Dick by Law

by Robert T. Jeschonek

  The choking man was stripped down to his white boxer shorts and bathed in sweat. He nodded as best he could with Mobai's paws wrapped around his throat.

  "Are you sorry for what you did?" said Mobai. "Do you promise not to do it ever again?"

  The choking man managed another nod. "I promise!" His voice was a strained, barely audible squeak.

  "Sparing your life would be so easy." Mobai leaned down and kissed the man's sweat-soaked forehead. "But I'm such a dick." As soon as he said it, Mobai aimed a wicked grin across the garage at Simon and Horne.

  Just then, Poppa Free ambled in the door from outside. "Emperor! We gotta get rollin'!"

  Mobai sighed. He licked his lips and locked eyes with the choking man. "Make me a premise, traitor boy. When you see the Devil, tell him Mobai says he's a fuckin' pussy."

  Laughing, Mobai suddenly tightened his grip, crushing the man's windpipe. The man's final breath gurgled out of his throat, and Mobai drank it in like a rose's perfume.

  Then, he tossed the man aside like a used towel and pointed a thick finger at Simon. "You next."

  Simon shrank back against the wall, shivering with fear. Horne, on the other hand, gave no reaction. He just sat there beside Simon, sweating in the midday heat in the cinder-block building, head tipped back against the oil-stained wall. He was starting to smell bad in his black track suit with the words "TOP DICK" in big white letters on the chest.

  Mobai grinned and blew a kiss in their direction. "Thanks to you, I'll seize new titles! Killing you will make me World's Biggest Dick and Lord Dick with cherries on top!"

  "Is that all you want?" said Horne. "Then consider it done. Now let's skip the killing part."

  "But that's the lovingest part." Mobai kicked the dead body in the grease and dust on the floor. "A meeting of soul mates. Next best thing to a wedding."

  "You need me alive," said Horne. "I'm the only one who can give you the ultimate title. No one else can crown you Biggest Dick of All Time and Space."

  "I'm making a mental note," said Mobai. "'Force Horne Shaw to crown me Biggest Dick of All Time and Space before I fucking kill his life.'"

  Horne rolled his eyes and shook his head. "Fuck." He said it softly, with a sigh.

  "Goodbye, precious childrens!" Mobai laughed as he stomped out of the garage. "Daddy loves you to death!"

  With that, Simon and Horne were left alone in the garage.

  "Oh my God," said Simon. "We're dead."

  Horne snorted. "Thanks a lot, by the way."

  Simon frowned. "It's not my fault."

  "Then it must've been some other fuckhead who sabotaged my dick race," said Horne. "I must've been chasing someone else when these freaks abducted me."

  "Who came up with the Dicklympics in the first place?" said Simon. "Who came up with the whole 'World's Biggest Dick' idea?"

  "And who had me legally declared a dick?" Horne's face turned ruddier than ever as he flushed with rage. "That's the smartass whose fucking fault this all is! None of this would've happened without his bullshit!"

  "Typical dick," said Simon. "Always blaming your fuckups on somebody else!"

  "You wish you were a dick like me." With that, Horne pulled his legs in, braced his feet on the floor, and pushed himself up, using the wall for leverage. "You wish you had some fuckin' balls!"

  "What now?" Simon said it sarcastically. "Are you going to kick box the armed gunmen?"

  "Hide your eyes, pussy," said Horne. "This could get ugly."

  Just then, one of Poppa Free's soldiers, a black man with a short afro haircut, walked back in from outside. He was laughing over his shoulder at something someone had said.

  Before the soldier could register that Horne was no longer slumped against the wall, Horne was barreling across the garage toward him.

  Horne charged the soldier like a bull, head down, back arched. He plowed a beefy shoulder smack into the soldier's solar plexus, smashing him up against a tool rack on the wall. When the soldier hit, dozens of wrenches flew off their hooks and crashed straight down on his head.

  Horne danced away from the first soldier and spun to face another who'd bolted through the door. The second soldier swung up his rifle, taking aim...and Horne kicked it right out of the man's hands, sending it flying.

