markwildyr.com,
Post #88
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| Courtesy of PexSnap.com |
Okay, it’s
John Shandell’s turn. Except Diego has such little respect for the man he calls
him Pipsqueak. How will Diego handle this one?
Enjoy
*****
HEADHUNTER
PIPSQUEAK
On
Thursday, Diego went to buy some condoms. And there, smaller than life behind
the counter at the East Central Drug Store, was John Shandell, the guy he
called Pipsqueak—the first name on Diego’s list. He smothered a smile at the
look of consternation on the dainty features.
“Hi,”
he put a friendly tone in his voice even as a worm of disgust crawled around in
his belly. “It’s John, isn’t it? I didn’t know you worked here.”
“Yeah,
five years now.”
“That
was a hell of a night a few weeks ago wasn’t it? Hope I didn’t make an ass of
myself passing out like I did. Don’t do it very often. Funny thing, I didn’t
think I was drinking that much.”
Pipsqueak’s
countenance cleared a bit. “I got kind of smashed, myself. No harm done.”
“I’ve
been on the straight and narrow since then. How about you?”
“Yeah,
a man can’t handle a drunk like that more’n once every few months.”
Diego
wondered if Pipsqueak included himself in the “man” category. The guy looked
like a pallid, aging kid who’d skipped his youth. Repressing a shiver of
revulsion, he asked for a three-pack of Trojans. The thin kind. How was he
going to snare this one? Despite a Napoleonic bluster, the John Shandells of
the world walked around in fear of their fellow creatures because of what they
themselves were capable of doing. On the other hand, Pipsqueak was desperately
anxious to be considered a man. Probably thought women lusted after him and had
naughty dreams about him. Still, the guy wasn’t about to walk up to an empty
motel room like Stocky.
As he
paid for the condoms, Diego struck a thoughtful pose. “I don’t know many people
in this town,” he said slowly. “I wonder if you’d be interested in…. Naw,
that’s okay.”
The
diminutive man took the bait. “What? Go ahead. What is it, man?”
“Well,
my sister and a friend are up for a visit from South America. They’re not too
sophisticated, you know…coming out of the jungle and all. I thought I’d try to
get Dorena, that’s her friend, a date. Don’t suppose you’d be available
tomorrow night, would you? I know it’s a lot to ask. I’d get Chuck to give me a
hand, but he’s busy.”
This
guy painted his thoughts right on his face for the world to see. Instantly,
Pipsqueak went cautious. “Uh, what does she look like? I mean, uh…I don’t know
much about people from down there.”
Inspired,
Diego pulled a photo from his wallet. A group of Huatani kids sat on a log
staring into the camera for one of the missionaries. He handed it over and pointed
to one of the girls. “That’s Dorena, a couple of years ago,” he lied.
“Jeez!”
Pipsqueak exhaled. “She’s a beauty. Does…does she speak English?”
“Yeah,
most of the kids from my village do.” Diego fought to keep spite out of his
voice. “The missionaries and medical people were too lazy to learn our
language, so we had to learn theirs.”
“Sure.
Where we gonna take them?”
“Thought
we’d take them out to dinner, and then you and Dorena can go do whatever you
want. My sister wants to see an American movie.”
Pipsqueak
was almost salivating. “I can take her off on my own? Yeah, sure. I got nothing
better to do Friday. Where do I meet you?”
“I’ll
pick you up. They’re staying at a motel out on Pan American. Not enough room at
my place. We’ll go together, have dinner, and then I’ll bring you two back to
pick up your car. Okay?”
It was
not only okay, it was music to Pipsqueak’s tiny ears. As they made final
arrangements to meet his non-existent sister and her phantom girlfriend, Diego
wondered if the jerk could keep his hands off himself tonight in anticipation
of screwing the brains out of an uncivilized savage tomorrow? Naw, he’d save
what little jism he had for the main event.
At the
appointed hour on Friday, Headhunter went by the drug store and found Pipsqueak
anxiously pacing the sidewalk. He swung west and picked up I-25 North while his
companion peppered him with questions. As they passed motel after motel on the
adjoining Pan American frontage road, John’s chatter died away.
“Where
in the hell are they staying?” he finally demanded as they left civilization
behind. “On the Indian reservation?”
“In
South America, actually,” Headhunter said as he sped up the Interstate. “You
didn’t really believe me, did you?”
The
small man bristled. “Why the hell would I come with you otherwise?”
“To
pay me back,” Diego said quietly.
“Wh… what?”
Headhunter caught the look of alarm out of the corner of his eye.
“You apparently
favor oral sex. At least you did when I lay helpless on the bed. Now it’s my
turn.”
“I
don’t know what you’re talking about. Turn this car around and take me back
right this minute.”
“Somehow
I think this’ll be a little harder for you than it was for me.”
“You’re
crazy, man!” John yelled. Abruptly, he dropped the phony disclaimers. “You…you’re
not supposed to remember any of that. You can’t remember it! They
promised.”
