Grundish & Askew

by Carbuncle, Lance

  “Yeah. We’re headed the right way.”

  “They’re gonna have a BOLO[49] out for us. That cop back there called in on his radio after he cuffed me. This area’s gonna be crawling with pigs.”

  “Well, we can just find out where they are, then.” Askew flips on the police scanner and smiles. “Jerry set this car up for getting away. Let’s just take a listen and see what we’re facing.”

  The scanner crackles with the excited chatter of the Hillsborough County Sheriff’s patrol cars. El Camino west bound on 674...Suspects armed and dangerous...One hostage...Road blocks being set up at Route 37, Route 39, Balm Road and Highway 301.

  “Are there any crossroads out this way that we can turn off?” Grundish asks Askew.

  “It’s been a while since I been out this way but I don’t think so. Just the roads where they got the blockades set up.”

  “We have to do something, we do,” says Turleen. “Turn off onto the next dirt road you see. We’re going to have to get this hay-burner off the road, we are. We can sit it out in the woods until the coast is clear, we can.” She grabs another Blue Llama and lights it butt-to-butt with her old smoke.

  “She’s right,” agrees Grundish. He slows the car down to forty and lets it creep down the road as he works through the situation in his head. “We can’t go back or we’ll run into those cars that we’re hearing back there behind us. And if we keep going straight, we’re going to run right into it, too. And if there ain’t no crossroads, we got no choice but to find a dirt road or just off-road it.”

  The thwap-thwap-thwap of a helicopter’s blades chopping and displacing the air becomes suddenly more noticeable. Askew looks out the rear window and sees a small dot in the sky moving rapidly in their direction. “Aww, fuck!” Askew beats his hand against the door, each smack on the door accentuating his monosyllabic mantra. “Fuck!” (smack) “Fuck!” (smack) “Fuck!” (smack) “Fuck!” (smack). “Fuck!”

  “What’s happening?”

  “They’re behind us. There’s a chopper closing in. If they haven’t holmed in on us yet, they’re going to any minute now.”

  Turleen sucks hard at her smoke, burning it down quickly with her one gimp lung. She exhales a dense cloud of smoke and flicks her butt out the window. “We need to get off this road now, we do. There’s a trail right up there.” She points off to the right with one big-knuckled, crooked finger. Like a bony, misshapen divining rod, her digit indicates the spot where they need to turn.

  With the fat and fiery center of the solar system paused and squatting itself directly above the souped-up El Camino, Grundish pulls off of the paved road and onto the gravel path winding into the woods. The overgrown gravel road leads to, and ends at, a thick copse of live oak trees that blocks out the sky above them.

  • • •

  “I guess this is as good as it’s gonna get unless we want to get out and try to go somewhere on foot,” says Grundish. He grabs the Colt Anaconda, steps out of the car, and looks skyward. “These trees’ll block the copter’s view of us. And if that chopper pilot didn’t see us out there, then we might be able to just sit things out right here.”

  Askew and Turleen both exit the car, both lighting up new cigarettes.

  “Give me one of those, too,” says Grundish to Askew. Askew slides a pack of Blue Llamas over the top of the car. “Fuck. I picked the wrong day to quit smoking.”

  “Looks like I picked the right day to resume smoking, it does.” Turleen’s shaky hand brings her cigarette up to her mouth. The shaking subsides a little while she draws in more smoke.

  “She’s right,” says Askew, his voice high and tense. He paces in a circle, his hands twitching wildly in front of him, a hurky-jerky accentuation of his panicked rant. “We’re fucked here! We’re trapped, and we ain’t got nowheres to go if they saw us come in here! If we go out to the road, they’ll find us! If we go back out into view, they’ll find us! And if they saw us come in here, we’re sitting ducts!”

  “Don’t go getting all bent outta shape yet,” says Grundish, his voice low and maybe too calm. “We don’t know if they saw us. That helicopter was way the fuck back there. He probably didn’t even notice us. We was probably too far away to be seen.”

  “Well, we noticed him, we did.”

  “I know,” agrees Grundish. “But that chopper is loud and draws your attention. He wouldn’t have heard our car and maybe he didn’t notice us. We’re just going to have to sweat it out here and hope they don’t find us.”

