The Early Crap: Selected Short Stories, 1997-2005

by Anthony Neil Smith

  Except that he wasn’t. There was one more, a Whipper, answering 29’s shout with a louder one.

  “Seeeeeeeeaaaaaaa Baaaaaassssssss!”

  Looked over his shoulder. So it had come to this. 29 face to face with the guy who had the iron rod in his head.

  They circled each other cautiously, stepping over and on top of their fallen brothers. Ever closer. 29 worked his blade in loops and swirls like bad guys from Indiana Jones movies. Smiling all toothy.

  Ratchit lifted his hand to his head, grabbed one end of the iron bar, and yanked on it until it started to slide from his head, the sound like gravel pouring. Blood leaked out of the entry hole. Ratchit shook his head, blinked, and lifted that iron bar like a sword.

  29 charged. Swung.

  Rathcit blocked it with the bar. Strong fucking bar. It held the blade in mid-air. No one was going anywhere unless the other backed off.

  29 leapt back first, taking his time in looking for a second swing. Ratchit’s ear was so fucked, and one if his eyes red like it was filled with blood. Maybe that side. Maybe he was blind on that side.

  29 came in with a low swing, arching upward, trying take off Ratchit’s right arm. But Ratchit caught the blade, held it in his armpit, arm clutched tight to his side. Gave it a pull and the sword came free of 29’s hand like it was made of Jell-o.

  Ratchit dropped the iron rod and took the sword. Admired it. Posed with it, doing Conan the Barbarian moves. Nodded. “I like this.”

  “It’s yours. Take it. Let me go, and you can have it, I swear.”

  Ratchit ran his fingers over the edge of the blade. “Dull as dogshit, though. You didn’t sharpen it?”

  “I bought it last week.”

  “And?”

  29 shook his head. “Never used it before.”

  Ratchit dropped the sword, picked up the iron rod, and walked over to 29, inches from his face. At first, 29 thought Ratchit was taller than he looked far off, but then he realized the crazy bastard was standing on the back of a dead Fire Breather.

  A staredown.

  29 wasn’t going to beg for his life. He remembered what Cho had taught him, about what to do when standing so close to an opponent: Balls. You go for the balls. You grab them in your claw and yank them like they are fresh plums on a tree.

  So 29 curled his fingers like an Eagle’s talon and struck the man’s crotch. Only to find nothing there to grab onto. He patted around, thinking maybe they were dangling real low or something. Maybe up tight. Maybe Ratchit was wearing a fucking cup.

  Ratchit smiled. “Lost my junk to a shark in the Gulf of Mexico.”

  With that, Ratchit punctured the soft part under 29’s chin with the iron rod, right up through the roof of his mouth, into his sinuses, and that was enough. Ratchit then rammed the heel of his hand into 29’s nose, shattered it all sorts of ways, and shoved it right through to his cerebrum. His eyes rolled up and he fell backwards like a mighty oak.

  No one else left to kill.

  Ratchit pulled the rod from 29’s head, looked it over, and gave it a lick. Then he fit it back into the entry hole, pushed it back into place through the skull, and felt immediate peace, love, and understanding for all animalkind.

  He headed off towards the line of Fire Breather motorbikes, picking out the one that was painted to look the fastest, and went looking for some prairie dogs to kill for supper.

  CRAMP

  I got the E. coli really bad the morning of the heist from hot dogs earlier in the week, but I didn't see the other three sweating and cramping and squeezing back their bowels like me, suffering in the backseat of Winona's Saturn coupe. It was me, Winona driving, Lewis back with me trying to keep his distance, and Abe riding shotgun. Abe and Winona had a thing. I'd wanted her first. He'd acted first. I don't know, maybe I still had a chance. We really had good talks. I hated listening to them fuck at night.

  Only two more hours south, the Indiana/Michigan state line. Our first destination, State Line Steve's Adult RelaXXXa tion Den.

