by Kirk Alex
“Kinda tight, huh?” After she’d said it, it occurred to her Biggs shared this very same trait with his stepfather, and that she may have overstepped her bounds. Then, too, she realized that tip she’d given the cabbie who’d brought them over had been far less than the standard ten percent. What did that make her? Generous? Hardly. Maybe she shouldn’t have given him anything at all, for bringing them to this hellhole. Wasn’t sure what to think about it, nor what difference it made. Biggs appeared to ignore the comment.
“By the time we got back on Monday, we discovered that the Rottweiler had eaten the Beagle, the one dog in the bunch with the highest reward on him that the old man was planning on returning to the owner for the reward money, and now his scheme was shot to shit. I watched him pick up the sledge and go at the Rottweiler’s head with it. Hammered the dog to death. Did what I could to try to stop him. He picked me up and threw me against the fence. I landed on a rusty beer barrel hoop and some shards, broken whiskey bottles. Left leg cut. Three dozen stitches.”
He lifted the pant leg, revealing an old scar that ran the length from ankle to knee. The stripper looked at him, saying nothing. Biggs told his tale in a flat monotone, revealing zip emotionally. Water under the bridge. It meant as much.
“He left the Rottie lying in a pool of blood on the backyard patio for the other mutts to devour. Neighbors complained about the noise. Rollers showed. J.J. was fined $20 and given a two-week suspended sentence.”
“You’ve lived through quite a bit, haven’t you, Cecil?”
“You survive episodes . . . and put them behind you. It’s made me realize one thing, above all else: people are shit. Do unto them, before they do unto you. It’s in knowing this that I get so much satisfaction from destroying them. Everyone should have a passion in life. . . . Mine is exterminating turds.”
She nodded her head. “Believe it or not, it’s not that difficult to understand. People can be garbage—and enough of them are.”
He looked at her without saying anything. Pearleen cleared her throat.
“What became of your father?”
“He was not my father. He was never my father, just some drunk the old lady happened to hook up with, some former army PFC the nutty bitch happened to team up with.” He was close to chuckling. “Army gave him the boot for molesting recruits in their sleep.”
“I understand; I’m sorry.”
“That’s the place to be, boy, he liked to say when he was hitting the bottle and ranting about nothing in particular, just going on and on about anything and everything: Better than the YMCA any day of the week. Found nothing sweeter than being able to take an otherwise straight recruit and turn him out. Twisted fuck.” He was shaking his head. “Ended up in the army myself—although for different reasons entirely. I was looking for a way to get over, beat the system, see the world—do what I could to further myself along.”
“Anyone can relate to that.”
“Sure. He was out on bail no more than three weeks when some old woman shot him dead in her front yard for trying to snatch her Shih Tzu pup. Should’ve made me happier than it did. It was too little, too late. Army was a way out for me. Lied about my age to get in. Got in.”
He didn’t say anything for a while.
“Nobody showed at the punk’s funeral. Just as well. Didn’t expect anyone to show. . . . After they finished dumping his ass on top of the cracker box Charlotte Yvonne was in, I took my dick out and pissed on his grave. What I really felt like doing was digging him back up so I could crush his skull. Felt like tearing him apart . . . literally.”
CHAPTER 502
He turned to look through the windowpane. Thought he heard Romeo and Juliette pull up in their driveway.
Marvin climbed up the pull-down ladder.
“Roscoe and his bitch be home.”
“Looks like.”
“Gonna like this.” After he’d said it, Marvin found himself giving Pearleen Bell the dirtiest of looks. “What the ho be doin’ up here, Dawg? Ho should be in the basement wiff the rest of ’em. Not only that—why she ain’t got no war paint on?”
“Don’t worry about it.”
Biggs peered through his binoculars.
“Bitch be suckin’ up, is all. Can’t trust no ho like that. See, ho, the way it be ’round here: once Brotha Trusty put’ makeup on yo’ ass—yo ass be chill.”
Biggs lowered his binoculars.
