The Dream Virgin

by Don Quine

  When she had time, Nicole would lower the deck, sit out and look at what was going on down below on the campus. There was always a Greenhorn or Associate or someone down below looking up who’d wave.

  It made her feel that caring for and loving Oliver was the most worthwhile thing she could do in life.

  But not now.

  Now Nicole was looking up into Leon’s eyes and knew her true purpose was alive inside her. It was late at night and the wind whistled around the nest when Leon saw Nicole’s eyes start to tear.

  “You, okay?” he said.

  A few minutes before, Nicole had gone to heaven like she always did when Leon made love to her, but now she was nauseous from the tree house swaying and said, “I’m pregnant.”

  As soon as she said it and saw the surprise on Leon’s face, Nicole wanted to shoot herself, and worse, she couldn’t stop the tears.

  Leon wiped her cheeks. Kissed her. Looked into her eyes.

  “Bet you two to one it’s a girl,” he said softly.

  CHAPTER 71

  Reimer wasn’t wearing the headlamp. It got busted when he unloaded the backpack in the cave; plus flashlights were for pussies afraid of the dark. Reimer liked dancing in the dark, felt good to do his double-bladed warrior strut along the fir-lined creek bed under the moon shadows, just in case a shit storm moved in unexpectedly he’d be sharp.

  “Watch out!” Sgt. Slaughter yelled.

  Reimer turned the machetes on the bats and screamed, “You dirty cocksuckers!”

  These bats weren’t in Reimer’s belfry like Loudmouth might say, these were silver-haired bats with foot-wide wingspans and roosts in the trees.

  Reimer slung his machetes like the ninja stars; a favorite Twiztid tune keeping his head company as he turned it up loud and sliced the night.

  Reimer’s side of his mouth moved to the lyrics; maybe Sarge’s, too.

  Reimer had sliced the bat trees by accident doing the warrior dance, but the bats didn’t take that into account, so now he was slicing the bats on purpose. Reimer’s shoulder wound and the slit in his throat that he gave Loudmouth before Sgt. Slaughter showed up, those wounds were festering and the bats smelled the rotten blood and stayed on him a good distance. But he kept moving and slicing and after not too long that was the end of that.

  Couple of cocksuckers got to his neck, but no problem for a warrior.

  Even though the pet fuckers finally coughed it up, there were other factors you had to factor into the plan, like how nighttime was also when the Bigfeet liked to go on the prowl, sneak around and scream at each other if they saw something to snatch like a dressed deer hanging on a tree. Lone camper sleeping nearby maybe.

  If they tried to mess with Seymour’s wheels that Reimer left in the cave with the heavy stuff like the butane stove, then they’d step on shitloads of sharp sticks stuck in the floor of the cave.

  The Bigfeet had big footpads bigger than a bear. They’d scream like they did when Reimer saw his first Bigfoot after Mommy-O had him drop acid for his ninth birthday party to make it a real happy one to help make his candles really glow.

  The Bigfoot that Reimer saw on LSD had a scream that could cause you to freak out if you didn’t know how to keep your shit together. The Abominable Bigfoot that Reimer was watching on the commune’s outdoor movie screen was biting into a man’s skull, then all of the sudden it stared right at Reimer, dropped the skull and jumped out of the screen and started after him. It was pretty damn scary.

  By the time Reimer was twelve, he’s dropped enough acid to know the difference between what’s really real and what’s not. Knew that having good drugs helped you sort it out.

  “I believe we’re not doing half-bad,” said Sarge, as Reimer sat down on the creek bank.

  He undid his backpack, unstrapped the weapons and supplies that used to belong to Seymour, such a bad break, getting his brains blown out.

  Sarge said it was a bummer, but that’s the way things go sometimes. Then he said nice things about the Sig Sauer P226 Extreme that Reimer used on the sawbones and his nurse and the two diesel truck assholes.

  Reimer said, “Yeah, but I like blades more than bullets. More hands on, all the stabbing and slicing you get to do, know what I mean?”

  “You’re extraordinary with a knife, that’s a fact, Reim.”