“Did
you get the drug for them, Pipsqueak?” Headhunter asked. “I figure working in a
drug store, you’re the supplier. You know all about things like that, don’t
you? How much to give. How much I’ll remember. Am I right?”
The
little man almost broke his neck casting around for help as they sped by Sandia
Pueblo. “Where…where are you taking me?”
“We’re
going up in the mountains where we’ll have some privacy. And then you’re going to
make me believe you’re enjoying what you’re going to do for me. Do you
understand?”
“Man,”
John wheedled, “You’re wrong. I’m not queer.”
“Neither
am I, but you took away my strength and did what you wanted to me. And now it’s
my turn.”
“It
wasn’t me!” Pipsqueak yelped. “It was Ritchie’s idea. And…and it wasn’t like it
was the first time. Ritchie said you guys had no morals. Said he’d read where
you did it to one another all the time, didn’t matter what sex it was. Said you
serviced the missionaries.”
“And
you believed him? Of course, you did. Your leader said it, so it had to be
true. Besides, you wanted to believe it because you wanted me.”
“Yes, I
believed him,” the little man pled. “He knows more about things like that than
I do. He reads all the time. Why would he lie?”
“To
get you to do what he wanted. To get his sick thrill from dominating three
grown men and a helpless, drugged victim.”
“I’m
sorry, man,” John turned in the seat, his face twisted in torment. “Really, I
am. I’ll never do anything like that again. Please, man. Don’t make me do
this.”
Headhunter
noted the tacit acquiescence, although he doubted Pipsqueak realized he had
already capitulated. “Actions have consequences, you little shit. The only
question is how bad is it going to be?”
“What
do you mean?”
“Where
I come from, what you did would earn you a slow, painful death. Or worse. A
non-death.”
“Wh…what’s
that? Some kind of freaking zombie?”
“That’s
exactly what I mean. Either I’d have your head hanging in my hut or you’d be
wandering helplessly in the jungle praying to die. You’d have no human contact
because everyone who saw you would run away in terror. Think of living day
after day with no contact, not capable of thinking. Wrong word! That’s not
living. That’s existing... endlessly.”
“You’re
bluffing. You don’t know how to do that. Anyway, there’s no such thing as
zombies.”
“Believe
what you want, Pipsqueak. But it’s really a very simple thing. Doesn’t take any
Caribbean voodoo mumbo-jumbo. That’s for the tourists. It just takes enough of
the right drug. Not too little and not too much. But the right dosage is kinda
hard to judge. You know, weight, body mass…that kind of thing. The witches kill
more victims than they enslave. But either way is okay by me. Both meet my
standards of justice.”
“That’s
just…a bunch of hokum.” Pipsqueak’s voice held a note of desperation.
“You
think so? Then tell me something. How do I know Chuck was first and you were
next? You claim there’s no way I could remember. Well, I do remember. My
grandmother’s a witchdoctor, Pipsqueak. And I used everything she ever taught
me to overcome your drug. I saw you perform your perversions on me. And
you’re all going to pay. One way or the other, you’re gonna pay.”
Resistance,
denial, disbelief all crumbled abruptly. “Please, man. I’m sorry. Please don’t
do this!” Pipsqueak actually bawled.
“And
if you get the bright idea of going to the police afterward, I’ll probably go
to prison if you all stick together and lie. But I promise you one thing. When
I get out, I’ll devote the rest of my life to finding you. And when I do,
you’ll never be the same again. That’s a promise. No, that’s a vow.”
An
hour later, Headhunter let the palsied little man off at his car behind the
pharmacy. “One final thing. You’re not going to warn the others. If you do I’ll
know… and you’ll pay.”
“I-I
won’t. I promise. Uh, Diego, if you want, we can….”
Diego
smirked. “Never again, you miserable bastard.”
He went home, showered thoroughly, and
nursed a sore penis the remainder of the night.
*****
So far,
so good. But you know me well enough to know I can’t let well enough alone.
What will happen with the final two on his list? See you next week.
Amazon permits you to read a short passage of my novels, Cut Hand and Johnny Two-Guns. I also believe the STARbooks-published River Otter, Echoes of the Flute, and Medicine Hair are still up. I sure would
like to get the final book in the Cut Hand Series, Wastelakapi… Beloved, published, but it’ll take some help from
readers to get Dreamspinner interested.
My contact
information is provided below in case anyone wants to drop me a line:
Website and blog: markwildyr.com
Email: markwildyr@aol.com
Facebook: www.facebook.com/mark.wildyr
Twitter: @markwildyr
The
following are buy links for CUT HAND:
And now my mantra: Keep
on reading. Keep on writing. You have something to say, so say it!
Until next time.
Mark
New posts at 6:00 a.m. on each Thursday for
the life of this serial; thereafter, the first and third Thursdays of the month.
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