by Ron Charach
Briefin’ him: galloway in a bind. big ned, won’t you help? big ned aloof. Fast asleep on the mattress. galloway cautiously nudgin’ the corpulence with one of his one-per-center CEO tasseled shoes and ned showin’ signs of listenin’—wiry ear hairs bristlin’.
—Five thousand dollars are yours, ned, if you save me from someone Out There who’s trying to get me. An ass-sociate of yours who’s getting too big for his britches. Five grand of the real ones, ned—nothing hot about these.
Last payment ned received from galloway was a mite more devoid of watermarks than bills oughta be. ned up again nearly awake.
—Are you with me, ned? Five G-notes, just to hide out and ambush him. Plug him from the back, ned. Is there any other way?
big ned gurglin’ into the mattress—the drool spot slowly spreadin’. Obviously with galloway all the way.
In foul or sunny weather…
Through the mattress goes a great-big muffled roar, as galloway reaches for his wallet. —In fifties, ned, or would hundreds do? Perhaps thousand-dollar bills would be preferable—two now, three later? Balance paid on completion? But big ned is asleep again—couldn’t make it through the word preferable—especially this early in the mohnin’. Sleepin’ sound as the late Guv’nor Perry used t’do on the night befo’ a lethal injection.
galloway lookin’ down at the dozy ned with a feelin’ of dis-may tempered with putrefaction. Decides that what is lackin’ is a moe-tivator. Goods and services always better than money with the likes of... More concrete. Somethin’ even big ned might go for. Elevate him from lazy lout to motivated moron.
galloway leans his shoulder-padded back over ned’s hair-filled Victrola o’ an ear—holdin’ his breath as he does and whispers in high fidelity about a very young thing that ned just might take a shine to. A girl on the virge of young womanhood who’s illegally campin’ out on one of galloway’s many abandoned rural propitties—usin’ water that galloway pays for.
—She’s no more than fifteen, ned—just about the age you like them, untouched and in full flower, like an amaryllis, and just hankering for a bit of your sweet action—that is, if it’s given the way only you know how to give it, ned—that is real hard, harder than the bunker-bustin’ missiles our late president laid on the former Saudi royals, ned, so hard no blurry-eyed debutante or interne could help but be wowed, soak clear through her cheerleader freshettes—you with me, ned?
And ned’s ear takes to twitchin’ and there’s twitchin’ goin’ on further south—as a puddle mucilages onto the mattress—time bein’ the only thing ned don’t waste when he’s excited. Rollin’ over on a mammoth haunch he stares up at galloway’s perfect white crowns. A great wide bloody-gummed grin sweeps across his Bluto-channelin’ face.
—She dun got no pappy er mammy t’kill fust?
—No, ned. That’s the sheer beauty of it.
Scoutmaster enthusiasm takes the place of the business-like air that usually trusses his face as he sweats on.
—You just have to head straight out and get her—except of course, only I know exactly where she is, and if you tried looking for her all-by-your-lonesome on my far-flung holdings, you’d have this entire territory to cover, now wouldn’t you? And you’d be glowing like a bulb from the all the rads.
ned unimpressed. Couldn’t make it through the word territor—. galloway senses a lack of sentience—rises to the occasion: —The only cowpoke that’s good enough for this hungry little sex-starved kitten is yourself, ned. She wouldn’t let the likes of cabana or trapper dan within twenty-five feet of her fleecy pussy.
ned grinnin’ at the mention of cabana’s name alongside that of the mangy trapper.
—We can count on you, then, ned? As he flashes him the best of his we’re-with-you-all-the-way-son grins.
big ned tortoises over onto his other side, stretchin’ his crusty corps across the mattress—then flips onto his back an’ guffaws at the ceilin’. Stops. Twists his bearded mug towards galloway as his right hand scoops an enormous black peacemaker out from under the mattress.
galloway shits.
But big ned just takes to fondlin’ the gun on his stomach, its long curved scrimshaw handle nearly worn bald from overuse—his eyes tight as the anuses of two waterskiers—yawnin’ and smilin’ as once again he surrenders to the oceanic feelin’ of that most loneliness-relievin’ of all words: Puuussy!
Shaken but recoverin’ galloway backs away from the cave. Sets up a fancy fibre-glass MEC tent he brought along on the back of his surrey and camps out—awaitin’ ned’s rousin’ time—whensoever that may be.
