Grundish & Askew

by Carbuncle, Lance

“This here donkey and Mexican are two of the few people in this world I give a shit about. Chancho’s dead and Alf is so old that he may as well be.” Jerry scritches the donkey’s head, Alf leans in toward the nails scraping at his scalp. “These two sorry specimens are gonna get you out of here.”

  “Mr. Jerry. With all due respect, how in the fuck can a sick donkey and a dead wetback get us out of this situation?”

  “Son. Just get back up on the roof and stall a little bit more. Leroy over there knows the plan. He’ll tell you what to do when the time comes.”

  Grundish turns his head toward his best friend. Askew chugs another beer, tilts his head back, and releases a deep, bellowing burp that flaps his lips and sprays a fine mist from his mouth.

  “So, you’re telling me we’re fucked?” says Grundish. He grabs another beer and drains it with the ease of a seasoned binge-drinker.

  “No,” says Jerry, impatient with having to answer questions. “I’m telling you to shut up and go back onto the roof. Buy us another hour and you will be good to go.” Grundish grabs three more beers and pauses, trying to think.

  Jerry snaps his fingers at Grundish. “Just do as I say. Don’t you realize that there must be some kind of way out of here? Well, there is. And I’m setting it up. So, just get up there on the roof and do as I say. Don’t think twice, it’ll be all right.”

  • • •

  “Okay,” says Grundish into the bullhorn. “I’m back. And your time is almost up. What’s the deal with our demands?” Grundish cracks a warm beer and tilts it down his throat. The warm beer foams and expands halfway down, making for an aching trachea, stinging his epiglottis.

  “I need you to be patient with us, Mr. Grundish,” says Mojado. “I am working on everything for you. We have the dump truck with the gravel on the way. Detective Carter is running the request for the Uzis up the chain of command, and that looks like it’s probably a go. But the Jell-O is slowing us up. We found a hospital cafeteria over in Brandon that can get us a full garbage bag of the fruity Jell-O. I’m sending one of my men to pick it up but it’s going to take him at least an hour, maybe a little bit more, before he can be back here. At that point we should be good to go and you can send the elderly woman out.”

  Grundish finishes off the rest of his beer and lights a Blue Llama. “You have one hour,” he says into the megaphone. His voice is gravelly from chain-smoking and slightly slurred from the rapid alcohol intake, making him sound rough and deranged. “One hour. No more extensions after that. If we don’t have everything, including the fucking Jell-O, we kill another hostage. I’ll do my best to work with you but after an hour, I can’t promise you that I will be able to control Askew.”

  “We will have everything for you,” says Mojado. “Just work with us. We don’t want anybody else, including you and Mr. Askew, including my men, getting hurt.”

  “One more thing,” barks Grundish into the megaphone. “I’m coming out in front of the building for just a minute. While I’m out there, Askew will be holding a gun loaded with hollow points to the old man’s head. If there’s any funny business, Askew will paint the wall with the old geezer’s brains and then do the same to the old lady. Do you understand me?”

  Mojado looks to Carter for confirmation and gets the nod. “You will have free passage in front of the building for the next five minutes.”

  • • •

  Exiting the front door, Grundish can feel the sniper rifles trained on him without even looking. The burly tattooed hulk barely looks at the police as he plucks apples from the tree and dumps them into the bucket he carries. A scurvy black cat with a kinked tail rubs against Grundish’s ankles and purrs as he collects the fruit. The cat chews on one of the sock garters and Grundish tries unsuccessfully to push it away with his leg. When the bucket is full he pushes the cat away with his foot and returns to the building. Grundish sits down on a crate in front of Alf the Sacred Burro and feeds the juicy, sweet fruit to the donkey.

  36

  “It’s time for you fellas to go,” says Jerry, interrupting a tender moment between Alf the Sacred Burro and Grundish. Alf sits back on his haunches like a dog, munching on the apples and presenting his head for scritching, trying to ignore the rotting dead man strapped to his back. Grundish feeds him apples and drains another beer.

  “Where are we going?” Grundish rises to his feet and rests his hand on Alf’s head.

  “Leroy there knows what to do,” says Jerry, nodding toward a passed-out Askew lying face-down amidst a scattering of empty Pabst cans, a burned-out cigarette wedged between his front teeth.