  My roommate Abe thought up the heist on the way home from his aunt's funeral in Ohio. He noticed the state line porn shops and imagined they'd be loaded with cash since pervs wouldn't want the shit on their credit cards. Not a bad idea. I'd never robbed anything before, but my options sucked after I was kicked out of school on a "sexual assault" charge. One of Winona's friends—she said the charges were nothing personal, but the bitch got a sweet settlement from the school. All I'd done was try to show her that a back massage from me would melt her tension like butter. Instead she kneed me and called security.

  Winona was still my friend, though. She trusted me, probably because touching her would result in Abe touching me badly. I didn't want that, remembered two purple fingers and a makeshift cast. One still won't bend right.

  Lewis was melting into the door, telling them to turn on the air.

  "No," I said. "Freezing."

  "It's fucking May."

  "But he's sick," Winona said. "Chills. Come on. Poor guy."

  Lewis said, "If he's got food poisoning, aren't we gonna get it too?"

  "Could've been a bad frank. Just one that didn't get cooked enough. Or maybe it'll take longer for one of you to get sick. You're more muscular."

  "What if it's the flu? Or worse?"

  Abe turned his head. "Would you shut up? It's a fucking stomachache, that's all."

  "Actually, it's bacteria," Winona said. "Most things that make us sick are bacteria."

  Lewis glanced at me like I had plague. "You sure? How do you know that?"

  Her eyes rear viewed him, rolled. "Duh, I was taking classes, remember? To be a med lab tech?"

  "You get far enough to know a cure?" I said. Every word strained, couldn't risk releasing.

  She shrugged. "That would've been the next semester. It was just too hard for me."

  I didn't buy it. I knew how smart she was. Her problem was, she'd rather drown herself in lemon drops and Jell-O shooters than study Immunology. Her new major at Grand Rapids Com munity College was Social Work, her fourth in two years.

  "I need a restroom," I said.

  Abe turned farther, couldn't get his face around that far. "Really?"

  "Urgently."

  *

  Lately, things had been "make do." I was C student from a farm family, got booted from school and had to mop floors at Taco Bell to pay rent. Abe wasn't sympathetic. He still expected me to pitch in a hundred more than him because, "Hey, I'm not here as much as you." So I made do. I made do with a half-assed relationship with Winona when she was waiting for Abe to either show up or wake up. I liked our mornings, coffee and Pop-Tarts watching music videos—her, bare-legged, wearing one of Abe's giant Gap rugby shirts. The guy was a hulk, I'll give him that. Some mornings she'd stagger towards the table and say, "Sometimes I wish he'd ease up. I don't need bruises every night."

  Oh, sweet Winnie, I'd be gentler. I'd listen to you. Just let me give you a back massage.

  No, I didn't say that. I said, "Yeah, that's pretty tough."

  I made do with a crap job, couldn't dare tell my folks about the assault charges. It didn't get as far as a trial. I didn't want to fight it. Figured it was easier to let everything cool out and then start over later, my record clean of anything official as long as I kept away from trying to make something of my self—although that dream of being a vet had pushed me out onto the road and just kept on without me. I supposed I could work in pet stores eventually. Wanted to give Abe's way a try first.

  Made do with a nasty gas station bathroom too. I three plied toilet paper as a seat protector because of the brown stripes that wouldn't wipe away. The light kept flicking off. It smelled like week-old stew. And then I released.

  Whispered, "Yeeeeeeeeeeessss."

  Moaned.

  Took in another breath, like week-old stew and bad pork.

  Read black marker graffiti:

  Had me a long dick here, 4/25/0
4.

  Jesus Saves

  He sure does—saves the best weed for himself.

  Galatians 1:20

  Lewis pounded on the door. "You can't set up house in there!"

  I reached for toilet paper, pulled. The last five squares fell off. I tried for the backup roll. There wasn't one.

  "Son of a bitch."

  No paper towels for your hands. Just an air dryer.

  Lewis shouted, "We can't risk being seen, asshole. Come on." Then to Abe, "I'm trying. He won't fucking answer!"

