This Town Needs a Monster

by Andersen Prunty

I dropped his phone in the same pocket as mine. On the way to the first container, I felt a vibration and got momentarily excited. Maybe Dawn had decided to text me.

  I pulled out both phones and turned the screen on mine on. They were both the same, but mine was the broken one.

  Nothing.

  I put my phone back in my pocket, now holding Mr. Gunderson’s. I turned the screen on, telling myself I’d have to do it to shoot the video anyway.

  The text was from Patty Gunderson, his wife. It read: “I want that fat horse cock inside of me, Mr. G.”

  I felt myself blush a little. Not because of the content of the text, but because I was reading something meant to be private.

  I put the phone in my pocket and pruned and watered and dusted the plant until there was no more brown and it was a shiny, healthy green. The phone vibrated a few more times before I was finished with the plant.

  Of course, I read the messages.

  “I’m gonna suck that fat cock halfway down my throat.”

  “I wanna gag on it.”

  “I want you to pull my hair while you fuck my tight asshole.”

  I tried to imagine this happening. I wouldn’t mind watching it. I’d have to Google ‘morbidly obese people having sex’ when I went home. It wasn’t something I’d ever done but found myself becoming more and more obsessed with it as I wandered through the Gundersons’ frigid house taking care of their plants and reading her filthy texts. Was this how they spent every day? Would Mr. Gunderson be in his room jerking off right now if he were actually getting these?

  I knew he’d been a lawyer at one point but couldn’t really imagine him doing much in the way of working right now. I could tell by the pictures hanging around the house they’d lived a full life at one point. There were tons of pictures of he and Mrs. Gunderson standing in exotic looking places from around the world. Sometimes it looked like they were surrounded by family and friends but mostly it was just them. It made me a little sad. They clearly still had passion for one another and had had a passion for life, at some point. Now everything was all virtual. Sex via text. Videos of the plants that had been in his house for years and that he clearly enjoyed looking at.

  Sometimes I felt fortunate to have been poor my entire life. While my parents had never been as poor as I was, my dad was a major tightwad who put everything except the bare minimum into savings so he and my mother could have a good retirement. I guess he had to. And they did have a good few years before they were both diagnosed with cancer and died within months of each other, the considerable savings mostly depleted by their treatments and eventual hospice care. I’d never had the money to develop a thirst for anything. Therefore I’d never had to experience the sad turn that thirst could have taken when something threw a wrench in my life. For the Gundersons, I was assuming that wrench was their children.

  Oh God, their children . . .

  I saved the plant in their room for last, hoping it wouldn’t throw a pall over the rest of my evening.

  Twin boys. I didn’t know their names. Both around age twelve and a little over 400 pounds each. They were mobile, but never moved from in front of their massive TV where they sat in big recliners and played video games and drank soda and ate snacks and occasionally shit themselves.

  It was this last thing that always brought me down.

  But, I assumed, if Roberta had been there only a few minutes ago, I might be safe.

  She would have emptied what I’d dubbed ‘the shit hamper,’ a chest-size container where they disposed of their soiled diapers.

  I slid into their room trying not to be noticed. I quickly took care of the plant, which seemed fairly traumatized. I imagined one of the boys slapping out his frustrations on the leaves. Since they hadn’t acknowledged me yet, I thought about slipping out without shooting the video but knew I probably wouldn’t get away with it. It would have ended up being the one thing Mr. Gunderson actually wanted to see.

  I pulled the phone out and read the last message.

  “I want to gargle with your cum.”

  I filmed the plant before focusing the camera on the broad backs of the two boys.

  The one on the right turned and stared directly into the camera.

  “Nyah!” he barked.

  The other boy turned.

  “Blub,” he garbled. “Blub.”

  “Nyah!”

  I left the room to the chorus of ‘blub’s and ‘nyah’s.

  I handed the phone back to Gunderson and he said softly, “See ya next week.”

  A lot of the clients closed this way and, since starting there, I’d always fantasized about how nice it would be to say, “Actually, this is my last week.”

