Grundish & Askew (7 page)

“Yeah, that’s the guy. I know him from the big house. He was what we called a gunner. You know what that is?”

“Naw. I don’t know that prison slang, man.”

“A gunner
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...well...he’s a guy who stands in his cell playing with himself. He waits for people to walk by, mostly looking for women guards. But, it don’t really matter who it is. Other inmates, guards, whoever. And when somebody walks by, he really start to jack it.”

“That’s a gunner?” Askew laughs, and a chunk of fried something-or-other falls from his mouth.

“That’s a gunner,” says Grundish. “And, then there’s the snipers. They run up and try to shoot a load of spunk right on you. And that’s really more what that fella down in Lot 49 was. I think his name in the joint was Bumpy D or something creepy like that.”

“Damn, Dude. Did he ever shoot off a round at you?”

“Naah. No fucking way. I would’a split his wig. I’d still kind of like to, anyway. But I’m gonna do something a little different instead.”

Grundish takes the half-full can of beer that Askew set on the floor and chugs it to chase the rest of his pre-migraine floaters away. He picks up the daypack and pulls out three large packages of semi-frozen hotdogs that he pilfered during his last burglary. In a plastic grocery bag, Grundish loads up the hotdogs and several more cans of beer. “I’m going for a bike ride around the park. You might want to step out and watch some of this.”

Turleen sits cross-legged and her joints don’t hurt. Between her fingers dangles an extra-long cancer stick capped with a burning ember.
Oh, good
! she thinks to herself,
I know it’s a dream, but this is the only time I’m able to smoke
. She raises the cigarette to her face and notices that the hand is not wrinkled. The fingers are not bent into arthritic hag-claws. Instead of the liver spots she is used to, there are pinpoint freckles. She places the filter to her moist lips and pulls a deep drag from the smoke, inhaling it into both of her lungs. As she blows it out she doesn’t cough. She smiles, and the back of her neck and her forearms tingle.
Damn, I love these dreams
, she thinks to herself. Turleen leans back and rests her back against the park bench. The sunlight warms her face. A cool breeze blows streamers of bluish vapors from the fireball of her cigarette. She closes her eyes and pulls another hit from the smoke – holding it long in her lungs, enjoying the nicotine rush.

“Hello,” says the deep, warm voice that stirs Turleen from her tobacco bliss. “I’ve been waiting for you.”

At Turleen’s feet sit two dogs. One is a floppy basset hound with a wise face. The other looks familiar to Turleen, but she is unable to place it. She ponders the beast, searches her memory for evidence of the handsome animal regally posed before her.

“Pleased to meet you, ma’am,” says the basset hound. “My name is Idjit Galoot. And this is my friend...well...you already know him, don’t you?”

“You can talk?” Turleen leans back and looks sideways at the dog.

“Well, yes and no,” answers Idjit. “You see, this isn’t my first contact with a human in a dream. My first contact actually happened a few years in the future, and I tried speaking with a Scottish brogue. It was goofy and I’ve since just decided to go with the voice and delivery that you are hearing now.”

“The future?” Turleen asks, still boggled by a talking dog and the concept of time travel, dream or not.

“Well, yes,” says Idjit. “Time in this realm is not exactly linear. Sometimes I pop into people’s dreams from years ago. Sometimes it’s far into the future. It really isn’t something that I have much control over. To me, it almost seems like some hack novelist’s lame literary device used to fit a character from a previous book into a new book, thus preserving the conceptual continuity of the author’s overall vision and giving a cameo appearance to a popular character. But I digress. Do you remember my friend?”

Turleen looks at the dogs, now over the initial shock that they can talk, and shakes her head. She studies Idjit’s friend. “You look familiar, you do. Maybe younger than you’re supposed to be. But my memory’s horrible.”

“You can’t place me, huh? What’s my motherfuckin’ name?” says the dog.

Turleen swivels her head back and forth in a manner which indicates the negative and suddenly feels uncomfortable. She sucks hard at the cigarette. The smoke rapidly heats up the filter. The hot filter burns her lips.

“You know me,” says the dog. “You killed me.”

“Stubs?”

“Maybe. Or have you killed other dogs?”

“No, I haven’t. Just you. And, I’m sure not going to apologize,” huffs Turleen, placing a fresh unlit smoke in her mouth and lighting it with the ember from the almost-spent butt she had already been enjoying. “You were going to kill me, you were. All cuddled up at the bottom of my bed, you were. We know what that means, don’t we, Mr. Stubs?”

“Um. I see your point,” Stubs concedes. “The thing that really sucks about it for me was that I wasn’t there to take you away,” he chuckles at himself and shakes his head. “You weren’t on my roster. I just liked your feet. They smell like meat.”

“Ah, hooey! My feet do not smell like meat, they don’t.”

“They do. It’s like that, and that’s a matter-of-fact. That’s why I licked them.” Stubs licks his floppy, pink-and-black mottled dog lips. “They also tasted like meat, which shouldn’t be so surprising. I mean, you are made out of meat, aren’t you?”

