Bullet Through Your Face (improved format) (13 page)

“Until the morrow, then! And for now—sleep. For to sleep is perchance–to dream.”
“Uh
. . .
huh,” Rudy said.
When he went back up, this time, he locked the trap-door.

Digging graves was hard work, harder than one might expect. Yet
dig Rudy did, maniacally in his boxer shorts. He dug deep. Inserting
Mona’s internal organs back into her opened abdominal vault proved
a trying task too, but at least it was unique . . .

And later, in the little moonlit backyard, with the crickets trilling
and the grass cool under his bare feet, with the scent of the bay in the
air, Rudy buried the fickle bitch.

But one more task remained. Gormok said he was cursed to commit
murder on any day that he performed a salt-divination.
That’s a big
problem
, Rudy realized. He couldn’t very well have Gormok cutting
folks up and eating their livers every time he gave Rudy the read on
the next fight or ballgame, now could he?

So . . .
He crept quietly back down into the basement.
Gormok slept on, murmuring sweet Babylonian nothings .
Here goes,
Rudy thought—
—and raised the fire ax.
“Sleep no more!” Gormok quoted Bill Shakespeare as the great blade cut down. “MacRudy doth
murder
sleep!”
Blood flew like spaghetti sauce. Things thunked to the floor.
But there was no other way!
Hell, I’m doing him a favor
, Rudy felt convinced as he chopped and chopped.
And chopped some more. Once he’d succeeded in severing
Gormok’s limbs, he tied off each stump with twine.
What a day
, he thought when he was done.

Beth, shrieking, pummeled up the basement stairs the next afternoon.
“
What did you do!”
“Hey, didn’t I say I’d take care of everything?”
“Rudy! You turned him into a . . . a
torso!
”
“Yeah, well, he can’t hurt anybody now, can he?” Rudy rationalized. “And he doesn’t even care, as long as we keep him happy.”
Beth’s face crimped. “What do you mean?”
Rudy thought it best to change the topic. “Look!” he celebrated
and waved a sheaf of $100 bills. “Our man came through again.
Pimlico, baby! Afternoon Tea by a nose in the first! The odds were 32-to-one! Can you believe it?”
Beth, quite reasonably, went nuts. “Rudy! You bet
again?
He’s a murderer, for God’s sake! We can’t keep a murderer in our basement!
Much less a murderer who’s a
torso!
”
“Sure we can.” Rudy placed the stack of bills in her hands.
Beth went lax, astonished. “This looks like about ten-thou—”
“
Eleven
thousand clams,” Rudy corrected. “And I already paid
off Vito The Eye. We’re rolling from here, babe.”
Beth’s eyes stayed fixed on the money.
“But, uh, you see,” Rudy commenced with the bad news. His
throat turned dry. “There’s a catch. Remember when I told you, ‘as long as we keep him happy’?”
“Yeah?” Beth replied.

That morning, Rudy had shown the head atop Gormok’s delimbed body the racing journal as he held the fuming ashtray under
the alomancer’s nose.

“Afternoon Tea, dear Rudy,” informed the happy head. “In the
first tourney.”
Rudy didn’t argue, in spite of the odds. But since last night, a
question had itched at him like stitches healing.
“Hey, Gor? Yesterday you said something like you had to
commit a murder any day you do the salt thing.”
“Upon any such day I perform a holy alomance, yes,” Gormok
affirmed. “Nergal, the abyssal prince, has cursed me as such.”
“What happens if you, uh, don’t commit a murder?”
“Then the gift of prophesy is lost to me. Forever.”
Balls
! Rudy thought.
Shit! Fuck! Piss!
“Unless,” Gormok’s head leaned up and added, “I am, as a
substitute, properly relieved of the groin wheneverest such needs of
passion call.”
Rudy’s gaze thinned. “You mean . . .”

“No!” Beth wailed upon the revelation. “No no no!”
“Honey, come on,” Rudy urged. “It’s the only
way.
If you don’t,
he can’t pick the winners anymore.”
“Rudy, read my lips!
I’m not going to have sex with a torso!”
Ho boy
, Rudy thought.
Women.
You ask them to do a little
something and they get all bent out of shape.
Time to lay on the
heavy bullshit
, he decided. “It’s for our future, sweetheart. It’s for our
children.
”
Evidently,
children
was the magic word. Beth pouted a moment more. She looked at him, pink-faced.
“Our
. . .
children,” she whispered. “I- I . . .”
Rudy hugged her, stroked her hair. “It’s the only way, honey. I wouldn’t ask you to do it, but
it’s the only way
. Don’t we want our children to have the very best?”
“Our children,” she dizzily repeated. “I guess, I guess you’re right.”
Then she turned for the basement steps, began to descend.

Little trooper was right—and then some. Rudy, being an investigative
kind of guy, felt it only fitting and proper to make an observation
or two, so he sneaked down a few minutes behind her and peeked
through the slight gap in the door . . .

Good God!
he thought.
Most would deem this a reasonable thing to think when
witnessing one’s fiancé engaged in the physical act of love with a
living torso. Beth wasted no time in the deletion of her garments, and,
despite a rather disconsolate look on her face—just as reasonable—
she commenced to her task with something that could only be
described as a formidable resolve. She squatted over Gormok, who
lay unsurprisingly motionless atop his blanket. This afforded Rudy
a front-on view, and though Beth’s discomfiture was plain, she soon
began to ease into the brass tacks, so to speak, of the project.
In the dim basement light, her face flushed, and her small, pretty
breasts began to sway. Meanwhile, her companion gibbered sweet
Babylonian gibberish in response to her attentions.
How does she
do it?
Rudy wondered. This was, after all, a torso. Moreover, he
wondered next:
What is she thinking about
?
Now
there
was a question! What would any woman think about
while slamming glands with a dismembered salt-diviner? Perhaps it
was brute rationalization, but Rudy came up with the only answer his
psyche would allow.
She’s thinking about me—
Of course. Who else could she be thinking about? Certainly
not Gormok. In moments, Rudy became aware of a considerable
hardness loitering at his groin.
My girlfriend’s humping a torso
and I’m getting a woody.
And as he watched further, the image
transposed.