Dead As Dutch

by Rich Docherty

The chainsaw seemed almost alive the way Munyon wrestled with it, as if it was a riled croc snapping and thrashing in its captor’s grip. He was its master, commanding this snarling metal beast to do his bidding, its teeth slicing through the fallen tree limbs in a furious feeding frenzy. As he wielded the throbbing instrument, he grunted with a maniacal joy, reveling in the waves of pleasure from the jolts of raw power vibrating through his body.

  Munyon’s French-Canadian ancestors would have approved. They were a line of rugged outdoorsman who had emigrated to the untamed wilds of western Manitoba four generations earlier from their origins in Alsace-Lorraine, fleeing to Canada during the Franco-Prussian War of 1870. But disease—the influenza pandemic of 1918 alone wiped out more than half of his family’s population—along with the high mortality rate for loggers and the harsh conditions took their toll over the ensuing decades, which, along with other ill fortune, decimated the clan, leaving Munyon as its sole survivor. With no offspring from the short-lived marriage (seven months, start to finish, until his repo company dispatcher wife dumped him for a carnie who ran a rigged milk bottle game concession) that brought him to the Catskills, odds were that the lineage would end with his eventual passing.

  Irv and Bryce, of course, had no knowledge of Munyon’s past. At that moment, their eyes were locked on a man who, from all appearances, could well have been a prime candidate for a padded cell, such was the sheer madness of his actions. He had mown through every loose piece of scrap on the ground with a lunatic glee, near ecstasy dripping from the crazed smile pasted across his face. As Irv illuminated Munyon with his flashlight, Bryce jammed the tips of his two middle fingers into his ears in an attempt to muffle the blare of the reverberations that extended well beyond the small clearing they found themselves in. When Munyon shut down the chainsaw, tiny pieces of pulp speckled his overalls as he surveyed his handiwork with the satisfied look his male kin might once have displayed after clearing a forest along the Saskatchewan River.

  “Doggone that gets me horned up!” he exclaimed, mopping the beads of sweat off his forehead with the back of his hand. Munyon extended the chainsaw toward Bryce, dangling it from two fingers like it was twenty-three ounces instead of twenty-three pounds. “You wanna try, whiner?”

  Bryce made no attempt to accept Munyon’s offer and inched away as though he’d just been asked if he’d like to plant a smooch on a snapping turtle. “Sure, maybe when I’m reincarnated as a beaver,” he said, turning away to leave no doubt what his level of interest was in participating in anything resembling manual labor.

  Munyon, however, continued to hold out the chainsaw while he pondered the response, deciding after several seconds that Bryce’s reincarnation as a beaver would not be an event of an imminent nature. He shouldered the chainsaw like it was a Winchester carbine and shook his head as if Bryce just turned down the deal of a lifetime. “Don’t know what you’re missin’.”

  Bryce glanced back at Munyon and dismissed the notion as if the hired help had just requested the assistance of the mansion owner. “I don’t do tools,” he sniffed.

  “That a fact?” Munyon rubbed the nadir regions of his beard as he studied Bryce.

  “And besides,” Bryce continued, “you’re not wearing any goggles. That’s a safety violation, and I could report you to the proper authorities.”

  Munyon gathered up a wad of saliva in his mouth and discharged the stream of expectorate between Bryce’s legs. “Pansies wear goggles,” he declared and sneered at Bryce in the process for good measure. “A few wood chips in your headlights never hurt nobody. Lemme see your paws.”

  “My paws?”

  “Your hands, lemme see ’em,” Munyon ordered.

  “What for?” Bryce clasped his hands together and tucked them against his far hip as if he feared Munyon was about to amputate them.

  Tired of the tomfoolery, Munyon reached across, grabbed on to Bryce’s hands, and, after some weak resistance, flipped them palm-side up. He dug his thumbs into Bryce’s flesh, probing the surface as if it was a loaf of fresh bread dough. “Hmph. Just like I thought.”

  “What?” Bryce asked, concern rippling through his voice, not unlike a patient trying to decipher a doctor’s reaction as he scanned the results of an X-ray exam.

  “Softer than moose booger,” Munyon proclaimed with the certainty of the preeminent scholar in the field.

  Bryce squirmed as he chewed on the comparison to the excretions of a moose’s nasal passages. “So?”

  “So, it appears you ain’t done a stitch of honest work in your lifetime. Here, feel mine,” Munyon requested, as he turned his hands over and thrust them toward Bryce.

  “Why?”

  Munyon poked Bryce in the gut with his fingertips. “Just feel ’em up, whiner!”

  Bryce positioned his hands over Munyon’s, slid them once across and jerked away as if Munyon’s palms were lined with scorching embers.

  “Well?” Munyon bellowed.

  “Well,” Bryce deliberated, as he weighed the various merits of Munyon’s epidermis layer. “Sorry to inform you, but they sort of feel like…scouring pads.”

  “You got that right—pure steel wool!” As if to test their abrasive capabilities, Munyon buffed Bryce’s cheeks with his palms like he was removing rust from the fenders of a ’55 Buick. “Just like a real man’s hands should be.”

