I have no choice. I must prepare to begin the battle anew.
George
Earl Porter pulled the rented Pontiac to the side of US54. He looked at the scrawled directions in his lap, then hung a slow left turn onto the road with the wooden crisscrossed sign: Bowlee Road.
He gazed around suspiciously as the car staggered along the unpaved surface. Despite being free of the two-laner to Dodge City, he knew he wouldn't find much more comfort and elegance with his new destination: all he knew about Ford City was the near invisible dot on the map of Kansas, and this narrow sodden lane that apparently led there.
Visiting Kansas for the first time, Earl Porter realized that despite New York's high-stressed pace, the Midwest proved too much of an alternative for him. He ran a hand down the back of his sweaty neck, pushing his thoughts out beyond the cool confines of the road-splattered car and into the expansive fields of summer wheat surrounding him. What in God's name am I doing way the fuck out here in the nation's toilet? If they were gonna give the U.S. of A an enema, they'd stick the hose right here. Is this what I've come to?
The 'help wanted' classifieds in the New York Times gave Earl the sales lead: twenty words, seeking 'an experienced sales rep for a national company'. He went in for the interview and sat across from a large potato-faced man with a lumpy nose and bloodshot eyes. Fifteen minutes of light conversation led to an offer of employment at Sundry Dry Cleaning Supplies. Earl accepted the commission-paid position wholesaling chemical tubes, flat presses, and A40 dual nozzles. It hadn't sounded so wonderful, but who was he to be picky? He'd been rejected on four interviews in the past two weeks, the rent was a month past due on his lousy studio in Soho, and there were only cobwebs and dead spiders gaining interest in his bank account.
He spent the first four weeks sharing a meat-locker office with five other balding losers, cold-calling prospective clients: dry cleaning operations. Earl was given a phone listing of businesses in three Midwest states: Kansas, Oklahoma, and Missouri, and started plugging away.
…you need to replace the tubes every six months, and we have the best available...
A few days after opening his fourth account, all in small towns west of Wichita, Earl was called into PotatoFace's office. The boss had told Earl that he was pleased with his progress, felt he had 'something up' on the other guys, and wanted to send him out on the road to visit his new clients, perhaps walk in on a few other potentials as well. "Most of our business is done on the road," Potato Face had said with a fat finger pointing straight up as if in position to pick that lumpy nose of his. Earl was given a four day itinerary of appointments along with a plane ticket.
After arriving in Wichita the first day, he made two stops, both of which garnered sales, and feelings of satisfaction. He spent the night at a fairly clean Holiday Inn then set out the next morning long-hauling it across US54 en route to Dodge. Stopping at establishments in Henderson and Pratt, he closed two more deals and stayed at the only motel in Pratt—a seedy uni-level called the 'Comfy Inn' that came with HBO and walls just thin enough to allow the waft of cow droppings in from the nearby pasture.
He hit the road early the following morning, coffee and bagel nestled firmly in his crotch, all set to make his way to Ford City to see one of Henry's leads: his first cold stop.
But now, it seemed he had taken a wrong turn.
Wheat stalks closed in on the car, forcing Earl to wonder what he was doing traveling through Nowhere, USA with a migraine-to-be searching for Bobby's Quick Clean. Because it's my job, he thought. They're paying me to be here.
He pressed on, the Pontiac careening back and forth like a carnival ride. The thickening swarm of wheat menaced the car like a frenzied crowd trying to glimpse into the limo of a famous rock star. "This can't be right... " he said aloud, gripping the steering wheel.
The car hit a soft spot. The wheels skidded in the wet surface. He squeezed the steering wheel, pressed harder on the gas. A shower of mud sprayed out from the rear wheels. The car sank down, at least six inches. He floored the gas in response. More mud, spraying everywhere. The Pontiac groaned and lurched, made every effort to free itself, and just when Earl thought the car was going to sink into lower Kansas, it miraculously found its footing and slid forward into a clearing.