  Instead I said, “Yeah, see ya. Hope you like the videos.”

  I felt pretty sure I’d be back the next week.

  And because of that feeling, I felt pretty sure I’d do whatever Dawn asked if she even bothered contacting me again.

  * * *

  I went down to check the mail while the coffee brewed. Most everything I did was online and I didn’t have money to order things so I’d often go days without checking my mail. There was yet another flyer for a missing dog and I found myself slightly annoyed by this. What had happened to the other dogs? Why didn’t they ever put up a dog found flyer if that happened? If one were worried about the missing dog, it seemed like it would be a great relief.

  I threw the small stack of mail on the table in the kitchen, poured some coffee, and sifted through it.

  Most of it was junk mail from The Point Medical Center, soliciting me to engage in procedures for everything from pain management to weight loss. I threw it in the trash. There was a handwritten envelope addressed generally to ‘Our Neighbor’ with no return address. I opened it up and three teeth fell out. They looked human. I threw those in the trash, as well.

  I drank my coffee and watched a few videos of teenage girls modeling newly purchased swimsuits on MeTube. One of them reminded me a little of Dawn so I started it from the beginning and jerked off to it. I tossed the soiled paper towel in the trash, washed my hands, pounded the rest of my coffee, and headed to the shop.

  Today was Friday, one of our busiest days. Everyone wanted their lawn to look good for the weekend but nobody wanted us there on the actual weekend when they were to have their theoretical barbeques or get-togethers. I didn’t spend a lot of time wandering around Gethsemane on the weekends, but I rarely saw anyone out when on my route. I’d always found it slightly odd these people lived in awesome houses with awesome yards in a not bad town, and never seemed to go outside. Friday was also the day with the most new clients.

  I got to the shop a few minutes late.

  Donnie was there, drinking Mountain Dew from a two liter.

  “Hey, Donnie,” I said.

  “I can’t open my left eye,” he said. “At all.”

  “How’s the concussion?”

  “Not good.”

  Mr. Billups came out of the office and handed me the route sheet. It was very robust.

  “There’s a lot to do today,” he said. “I want you guys to go out together. Have Donnie help you out. He’s hampered what with the eye thing and concussion. Not sure he’s okay to drive.”

  “Okay.” I wasn’t incredibly happy about it. Donnie didn’t talk a lot so it wouldn’t be that bad but the general solitude of the job was one of the only redeeming things about it.

  I looked over the route sheet. Thankfully, the Bachmans’ was still the only indoor stop on the list but my stomach clenched a little when I saw the name Larry Warner. It was, of course, missing the ‘White Power’ in front of it. Maybe I’d just drop Donnie off there and pick him up after I did the next one on the list.

  “You guys should probably get movin. It’s supposed to storm this afternoon so you’re really gonna have to bust yer butts.” Billups’ voice broke Donnie and me from our impending workload stupor.

  Donnie chugged the rest of his Mountain Dew and looked like he was going to vo
mit for a second.

  “You ever happen to hear from Travis?” I asked Mr. Billups.

  “Funny you should ask that. I tried callin him again this morning but all I got was sex noises.”

  “I think someone’s hijacked his phone. I can’t get ahold of him either.”

  “Well, there’ll be plenty work for him if he comes back.”

  “I’m a little worried.”

  “No sweat. Happens all the time. He’ll turn up somewhere.”

  I turned to Donnie. “You ready?”

  “I guess,” he said.

  On the way to the first stop, Donnie packed a little bowl with weed and took a deep drag, offering me some.

  “No thanks,” I said.

  He took another drag, tapped it out on the outside door of the truck and put it in his pocket.

  “So how are things?” I asked.

  “Not good,” he said.

  “I mean, like, besides the eye thing and the concussion?”

  “All right, I guess. I think my parents are getting divorced or something.”

  “Aw, man, that sucks. You still live at home?” I didn’t have any idea how old Donnie was. He could have been anywhere from nineteen to forty. He was painfully skinny, with a tightly drawn and lined face that looked like he’d been living rough for a number of years.