  Bryce recoiled and patted down his violated jaw. “You know, you could really use some lotion. I recommend a creamy cocoa butter with oatmeal extracts, which I just so happen to have brought with me.” Bryce dug into his pants pocket and removed a small tube. “Travel size.”

  “Never mind that, got me some of my own right here.” Munyon spat into his hands and rubbed them together as Bryce cringed like he’d just swallowed a dollop of sour milk. “But I’ll take it under advisement, whiner. Now, how ’bout you, Silent Sam,” he said to Irv. “Wanna give it a go?”

  Irv motioned toward the chainsaw. “Your blade’s dull.”

  Munyon raised it to his eyeballs for a closer inspection, much like a jeweler scrutinizing the clarity of a fine diamond. “Yep, so it is. Been meanin’ to get it sharpened up. Maybe I’ll just have to start cuttin’ somethin’ softer, right whiner?”

  “Yeah, maybe you should try marshmallows,” Bryce suggested, his sensibilities still offended by Munyon’s act of self-lubrication.

  “Marshmallows?” The novel proposal caught Munyon off guard. “Is that supposed to be a joke? Ha! You’re a real cut-up, whiner. Get it? CUT-up?”

  Bryce planted a forefinger on his chin and gazed upward, as if Munyon’s question was of such profound complexity, the answer required the intense concentration similar to that of a Mayan high priest contemplating the constellations. “Uh, let me think real hard. Hmm. Oh, wait, yeah, I get it.”

  “I don’t hear no laughin’,” Munyon groused.

  “That’s because I’m cracking up on the inside,” Bryce assured him.

  Munyon jabbed Bryce in the area of his navel with the blade end of the chainsaw. “Guess that’s what you call a belly laugh, eh, whiner?”

  Bryce remained stone-faced as Munyon cackled at his own levity and began to excavate one of his ear canals with his baby finger. Bryce was mesmerized, gripped in a state of utter revulsion by the sight of Munyon corkscrewing his orifice like he was drilling for coal. Instead, the only lump he extracted was a sienna-colored dab of goo, which he appraised and sucked into his mouth like he’d just swirled around the insides of the frosting bowl instead of one of his aural cavities.

  Bryce raised a closed fist to his lips and gagged. “Ew.”

  “Whatsa matter with you?” Munyon inquired, puzzled by Bryce’s reaction, as if consuming one’s ear wax was a part of everyone’s daily hygiene routine.

  “You just…just,” Bryce stuttered.

  “Sure did,” Munyon admitted and licked his finger-tip dry like it was the top of a stick from an ice cream bar. “Mmm, that hit the spot. Mama Nature’s perfect snack. Save the other
ear for later. All right, ’nuf of this funnin’. Gotta put the saw back in the shed. Be right back. Make yourselves useful and gather up this here firewood. Oh, and if you boys have to leak your lizards, now’s the time to whip ’em out.”

  As Munyon trooped off and receded into the darkness, his fading voice could still be heard. “Marshmallows. Ha! ’Magine that,” he chirped, still tickled by the bizarre concept of applying a chainsaw to the spongy treat.

  Once he was certain Munyon was out of range, Bryce scrounged around at his feet, snagged one of the severed branches, and cast it in the direction of Munyon’s departure. “ARGH! Who’s he think he is calling me ‘whiner’? He’s got some nerve!” he fumed.

  “He’s also got a chainsaw,” Irv pointed out, indifferent to Bryce’s histrionics.

  “Well, guess what? I don’t care!” Bryce spouted, eyes ignited.

  “And a shotgun,” Irv added, just in case the reminder of a chainsaw at Munyon’s beck and call wasn’t enough of a deterrent.

  It wasn’t.

  Bryce kicked at some scattered tree clippings. “That’s what I’d like to do to his you-know-what!” He placed his hands around the circumference of his mouth in the shape of a megaphone and yelled. “I. DON’T. CARE. Hear me Paul Bunyan Munyon…Munyon!”

  Irv frowned at Bryce’s antics and motioned up and down with his arms like he was trying to lower the decibel level of his poker buddies so as not to incur the wrath of the upstairs neighbors. “Hey man, you gotta calm down. He’s messing with your head. You can’t let this guy get to you.”

  Bryce strode toward Irv. “Oh, and he hasn’t gotten to you, string bean or Silent Sam or whatever he’s going to call you next?”

  “I don’t really care,” Irv shrugged, about as concerned with Munyon’s nicknames as a duck in a rainstorm.

  “See! Exactly what I’m saying!” Bryce exclaimed, his misinterpretation of the sentiment of Irv’s comment perking him up, as if he just won over an ally to share his abhorrence of Munyon.

  Irv sighed, ready to jump off the merry-go-round and try another ride. “Okay, forget it. You gotta go or not, whiner?”

  Irv broke into a sly grin, but Bryce was still stung by the jest. “Don’t you start with me. And yes, as a matter of fact, I do.” He headed off with a determined gait, but stopped, spun and returned, as if he had forgotten his car keys. After three steps, however, he reversed himself and, after another few steps, paused again and repeated the motion. Back and forth he shuttled, like a sentry on guard duty with a post the length of a doghouse to patrol.