  "Five minutes, all right? Can you wait five more fucking minutes?"

  I tried my best. I made do with five squares to deal with my slimy ass, the bacteria turning everything to a syrupy pond scum. I worked it off, sometimes getting a little on my fingers and palm. Shit, shit, shit. The aches were coming back and I had to start clenching. My friends were bound to take off without me if I stayed any longer. The best I did with five squares was about eighty percent clean. Fuck it. I had a long day ahead.

  A bigger surprise when I tried to wipe the shit smears off my hands. The water didn't work. Tried cold. Tried hot. Tried spinning them as far as I could. Nothing.

  Fine, then. Okay. Just make do. Maybe the air dryer would evaporate them, kill the little microbes, anything. So I hit the button and held open palms beneath. No air, no heat, no nothing.

  I wanted to cry.

  *

  Twenty miles later, the nausea moved in.

  *

  I'd asked Winona the night before why she wanted to come along. I was surprised to learn Abe had told her. She said, "Don't know."

  "You could get hurt. You could go to jail."

  "It's not like we're killing someone. People rob all the time."

  "But they go to jail for it."

  "A little." An index finger and thumb almost touching.

  I'd figured her out then. She didn't like Abe because she saw the gentleman underneath the scars. She just liked the scars. Same with anything else in life.

  *

  We waited until the parking lot was nearly empty at State Line Steve's. I was nearly paralyzed by then, any motion set to make me spew. I had another growing cramp bubbling inside too. Abe and Lewis would have to handle the whole thing themselves. I planned on heading for the men's room.

  The plan: walk to the shop, do the job, then walk out. Winona would come to get us only when we were on our way to the road. I didn't know if I could even walk.

  Abe took a look at me. "Why don't we let him drive? Winona can come in."

  "That wasn't the plan." She sounded pissed, but also a little scared. She was in this for vicarious thrills—a part of the gang, but just driving. "I'm not going in."

  "Fuck." Abe stared at her a moment too long before turning to me. "You gonna make it, champ?"

  "No." I meant it. "I'd tell you if I could."

  Abe snorted. He choked. He recovered and said, "If you don't . . . I'll kill you."

  I think Lewis and Winona stood up for me, came to my res cue and all. Told him we should call it off, go home, get some pizza. It was a stupid idea. Come on, man, let's bail.

  I knew what it meant to him, though. He'd told me Internet poker had him out five grand. He'd stolen it from his dad, bit by bit, but the old man finally caught on. Abe was sure he'd win. Just one fucking flush. One fucking full house. Even when he hit them, they weren't enough to make him stop. One more fucking straight. One more fucking four of a kind. Without a few scores, Abe was sunk. His dad had already threatened to take the tuition, take the car, take the AmEx card.

  Abe looked back at me again. He'd never cry, but the look was close enough to it for anyone's money. "Champ?"

  What sort of friend was he to me, then? That didn't matter. We could settle that later. The bigger question was, what sort of friend was I?

  I told him, "I'll power through for you."

  *

  There was no Steve at State Line Steve's that night. We got a skinny wild-haired guy named Damien, who looked as if he just worked here to support himself until "the band hit it big."

  Abe and Lewis handled shaking him down—their guns cheap pawnshop .38s that were still frightening enough shoved up against your face. I didn't have a gun, just pretended. My job was to control the patrons. But there weren't any. Perfect timing. So I fingered over the magazines on the mismatched racks that looked like they'd been collected over the last forty years, some plastic, some wood, some wire. The teens and model-hot chicks were all closest to the register. I was still trying to rub off shit, even though I'd wiped most off on my jeans. Still felt dirty. Kept sniffing at my fingertips. Down the row. Hairy girls. Mature women. Lesbians. Got a little hard off a Mature Woman/Younger Chick cover, but that didn't help my condition.

  Quickly back up front as Damien shoved money into the bag Abe held for him.

  "Abe."

  He glared at me. "Names!"

  "I need a break."

  "No fucking break. We don't have time."