  The trees’ canopy blocks out the sunlight and tints everything beneath it with a soft blue hue. From the distance come the sounds of the helicopter, of sirens, of men shouting and dogs barking. Grundish turns his head toward the road and listens.

  Askew says, “Grundish.”

  “What?”

  “This is all my fault. Like I told you before, I fucked up. Ain’t you gonna landblast me or somethin’?”

  “What are you talking about?” asks Grundish.

  “You know. Like you done before.” He deepens his voice and does an off-the-mark impersonation of Grundish. “‘God damn, Askew, I’m always having to watch out for you and clean up your messes’ and, ‘man it would be so much easier if I didn’t have to deal with all this bullshit sometimes.’”

  “Jesus Christ, Askew,” sighs Grundish. “There you go acting like a bitch again. I say something to you one time out of frustration and you commit every word of it to memory and drag it out later to make me feel bad. I suppose you ain’t gonna give me no pussy for a month, too.”

  “Well, ain’t you gonna say none of that mean stuff?”

  “Sure,” says Grundish, his tone monotonous and empty. “You are always trying to fuck up my shit. If I didn’t have to deal with your messes, my life would be so easy.” He stops and listens to the noise of the men and dogs getting closer. The sirens and the chopper sound as if they are just outside of the grouping of trees. “Fuck. I can’t do this.”

  “What?” asks Askew. “Ain’t you gonna give me no more hell?”

  “No,” says Grundish. “No, I ain’t. You’ll just use it to emotionally manipulate me later.”

  “Well, I can go away. I could find my way south and live in the swamps. Build myself a little hut or something.”

  Grundish shakes his head slowly. “No,” he says. “I want you to stay with me. You’re like my brother. I ain’t gonna have you going off into the swamps.”

  Askew narrows his eyes and says to Grundish, “Tell me like you done before.”

  “Tell you about what?”

  “You know. About guys like us. About the ladies.”

  Grundish says, “all right. Guys like us, you know, the ones that work the shit jobs and scrape by, are the loneliest guys in the world. Can’t keep jobs. Don’t fit in. They ain’t got nobody in the world that gives a sideways fuck about them...”

  “Not us, though,” says Askew, flashing a busted smile. “Tell me about us.”

  Grundish is quiet for a moment. He grabs a Blue Llama from inside the El Camino and lights it. He takes a hit and exhales a bluish plume of smoke. “Not us, though,” says Grundish.

  “Because...”

  “Because I got you and...”

  “And I got you. We got each other, man. And we give a sideways fuck about each other,” Askew bursts out triumphantly.

  A breeze blows through the live oaks, making the Spanish moss dangling from the limbs dance above them. The sirens, chopper, barking dogs and shouting men grow louder, much closer than before.

  “It sounds like they’re coming this way, it does,” says Turleen. “We gotta get outta here.” She limps toward the edge of the woods and looks into the distance behind them to see if the police are heading their way.

  Ignoring Turleen, ignoring the sounds of choppers, sirens, dogs and shouting men, Askew says, “Tell me about the ladies, Grundish.”

  Grundish cocks his head and listens to the sounds getting closer to them. “Okay,” he says. “Look out at t
hat pond across the way, Askew, and I’ll tell you. I’ll tell you so good that if you close your eyes you’ll be able to see it.”

  Looking out past the trees, past a flat open area of ground, Askew stares off at the pond and a flock of roseate spoonbills splashing in the pooled water. Turleen continues looking back the way they came, scanning the road for the police.

  Grundish raises his gun and his hand shakes. He drops his hand toward the ground again. His eyes flood with tears that silently roll down his cheek. Grundish weeps for the end of innocence, for the darkness of his own heart, for his true and dear friend, Askew.

  “Go on,” says Askew, still staring toward the pond. “How’s it gonna be. We’re gonna get a boat. A real big boat, like a yacht. Right?”

  “That’s right. Maybe bigger,” says Grundish. “And we’re gonna get a stable of hookers, and maybe some hydroponic equipment to grow weed.”

  “And tell me what we’re gonna do, Grundish. Tell me about the hookers again. About the international waters. And the hookers, like how they’ll all have big fake titties and whatnot.”