“Not necessarily true.”
“Nine time’ out of ten.”
CHAPTER 503
Biggs had decided to relocate to the living room on the first floor, the better to experience the action from. He had a directional mic, headset.
Marvin was there with him, so was Pearleen Bell.
Biggs opened the inside shutters to a window that faced the Roscoes’ shabby dwelling. The outside shutters still provided adequate cover and there was nothing to worry about, no concern that he would be noticed by the redneck and his pushy wife.
He pulled the lower part of the window up by about five inches, the better to improve the audio by. He lifted the binoculars to his eyes, doing his best to peer through a crack in the shutters that covered the window from the outside, and the effort was awkward at best. Not needing them just yet, he lowered the binoculars.
Marvin was on his knees, at the same window, doing what he could to get an eyeful through the bottom section, at just above the sill. Pearleen Bell sat on the futon with the same photo album in her hands, going over it, or at best working to show genuine interest. To continue to connect with him on a human level had to be the way.
Biggs asked if she wanted in on the action.
Pearleen looked up. “If you want me in on it.” Her belly did things that made it a task to conceal the nausea going on inside. “Doesn’t seem to be room at the window for me.”
“Fuck the ho. Yo. Me? If I had coin—I be payin’ top dollar to see this. Be worf it.”
CHAPTER 504
Cecil had the headset over his ears. Binoculars up again. Reminded Marvin to point the mic in the direction of the prefab dump.
He watched intently as Petunia Roscoe, carrying a large paper sack bulging with groceries, climbed her front porch steps, walked across, and entered her home without pausing or even noticing the cardboard box wrapped in tan grocery bag paper and tied with nylon string that sat on the porch swing.
Roscoe managed to get his beefy arms around the remaining two sacks. Made it up the stoop that led to the porch, and stopped. Roscoe looked down, to his right, between the loaded sacks. “This here package s’got your name on it, Petunia honey.” He continued on in.
CHAPTER 505
Petunia Roscoe was looking cheerful for a change as she placed her sack of groceries on the kitchen table and called out to her pets. “Ziggy? Darcy?” When no response was forthcoming, she figured the dogs were in the backyard doing whatever it was dogs did, chasing cats or digging up something, an old bone to gnaw on—or else that rabbit from across the street got loose again and was in their yard. She hoped not. Didn’t want to see any harm come to Bentley.
“Marty, would you go see about the kids.”
Groceries needed to be put away. Milk, cheese, beer in the refrigerator. Canned goods in the cupboard above the kitchen sink.
“I have my mind made up, honey. I’m not going to let life turn me into a negative person. I am going back to being my old self again, the way I used to be. Remember, Marty? I used to be happy all the time. I am determined to keep away from negative people, to stay away from anything negative and disagreeable.”
Roscoe had placed his two sacks on the table. Cracked a beer, and took a long pull. “I’ll drink to that.” Belched loud and long. “I’ll believe it when I see it.”
“What was that?”
“Where’s the bulb? I know we remembered to buy one.” He dug around in the other bag. Found the item at near the top. Tore open the packaging and screwed the bulb into the socket inside the refrigerator.
He le
ft the door wide open, pointing.
“There. You happy?”
Petunia waved her hand, as if to say: What’s the point? “Won’t last. So long as the door itself continues to be the problem.”
Roscoe shook his head, rolling his eyes toward the ceiling as he did. Grabbed his beer and walked to his favorite recliner in the living room. Dropped himself in it. Had another strong pull.
“How can you expect to lose weight if you continue to consume alcohol at such a staggering rate?”
“Love to exaggerate, don’t you? When did you ever see me stagger?”
“I’m exaggerating? Nobody accused you of staggering. Beer belly gets in the way of our love-making. “
“Since when?” Roscoe didn’t really want her to respond. He was tired of it. He had a gut. Fine. She had “thunder thighs.” He never bitched to her about that. He didn’t mind. Problem had nothing to do with his beer drinking or his ability in the sack. Woman couldn’t go one entire day without complaining about something. Not a single day.