  Acid bubbling. I burped. Felt bile rise. "Can't . . . can't wait."

  He gritted his teeth. Damien had stopped filling the sack.

  "Wait, that's it?"

  The clerk nodded. "The rest is credit card slips."

  You can't have more credit card slips than cash."

  "Oh yeah. It just rings up as a gas store purchase, you know. We're discreet." Even though he was scared of the guns, you could tell he'd probably said the same thing to ten other robbers before.

  I said, "Abe, I need the bathroom."

  He put his finger to his lips, pained look on his face. I didn't mean to ruin the job. I couldn't help it. Desperate. My body doing its own thing now.

  I looked at Damien. "Bathroom."

  He said, "It's in the back. You'll need the key. Let me get it."

  The clerk reached under the counter, none of us really having time to think that wasn't such a great idea. I just wanted the key. A key, a bowl, a sink.

  Damien's hand popped up with an automatic pistol. His face was already twisting, at the ready, when Abe caught Damien's wrist, slammed it hard on the counter. Kept gripping, struggling. Abe forced the clerk's wrist to the side, the gun pointing at none of us. Like arm wrestling, the strain showing in both their necks. Lewis pointed his revolver at Damien yelling things like, "I'm not joking! Let it go! You wanna die?" Damien ignored him, deep into his battle of wills with Abe. Jaws clenched now. Heavy breaths through their noses.

  Then I threw up on them. Heaved hot dog and cola and acid all over the counter, slicking up Abe and Damien's arm battle. Damien tried to pull away harder, a high-pitched wail coming out of him. He started gagging. The wetness gained him some wiggle room.

  "Get the gun!" Abe said.

  He said it to me. I leaned over them, still not able to get any air past the thickness in my throat. Heaving, trying to control it. But then there was another round of the hot reddish mess spewing from me. Abe's grip on Damien slipped even more.

  "The gun!"

  Lewis kept his distance, still shouting. He wasn't going to shoot anybody. Couldn't depend on him.

  I grabbed the top of the pistol, tugged. It wasn't going to be so hard. Tugged some more. Definitely slipping. Damien's fin ger was still in the trigger guard. Abe and I both caught that. Abe growled, louder and louder, then jumped up, slammed his forehead into Damien's. The clerk was dropping, all muscles slacking. His hand released the gun and it went flying down an aisle of dildos and vibrators. I followed, scrabbling for it, trip ping, falling, landing hard. Then it was mine, and I felt a little bit better than before I had puked.

  Abe leaned over me, the wet bag of cash dripping myself back on me. "We've got to go."

  *

  Only Lewis talked in the car. Pissed at first, then laughing, then satisfied when the fear dissipated the farther we drove.

  "Fucking pukes on the guy, can you believe that? Makes it too slippery
for him to hold the fucking gun. Righteous, man. Let me see that gun."

  He reached for the piece sticking out of my waistband. I grabbed his wrist, twisted. "It's mine."

  "I just want to see. Let go."

  My fingernails bit into his skin. He tried to kick me, couldn't get his foot free from between the seat. "Hey, cut that out! I'll kick your ass."

  I released and he pulled back, his arm now dirtied up. Winona was the only one still clean. I wondered how long be fore Abe and Lewis came down with what I had. Winona had said it wasn't contagious by air, but by contact with fecal matter and vomit. No one was saying it, though. Everyone pre tended we each had our own force fields.

  Lewis finally said, "Jesus, the smell."

  *

  We found a cheap hotel that night out in the cornfields of southern Illinois, used Winona's ID info since we were pretty sure she'd kept out of sight during the job. The desk crew didn't see the condition we were in, stained and broken. I poured sweat. More bubbles expanded in my guts, my ass clenched as tight as humanly possible until we pulled up in front of the room. I wanted to beeline for the toilet, but by then I was too weak. I released as soon as I climbed from the car, the liquid shit trailing down my leg, dripping on the pavement. A trail of splats followed me inside. I didn't get past the first bed in the room. Fell across it and shivered.