“No, I’m not. And please get your friend away from my gams.” Idjit, interested in feet that taste like meat, licks at Turleen’s bare calf and slowly works his way down. She pushes the dog back with her other foot, strangely excited by the licking sensation. “Get back, you mongrel, or I’ll give you what for, I will. I’m not going to have dead dogs licking my stilts, I’m not.”

“I’m not dead, ma’am,” says Idjit. “I’m just here with Stubs to give you some advice. But, I’ll let Stubs fill you in on that. And by the way, your feet
do
taste like meat. Sort of like bologna with a hint of deviled eggs.” Idjit wags his tail, thumping it happily on the ground.

“Well, your feet are not the reason we are visiting you right now,” says Stubs. “I actually do have important business with you. But, uh, first,” Stubs eyes sparkle, he pants heavily and slobbers a little, “is that a fried mystery nugget on your leg?”

“Ah, applesauce!” declares Turleen, waving her hand in the air as if brushing Stubs out of the way. “You must be addled, Doggy Dog. There is nothing on my lap but...” Turleen looks down and is surprised to discover a fried lump of breaded matter sitting in her lap. The peculiar breaded lump ignores the conversation and pretends it’s elsewhere. “Why waddaya know? There is a mystery nugget on my lap, there is.”

“I don’t suppose you’d be willing to give me that tasty morsel as a peace offering. You know, for killing me and stuff?” Stubs raises his doggy eyebrows and wags his tail.

“And then we’ll be Jake?” asks Turleen.

“If Jake is good, then yeah, we’ll be Jake,” says Stubs. Turleen grasps the oily nugget between her pointer finger and thumb and tosses it to Stubs. Stubs snatches the nugget mid-air and swallows it whole.

“And I’ll promise not to lick your delicious feet again if you give me that other nugget on your lap,” advises Idjit Galoot.

Turleen looks down to find another mystery nugget and a fried frumunda cheese stick lounging in her lap. “You have a deal, you do,” she says and tosses the mystery nugget to Idjit. The nugget bounces off of Idjit’s forehead and falls at his feet. He snatches it up and immediately swallows the nugget whole. Turleen jams the frumunda cheese into her mouth and does the same.

“The reason we’re here,” explains Stubs, “is to give you this.” Idjit jumps onto the park bench and from his mouth drops a knife case onto Turleen’s lap. The case is moist with basset saliva.

“A blade,” says Turleen, as she grabs the black rubber handle and pulls the foot-long knife from its case. The weapon is perfectly balanced and honed to a razor sharp double-edged slicing surface. She puts a finger at the bottom of the handle and balances the knife there, and then flips it up, catches it, and wraps her hand tightly around the rubber grip. “I have to say that it feels good in my hand, it does. But, what am I gonna need a knife for?”

“It’s not just any knife,” explains Idjit. “Our friend Eshu wanted us to give it to you. He’s kind of special. He said you will know when to use it and your aim will be true. That’s what he said, and, that’s all we know. So take it and keep it with you.”

“Yeah,” says Stubs, “go ahead and try it on.”

“I don’t mind if I do try on this little shiv,” agrees Turleen. The case is made from black leather and has an elastic strap. Turleen hikes her dress up and straps the knife to her inner thigh. Realizing that she is not wearing underwear and that both dogs are staring intently up her skirt, she pulls her skirt down hastily and straightens it. “It feels good there, it does,” she tells the dogs. It actually feels more than good to her. Having the powerful weapon strapped between her legs makes her tingle. Shivers shoot from her inner thigh, up her leg and gather all about her vulva. Momentarily she shudders with pleasure and then manages to refocus her attention. She addresses Stubs, changing the subject. “You look different...nice... not so...”

“Old and gross,” smiles Stubs. “I know. I got pretty oogy there at the end. But now I appear as I did in my prime. Just call me Slim with the Tipton Brim. Not bad, huh?”

“Not bad at all. You even have all of your legs, you do. Why, if I were a lady poodle, I’d probably go into heat whenever you came around.” She smiles and blushes at the realization that she is flirting with Stubs. “Anyway, I’ve no beef with you, I don’t. And I’m sorry if I overreacted and kind of, you know, killed you.”

“I do not hold it against you, Turleen,” says Stubs. “As a matter of fact, I think I’m better off now. So in a way, I kind of owe you one. Maybe that’s why I had to meet you here. I guess that’s what the knife is all about. Anyway, Eshu says you must keep it with you at all times. Can you promise me that you’ll do that?”

“Well, this is a dream, isn’t it?” Turleen asks. Idjit nods his head in the affirmative. Turleen monkey-fuck lights another smoke with her old butt and considers the situation. “So, this is all a load of baloney anyway. So yeah, I’ll keep the knife on me at all times, I will. I’ll even make you another promise. If that knife ever actually comes in handy, I’ll meet you both in another one of my dreams and let you lick my feet for as long as you desire.”

“We’ll be seeing you in your dreams,” Idjit smiles.

“Can’t wait,” says Stubs, licking his chops.