  With a guttural cry of rage, Horne lashed out with a kick to the second soldier's groin. As the soldier howled in pain, Horne followed up with a head-butt to his throat, which shut him up fast. Swinging around, Horne drove a shoulder hard into the soldier's chest, then cried out again as he swung the other shoulder around and pushed him over with it.

  Just like that, the guards were sprawled on the floor, out cold.

  Simon was stunned. He looked from one soldier to the other, then gaped at Horne. Had he really just done all that with both hands tied behind his back?

  Horne stomped over from the far side of the garage, leaned down, and roared like a bear in Simon's face. "How do you like me now, pussy?"

  Simon turned his head to escape Horne's bad breath. It smelled like rotten meat.

  "Boo yeah!" Horne stood straight, looked around for a moment, then headed for a nearby work bench. "Now that's what a dick can do! That's fuckin' dick power!"

  Simon watched as Horne grabbed a rusty box cutter from the work bench. Horne held it behind his back, struggling to aim the blade at the ropes around his wrists...and failing.

  Horne kept trying, again and again, but he couldn't angle the blade and cut the ropes. The more he tried, the more jerky his movements became.

  Finally, Simon spoke up. "You can reach mine." Bracing his back against the wall, he pushed himself to his feet. "Cut mine first, and I'll cut yours."

  "Yeah, right," said Horne. "I'll cut yours, and you'll make a run for it."

  "I promise I won't." Simon turned his back on Horne and held up his bound wrists. "I swear to God. We're in this together."

  After a moment, Simon heard Horne's footsteps approaching. "I wish I had a video camera right now." Horne bumped up against Simon so they were standing back to back and started cutting the ropes around Simon's wrists. "You begging me to rescue you! That's ratings gold."

  "Just hurry," said Simon. "We have to get out of here before the guards wake up."

  "Unless they don't wake up," said Horne. "That would sure make our lives easier."

  "Or it might get us in bigger trouble." Simon could feel the ropes starting to pull apart. "Who knows who these guys are?"

  "You think we could get in bigger trouble?" Horne laughed. "I'll take my chances improving the odds!"

  "We don't have time for that." The ropes gave way, and Simon shook them off. Turning, he took the box cutter and worked on the ropes around Horne's wrists as promised. "General Mobai and Poppa Free could be back at any moment."

  Just then, they both turned at the sound of a car pulling up outside. Simon stopped cutting, ran to the garage door, and looked out the window at eye level.

  It was the same white van that had brought them there. Poppa Free was at the wheel, and Mobai was beside him.

  "It's them!" Simon pointed across the garage at a back door that was coated in grime and oil. "That way! Let's go!"

  Scowling, Horne clenched his teeth and bore down on the ropes, wrenching at the weakened fibers. With a straining groan and a burst of strength, he tore apart his bonds and cast them to the floor.

  Then, he followed Simon out the back door into the deepening twilight.

  *****

  Chapter 38

  Horseshoe Bay, Bermuda

  Simon and Horne were not in the best neighborhood. That much was obvious as they ran full-tilt through the alleys and back streets near the garage.

  Dark-skinned people in shabby clothing milled on curbs and stoops, watching with interest as Simon and Horne ran past. Children played among litter and debris, carrying things that were on fire. Dogs barked all around, and sullen, mangy cats staggered from shadow to shadow. The houses, so well-tended elsewhere on the island, were run-do
wn, rife with peeling paint and crumbled masonry and overgrown weeds and graffiti. The smells of highly-spiced food being cooked intermingled with the sweet stench of rotting garbage and the occasional stink of raw feces.

  If there could possibly be a part of Bermuda where an uprising might germinate, this was it.

  Eager to reach safer ground, Simon darted around corners, heading for the sound of traffic. With Horne at his heels, he finally emerged along a busy road, facing a stream of headlights flowing past in both directions.

  Without waiting to discuss it, Simon spotted a break in traffic and dashed across the road. As he plunged into the brush and trees on the other side, he heard Horne crashing along behind him.