  No one called Reimer ‘Reim’ except Fred and maybe a few close pals that were dead now, getting personal like that.

  Was Sgt. Slaughter trying to cozy up? For what?

  Reimer popped the last of the Zoloft.

  “Stick to calling me, boss, Sarge. It’ll help you remember who’s in charge.”

  Real quick Sarge said, “You’re the boss, boss.”

  Having no snort was a real bitch. Made Reimer scratch his sores more; the ones on his head by his skull tattoo really itched. His hard scratching made the virgin on the cross bleed.

  Reimer wasn’t feeling horny, which is maybe why he told the Sarge to keep it to himself, but he never much liked fucking bitches.

  “But I’d sure love to fuck a Bigfoot. Dead or alive. Don’t make any difference to me.”

  “Anyone could, you got the balls to do it, boss.”

  “You’re A-fuckin right about that,” and then Reimer tripped and fell on a rock that cut into his knee and made it bleed.

  He touched the red gash with his finger. Tasted it.

  Sarge said, “That’s some strong-looking warrior blood.”

  Even though he was feeling lousy, the Sarge saying that his blood was warrior blood made Reimer feel good, made him feel it was time to confide to the Sarge, to fill him in on Daddy-O’s plan. Reimer told the Sarge that it turned out Perry’s bathroom videos were worth a shitload like he always knew they were. How his Daddy-O being able to press do-or-die buttons got the pet fuckers to agree to the first hundred grand, cash on the barrelhead.

  Except it wasn’t going be left in Scarface due to high-security systems.

  Reimer said to the Sarge, “Fred told them we wanted a safer place on the outskirts of town where people hardly ever went to, but if anyone saw you with an old shoebox they’d think your dead dog or cat was inside, not cold cash. Gonna put it next to a dog statue so can’t miss it if you know where to look.”

  “You talking about them leaving the loot where I think you’re saying?”

  Reimer nodded, “Can you fucking believe it? We pick the pet fucker loot up at the pet cemetery!”

  “That happens when you’re in sync with the operation, boss.”

  “And get this. Daddy-O hired a shooter to look out for us, to hang nearby for backup in case the pet fuckers try to pull a fast one.”

  “Pays to be proactive with perverts,” the Sarge said. He didn’t tell Reimer that he was well aware of what Reimer knew.

  CHAPTER 72

  On Tuesday Jack was back in the swing of things.

  Really didn’t matter if he was at the shop or not, the confectionary oven was baking around the clock and couldn’t keep up with the local orders, let alone tourists.

  Snickerdoodle brownies brought in more than fifty grand in July, by the time Labor Day was over Seamus told Jack they’d tally up a half-million dollar summer. Seamus Flynn was the shop’s baker, a close A.A. bud of Jack’s from their Drunk & Disorderly days, ran the men’s stag in town on Wednesday nights. His cinnamon rolls were to kill for.

  Jack was able to focus on the S2S crazy mix lineup for three nights of Crazy Ideas Bash music and work with Oliver and the Nature Calls band for Sunday night’s closer.

  No matter where a band was coming from, rap or rock, country or pop, they had to come up with an original tune for Labor Day. Take This Job and Shove It wouldn’t qualify. No covers allowed. The nine bands Jack lined up had to write a song honoring the achievements that American workers have made to the prosperity, power and health of
the country.

  If Jack saw Elfri at the Nest working on the Dream Zoo set he’d kid her with, “Bet you didn’t know Oliver was a playboy in his younger years. Where you think he got the smooth moves he uses on you, huh? Watch out for him.”

  Elfri would come right back with, “I know, Jack. No one’s ever turned me on like Oliver. His smooth moves make me want to rape him.”

  When they rehearsed their Labor Day song, You Get What You Pay For, Jack teased Oliver about being a virgin.

  “Heard you been sneaking into EcoErotica, getting the girls to show you a few tricks on how best to bust your cherry? Say it isn’t true.”

  But when Jack ran into Elfri and Oliver together, he wouldn’t tease, he’d wink and encourage, tell them they made a hot couple, should rent a room. Down deep Jack still felt like a third wheel. It was a lonely feeling that made Jack think it was time to stop fucking around and settle down.