“About time for the dogs to be fed, ain’t it?” This was a deliberate effort to throw his wife off-track. There were times it worked and left him with a real nice feeling inside when it did. “Where they at?”
“I was just going to ask you to take a look in the back.”
“Probably in the creep’s backyard. Ah, let ’em play. They ain’t doin’ nobody no harm.” Marty sucked on his can. Remembered the parcel that waited to be picked up.
“Got a package out there, Pet.”
“Who from?”
“How should I know?”
“Try reading the return address.”
“What’d I say?” Roscoe sighed to no one. “Gonna stop being negative? Who you kiddin’, woman?”
“Who’s it from, Marty?”
“No return address.” Her husband sniffed the air. Couldn’t pinpoint the peculiar odor—or maybe he could: the house next door. As usual.
“So who sent it?”
Roscoe’s response was hardly audible. “Like talking to the wall.” In his normal tone of voice, he said: “There ain’t no return address on the box, woman. Could be a late wedding gift from one of your many relatives.”
“Seven years after the wedding? Don’t be ridiculous. No one on my side of the family could ever be so inconsiderate. It’s more than likely one of those hillbilly cousins of yours. Finally decided to show some manners and send something.”
Marty Roscoe did not care for the comment. Decided to keep the peace and let it ride. She walked past him. Was out the front door, and a moment later carried the rather hefty box inside and was placing it on the coffee table.
“What did I tell you?” She was looking at what was on there for a return address. “Flat Rock, Arkansas.”
“Bullshit. Where?”
Roscoe was on his feet. Looked at what she was pointing at.
“Guilt finally got to the ill-mannered hicks.”
Marty read off the name in the left-hand corner. “Bubba Load? Don’t ring a bell.”
“He’s related to you, so don’t waste your breath denying it. That’s precisely why you refused to tell me who it was from.”
“Ain’t no postage on the box. And it didn’t come from Flat Rock.”
“There is postage on the box.”
Marty glanced at it. “Stamps look old. Package was never even postmarked in Arkansas.”
“Stop it. Will you please stop it? I’ve had enough.”
CHAPTER 506
Roscoe pulled on his can, shaking his head. Decided to finish it off. Crushed the can against his right palm. Was in the kitchen to dump it in the trash, and get himself another. “Think whatever the hell you want. I was holding two shopping bags full of groceries—how was I supposed to see anything?”
Petunia had the string untied. Pulled the brown tape off the top. Began to work away at the tan paper. Opened the flaps. The box had been stuffed with crumpled balls of newsprint and peanuts shipping filler.
She dug her hand in to scoop the peanuts and newsprint out. Took a quick look inside when she was, at last, able. The resulting scream that came out of her mouth was so loud and packed with such hysterical ferocity that it caused her husband to drop his beer.
“What is it, babe?”
Petunia collapsed on the sofa, beside herself, weeping uncontrollably; her entire being heaving, convulsing.
“Oh God! My God! Dear God!”
She rushed to the bathroom and could be heard vomiting, retching.
The stench throughout the house by now was unbelievable, and there was little doubt where it originated from this time: the box, the damn box. Roscoe walked over to the coffee table, hesitating to look down, only there was no avoiding it. He peered in, swallowing hard as he did. What he saw inside the cardboard box were the severed paws and heads of their lovable pals Ziggy and Darcy.
Nausea overcame her husband as well. Perhaps not as profoundly as it had hit his wife. Hurt was considerable. He’d had genuine feelings for the animals, after all.
“Dear Lord . . .” And he could not shake the sickness in his belly. His wife could still be heard heaving in the bathroom.
“How can anyone be so cruel? How can anyone be so unfeeling? God damn that bastard to hell for doing this to my precious babies.”
Roscoe made it to the bathroom to try and comfort his wife. He put his arm around her and held her this way and helped her walk out. They got as far as the kitchen, with Petunia collapsing into a chair.