Heart pounding, it took him a moment to catch his wits. He then eased the car forward and came to rest at the center of a small circular area cut out in the wheat field that looked like an alien crop circle. There was a small house to the left, rundown and dilapidated. It reminded Earl of the Unabomber's home, with no electricity and probably no running water.
Feeling suddenly alone and nervous, Earl wanted badly to go home.
Potato Face wouldn't have sent me out here for nothing. He likes me, wants me to do the business. Not those losers back in New York.
But this can't be Bobby's Quick-Clean...
Earl unlatched his seat belt and stepped from the car. The heat hit him like a wave of warm water. Sweat leaped down his back in dashes.
Flanking the right side of the cabin was an old-fashioned water pump, the handle and spout within reach of the only window. There was a stack of old tires and a few rusty buckets edging the property, but nothing else that would lead him to believe anyone lived here. He stopped for a moment, uncertain if he should proceed, then paced unsteadily to the two wooden steps in front. With a sweaty fist, he gave the sun-swelled wood of the front door three loud raps.
First he heard the pitter patter of little feet on a wood floor, then heavier footsteps. He waited, looked around, clenching his fists, open, closed, open, closed...
The door creaked open. First, just a crack. Then a bit wider.
Standing in front of him was a woman. She was tall, 5' 8", early thirties, with straggly blonde hair, frayed denim cutoffs, and a white halter-top saturated with so much sweat that Earl had a translucent view of her breasts. Her skin was milky white and seemed to shimmer from the sunlight reflecting off the wheat in the fields. Despite her surroundings, she was fairly attractive. At least to Earl.
"Yeah?" she asked, her voice gravely.
"I...I'm lost...I think." It was all he could come up with.
"What kind of accent is that?" she asked.
"I'm from New York. Here on business." He pointed behind with his thumb. "I think I made a wrong turn." His eyes took another swim over her breasts and exposed navel. "I'm trying to find Ford City."
From behind her came that soft pitter-patter he heard earlier. Dog? She twisted her head around, eyes narrowed, expression flickering. She looked slightly nervous and Earl feared that some dog night leap out from behind her. She then looked back at Earl, smiled, and held out her hand. "I'm Darlene."
Earl accepted. "Earl. Earl Porter." Her grip had a pasty feel to it, and when he pulled back a soft white powder was on his palm.
"Oh...sorry 'bout that. I'm making bread."
Earl grinned nervously, rubbed his hands together. "N-no problem, it's all right."
"I can give you directions to Ford City. Why don't you come in for a drink of water, and I'll tell you how to get there." She turned, and before Earl could protest, he was following her inside.
The interior of the cabin was as sick and dying as the outside was: only one room portioned off with a sheet that Earl assumed hid a bed. To the left, below the only window, stood a small dinette table. Its original wooden finish was completely worn away, one of the legs bound in place with stalks of wheat. Atop the table was a drift of flour, a bowl of water, and a half dozen wads of dough. Yep, she was making bread.
Where the hell does she cook it...?
Darlene reached through the window and pumped a glass of water from the well. "Earl," she said. "Do you think I have a nice body?"
Earl had just filled his mouth and almost sprayed her. This isn't right, he immediately thought, eyes swimming over her breasts again. He felt an emotion he couldn't put a finger on. What do you say to a line like that? His immediate assessment was that this
kind of thing never happens unless there's some danger lurking behind it and that he should immediately turn his back and go on his way. But he couldn't. Something wanted him to stay longer. "Ex-excuse me?"
Then the impossible happened. Darlene untied her top and dropped it to the floor, revealing her breasts, glistening with sweat. Earl's eyes followed a running rivulet as it trickled down into her belly-button.
She smiled, gently licked her lips, then unzipped her cutoffs.
Heart thrashing, Earl's mouth went dry and he unconsciously took another sip of water. I should leave...I should leave...I should leave...
Her shorts fell to the floor, came to rest amid a few shreds of wheat.
