Grundish & Askew

by Carbuncle, Lance

  “Yeah,” says Askew, suddenly flustered, “but that’s my job. I get to take care of the ladies. Ain’t that right Grundish? You always said that I get to take care of the ladies.”

  “Yeah,” agrees Grundish. “Askew gets to be in charge of the ladies.”

  “Okay, Baby,” agrees Dora, “you’re in charge of the ladies. I’ll be available for consultation if you need me. So what do you say, Mr. Grundish? Are the three of us going to be business partners?”

  “Well,” concedes Grundish, “if Askew wants you that bad, I guess I can go along with it. But, you really have that money?”

  “There you go,” says Jerry. “You’re all getting along. That’s flipping wonderful. But we have to get you guys out of here, and out of the country. The first step is gonna be getting you fake passports.”

  “How are we going to do that, Mr. Mathers? We don’t know anybody that does anything like that.”

  Jerry taps his walking stick on the ground several times and grins. “I’m calling my friend, Chancho. He can help. But before I do, I have a little business proposal for you boys, too.”

  30

  Alf the Sacred Burro disappears behind a lime-green VW van and awaits the return of his new friend with the hairy face. A kindle of oil-stained kittens appears from under the van and rubs affectionately against the donkey’s legs. Now that he is untethered, Alf is finding his way around the junkyard and discovering what he has been missing. Mostly it’s more of the same, junked autos rusting out where they stand. The old heaps are dead, dying or disinclined to drive. Spaced throughout the yard are blighted live oak trees being strangled to death by great, clinging clumps of Spanish moss. Jerry never sold any of the vans or even any of the parts to people. He once told Alf that he didn’t sell his babies to assholes. To Jerry, pretty much anybody who wanted to buy one of his cars was an asshole. Alf cowers behind the green van because he hears the roar and rattle of the station wagon that always brings the Mexican. That’s what Alf calls the cruel little man who kicks at him and pelts him with apples when Jerry isn’t around, the Mexican. To Jerry, the short, brown man is known as Chancho. Alf remains behind the van, hoping not to be discovered.

  Simulated-wood panels span the sides of Chancho’s Plymouth Fury wagon. The faux-wood grain is intended as a complement to the creamy beige sputum-toned paint. Peeking around the corner of his hiding place, Alf sees the driver’s side door open. Below the door, two snake-skin boots plant themselves firmly on the ground. The silver-plated tips of the boots can inflict sharp pains on a donkey’s ribs. The sun glints off of the tip of one of the boots and scares Alf into a full hiding position behind the van. Extending up and out of the boots is five-feet and one-hundred-ninety-eight pounds of gold-toothed, ill-tempered, donkey-hating, illegal alien. A cowboy hat holds down the thick, black, bowl-cut crop of hair on Chancho’s cabeza. The gold-toothed smile fades, the wispy mustache droops in sadness, and Chancho’s pitted features go slack with disappointment when he sees that Alf is no longer tethered to the side of the building. Chancho slams his door in frustration, causing the one remaining hub cap on the other side of the car to fall off. He lets himself into Jerry’s building.

  Chancho waddles through the labyrinth of stacked storage boxes, litter boxes, and assorted debris, kicking mange-afflicted felines away from his feet and stepping over cat turds. His strut is that of a pigeon, with the silver tips of his boots clacking on the floor like a lazy tap-dancer trying to work up momentum. His pock-marked face wrinkles in disgust at the overwhelming stench of cat piss. Chancho does not like animals. Chancho does not like people either, with the exception of his mama, Jerry, and the pretty girls.

  When he reaches the door to Jerry’s living quarters, Chancho takes off his dirty cowboy hat and gently sets it on the ground beside the door. He rolls the pudgy fist of his right hand in the palm of his left, cracking his knuckles. The smile on the stout man’s blemished face is momentarily warm and genuine as he readies himself for battle. Turning the door knob as quietly as he can, Chancho throws the door open, turns his volume up to eleven and lets out a warbling war cry as he dives through the air, landing on his shoulder and rolling to reduce the impact. He pops up to his feet, hands balled in front of him, and readies himself for hand-to-hand combat. “Come on and get me, Cabron!” he yells, his hands held up and ready for fisticuffs.

