front of a typical ranch house.

  "Here's where she would have ended up. Anything strike you so far?"

  "What kind of party was this?"

  He glanced at her.

  "Didn't I say? Costumes."

  "All sexy costumes like hers? That might mean something."

  "Like what?"

  "The only times I've ever dressed like that, I was going to a swinger party."

  "Doesn't sound like you."

  "Not for fun. For business. Parties like that generally don't admit men who don't have a woman to share. So I was playing girlfriend."

  Tillotson nodded as he shut the engine off.

  "I didn't think of that angle. The hosts didn't say anything, but they might not. They did say they didn't think she was bringing a date, though."

  "That rule is for men. Single women are always welcome. They just don't get many. She could also have been meeting her date someplace else."

  "It's worth checking," said Tillotson. "I'll bet some people think they're above the jealousy thing, until they find out they're not. And we know what jealousy can do."

  He thought for a minute and shook his head.

  "I wish I could have you look the hosts over, but that could lead to some awkward questions."

  He started the car again and began driving back downhill. When they reached the point where they had first seen the lake, he went straight ahead instead of making the right at the stop sign and going back the way they had come.

  "Let's just circulate a little."

  He drove for a while, making random turns and doubling back here and there. Twice they encountered the same patrol car. The occasion began to feel more and more like a high school date with a boy who couldn't get up the nerve to suggest parking.

  That was a little weird.

  They were sitting at a traffic light on one of the few four-lane roads in Lakeview. The patrol car pulled up next to them in the left lane. The light was good enough for Diana to see the young male officer behind the wheel. He looked at Tillotson but gave no sign of recognition. Diana knew that was police procedure. When the officer didn't know who was with Tillotson, or why, he wouldn't want to butt in.

  "Oh, hell," said Tillotson. "This is a waste of time. And Holman there is starting to wonder whether I need backup or something."

  "Sorry. Nothing else is occurring to me."

  He made a right and another right, and headed toward her home. As they crossed the town line, she thought that the contrast between Lakeview and Driscoll had never looked so stark.

  Tillotson pointed at an aging strip mall. It had a Laundromat, a Chinese takeout place, and a storefront check-cashing establishment.

  "Sometimes I wish Lakeview wasn't such a damned bedroom community. A few more businesses like those, and security cameras might have caught what went down." />
  He dropped her off at her front door. He didn't want coffee, which told her how frustrated he was.

  He wasn't the only one. Diana had no late dates scheduled, and her usual pastime, the true crime shows on the upper reaches of cable, wouldn't divert her tonight. TV didn't seem real in comparison.

  So she fidgeted. When the phone rang around eleven-thirty, she snatched the handset off the kitchen wall.

  "It wasn't a swinger party," said Tillotson. "The hosts were shocked that I even suggested it. Well, she was shocked. He just gave me this don't-I-wish kind of smile."

  "The other guests confirmed it?"

  "I've done this before."

  But there was a smile in his voice.

  "Which leaves us wondering about Britney's costume," she said.

  "They gave me the impression that she always had to be the center of attention. Anyway, it's a dead end."

  "It was just a thought."

  "A good one. It just didn't pan out. Happens to us all the time."

  He was always generous about her contributions, which made her feel worse when she fell short. And there were practical reasons why she didn't want to fail. Her business was illegal, and if Tillotson lost interest in putting in a word for her, the cops could always stop looking the other way.

  As soon as she hung up, her pager chirped on the kitchen table. She looked at the number and winced. She wasn't really in the mood for Ralph Riegert, but as a client, he was too lucrative to ignore. He typically got horny around midnight and wanted two hours with her. At three in the morning she would bring home close to a thousand dollars and then try to sleep until noon.

  Unless an early bird client also felt the urge.

  Diana drove six blocks to the all-night Laundromat and used the pay phone.

  "Hi, Ralph. Should I come right over?"

  "I'm ready," he said with a leer in his tone.