•  •  •

Turleen awakens to the sounds of Grundish and Askew talking. Greasy spots from the nuggets mark the front of her oversized house dress. Beneath the dress, she feels a band tight on her leg. She reaches down and feels through her dress. She knows that it is a throwing knife without even looking.

Grundish straddles his bike; his eyes narrow with a look of grim determination. Grundish, the warrior readying himself for battle. He pounds on his chest, slaps himself in the face, claws at his own flesh, drawing bloody scrapes across his cheeks. The pockets of his cargo shorts are stuffed full with his weapon of choice: half-thawed, burgled hotdogs. Grundish chugs another beer and places a new one in the bottle holder on his bike. He looks at Askew and beams a mad grin. His migraine is all but forgotten. “If I don’t make it back, tell Turleen I’ve always loved her.”

“Get the fuck out of here and leave my aunt out of it,” Askew laughs. “Let’s see what you can do.” Askew stands back, hands in his pants pockets, not knowing what to expect but thinking it will be good.

Grundish pumps hard on the bike pedals, pushing the machine as fast as he can around the park, screaming gibberish at the top of his lungs the entire time. “
YRARGHHH PIG SLOP MONKEY DOOTY DOLLY PARTON’S HOOTERS BLAAHHHHHHHH EEP OPP ORK MEANS MEET ME TONIGHT DING DING DING RUMPLE FUGLY BLOODY SHIT STAINS YEOWWWW...
”

And the residents of the park are drawn out of their double-wide dens of perversion to discover the source of the ruckus. Pot-bellied perverts roll their eyes and shrug their shoulders at each other. One man stands outside in only his yellowed boxer shorts. His matted body hair covers every square inch of his body up to his collar bone, the place where the man has decided to stop shaving his face and neck. His completely bald, shiny head tosses off rays of the Florida sun like a hideous flesh disco ball. Scrawny compulsive masturbators take time from their incessant monkey-spanking to witness the nonsense-spewing, raving lunatic speeding around their neighborhood on a bike. One buck-toothed miscreant stands with his hands in the opening for his pants pockets but the pockets have been cut out so that he can grope himself inconspicuously. He squeezes hard on his throbbing cock, aroused by all of the excitement but not sure why.

“
SPLIT PANTS SKANKY DONKEY MOTHERS IF YOU’RE GONNA DIE DIE WITH YOUR BOOTS ON I HAVE A LOVELY BUNCH OF COCONUTS BLEEEEEEEEE
!” Grundish continues to scream and rant and rave and pushes the bike around the small park until most of the residents are standing in their driveways witnessing the madness. When it seems that the whole park is watching, Grundish leaps off of his bike in front of a gathering of deviants and lets the bike crash into a white cargo van in front of one of the trailers. Before the crowd realizes what’s happening, Grundish begins throwing semi-frozen hotdogs at the men.

Grundish sees it all as clear as day. In the middle of the battle he is singularly focused on striking fear into the hearts of the slugs
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that inhabit his community. The hate Grundish feels for the dirty, bad men steadies his hand and ensures that his aim is true. He reaches into his pocket, withdraws two hot dogs and flings them at the buck-toothed masturbator. The wieners fly directly at the poor excuse for a human. One bounces off of the side of his head, the other hits him in the neck. The man turns and flees for his trailer. Like a ninja with throwing stars, Grundish pulls frank after frank out of his pocket and pelts the congregation of rapscallions, deadbeats and degenerates about their heads and necks with partially frozen lips and assholes encased in intestines. His supply of wieners never seems to go down. After dispersing the crowd with a barrage of wieners, sending the gaggle of degenerates running for cover, Grundish mounts his bike and continues his jihad against the child molesters, peeping Toms, flashers and fondlers. He screams until his throat is raw and a bloody spray is exhaled with each yell, “
MONOCHROMATIC HALL AND OATES BOOGER SNOTS UH OH I BROKE IT TRAGLE TRAGLE OOO OOO HIGH AGA GAGA OOO OOO HIGH
!” With each logorrheic outburst Grundish flings another hotdog at the gawkers standing outside of their homes watching the carnage. At last his arsenal is almost spent. The final hotdog in his pocket is somehow still entirely frozen. Grundish launches it with all of his might at his next door neighbor. Mr. Shirley leans against his walker with his tattered bath robe partially open, exposing his tiny pecker and pendulous, hairy testicles. Grundish doesn’t know what offense Shirley actually committed. He just knows that Shirley’s name and picture are listed on the sexual offender poster tacked up on a rotting telephone pole near the front entrance of the park. Grundish doesn’t care about the specifics of Shirley’s proclivities. It matters not to Grundish that Shirley invites teenage boys into his trailer and trades his prescription medicines for the opportunity to suck the boys off. Grundish only cares that the final wiener hits its mark. The frankfurter hurtles through the air on a crash course with Shirley’s face. The round frozen end of the dog strikes Shirley squarely on the eye, squishing the eyeball back into the skull. The wiener lodges in the eye socket and hangs there.