  “He’s wasted. Shit, not even conscious. How the hell is he supposed to tell me what to do?”

  “Just wake him up, and drag him out of here,” says Jerry. “Get him going, and he’ll know what to do. It’s time for you to go now before those coppers claim to have all of your demands. Because just when they make you think they’ve got everything, they’re going to huff and puff and blow the place down. There’ll be a battle outside a-raging.”

  Grundish tosses his floppy, drunk friend over his shoulder and follows Jerry and Turleen through the maze of rooms and storage boxes, past mother cats nursing their kittens, past overflowing litter boxes and bundled stacks of pornographic magazines, through a room populated with decapitated mannequins, the heads all lined up on a shelf and facing the wall. At the back of the building is a door. On the other side of the door is a corridor made from two rows of junked VW vans. The space between the vans is covered with rotting plywood, blocking out any view from above and letting only prying fingers of sunlight force their way past some of the holes and cracks where the wood has rotted through. At the end of the corridor is an opening.

  Askew stirs on his friend’s shoulder, struggling to get free of Grundish’s grip. Grundish sets him down. Askew wobbles on his legs like a newborn colt. He leans against a decrepit van, tossing his head about like a dog shaking off water. “Where’s Dora?” Askew says, looking suspiciously around.

  “She’s gone, Bro,” says Grundish. “We got her out of here so she’d be safe. Traded her for pizza and beer. Remember?”

  “Oh, yeah.” Askew rubs at his inflamed eyes and shakes his head again. He pulls out a Blue Llama and lights it. “Yeah, that’s right. For fuck’s sake I hope she’s all right.”

  “And we have to skedaddle, we do,” interrupts Turleen. She tips her jug of wine and absorbs of the last drops of the vino.

  “The lady is right,” agrees Jerry. “The time is now. Do you remember the escape plan, Leroy?”

  “Yeah, I remember now.” Askew smiles his big gap-toothed grin. “I was just a little out of it. But now I’m back in it.”

  “Well, then get moving,” says Jerry, nodding toward the opening at the end of the Volkswagen corridor. “If you boys stick around here any longer, you’re going to get us all killed.” He grabs Turleen by the wrist and pulls her close. Jerry has to contort his lank frame in an uncomfortable stoop in order to embrace her. He wraps his spindly arms around the red-headed octogenarian and kisses her on the neck, looking like a praying mantis wrapping its spiked forelegs around a beetle and readying to dine. His buck teeth lightly scrape the skin, shooting shivers down her back. “I’ll come for you when it’s safe,” he says. “I promise you that.”

  Jerry releases Turleen from the embrace and turns back to Grundish and Askew. “You better take care of my lady,” he says. “Just do as I’ve told Leroy and you should get out of this fine. And once you’re clear of this area, just lay low. You’ll do best for a while to not to show up on the street, unless you wanna draw the heat. Just jump down a manhole and light yourself a candle, if you know what I mean.”

  And they did know what he meant.

  “Look, Mr. Mathers,” says Grundish, “I just wanna say thanks and that we never meant to cause...”

  “No time for teary goodbyes, Grundish,” says Jerry, slapping him on the back. “Turleen is right. You need to scoot now. By my estimate, you’ve g
ot about fifteen minutes before the fecal matter hits the air redistribution device, and you all need to be as far away as possible.”

  • • •

  The VW corridor leads them through a break in the cinder-block wall that surrounds the compound. The gaping orifice at the end of the tunnel spills them out like effluence from a sewer drain pipe, dumping Grundish, Askew, and Turleen into a tangle of vines, palmettos, and live oak trees blanketed in a stifling cover of Spanish moss. A low, narrow clearing is cut through the overgrown undergrowth. Askew, now awake and sober enough to carry himself, leads the way, running and stumbling through the jungle-like foliage, tripping over roots and rocks now and again and springing right back up to continue the churning and burning of his legs.

  Turleen, with her still-swollen ankle, allows herself to be cradled in Grundish’s arms as he carries her through the forest. Grundish charges forward, bent over in order to avoid getting his head caught in the mess of vines and branches just above him, occasionally taking a stinging whack in the face from branches snapping back into place in Askew’s wake.