  “Well, we’ll grow weed, have hookers, maybe some other shit that ain’t legal here.”

  “And I get to be in charge of the ladies. Me and Dora, right?”

  “Yeah, you’re in charge of the ladies.”

  Askew giggles. “And we’ll live off the fat of their asses.” He starts to turn back toward Grundish.

  “No, Askew. Look down at the pond. Look past the pond and past the trees. Look past all of that until you can see our boat floating out in the international waters.”

  Askew obeys him. Grundish looks down at the gun.

  “I see ’em coming down the road, I do,” shouts Turleen. “They’re a comin’, they are.” She tilts her head up and sees the helicopter drop out of the sky and hover above the main road. Grundish turns his head and looks in Turleen’s direction.

  “Just stay over there and keep an eye out for us,” says Grundish to Turleen.

  Askew still stares out past the pond and past the trees, straining his eyes to see their yacht swaying with the waves of the ocean. “Go on, Grundish. Tell me when we’re gonna do it.”

  “We’re doing it soon.”

  “Me and you. You and me.”

  “That’s right. Me and you. It’s all gonna be good. No more Fuckers. No more hassles. We’re gonna be living the dream.”

  “I thought you was mad at me, Grundish.”

  “No, Askew. God damn. No. I ain’t never really been mad at you. And I ain’t pissed off now. I want you to understand that.”

  The men and the dogs are close. The chopper moves in toward the trees.

  “Let’s do it now,” begs Askew. “Let’s get the fuck out of this shit and get that place now.”

  “Sure thing, Buddy. Right now. We gotta do it now.”

  And Grundish aims the gun and steadies it, bringing the muzzle of the hand-cannon close to the back of Askew’s head. His hand shakes, and the tears stream down his face. His hand steadies and his finger puts light pressure on the trigger. The hammer pulls back, and the shot booms out over the land.

  Askew falls to his knees. Grundish drops to the ground, too. The shot to Askew’s head grazed the top of his skull, carving a groove through bone and brain from the front to the back on the upper right side of his head. Not a fatal shot but one sufficient to render Askew a blathering useless fuckwad for the rest of his days; a drooling, shitting, breathing lump of wasting warmth and nothing more.

  Grundish’s aim, initially dead-on, was thrown off by the perfectly honed and weighted throwing knife sticking into the side of his neck just below his bearded jawline, parting his flesh and severing his carotid artery. In front of Grundish, Askew remains on his knees, his lungs continue to breath and his heart pumps, pushing gouts of blood out of his head injury in great spurts. Nothing goes through his head except for a warm breeze blowing through the sizeable trench carved into his skull.

  Grundish, wide-eyed and shocked, rocks side to side on his knees, trying to keep from falling over onto the ground. Turleen appears at his side and puts one hand on his head to steady him. She gently ruffles his hair. With the other hand she grips the throwing knife and pulls it from his neck and drops it to the ground. A jet of blood pulses from the wound, wetting Turleen’s hands and dress. Grundish looks to Turleen. The word why forms on his lips, but the only sound is the pop of a blood-bubble that issues from his mouth and dribbles down his chin before he falls over on his side. In the spot of sandy soil, under the lush canopy of the live oaks, Grundish bleeds out, marking his final stand, his business unfinished but his promises kept.

  Turleen turns and walks to the El Camino. Shaking a Blue Llama from Askew’s pack, she lights it and leans against the car. And from the road, the men and barking dogs and police cars burst into the forest. She straightens her red dress, draws on the cigarette as if it were her last breath, and faces the throng of officers, waiting for their questions.

  I owe my deep gratitude to several people for helping me finish Grundish and Askew. First, an engorged, meaty thank you goes out to Sister Mary Catherine of Superfecundation. You are my muse, my editor, my best friend, and so much more. I’m really glad I never acted on the urge to smack you in the mouth when you would question my grammar, wording, sentence structure, etc. Because of your input, Grundish and Askew is a better book. Now get back in the kitchen and make me a sammich.