  “Yeah.”

  “Where do you live?”

  “Up on Cooper Place.”

  Gethsemane didn’t really have many bad areas, but every house on Cooper Place was a Victorian mansion. There were only about eight of them on the entire street. It was probably the most sought after and expensive area in Gethsemane.

  “Damn, man, that’s nice,” I said. “Why do you work here?”

  “It’s one of the only places in town to work. And I like being outside.”

  “Did you go to college or anything?”

  “I tried but I didn’t do so good. And I missed being here.”

  “In Gethsemane?”

  “Yeah. I don’t know why.”

  “What do your folks do?”

  “They’re both professors in Twin Springs . . . at, uh, Shrine College. But now that it’s summer I think they’re just spending most of their time fucking other people.”

  “Oh shit.”

  “It’s kinda creepy. These two girls started hangin around . . . I mean, they’re younger than me. And . . . I guess they’re kinda hot and all but, fuck, man, I’m still a virgin and my old ass parents are getting more pussy than me.”

  I thought this was probably what was upsetting him more than anything.

  “Well, I mean I guess that’s another reason I had to get a job too. Cause they were fine with me just staying home and shit until they got little fuck buddies then it was like, ‘You need to pay us rent, Donnie.’ I think those bitches are like little fucking leeches, if you ask me.”

  “Sounds like maybe you should go back to school.”

  He laughed a little and lit a cigarette. “Not an option, man. I feel too old and I know my parents wouldn’t pay for it now.”

  “How old are you?”

  “I turn thirty next month.”

  “That’s not too old. Do community college or something.”

  “Fuck that. It’s not my thing. My brain feels too full as it is.”

  “That’s probably just the concussion.”

  We powered through the first few stops. After the fourth one, Donnie said he was tired and needed to take a nap. I’d heard that thing about not letting people sleep if you thought they had a concussion and encouraged him to stay awake. I even offered to go to the Snack Barn and get him more Mountain Dew but he said his head was going to explode if he didn’t shut his one remaining eye for a few minutes.

  I did the next couple of stops and woke him up when we got to the Bachmans’.

  “You want to do the outside and I’ll get the inside?” I said.

  “I wouldn’t mind doing the inside,” he said. “The lady here is . . .”

  “Mean.” I knew he was probably going to say ‘hot’ but she was savage.

  “I’ll come in and help.”

  I shrugged. “It’s up to you, man.”

  We approached the house. I knocked on the door. Alan Bachman answered it. He was probably in his early thirties, chiseled jaw currently covered with a bit of black shadow, piercing blue eyes, and well-coiffed black hair. He wore a blue oxford shirt, completely unbuttoned, and khaki shorts. His body was cut and sinewy and covered in a bright red rash.

  Other than opening the door, he gave us no acknowledgement. He was on the phone, shouting, “I’m really excited about healthcare!”

  I quickly moved onto the first plant while Donnie stood and stared at the Bachmans’ expensively minimal decorations.

  Mr. Bachman continued to rant. “I don’t care if you’re tired of hearing about my rash! It keeps getting worse! And I think it’s your fault. I don’t care if this isn’t your department! If I want to talk about healthcare you’re going to talk about healthcare.”

  I leaned into working on the plant while Donnie dazedly wandered toward the back of the house, presumably to find Kimmy Bachman and hoping there was a plant in the room she occupied. I knew there probably was because she was probably in their home gym, which had a row of mirrors on two walls. One of the mirrored walls was lined with plants, the other with exercise equipment. Despite Mrs. Bachman’s abuse, this had always been one of my favorite stops. The way the exercise room was arranged allowed me to tend to the plants while looking at the mirror in front of me, affording me a nice view of Mrs. Bachman on the treadmill or stretching out on the yoga mat. She was a young, lithe blond woman who kept her hair pulled back into a ponytail and wore a sports bra and athletic shorts that were really just thicker underwear. After servicing their house, I’d masturbated in the truck at least three times, the image of a sweated up, rosy-cheeked Mrs. Bachman still fresh in my head. I didn’t feel good about it at first but resolved that she must have been aware of what she was doing to me in there. Unless she thought I was gay. I resented Donnie somewhat.