  Askew leads them, thumping and bumping along the swath cut through the dense vegetation. Out of breath and sweating profusely, they stop as the undergrowth tunnel opens to a clearing. The afternoon sun bakes their already red and sweaty faces. Askew steps slowly toward a car covered with a camouflage tarp. He throws back the cover and squeals like a happy little girl.

  “Fu-huck yeah!” says Askew, pulling a set of keys from his pocket. “Jerry told me there’d be wheels here. He said it’d be juiced up and ready to rock. He didn’t say it’d be this.” In the center of the clearing sits a gleaming, jet-black ‘72 El Camino SS, flames painted on the hood, mag wheels, and jacked up in the rear like a thick-bodied booty dancer. Chrome silhouettes of well-stacked naked ladies pose provocatively on the mud flaps. In the bed is an untouched case of Olde Frothingslosh[47], the steel rims on the cans slightly rusted. “Good God. It’s a ‘72 El Camino SS. V-8 engine. Fucking turbo-charged automatic beast.”

  “I think that beer there may be from ’72, too, I do,” says Turleen.

  “I don’t know about all the automotive shit. But it looks good to me. Maybe things are starting to go our way,” says Grundish. He sets Turleen down just in time to turn and catch the beer can projectile tossed at him by Askew.

  “I think I’m gonna need one of them there brewskies, too, I do.” Grundish pulls the tab on his and hands it to Turleen. He grabs another can for himself.

  “Well, let’s chug these down and then get the fuck out of Dodge,” says Askew, pulling the tab on his can.

  Turleen holds her can up for a toast. “Through the teeth, over the gums, look out stomach, here it comes, it does.” They clink their cans together and upend them, spilling half of the skunk-piss-tasting contents down their throats and the rest on their faces and necks. The beer is chunky, hot, metallic and nearly flat, but it tastes like freedom.

  “I’m gonna give you the keys,” says Askew to Grundish. “I’m still too fucked up to drive. And we don’t need to be getting picked up because I’m swerving us all over the road.”

  “Well, you two cram in the passenger seat, and let’s get the fuck out of here.”

  Grundish turns the ignition. The engine sputters a sickly wheeze and craps out. He questions the engine again and gets the same answer. “Shit! Fuck! Damn!” he shouts at the car and smacks it on the dashboard. He tries the ignition again and the engine roars to life, a low-pitched heavy metal growl that the men feel in their testicles. “Ayyy,” says Grundish, cracking a smile and holding both thumbs up in approval. “Let’s make like a banana and split, mother fuckers.”

  They drive out on a dirt road and don’t hear the cacophony of explosions and gunfire back at Jerry’s building. They turn onto the paved road, following the directions given to Askew by Jerry. Off to the side of the road a group of turkey vultures gathers in a circle, their hooked ivory beaks tearing into a roadkill armadillo, pecking at each other and making easy work of dismantling the creature.

  • • •

  “Mr. Grundish,” says Mojado over the loudspeaker of his cruiser, “please return to the roof. We need to discuss your demands.” The speaker cracks and feeds back, screeching painfully in the ears of the cops near the car.

  Grundish does not return to the roof. Grundish does not speak over the bullhorn. He makes no further demands, nor any additional threats to the wellbeing of the hostages. Grundish is gone from the building, dumping botulism-tainted hot beer down his throat and getting ready to load into a souped-up El Camino.

  “Mr. Grundish, we have all of your demands and need to speak with you.” A dump truck loaded with gravel backs up to the gate of the property. Three heavily-armed officers lie still, just inches under the surface of the gravel. Mojado grabs a yard-waste bag full of fruity Jell-O from Officer Finn and holds it up for anyone on the roof to see. The Jell-O is laden with large enough doses of chloral hydrate[48] to temporarily put Grundish and Askew into comas. “We have everything you’ve asked for and we are going to need you to send out another hostage.”

  The absent-Grundish still does not answer. A chill of unease runs through the men. Deputies, Swat members and the jumpsuit-clad posse all take positions behind cars and the fence, pointing rifles and handguns toward the front of the building.

  Detective Carter nods at Mojado.

  “Mr. Grundish,” says Mojado over his loud speaker again, “we are going to give you two minutes to answer us. We have been working with you. But, if you do not answer, we will storm the building and take you dead or alive. You have two minutes, beginning now.”