  But he heard no trace of the sounds he dreaded most: the screeching tires of Poppa Free's van, the shouts of General Mobai, the gunshots of Poppa's soldiers. For the moment, at least, Simon and Horne's pursuers had not found them.

  And the odds of not being found were improving, it seemed. Simon and Horne had gone from being dangerously exposed in a bad neighborhood to being hidden among trees in a stretch of roadside woods. The sun was going down, and that would help hide them, too.

  They charged through the forest in the deepening dusk, zigzagging downhill between trees and bushes and rocks. Simon ran blindly, with no idea where he was, trying only to put as much space as he could between him and Mobai.

  When he'd gone further, though, he heard the pounding surf up ahead, and he knew he was approaching the ocean. He felt a little better knowing that much; in theory, he could follow the shoreline all the way back to the Royal Hotel in Hamilton.

  Simon ran a little further, closing in on the surf, and then he needed to stop. He doubled over with his hands on his knees, heaving for breath, wiped out after running full-tilt for so long.

  Horne stopped beside him and leaned against a tree. He didn't seem to be anywhere near as winded as Simon. "We are so fucked." Horne's voice was a low, defeated growl.

  "We got...this far...didn't we?" said Simon.

  "Those fuckers know this island inside out," said Horne. "They'll find us, all right. And then Mobai'll do to us what he did to that other poor son of a bitch."

  "You want...to go back...and turn yourself in? Be my guest," said Simon. "But count me out."

  Horne hawked and spat on the ground. "I've never seen somebody killed in cold blood like that. I've never been that close to a murder."

  Just then, Simon thought he heard something. He listened carefully and looked around for any trace of Poppa Free's crew. "We'd better get going. They'll find us if we stay in one place for too long."

  "They'll find us no matter what we do," said Horne. "It's a small fuckin' island."

  Simon turned toward the sound of the surf. "There are plenty of resorts along the beach. We'll get help at one of them."

  "From the cops?" Horne snorted. "What do you want to bet they're already looking for us? Poppa Free probably already tipped them off that we're the ones who killed that guy back in the garage, not Mobai."

  "Shit." Simon hadn't thought of that. "Anybody ever tell you you're a real downer?"

  "Then why are you so fucking obsessed with me?" The harsh, sarcastic tone was back in full bloom in Horne's voice.

  "I'm looking for help anyway." Simon started walking toward the beach. "Why don't you do what you always do and ride my coattails?"

  "You know what I hope?" said Horne. "I hope they kill me last so I can hear you crying like a pussy when Mobai guts you."

  Simon didn't answer. He set out at a fast walking pace, then kicked it up to a jog, aiming for the shore.

  Horne stayed behind at first but eventually followed. He caught up just as Simon broke through the treeline at the top of the moonlit beach.

  "Which way?" said Horne.

  Simon looked left, then right. He saw no signs of life or danger in either direction, just a ribbon of pink sand curling along the shore. "Split up. I go one way, you go the other. One of us is bound to escape."

  "I can't believe I'm saying this." Horne rubbed his pharaoh beard with his thumb. "I think we should stay together."

  "You think we'll have a better chance of getting away if we work together? Like back at the garage, when we helped each other get untied?"

  "Fuck no." Horne laughed and started slogging through the sand. "But I'll be damned if I'm going to let you get back ahead of me and be the first to cash in on this little escapade!"

  Simon sighed and followed him.

  *****

  Chapter 39

  130 Million Years Ago

  China

  Grip scurried through the forest at dawn, racing along the trail of scent. It was thickening, so he knew he was getting closer. Any minute now, he would find the next killer dinosaur.

  He couldn't wait. The blood of the first two he'd killed was still fresh on his lips. He had a terrible hunger for more of the same, for more revenge against the ones who'd slaughtered his mate and pups.

  Four of the killers were still alive and on the move. He'd tracked them from the place where he'd killed the first two, but they'd split up; forced to choose which of the four to follow, he'd picked the one who'd made him the angriest, the one who smelled most like his dead family.