  I moved on to the next plant.

  “I need to get this taken care of by July!” Mr. Bachman shouted. “My wife and I need to visit every country in the world before September. I need to be in peak health! Then when I come back I have to get started on the Wild Times account! It’s gonna be huge and I’m gonna be really busy. Then we’ve got the rally to attend and then Kimmy wants to get pregnant with three kids so we can get that all out of the way at one time and then we’re going to have to start interviewing nannies and looking for private schools. And I can’t do ANY of this if I’m covered in a fucking itchy rash. I can’t even concentrate on my grooming! I look like a monster!”

  I hoped whatever Mr. Bachman had wasn’t contagious.

  I quickly took care of the other plants to see if I still had time to join Donnie in the exercise room. Of course I would. He was probably working at a snail’s pace so he could spend as much time in that room as possible.

  When I peeked into the exercise room, Kimmy Bachman stood on the yoga mat, her sinewy legs flexing as she bent from the waist, her hands wrapped around her Achilles’ tendons. I could see the line between her buttocks and her legs that her shorts had risen slightly to reveal. Also, the shorts were so tight and the lights in here so bright I could make out the outline of her cunt. I immediately felt myself growing hard.

  “Need some help?” I asked Donnie.

  His one eye was plastered to the mirror. It looked like he was still working on the first plant.

  “Nah. I think I got it.”

  “I’m done with the rest. We need to finish up here so we can get outside. Storm’s coming.” I didn’t know if this was true or not but I thought it might throw him into a higher, slightly less voyeuristic gear.

  “You guys need to shut the fuck up and get to work.” Mrs. Bachman had pulled out of her bent over position and now stood with her back arched and both of her arms pulled o
ver her head, her perfect breasts straining against the sports bra. “When stupid, poor people talk it makes me feel stupid and poor.”

  I went to work on the far plant, figuring we’d meet somewhere in the middle. I occasionally glanced up at Mrs. Bachman to see what new, alluring position she had struck. I thought yoga was supposed to calm the mind or something. Make people more peaceful. If Mrs. Bachman was this mean and rabid while actually doing yoga, I could only imagine what she was like most of the other time. Maybe that was the source of Mr. Bachman’s rash.

  I did nearly the whole row of plants and Donnie had just moved on to his second one.

  Mrs. Bachman had finished her yoga and wiped her sweat off with a white towel.

  She was perfectly toned, her cheeks pink with exertion.

  “You guys get enough of an eyeful?”

  Neither one of us answered her.

  “Are you both fucking mute? I asked a question.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I said.

  “I know you guys were both looking at me. I wanted to know if you got enough?”

  “I don’t know how to answer that.”

  “Well, idiot, as with most things, you should answer with a yes or a no.”

  “Then . . . no?”

  “So you want to look some more?”

  “Uh . . . sure?”

  “You guys are so fucking sad. You should feel lucky you got to see as much as you did, so show some fucking gratitude.”

  “Okay.” I felt really uncomfortable. I went back to lightly wiping down a plant I’d already wiped down.

  “Stop ignoring me. I already saw you take care of that one. What’s wrong with his eye?”

  “He’s concussed,” I said.

  “Do you even know what that means?”

  “Yeah.”

  “How can you guys do this? This is like something you don’t do unless you’re like eighteen. Or Mexican. Are either of you illegals?”

  “Come on,” I said.

  She moved closer to me, aggressive. “What did you say?”

  I threw up a placatory hand. “You know . . . just . . . don’t be like that.” I thought about how I was going to defend myself if she called to complain to Billups.

  “Like what? A bitch. You think I’m being a bitch? Just say it. Call it like you see it. Call me a bitch!”