“WHY? DEAR GOD! WHY, MARTY? WHY DID HE HAVE TO DO THIS TO THEM? A COUPLE OF HARMLESS DOGS LIKE THAT! MY BELOVED LITTLE SWEETHEARTS—HOW COULD HE, MARTY? HOW COULD HE? WHERE IS HIS HEART? DOESN’T HE FEEL ANYTHING? HOW CAN ANYONE DO SOMETHING LIKE THIS?”
“Take it easy, honey. Please. . . .”
“Dear God, I can’t afford to have a nervous breakdown now. I’ll lose my job. I can’t allow myself to have a breakdown. Not now, not like this.”
“You’re right there, Pet; you don’t want to have another breakdown. It isn’t worth it.”
“I don’t know if I can help it, Marty. I feel it coming on. I don’t know if I can prevent it, Marty.”
“Sure you can, babe. I’m here for you. We’ll get through this thing, you’ll see. We’ll make it.”
“We both know who did this.”
“We can’t prove it.”
“I don’t have to prove it. We both know the sociopath next door did it. The animal hater. He killed Ziggy and Darcy. Butchered them. The cold-blooded schizoid son-of-a-bitch.”
CHAPTER 507
Cecil Omar Biggs remained at his window, the binoculars glued to his eyes, and he could not recall the last time he’d been so thoroughly amused and pleased with himself.
“Now that tickles my nutsack. It takes a lot to tickle my nutsack. That does it right there.”
“Fool’ can’t make up they mind if they be wantin’ to flip or fly.”
“Something like that.”
By using the directional mic, Biggs was able to pick up most of it, not that audio gear was required. Petunia Roscoe was vocal enough for the entire Valley to hear.
“I do appreciate small favors, Petunia.” Cecil permitted himself a snicker or two here. “Come on, Dragon Lady, let’s see more of the same. Go all out now. We know you have it in you.”
His wish came true soon enough. The woman bolted from her chair at the kitchen table, only to be restrained by her husband, the big mouth himself. Mr. and Mrs. Big Mouth.
There they were. Caught up in one of life’s little foibles. Dragon Lady was screaming something about wanting to see the gun. Had to have it. Insisted on it.
If Biggs ever came close to actually laughing out loud for once in his life, this was it. So close. So very close.
It was fine with him. The modest degree of levity experienced was reward enough.
“Jesus, why hadn’t I thought of this before? Those two are funnier than any sitcom Hollywood ever came up with. Far more e
ntertaining than reruns of Gilligan’s Island, Leave It To Beaver, My Three Sons, Father Knows Best—and the rest.”
CHAPTER 508
Petunia sat up suddenly.
“What did you say to him?”
“Huh?”
“What did you do? You must have said something to him that set him off. What was it? What did you do over there?”
“What am I being accused of now?”
“What was in that dog food bag you carried over there that time?”
“What bag? I never left no bag.”
“You’re not leveling with me, Marty. You’re not telling me the truth. He doesn’t have dogs; what are you doing taking a dog food bag over there?”
“Why would I hold back? This is insane. Creepy butchered the dogs and you’re blaming me? You’re saying it’s my fault?”
“You did something. I know you did.”
“You’re being suspicious without cause.”
“I have cause. I know what you’re like. You did something to piss him off; you pushed him over the edge. Out of jealously. All you male bastards are the same. He’s got nymphomaniacs sneaking in and out of there at all hours of the night, Peaches and her slutty Cabaret friends, doing God knows what, and you couldn’t get in; he wouldn’t let you join that bogus church of his—and you did something that set all this in motion—and my precious babies are gone—because of you.”
“Who kept after me to pester him about the ruckus? Who was it?”
“You should know better than to harangue a sociopath. Nobody told you to push him over the edge.”
“If anyone’s over the edge, it’s you—”
“Give me the gun; I want the gun. I don’t give a damn what his reason is—because nothing excuses it. Nothing. He deserves to be shot Dead. Now.”