Picks a pen from the neat row in his pocket pro-tector, and on monogrammed stationery writes a letter to some foster agency in a let’s-pretend Washington—arrangin’ to have some family pick up little Jamie, the baby he knows young Louise is hidin’ and who he’s already begun to think of—half-affectionately—as The Kid. All this bein’ pro forma: for the sake of fillin’ out forms.
Recalls a quote from Alexander King: —That gentlemen prefer blondes is due to the fact that, apparently, pale hair, delicate skin and an infantile expression represent the very apex of frailty which every man longs to violate. Couldn’t have said it better myself.
Composes an ad, for the town paper, his paper—a funeral notice for a young man named cabana who at the untimely age of twenty human years was felled by a bullet through the back—in an industrial accident:
Contributions may be made to the Town Safety Council.
Accidents Don’t Just Happen. They Are Caused.
And, lickin’ his finger, he sets to writin’ a second piece—a combined news story/obit—for a tragically abandoned youngster named Louise. Just in case she gets silly and tries to resist big ned—the eminently resistible ned. But decides to cross out the phrase repeatedly raped and mutilated because anyone readin’ such a phrase might suspect that the man ’at wrote it were more than a townie local editor—and somethin’ of an Ivy Leaguer—in short, one of the elite: A Serious Man.
big ned’s dream
big ned alone in pitch black with nuthin’ visible on any side ’cept fer a tiny point o’ light somewheres in the distance up ahead. He stomps down tryin’ t’reach it—when AYEEEE! his ears ring like sirens an’ his head swells—the pain too sharp t’bear without grindin’ the teeth. From all over the black rebound sharp vibrations from the sound of a single footstep strikin’ iron beneath him.
The whole cave must be an iron cylinder ’cause it reverbs every noise ten times louder into a hollow roar that tears at the eardrums—raisin’ blood in the middle ear.
Too terrified t’move, he jest sits there starin’ fearfully at that far-off teasin’ dot of white. Beggin’ fer someone to help though he can’t even whimper ’cause even a whisper would come back as a roar—a thousand roars that would deafen and sicken to the point o’ dry heaves.
So he squats in bless’d silence—knowin’ he’s a goner.
And when his hairy hand moves t’wipe sweat from his face, he feels a beard like the wire on a barbecue brush and above it his face too is hard ’n cold as iron—every bit as hard as that iron floor sweatin’ rivulets of thin brown rust.
Waitin’ and waitin’ out a dream that lasts forever. ’Til sudden and true he feels the iron floor drop open on its hinges—leavin’ him magickly suspended smack-dab above a apparition now uncovered and about t’awaken. It’s a sweet and milky-soft kind of girl—the same kind of sweet young innocent thang that’s always been a-feared o’ him.
An’ he fears the young girl will let out a scream soon as she makes out his bulbous jet-black silhouette hangin’ over her.
But she opens her dreamy eyes to look him over an’ surveys his hairy domains an’ moves t’wards him. An’ her hands don’t cause that deaf’nin’ noise. She touches him with love even though his frozen mask of face has no way to show jest how powe
rful-bad he wants her.
She rises like the flame on a candle towards him, leanin’ over t’kiss him, and melts the iron straight off him—turnin’ the floor beneath ’em both into an ivory-white polar bear rug straight out of a Hef mansion shoot. All she’s wearin’ is a downy-soft teddy over skin as glistenin’ as silk.
An’ he feels his-self changin’ back to flesh again—hot breathin’ animal flesh with the spirit returnin’. Yet there’s one part, one ever-so-lucky atavistic ’n centrally located part that stays metal, safeguardin’ the sacred form of long metal shaft—a missile out of its silo—leapin’ up a good fifteen degrees off his belly midway ’tween his furry thighs. Bold as the casin’ of an ICBM or a Trident or the latest special creation o’ the good eggheads at DARPA—it refuses t’melt into the surroundin’ eiderdown, but remains vintage ramrod like that sacred obelisk every young thing itches fer and wants to slide around on like a red-helmeted firegirl as it slashes in and out—in and out—now slicin’ through, piercin’ an’ chawin’ divots as it re-tracks with an eye and a mind all its own like a colossal drill minin’ the gen’rous ore and sacred spoor o’ raw love.