  • • •

  Off to one side of the inner sanctum, just prior to Chancho’s bursting into the room, Jerry and his company were enjoying a dinner of meats Grundish boosted from the Buttwynn house. Turleen, well-rested and feeling sassy, cooked a pork tenderloin in Jerry’s microwave. Grundish, utilizing years of cellblock cooking experience, made what he called Dorito Burritos with ingredients from Jerry’s vending machine. The recipe for the burritos went a little something like this:

  • • •

  Take one packet of ramen noodles and crush them up. Do the same with a bag of spicy Doritos, and mix the noodles and Doritos together. Throw in a package of nacho cheese and mix some more. Mix all of the ingredients in a bag and add a half-cup of water heated in the microwave. Squish them all together and flatten it out. Let it get mushy and dig in.

  • • •

  The Dorito Burritos sit in the middle of the card table the group is gathered around. Only Grundish and Askew pick at the burritos.

  “You know,” says Askew with a glob of cheesy noodle sauce running down his chin, “this is some awesome shit. I have always loved your prison recipes. Although I do hate that you had to be in the hoosegow to learn your culimnary skills. You people don’t know what you’re missing here.” He scoops up another mound of Dorito Burrito and crams it in his mouth. Grundish nods at him, scoops up a large helping for himself, smashes it on top of a chunk of pork, and spoons the whole mess into his maw. Soggy bits of Doritos and ramen cling to his beard.

  “Well,” says Dora with a crooked smile, “I’ve put some bad stuff in my mouth before. But I just don’t think I can stomach that. I’ll just stick with Turleen’s tenderloin. Thanks anyways, Grundish.”

  “Me too,” agrees Jerry. “Hell, I shouldn’t even be eating this meat. But damn, it’s tasty. And I’ve denied myself a lot of things in my life. But tonight I’m gonna let loose. Turleen, Baby, please bring me some more of that meat. I don’t care if it does make my stomach cramp up and gives me the Hershey squirts. I don’t care if it takes a year off of my life. I’m happy. I’ve got my girl here again, and I’m happy. Bring me some more food, Darling.” His voice trembles as he calls out for another plate of food. “And one more cup of coffee, too, if you don’t mind.”

  • • •

  “Turleen,” says Askew, “once you get Jerry more meat, you should try some of Grundish’s masterpiece. I exspecially think that you’ll like it. Then again, perhaps it’s not the healthiest thing for someone your age to be eating. You know...”

  Before Askew can finish his conflicting thoughts, a scream gashes the air, trailing off of the crazed flying-Chancho like a ripped banner streaming from an airplane. Just as Chancho pops up from his roll, sets his battle stance, and screams “come on and get me, Cabron[39],” Askew’s brain tries its best to evaluate the situation. The thought rolls around in his head and finally settles in that the man in the middle of the room is a threat to everybody’s safety. He pushes past Dora, knocking her to the floor from her seat. Letting loose with a bloodthirsty yowl of his own, Askew charges the stocky man in the middle of the room, tackling Chancho at waist-level and slamming him to the floor. Still screaming one long incomprehensible shriek, Askew climbs on top of him in a full mount, pummels the man’s fat head with hammer fists, and drops vicious elbows into his face. Chancho, stunned by the unknown attacker, covers up his face and strikes at Askew’s head with his elbows. He bucks Askew off of him and jumps on his back, throwing fists under Askew’s arms and connecting with his jaw.

  Grundish watches his friend trade blows with the unknown man and is impressed with the ferocity with whi
ch Askew brawls. As a matter of honor, Grundish allows his friend to fight his own fight. He lets the affray go uninterrupted for several minutes, watching as the two men throw each other into storage boxes and bloody each other’s faces. Askew continues to shriek his battle howl, sounding something like a sick cat being stuck with a hot poker.

  “Grundish,” shouts Dora, pushing at his back. “Get in there and help him. Your best friend needs help.”

  Grundish reluctantly stands up. “Maybe I should step in,” he says.

  “Hold on there, Boy,” says Jerry, grabbing Grundish’s arm and stopping him. “That there is Chancho that Askew is wrastlin’ with. He does this with me all the time. He shows up and I try to surprise him, maybe jump on his back and try to beat the shit out of him. We wrestle around, punch and kick each other a little bit – just some harmless fun. Let those boys go at it. It’s not like they’re gonna kill each other. The worst they’ll have is some black eyes and bruises. And all of the pretty has already been knocked out of Askew’s face well before today. No offense, Darling,” he nods at Dora.