And there he was, mesmerized like a zombie, thoughts running irrationally awry: There's a naked woman standing in front of me that probably hasn't been banged in a real long time, living out here in the boonies with the cows and the pigs. Probably hasn't had any since I last got some. Now how long has that been? Two years? Three?
"Earl?"
Earl shook away the daydream. "Huh?"
Darlene sidled up next to him, placed a hand in his crotch. "I want you to fuck me..." She strolled behind the draped sheet, flesh rippling kindly, like drifts of sand on the beach.
Earl turned and shot a glance at the table, at the three hunks of dough just sitting there like weird trophies.
Three? Weren't there more than just three?
He went behind the curtained sheet.
Her mouth slid rapidly up and down and Earl felt the pressure build up. This one was intense, more so than the first two, and he watched her tilt her head back and stroke him really hard as he quivered one last time and exploded. When all was said and done, he felt as if he would cry, or laugh, or roll over with lust, or just roll over and die with some dreadful disease. Regardless, he did know for certain that it was turning dark outside, and that Bobby at Bobby's Quick-Clean would have to make do without him. To hell with Bobby. And Potato-Face, for that matter.
He caressed her face, her hair. He felt her mouth on his inner thigh, soft breaths leaving warm wet circles on his skin.
Something went splat on his stomach.
He raised his head and saw a dime-sized droplet of fluid just below his navel.
It appeared to have fallen from above.
"What the..." He looked to the ceiling. Nothing but frail wood beams. "What the hell?" He swiped it with his fingers and spread them. The foamy-like stuff webbed out between them.
Darlene grabbed the sheet and wiped his hands. "George."
George?
Darlene jumped up, sprinted out through the curtain. Earl heard the front door screech open and slam shut.
What the…?
George?
The sheets next to him were warm where she had lain, her subtle musky odor still filling the air. There was no other noise but his steady, rhythmic breathing working its way about the wood beams in the depressed interior.
Earl jumped out of the bed, looked around nervously as he got dressed. He slid into his pants, dug his hands into his pockets, and realized with pain and fear that the keys to the rental car were gone.
Panicking, he ran from the bedroom in search of Darlene. He glanced over at the table.
The three remaining wads of dough were gone.
Earl grabbed the door handle.
Something hit him. Twice. Once on the wrist—which he pulled away from the door—and then in the face.
Two hot globs of clear slime.
George...
He panicked, cleared his eyes and mouth of the smelly mess, and then there was a high whiny shriek like an animal with its leg caught in a snare. Earl opened his eyes and immediately felt his heart crawl up his pipes. He fell back on legs he could barely command, answering the evil wail with one of his own.
Hunched on the floor amid the patches of flour and shreds of wheat was a man. A dwarf, by the looks of him. His naked body was round and fat with purple-black bruises spread across on his distended stomach. His feet and hands were fat and hairy and tapping eerily against the floor like pinball flippers. His arms and legs, however, were thin and skeletal, each only a foot long. They pendulated wildly, the four fingers on his paw-sized fists flicking long yellow fingernails at Earl. His hair was long and dreadlocked, every thick bristle dangling filthily from his scalp.
And then, his face, two bulging eyes staring straight up at Earl, watering in their sockets. His nostrils were gaping and aflow with thick yellow mucous.
Earl, the fingers of his left hand in his mouth, smiled a weak grin. The deformed dwarf reciprocated by pulling its bulbous lips back, grinning black stumps for teeth seeping with thick, white foam.
Slowly, Earl reached for the door, keeping his eyes fastened to the dwarf. The dwarf blew out his chest, drew back, and spit out a huge glob of saliva at him, nailing him across the chest and neck. Earl staggered back against the wall, nonplussed.
The dwarf sniggered, clapped its little hairy hands. "Gotcha!" It blinked its big eyelids. Earl scrambled up, took a slow step to his right. The dwarf mirrored him, sliding to its left. Earl took another step, and then little man scurried on its padded feet in front of him like a darting squirrel, leaped up on top of the table and started jumping up and down, chattering its black teeth, waving its arms around like a maniacal aerobics enthusiast. Small puffs of flour clouded up.