  The one he saw when he pushed through a patch of ferns into a sun-dappled clearing.

  Grip froze at the clearing's edge, his red-tipped ears springing to full attention. The dinosaur, a copper-colored female, seemed oblivious to his presence.

  As Grip watched, the killer loped across the clearing to a gurgling brook. She bobbed her head down, raising her tail, and lapped at the shimmering water with her fat, purple tongue.

  Recognizing a perfect opportunity, Grip tensed and crouched, folding his ears back against the brown-and-white fur on his neck. His heart hammered, shooting blazing hot adrenaline through his body.

  The dinosaur was perfectly positioned for an attack--head dipped down to Grip's level, back turned, neck exposed. She was close enough that he might be able to reach her before she could run or retaliate.

  But he had to act immediately. She could finish drinking and sprint away at any moment.

  Grip knew he couldn't pass up this chance. He took a cautious step forward, then another. The dinosaur didn't react to his movement.

  Grip crouched, preparing to attack. The hair on his back stood on end. His tail lowered. His upper lip drew back in a silent snarl.

  And then he charged.

  Eyes fixed on the dinosaur, Grip hurtled full-tilt across the misty clearing. His prey stayed put, still lapping at the water, still perfectly positioned for his attack.

  Grip could practically taste the dinosaur's blood as he raced toward it. He saw the artery throb under her coppery hide, awaiting his teeth.

  Then, suddenly, the dinosaur whipped her head around. She opened her jaws in his path, ready to snap him up and gulp him down.

  Even as Grip scrambled to avoid that gaping maw, he realized he couldn't get away in time. He was too close and moving too fast to dodge those slime-covered fangs.

  It was the death he'd been ready for since the start of his quest for revenge. He'd ignored the omens and warnings--corpses along the way, darkness blotting out the sun in the middle of the day, the dying dog-thing telling him to "run away"--and now death was about to devour him.

  He only wished he'd gotten to the other killers before the end.

  Eyes wild, feet scuffling, Grip skidded forward in the dirt. The mighty jaws loomed over him, about to clamp down.

  And then they didn't.

  Suddenly, something struck Grip from behind, and he went flying. Yelping, he spun through the air and bounced off a tree, ending up on his back in the brook.

  Grip thrashed in the water in a flurry of panic, kicking and twisting until he managed to flop over on his belly. He sprang to his feet and shook himself furiously, spraying water from his fur in all directions.

  Finally, he stopped and looked around. It was only then that he understo
od what had happened.

  The copper-skinned female stood along the brook, glaring at him. Her eyes glittered like crystals, and streams of saliva dribbled from her lips.

  A short distance away stood another dinosaur of the same breed, a male. He was bigger than she was, and his hide was gray with red splotches.

  Like the female, he stank of Grip's dead family. He was one of the killers.

  Grip stared, shivering. Somehow, when he'd found the lone female, he'd missed the second killer's scent. Maybe he'd been too focused on killing the female and had blocked out everything else.

  Or maybe, the dinosaurs had trapped him. He knew they were smart enough to do it. Maybe the female had been the bait, and the male had stayed downwind until the right moment.

  Not that it mattered how it had happened. Grip's only concern now was escape. Facing the two killers without the element of surprise, he knew there was no way he could beat them. His only chance was to turn tail and run, then stalk them later when he could catch them off-guard.

  The two dinosaurs stepped forward, lashing their foreclaws threateningly. Grip crept back across the brook, never taking his eyes off them. Preparing.

  Then, he flipped around, turning his back on them, ready to run for his life.

  And he froze before taking a step.

  He found himself staring at a pair of hind legs. The hind legs of a dinosaur.

  A third dinosaur of the same breed as the other two.

  Grip sniffed the newcomer's scent as he looked up at the full height of his body. He couldn't mistake the traces of his mate and pups.

  The third dinosaur was another of the killers, another who'd managed to mask his presence from Grip until now.