An’ his li’l green-eyed teen dotes on his glistenin’ metal kisses, his beefallo lips, an’ guides the vanadium slashin’ between her whoozy young legs, eatin’ at her insides in a mixture o’ pleasure an’ pain she wouldn’t have any other way: —O stay hard there cowpoke! She’s as satisfied as ten Japanese businessmen in a cum circle around a naked geisha carryin’ out a life-endin’ seppuku as they jerk off into her ripped entrails on the floor of a specialized porn site—all court’sy of CGI—that’s how satisfied as she throws back her goldenrod hair and screams —ned you cum-sweatin’ loverboy—you Silver Bullet Man, you Marlboro Man, you First-Man-on-the-Moon Man, you Don’t-Tread-on-Me Man! Her innocence rubbin’ along him like a polishin’ o’ emory cloth as she takes it in—eatin’ his iron head—his Mr. Big Tree of Love as’ th’ lights take to flickerin’ up a storm.
THAT’S HOW I WANT IT, NED. YOU BE SOFT WITH ME IN THE OPEN—BUT WHEN WE’RE ALONE YOU BE HARD NED. RAISE ME WITH YOUR LEVER NED LET ME BE YOUR WRAPPER NED YOUR LOVE-CARTRIDGE. CARTRIDGE FOR YOUR BULLET NED YOUR WICKED SILVER BULLET NED—YOUR SERIAL KILLER BULLET NED—YOU’RE JOHN WAYNE GACY AND BERNARDO, ERIC HARRIS, ADAM LANZA, DYLANN STORM ROOF, MIKE CAR-NEAL AND ELLIOT RODGER ALL WRAPPED INTO ONE!
An’ he cries. An’ in-hales deep. An’ knows full well that he loves and is loved for what he is and must be. And that it’s right because she wants it and needs it and will not run away...
And will not run away...and will not run away...ned stands back up pourin’ sweat. Panics at the sight of iron all around again. Screams, NOOOOO!!
But then stops ’cause there’s no echoes now—jest the old familiar darkness of the cave. Eyes accommodate as horror-heads dissolve in the retinal film.
The dream has stopped. In-outus interruptus—galloway havin’ turned down his cranked-up Eagles o’ Death Metal album and the strobes. ned don’t remember his dreams: dey’s uswally denged fecken styoopid anyhoo an’ fyoo a dem evah-done-was wuth memberin’. But senses this one’s diff’rent. Somethin’ ’bout a young girl. Recallin’ galloway’s promise of a li’l one ’at needs It and that he wants so bad To Give It To. An’ knows he’s already well slid down the greased path t’true luv—
Licks his tongue out a mite an’ sort o’ rolls his eyes a bit—imitatin’ cabana—plungin’ his hands through his underwear for a bit o’ reassurance—vowin’ t’give it good to that girl that’ll soon be his. An’ lies there smilin’ through mornin’, long past the hour he usually gits up to stare back at any upstart sun thet tries to jump-start another day.
And he almost takes t’thinkin’. Lookin’ up at the cave roof an’ picturin’ his-self hangin’ from there, bein’ lowered down onto her liquid sunshine—picturin’ how much he needs that girl but how he don’t fancy messin’ with cabana to git her, which might only lead t’doublin’ or triplin’ his navel. Tryin’ t’figure a way that he c’n pry that girl from galloway without helpin’ the latter complete the assignment at hand. Squeezin’ his puddin’ brains for whatever last bit o’ mileage they’ll give him.
a bit of anaesthetic
henry morgan eyes his wife Claire as she prepares for bed, and she catches him out the side of her eye—getting ready.
—Put your hand somewhere else for God’s sake, she scolds, bra straps dropping to her sides, twin cups falling to the floor. She snaps up the flannel nightshirt her mother once bought her, the one with the tiny Laura Ashley print that he finds about as sexy as a tea cozy.
—You’re just jealous, he says dryly.
—Look, she says, turning halfway from him as, under cover, she eases out of her panties that fit more loosely than they used to. —It’s bad enough I have to tolerate your stares whenever I get ready for bed, do I have to watch you doing that?
—Does it really bother you? You should be flattered.