  Dora’s left eye goes berserk with tics. One side of her mouth turns up into a feral sneer. She snaps at the men, “Well, if you men ain’t gonna help my man, then I guess it’s up to me.” Before they can grab her to hold her back, Dora is across the room and fully committed to the battle. Askew, though, has already gotten the best of Chancho, and stands above him, stomping on the man’s fat head. Each time Askew’s foot comes down, it makes a squishy thud. Dora unites with Askew in the ruthless attack, standing beside Chancho, stomping and kicking at the ribs and chest of his motionless body while Askew crushes the man’s skull, his sock-gartered legs pumping with relentless ferocity on the bloodied head, reshaping the skull to the point where the cowboy hat will no longer be a proper fit.

  Grundish and Jerry tacitly agree that the fight has gone too far and step in. Grundish grabs Askew from behind and drags him away from the bloody splotch on the floor where Chancho’s still-warm corpse is sprawled out. He throws Askew into the loveseat and stands above him. “No more!” Grundish shouts. “No more. It’s over.” With his shirt half torn off from the fight, Askew’s flabulous gut is exposed. Hanging from his neck is a rawhide strap threaded through what appears to be two human ears. Grundish cringes at the trophies around his friend’s neck and momentarily ponders where the second ear came from, the blond boy or Buttwynn.

  Askew sits back into the loveseat; his insides are shaking like a leaf on a tree. A flap of torn skin hangs from his forehead and droops over one crazy bugged-out eye. His broken and bloodied smile chatters despite the heat in the room. Askew stands but makes no move toward Chancho. Jerry has already coaxed Dora away and escorted her to the loveseat.

  “No more,” repeats Grundish, blocking Askew’s opportunity to return to Chancho. “It’s all over.”

  “I know,” says Askew. “I know. But I’m wild as a bug and all shook up, man. I gotta get outside and breathe some fresh air. I can’t take it in here. I need water. Dora, grab me a cup. I saw a pump outside. I need fresh air and water.”

  “Wait just a minute,” says Jerry, sensing Askew’s manic energy. He runs to the other side of the room and returns with a jug of water. “Take this. You won’t get any water from the pump out front. It don’t work because the vandals took the handles. But there’s plenty more water in here if you’re thirsty.”

  Dora takes the water jug and holds onto Askew’s arm, walking him out of the room and out of the building. On the way out of the building, lurking in the cluttered network of halls and false walls made of boxes, Beaumont the cat lies in wait for Dora. Just before exiting the building, Beaumont launches a surprise attack on Dora’s head, leaping from atop a file cabinet, his stomach covering her face. He locks his claws into the sides of her head and digs his teeth into her flesh, scraping them on her skull. She drops the jug of water and dances a drunken jig, flailing and smacking at the enraged animal. Dora’s muffled scream and whirling form alerts Askew that something is wrong. Wired on adrenaline and half-crazy, Askew acts without thought. He grabs the wildcat, plucks him once again from Dora’s head, and flings the cat into the door. Once again, the sock-gartered legs deal out deadly punishment, this time on the dazed cat, mercilessly snuffing out Beaumont’s ninth life.

  Askew picks up the jug of water dropped by Dora and exits the building. Leaving the smashed tomcat’s carcass in the entryway, Askew stumbles outside, the glaring sun forcing his pupils to constrict to pinpoints. Blood trickles from the torn flesh on his forehead and burns his eyes, clouding his already-blurred tunnel vision. He blindly staggers and bumps into Chancho’s station wagon. Dora trails him and helps roll Askew onto the hood of the car. “I’m so thirsty. So fucking thirsty,” he says. Twisting the top off of the gallon jug, he downs most of the container of dihydrogen monoxide. “Aghhhhh,” he groans and dumps the rest on his head. “I need more. Need water. Get me more water,” he tells Dora.

  Alf the Sacred Burro remains behind the lime-green VW van and watches Askew squirm uncomfortably on the hood of the car while Dora returns to the building. Sensing something off about the moaning mortal – something sick and sour – Alf stays his position, hoping that soon the fur-faced man will return to him with a good supply of apples. It seems to Alf that the ratio of brown lumps regurgitated to the number of apples consumed has recently been thrown seriously out of whack, with the scale tipped heavily in favor of vomit balls. He feels queasy and respiration is a chore. But, for the time being, Alf does not feel like venturing out from his safe place. Alf will wait for his friend or Jerry before he shows his donkey face again.