  It was at least something to sleep on.

  Will consulted with Ray, Rahim, and George on security issues; took Leon’s horses for rides around the edges of town, sometimes with Chip; oversaw Molly’s expansion of the Cafe to fit in six more booths; and helped Hugh rig the interior of the Dreamland Express with space-savers that expanded work areas for students.

  And when he could fit it in, Will worked on his novel.

  Will decided right after he moved in with Molly that it was time to get Quick Kisses in Kansas down on paper. Molly thought a story about a recent widow who meets a rancher and has a fling with him during a two-week vacation at a Dude Ranch was nothing new, but knew Will would bring his unique cowboy charm to the romantic western cliché.

  Just as long as the widow didn’t dish ice cream in a bowling alley.

  So that’s what Will was doing at the end of the day, writing some dialogue when Molly got back from S2S and said she wanted to brush her teeth and tuck in early. She kissed Will and asked him to poke her if she was snoring when he came to bed. Will said he might just poke her whether she was snoring or not.

  Leon spent the morning dealing with Funsters’ owner and pinball wizard, Skip Rollinsworth, Packy’s nephew on his sister’s side.

  Skip stuttered when he got uptight and was pissed that Jack was parading around the arcade in nothing but his codpiece, handing out EcoErotica cards that were good for a free condom. Jack knowing how Skip felt about the adult store and its perverted owner.

  Leon tried to get Skip to understand Lake Meadows had always been a liberal town that prided itself on its progressive and inclusive attitudes toward diverse sexual persuasions.

  Skip said he could give a good shit about persuasions, he was printing up some cards that he’d be handing out to his customers that said, Catch the Clap at EcoRottica.

  Leon said, “Hold it a sec,” put Skip on hold, got Jack on the phone, tapped Skip back in and explained to Jack he was on with Skip.

  There were some immediate shouts and stutters until Jack agreed not to flaunt his fig leaf in Funsters if Skip would introduce him to his new arcade manager. Skip said good luck with that, seeing that Mandy fancied girls. Jack said girls like Mandy liked a change now and then. Skip said he’s set it up, but wanted two passes to all the S2S Labor Day concerts.

  After smoothing things out with Skip and Jack, Leon had to go up to the north side of town to discuss with the homeowners whether they had the right to Airbnb their places to Bashers for the weekend. The old cabin owners were against it and the new toy homeowners wanted it. Leon got them to settle, with the new buying the old owners breakfast at Molly’s for every day they rented their toy houses out. But the new said the old had to buy them breakfast on the same terms if they decided to Airbnb their cabins.

  The aqueduct took up the rest of the day. It was busted at the entrance to the lake, tree roots cracked through the canal’s concrete shell. It was mucky work and ruined one of Leon’s favorite hula girl shirts, which he should have taken off, but he was too into it.

  Oliver turned his Bash tasks over to Hunter, and had Akizu and Marc take a few hours off from Wonder Way to help him get The Obstickle in shape for the startup investors that helped fund the Promote Philanthropic Projects for Profit foundation.

  He’d been putting his charity partners off too long. Time to tickle them. And Nicole’s idea of selling $1,000 tickets to a special showing of the challenge to the deep pockets attending the festival was a good way to put some extra cash in P.P.P.P.’s pockets.

  Oliver needed to clear his slate and get focused on the Obstickle. By the time they were satisfied with the selection of challenges they’d use to showcase the sports action course, day turned to night and they conked out covered with goop, Oliver on an Obstickle tongue, Marc and Akizu snoring on a big pair of nearby lips.

  Elfri’s Tuesday got swallowed up with Manny’s pulled hamstring; Bob bitched that the glass on the kitchen’s candy cabinets was too reflective; Leah wanting to know if the poor connectivity on her video conferencing screens was temporary; and then Wayne having a performance hassle with one of the mothers of the Mighty Tiny Vits kids.

  Elfri had become the go-to for any hassles that went on between the Nestlings. She didn’t ask to be team captain, but they looked to her, so she handled whatever was needed if and when she could.