  Bryce’s flustered behavior didn’t escape Irv’s notice. He watched and waited for an explanation but when one wasn’t forthcoming found it necessary to interrupt Bryce’s state of perpetual motion. “What’s up?”

  His head bowed and his stare blank, it wasn’t clear at first if Bryce heard Irv’s question. He continued to tramp another couple of times to and fro over the same route before he ceased and mumbled a low-volume response. “I can’t.”

  Bryce’s made his admission minus any eye contact with Irv. He stood slumped over, his gaze fixed on the ground. Irv hesitated, then lobbed him a question like it was a delicate soufflé. “Shy bladder?

  Bryce stiffened, jarred by Irv’s query. His posture gradually straightened and his head rotated toward Irv like it was on a remote-controlled pedestal. “Yes, Mr. Mensa, I have a shy bladder,” Bryce confirmed, a bitter edge in his voice as he revved up even further. “I need a real bathroom. With a door. I can’t urinate or defecate just any old where!”

  The detailed explanation caused Irv to recoil like he was buffeted by a rogue gust of wind. “Whoa, okay, that’s way more than I need to know, Bryce.”

  Bryce waved Irv off and flopped down atop a rotund log that had somehow managed to be granted a temporary stay of execution from Munyon’s chainsaw. “Aw, you don’t know what it was like.”

  Irv took a seat on a patch of grassy scrub opposite Bryce. “What was like?”

  Bryce exhaled and opened up his flashback spigot. “In school. Having to pee so bad it hurt. Needing to go so bad I could taste it,” he revealed, the searing memory recalled like it was yesterday’s bad dream.

  “So what did you do?”

  “I held it. Waited until I was sure no one was around. Then I’d run into the restroom, making sure it was empty, and then take care of my business real quick. And if I heard someone come in, I’d stop before I even finished.”

  Irv bowed his eyebrows, puffed his cheeks, and blew out a long, steady stream of air, no words necessary, just some moments to digest and process Bryce’s embarrassing secret.

  Bryce rolled on, his story a ball of yarn still unraveling, the initial reluctance and shame now replaced by a more even-keeled disclosure. “Sometimes I’d have, you know, an accident, and the other kids would notice. That didn’t exactly help my popularity.” Bryce made direct eye contact with Irv, hurt and ire etched deep in his gaze. “Do you know what’s it’s like to be made fun of, Irv?”

  Irv hesitated for a moment, then shook his head, the subject matter not one that lent itself to a quip or a witty comeback. Not at that moment. Not when someone was unfurling such a deep wound in front of you. Not when he had no answer for a question that far exceeded anything in his own experience.

  “Well be glad you don’t, because I can tell you that it’s total hell,” Bryce said, with the conviction of someone who had been there and back.

  Irv appeared relieved to hear the sound of approaching footsteps, still distant, but distinct enough to determine the direction. It was a welcome distraction. “Too late now anyway. Guess who is on his way back. Good thing you’ve had practice holding it,” he pointed out as he stood, glad to terminate the awkward conversation.

  Bryce popped up next to him, clamped onto his forearm, and detained him like a jittery snitch might to an undercover cop after spilling the beans. “You’ll keep, you know, what we talked about…confidential, right, Irv?”

  Before Irv could reply, an eruption of savage grunts and piercing wails burst forth in the darkness beyond the range of the flashlight.

  “Oh, crappers, what the heck is that?” Bryce murmured.

  What Bryce and Irv couldn’t see they could hear, and it conjured up goose bump-inducing images in their minds of an apparent fierce battle of barbarous combat and brutal mayhem that was drawing near.

  Within seconds, Munyon bolted out of the shadows, an ax in his hands, terror plastered across his face. “Run you mongrels, run!” Munyon shouted.

  No further inducement necessary, Bryce and Irv turned tail and tore off with Munyon right behind, nipping at their heels.

  “Move it, maggots! Faster!” Munyon screamed.

  As they stumbled along an underused trail choked with brush and low-hanging branches that grabbed and snapped at them, Bryce began to decelerate and moments later ground to a complete halt as he cried out in agony and collapsed. “YEEEEOOOOW!”

  “Get your fanny up, whiner!” Munyon urged him.

  “Can’t you see I’m cramping!” Bryce shot back, as if he had the MRI results to prove it.

  Munyon wasted no time lifting him aloft by the seat of his pants with the ease of a claw crane inside an arcade game snatching up a cheap toy. “Well you’ll be dyin’ if you don’t haul your sorry ass outta here!” he barked.

  “Excuse me. I can’t walk!” Bryce protested, squirming and clutching at the underside of his upper leg.

  Munyon pointed at Irv. “String bean, get over here and help out. Whiner, you just hold on and shuddup!”

  Bryce hooked his arms over Irv and Munyon’s shoulders, and they hauled him off. He hopped on one foot the remaining hundred yards before wilting on the porch of the shack like a stick of butter on the Fourth of July. As Irv and Munyon followed to his rear, Bryce crawled through the doorway past his startled colleagues as the door slammed shut with a resounding thud.

  Chapter 14