  31

  Dora returns to the inner sanctum and finds Grundish and Jerry hefting Chancho’s floppy ragdoll remains onto a rolling metal table. Jerry leans over the body and gently slaps the fat, dead face several times. “I know, Amigo. I know, my friend,” he says. “Just remember, death is not the end.” Jerry wipes at a tear and steels his heart against the flow of useless emotions. He looks around the room at the blood and the damage to his property and shakes his head. In an effort to divert his attention from the fate of his friend, Jerry lists off the damage in a monotone voice. “Broken bottles. Broken plates. Broken cutters. Broken saws. Broken chairs. God damned broken laws. Broken bodies and broken bones.” He takes a deep breath and feels like he’s choking. “God damn. Everything’s broken.”

  Putting her hand on Jerry’s shoulder, Dora says, “I’m sorry about kicking your friend while he was down, Mr. Mathers. I di’nt know nothin’ but that he was trying to hurt my man. I di’nt want Mr. Chancho dead or nothin’.” Her left eye involuntarily winks at him but fails to lift his spirits. “Do you want help wheeling him out or anything?”

  “No, no, no. It ain’t me, Babe,” answers Jerry. “I’m not the one wheeling Chancho out of here. I can’t do it. Grundish, there, is gonna take care of it for me. I need to just sit down and talk with Turleen. I’m planning on eventually hooking up with you all on the floating brothel business. But, I need to work out the particulars with sweet Miss Turleen before she tries to leave me again.” He looks at Chancho and tears roll down his cheeks. Jerry turns away. Turleen puts an arm around his waist, and they walk out together.

  “I can help you, then,” says Dora to Grundish. “You want my help?”

  Grundish shakes his head and says nothing.

  “It wasn’t his fault you, know. Askew thought that man was a cop, or an attacker or something. He had good intentions.”

  Grundish just grunts and starts to wheel Chancho’s body out of the room.

  “Can’t you say nothin’?” asks Dora. “Can’t you say that it’s gonna be all right? Or that you know Askew didn’t mean to do no harm? You can’t be mad at him about this, you know.”

  The cart stops and Grundish turns toward Dora. “I can’t tell you it’s gonna be all right. Askew just killed another person. That makes three people he’s killed in the past week.”

  “I know that. He�
�s a little off right now. I’m worried about him, too. Heck, he killed Beaumont on the way out. But he’s trying to get himself under control. He told me. He don’t know what’s come over him. But he don’t like it, and he’s trying to control it. Please don’t be too hard on him.”

  “Don’t be too hard on him,” Grundish gags on the words. “Don’t be too hard on him! Do you realize what he just did? He killed the guy who had our tickets out of the country. The guy who was gonna get us fake passports. Now we can’t get passports. And you know why? Because dead people can’t do anything but sit there and rot. Dead people do not make fake passports.” He holds Chancho’s cold hand up in the air and lets it slap back down to his lifeless belly. “Does he look like he can help us right now? And did you say he killed that cat? Christ! He’s out of control.”

  “Well, the cat attacked me again,” she says. “And can’t you just get somebody else to get passports for you guys?”

  “No. No we can’t! I don’t know anybody that does that type of thing. Do you? Jerry sure doesn’t. This greasy dead piece of shit here was Jerry’s only friend. So Jerry don’t know nobody else that can help. We’re fucked now. And if you haven’t noticed, your new boyfriend is turning stone-cold psycho. He’s cutting off ears as trophies and wearing them around his neck. Oh yeah, and he keeps killing people.” Grundish turns and pulls the cart out of the room, leaving Dora alone in the middle of the rubble.

  On a shelf against the wall, Jerry keeps all varieties of bottled water. Spring water in sixteen-ounce bottles. Filtered water in gallon jugs. Five-gallon plastic bottles for water dispensers. Green glass bottles with sparkling water flavored with lime. Dora grabs three gallon jugs of water, wrapping her arms around them, hugging the jugs to her chest. Her face and head itch from the gashes left by Beaumont but she can’t scratch at the uneasy tingling with her arms full. She hurries out of the room to return to Askew.