  Everyone respected and admired how she could work longer and do more than anyone. How she only needed a few naps and could stay up and work while everyone else was sleeping. But Elfri’s lucidity was not up to snuff; it was hard to ride the REM. A few more naps were long overdue.

  Leon was okay with Chip spending overnights on the campus with Elfri, sleeping inside the Dreamland Express in Will’s bunk.

  Nicole had moved into Leon’s house. It gave her a chance to get comfy in a home that didn’t sway. She and Leon could talk about the future and figure out how to tell Chip he was going to be a big brother.

  CHAPTER 73

  “Sure you know where we’re headed, boss?”

  Reimer stumbled on the rocky mountain slope, mid-afternoon sun in his face.

  “What? I look like some retard?”

  Reimer came on tough, but he didn’t look good and spoke with a gummy slur from the right side of his mouth. Sarge was fine with the left.

  Most often they didn’t even need to open their mouth to talk, to be in sync.

  Reimer wasn’t carrying a backpack, or a cell phone, or a gun like wimps needed; he wasn’t carrying anything except the machetes.

  He lost his Pure Pain dentures during the bat attack. His clothes were torn and his neck, shoulder, and knee wounds oozed. But Reimer was in survival mode and bare essentials were all a warrior needed.

  When they got to the bottom of the slope, Reimer and the Sarge were on a ridge overlooking north Lake Meadows on the east side of town. Reimer sat down on some thistles, pointed with his missing fingered hand.

  “Down over there. The smaller bone yard on the right.”

  Sarge looked down on the two cemeteries, pines surrounding them, and said, “You want to take a break, boss? Or go on down now? Your call.”

  Reimer reached into the side pocket of what was left of his chinos and took out the bottle of Dilaudid. Last of the pills and they were hard to swallow with a crusty throat, but Reimer got them down.

  They weren’t really killing much pain though. Didn’t remove the grimace on his face.

  “If I grab a wink, Sarge, you’ll watch out for the big bad wolf?”

  Sarge laughed out of his side of their mouth.

  “Wolves know better than to wrestle with an enforcer, boss. My bear hug’ll make them howl for a quick ending!”

  There was no need to use his hug seeing how there were no wolves around, not since the cave. Just the Bigfeet and they only worked at night. The boss was just kidding about the big bad wolf. Like he was one of the three little pigs.

  Reimer snuggled himself up in
the thistles and said, “Wake me, in an hour, we’ll go down for the payoff at sunset, steal us a car and head south of the border down Mexico way.”

  The Sarge nodded and Reimer closed his eyes.

  Didn’t see the high-powered binoculars looking down at him.

  The shooter had been camping out above the ridge for three days.

  The contract had a bonus clause, five grand a day, every day past the third. Looked like she wouldn’t be picking up bonus money.

  But twenty-five thousand for three days, all expenses, first-class round-trip from DFW, everyone involved being professional, half up front already in her Isle of Man bank account; the shooter had no complaints.

  She’d be back in Fort Worth in time to supervise the Girls Scouts’ picnic on Labor Day.

  From what it looked like, the target was in bad shape. Contract said he was a homicidal maniac on the run. Armed and extremely dangerous.

  He didn’t seem to be packing heat; nothing but a couple of knives.

  Be so easy to do him now while he was resting.

  Never know what hit him.

  But for whatever reason, the contractor wanted it done in the pet cemetery, so she needed to scoot along and get set up lower down the mountain where she had established herself an excellent view.

  The shooter took a cell phone from the pocket of her hunting jacket.

  The horseback ride always got Elfri thinking about her dad, how happy he’d be knowing she was doing what she dreamed to do. Being with people she cared about and who cared about her.

  Right now watching Chip ride Trigger bareback, how beautiful the two loped along like one as they headed toward the cemeteries. They’d spend ten or fifteen minutes while Chip did a little visiting, be back at Leon’s in time for the outdoor picnic Tallula was fixing for her and the Nestlings so they could deal with any last-minute project issues.

  Time was ticking.

  It was the ants that woke him up, not the Sarge.

  Reimer slapped them off his face, told the Sarge he was pissed off at him, that he’d better get it together if he wanted in on the easy life in Nogales.