  Inside the building, Jerry feeds Alf the Sacred Burro one last apple and scritches his friend on the head. The moribund donkey coughs up a lump onto the floor. He rubs the side of his face against Jerry’s hand and looks at him with a sparkle in his eyes.

  “Mis amigos, it looks like our time together is over on this plane. You’ve been good friends.” Jerry kisses Chancho on top of what’s left of his head and slaps him on the shoulder lightly. He kisses Alf the Sacred Burro on his puke-stinking prehensile lips. The coarse hairs around the donkey’s mouth tickle Jerry and remind him of an incident which would be better off forgotten, an incident involving large quantities of tequila and a bisexual Kenny Rogers impersonator. Jerry gently and lovingly slaps at the donkey’s face. His eyes mist up as he stands straight and chokes back the emotions, saying to his friends, “If you find yourself alone, riding in a green field with the sun on your face, don’t be troubled. For you are in Elysium and you are already dead.”

  Alf snorts in a way that almost seems to be a chortle. Chancho sits still on the donkey’s back unable to form a smile on his non-existent face.

  “Brothers,” says Jerry, “just remember, death is not the end. For what we do in life echoes in eternity.”

  Outside, the voice of Detective Piso Mojado barks out a final warning. “Mr. Grundish. Mr. Askew. You have one minute to acknowledge me. If you do not respond, we come in and get you. One minute!” The men around Mojado are crouched behind their cars, muscles tensed, safety mechanisms undone on their guns, fingers on triggers, eyes focused on the front door and the roof, minds and weapons set for the kill. Off to Mojado’s left, behind the fence, an assault-team member cracks the barrel of a grenade launcher and loads a teargas canister into it, snaps the barrel back into position and undoes the safety latch. He aims it at the roof. On the other side of the gate another officer loads a flash-bang canister in a similar launcher in order to stun the hostage-takers.

  • • •

  One long fuse dangles from the fireworks strapped to Chancho’s back. Jerry sprays a can of charcoal fluid on the rear of Chancho’s head, strikes a blue-tip match against the door, and lights the fuse, waiting as it nears the first string of Black Cats. Seconds before the firecrackers explode, Jerry throws back the front door and whacks the donkey on the ass with his bony hand. Alf the Sacred Burro bounds through the door. Th
e fireworks explode and the charcoal fluid ignites, prompting the donkey and his deceased, gun-wielding, flaming-headed passenger, to leap straight up into the air. They land and charge in a zigzag bucking trend toward the front gate, right at the cops in their way.

  After applying his hand forcefully to Alf’s backside, and just before the fireworks begin, Jerry sprints back into the building, his gawky legs high-stepping it toward the bowels of the warehouse, knees pumping chest-high, hoping to have enough steel walls between him and the sure-to-be oncoming barrage of bullets to keep his body from being perforated by hot lead slugs. Turning one corner, and then another, and safely out of danger of being shot, Jerry hears a fusillade of gunfire erupt and shots slamming into the metal walls of his building. He runs faster, shutting and locking doors behind him, until he reaches his living room and intentionally runs head first into a wall, knocking himself unconscious.

  • • •

  Having recently honed their marksman skills on an allegedly armed arrest-resistor, the officers outside of the gate are excellent shots. As Alf charges the police, Detective Carter calls down a curtain of fire on the flaming, burro-riding maniac coming at them head-on with his guns seemingly blazing. Chancho, his black hair throwing off great thick trails of flame, putrid charred flesh coughing out streams of dense black smoke from his head, looks like a demon horseman charging up through the ground from the depths of Hades. Carter’s men, practiced, accurate, and unduly violent, entirely and surgically remove the top half of the Mexican’s corpse from Alf the Sacred Burro with almost no injury to the ass. By the time the officers, SWAT team members, and camouflage-jumpsuit deputies have exacted their meat grinder onslaught of bullets on Chancho and ceased fire, Alf stands still, ten feet from the gate, with his head slung low. Chancho’s pathetic remains played the part of a target until there was nothing left of him from the waist up and a semi-circle of gore and gristle spread out to the rear of Alf. Alf raises his head, dredges up a massive vomit-shit log and, with a cough, propels it out several feet in front of him. Aside from one small-caliber shot to his right rear quarter, Alf is undamaged.