  Mad fucking props and my immeasurable appreciation go out to my friend and fellow Vicious Books author, Marcus Eder. Marcus designed a kick ass cover for Grundish and Askew. Damn, I do like that cover! Marcus is a talented author, musician, graphic designer, ordained minister (licensed to marry and bury), and, apparently, a world class bacon chef. What can’t this guy do? So please, check out Marcus’s band, Strawfoot, and buy his books.

  Finally, I want to say thank you to the people who read my first novel, Smashed, Squashed, Splattered, Chewed, Chunked and Spewed, and encouraged me to write another book. It means a lot to know that the massive effort that went into putting that book out was appreciated. So, I want to give a big, sloppy, open-mouthed kiss to all of my readers. Um, perhaps that sounds kind of fruity. Maybe I’ll just give the kiss to my female readers. Come on, ladies, you know you want it. Don’t worry, my cold sores have cleared up and I just ate a breath mint. And for my male readers, I extend my right hand, give you firm handshakes, and say “thank you, Sirs.” Thanks to all for reading my shit.

  “Hot dog, I do like these fancy French fags, I do!” Turleen tilts her head back and jets two bluish streams of smoke from her nostrils. She shifts in her recliner and stretches her legs, then flinches at the moist tickle she feels on her bare soles. “I guess I owe you this, I do,” she says to the dogs sitting in front of her at the footrest. “Well, get to it, then.”

  Sloppy, slobbery tongues work the bottoms of Turleen’s feet, probing the gaps between the toes and then working their way back toward the heels. Idjit gently gnaws at a yellowed and cracked corn, softening it up and removing tiny bits of dead skin. Stubs licks up to Turleen’s ankle and then slowly laps his way back toward the toes.

  “Meat,” says Stubs.

  “Meat,” agrees Idjit. “Like mortadella.”

  “Yeah. Mortadella.”

  ENDNOTES

  [1] San Quentin State Prison, in San Rafael, California is so large that it has its own zip code, 94974.

  [2] Elastic bands can be wrapped around internal hemorrhoids as a cure. This is called Baron Ligation or Rubber Band Ligation. The band will cut off the blood supply to the hemorrhoid. Within several days the withered hemorrhoid should be sloughed off during the course of a bowel movement.

  [3] Bestiality was not illegal in the State of Washington until 2006. In 2006 a law was passed banning sex with animals. The law was the result of a Seattle area man dying from peritonitis as a result of perforation of the colon after being on the receiving end of anal sex with a horse.

  [4] Docking = T
he act of placing the head of ones penis inside the foreskin of another’s penis.

  [5] Listen to Cracker’s “Euro-Trash Girl,” the hidden track on the CD Kerosene Hat. It is incredible.

  [6] There actually is such a product to help people pass drug tests. It is called the Whizzinator. The device is available in five flesh colors and includes a prosthetic penis attached to an undergarment resembling a jock strap. It connects to a pouch containing rehydrated urine.

  [7] La Tomatina is a festival held on the last Wednesday of August each year in the streets of Buñol, Spain. Tens of thousands of participants come from all over the world to take part in a massive one-hour food fight involving more than one hundred metric tons of over-ripe tomatoes.

  [8] Licking feet is one form of foot fetishism, or podophilia. Some researchers hypothesize that foot fetishism rates rise in response to an increase in sexually transmitted diseases. An Ohio State University study noted an increased interest in feet as sexual objects during a gonorrhea epidemic in twelfth century Europe. Similar increases were noted during the European syphilis epidemics of the sixteenth and nineteenth centuries. Likewise, it has been noted by some researchers that an increase in foot activity in pornographic movies has increased exponentially in correlation with the relatively recent outbreak of AIDS.

  [9] Some funny porno names: Buttman and Throbbin, Shitty Shitty Gangbang, Edward Penishands, Ass Pirates of the Caribbean: Curse of the Brown Eye, and Scrotal Recall.

  [10] Priapus, a minor (Greek) fertility god, was the protector of livestock, fruit plants, gardens and male genitalia. He was known for his perpetually erect penis that grew so large that Priapus was eventually unable to move. Known as a watcher/protector of livestock and gardens, Priapus warned away thieves and transgressors, threatening to sodomize or to sexually penalize with his giant member whoever dared to steal the garden’s greens and fruits.