—You’re impossible. She storms into the living room, her backside forming tight little pitcher’s mounds, expressing themselves even thru that sex-effacing garment. The vertical frown of her makes him want to spank her scarlet.
—O come on hon, he calls after her, though what he really thinks is silly cunt.
—I’m not your piece of entertainment—and there’s no point in our getting back together ’til you find me half as exciting as you find yourself, and we all know who-else out there...
—Whoa now Claire, whoa. It’s one thing to accuse me of hangin’ out with the guys too much, it’s another to go accusin’ me of cheatin’ on you. I mean, golf widow is one thing, spurned woman another...
—There’s more than one way to abandon your wife. And by the way, it’s just not natural for a man to pull on penises the way you do.
—My own.
—No matter; a penis is a penis is a penis.
—Gertrude Stein, right? How would she have known?
—There was a time when you would recite Gertrude Stein.
—Only to myself, though.
—Why keep coming back, henry?
—Feedback, Claire. A man needs feedback, even from his awfully-wedded wife. A little head-to-head.
—If that’s what you need, go down to your ma rosemary; she’s got mirrors up on every wall and the ceilings too, I hear, and plenty of sweet small talk to spare. And isn’t your old buddy weird harold an Ivy Leaguer? He can give you plenty of head-to-head…
—But only you give me head.
She breaks into angry sobs. He marches into the kitchen and looks around for sandwich fixin’s. He considers putting his still-half-erect between two slices of bread and springing the combo on her with —I reckon you don’t like it when I play with my food, either. Take a bite out of this. Though she just might take him up on it.
A good joke or a prank could sometimes wrench her from her funk. Mr. Goodwrench.
He pours himself a tall glass of lemonade and sits down. Nearly jumping as his bare ass strikes the cold vinyl chair. Soon she’ll come join him. He can almost hear the silence in the next room as she plans what to say next, the ever-predictable Claire.
Once he had thought it might be tolerable to live with a woman who enjoyed thumbing through People and US and Cosmo, who preferred the plebs newspaper to the yuppy one. For lofty matters you always had your guy-friends from the old schools or buddies in the Boys’ Book Club. She ambles into the kitchen trying not to look sexy, a losing proposition when her back is turned and she is that much easier to objectify. As she passes he thinks about how wrong he’d been to plunge into a relationship while still in medical school. With someone who folded under pressure more readily than he did.
She’s abandoned the flannel gown. A change of heart? Of hormones? Plenty of those in galloway’s cocktails. And now wears one of his denim shirts, and nothing else—has tied the botto
m few buttons’ worth of it into a bow, which is fine by him, ’cause it leaves just a tad of her bottom peeping through, making her long long legs even longer, covering over her upper haunches that, even with the weight loss, are more pocked with cellulite than either of them dare notice. He motions her to come sit on his bare lap. But she shakes her head: first finish our talk.
As if this were a dialogue. Hardly fair criticism, of course, since galloway’s meds don’t exactly enhance her mental powers. Quite the jack-of-all-trades, that galloway.
He wants to tell her that talking to her is a soliloquy. Instead he grabs her by the shirt—his shirt—and pulls her up and over his lap.
—Leggo! she yelps, slippers flying off as she kicks for his face, hands twisted behind her back inside his powerful grip; the shirt slides down over her like a lasso, and he wrenches the bow so he can control her from behind. Her fairly firm if mottled ass is squirming, but her thigh and leg muscles strain ’til he is near the point of firing. With his free hand he snatches the ice-cube tray from the table, easing up on the shirt, giving her a bit more line, and smashes out some cubes, scooping a handful and holding them between her buttocks and slit ’til she squeals and nearly tears free with her thrashing. He’s like a curved ruler and in a second pulls her onto him, the two of them dropping to the kitchen floor in a heap of limbs; in a second she is around him like a pair of plyers, and he twists through sluice gates greased with the juices of a good fight. And all the while she mutters —Bastard! Bastard!
When it’s over, she walks slightly bow-legged from the bathroom and asks him for a back-rub.
—You like my surprise?
—Couldn’t you tell? But this is getting rough. We’re not as young as we once were, she says, rubbing her aching wrists. —Why does everything have to be from behind with you?
He has the sickening sense that she’ll soon start overeating again. Then restricting what she takes in for days on end. The way they clash these days only fuels such behavior.