Earl noticed a tattered piece of paper on the table.
A note.
He walked over, slowly stretched his hand—ignoring his pounding heart—and snatched it. He could feel the monster's gaze penetrating him as he read to himself a note dated almost two years earlier:
To whomever gets this note:
First off, please let me say how sorry I am to have to do this to you.
I would guess by now you've met George. He was here when I found this place two years ago. There was another man here before me who beat me up pretty bad and left me behind to take care of George.
George watches you at all times, only leaves the house when you're sleeping to gather up the wheat. He eats only wheatdough, which, as you can see, can be made with flour and water.
Important! Don't try to leave. If you do, he'll spit at you. And the more you fight, the more spitting he does, and if you haven't found out already, it's pretty foul.
Unless you can find someone else to take care of him, you'll have to do the best you can.
Darlene
P.S.—there's one other thing George will ask you to do. You'll discover this on your own.
Earl lowered the note, took a long hard look at George.
George opened his mouth, flaunted his teeth, then raised one thin arm and scraped a sharp yellow fingernail across them.
He was hungry.
Earl looked out the window, past the water well.
Of course, the car was gone.
Earl felt a hand grab him.
He looked back at George.
The dwarf was smiling. Holding a thick, mottled erection.
Earl yelled, tried to pull away, but the dwarf held him tightly, grinning…affectionately.
Earl pulled harder. Screamed.
George spit in Earl's mouth, silencing him.
Then, pounced on him.
The Happiest Man Alive
No one was happier than Charles Jacobson.
Three years had elapsed, and nothing went wrong for him; his life was a virtual utopia. He was a self made multi millionaire, yet never worked a day in his life. Beautiful women flocked to him by the truckload, and whichever ones he wanted, at any given time, would most certainly be there to 'comfort' him in any way he wished.
Already up $180,000, he placed $50,000 on the pass line.
Tracy, his favorite lady, tan, shapely, and of course, drop dead gorgeous, held the dice in her right hand. Many players gathered around the table, their hearts beating ferociously.
But Charles was calm. He knew the outcome.
She rolled the dice. Silence. The soft cont
act of the dice upon the green felt of the craps table could be heard. They came to an abrupt stop, numbers facing up.
The dealer called it: "Yo, eleven, winner! Pay the pass line!" The crowd of onlookers screamed, thrilled.
He showed little emotion, for he was used to winning.
"That's it," Charles said to the dealer. "Would you please put that on my account?" The dealer nodded an affirmative. He held an account at every posh casino in Puerto Rico, and was treated with the utmost respect, and given the highest standing.
And every now and then, in order to maintain his welcomed status, he would lose on purpose.
He had no explanation as to why he was blessed with this good fortune. He simply knew how to succeed in all areas of pleasure that life had to offer, and accepted the fact that he was born with the special talent to bestow upon himself, at will, anything within the laws of nature that he desired.
He turned to Tracy and whispered in her ear. "Go get Debbie and Christy and take them to the suite. I'll be there in an hour."
He turned away from her and walked to the bar. He ordered a Tanqueray and tonic. Oh, what a life.
But there was just one problem. Prior to three years ago, for what reasons he still did not understand, he held no memory of his life. Complete amnesia.
It all started thirty-six months ago, almost to the day. Charles awoke on that beautiful Sunday morning in a bed, completely unknowing as to his whereabouts, or for that matter, who he was. He looked up, confused, the sound of ocean waves gently crashing outside his window. Warm beams of sunlight pierced through the atrium skylights built into the ceiling above the bed and soothed his skin, but caused a faint sting upon his eyes. He shielded his face with his hands like a newborn sensing natural light for the first time, his mind a dim, blank slate, all experiences new to him.
Soon after a brief and somewhat alarming encounter with a house servant trying to serve him breakfast, and a self guided tour of the massive bedroom, the circuits in his brain that controlled his understanding of the English language and his basic know-how to participate and function in society clicked on, enabling him to communicate with those around him.
Dregs of Society Page 6