The Creep (32 page)

"Have you gotta smoke?" Bishman nodded to the drunks.

"There ya go."

"What about a light?"

"Fuck
me,
the guy wants a light as well." He passed a book of matc
hes to Bishman who was thinking,
‘
button your
lip
pelican
head,
or I'll cave your skull in.
’

"I tell ya,
fella,
there had better be that Wild Turkey when we get to fuckin' Groton."

"You'll get your Wild Turkey."
That's if I don't stick a fucking knife in your neck before we get there
...
pal,
thought Bishman as he smiled.

Twenty-two miles in the fog on the Sound is a rough ride for a small craft, no matter how drunk you are. It can be quite scary. However, none of them looked worried. Bishman wanted to get the hell out of there; those two old drunks had their tongues hanging out for Wild Turkey
...
Fair's fair, right?

"Hey, why you dressed all in black, anyway, hic? You look like one of those fuckin' Ninjas - ha ha ha?" He steered the boat in a drunken manner. Luckily the craft knew its own way to Groton.

"Oh, just a bit of a gimmick, a bit of fun for the party."

"All sorts of things been going on up at Skybo Castle for years you know, so they reckon."

"Like what sorta things?" quizzed Bishman.

"I dunn
o.
Things.
All sorts of things -
hey, pass that fuckin' bottle over.
You a fuckin' gannet or what?"

It was rough and choppy and the little vessel bobbed and rode those waves like there was no tomorrow.
Two drunks desperate for more booze and Bishman, anxious to put the miles in.
He knew that miles were the key. The fog lay over the Sound, visibility was about fifty yards. Foghorns sounded, emphatically loud. The little
outboard sung like a sewing machine.
Christ, I hope we don't run out of gas,
Bishman was thinking.

"Hey, you guys - when did you last fill this tug up with gas?"

"Don't worry about that, fella. We'll, hic, get ya there, about another forty minutes I reckon. Give me a smoke." The second drunk passed one over, and Bishman reached over and took one too. It felt good: a smoke, the bourbon, the cold air, the swirling fog, the cover of darkness.
The outboard buzzing merrily.
The foghorns blaring, deep and loud.
Nothing but fog for three hundred and sixty degrees.
They passed within twenty yards of a humungous submarine. Bishman nearly fell out of the
boat,
it came as such a surprise out of the fog.

"Jeeesus, what the fuckin' hell's that?" bellowed Bishman, his voice getting swallowed up by the fog.

"That's one of those multibillion dollar Tridents. They build them over at Groton, at the nuclear submarine base. They don't dive until they get another five miles out.
Hairy, eh?
Enough firepower to take out the whole of Russia!"

"Fuckin' sure it's hairy, I didn't realize how big they were until we got up close. Do you think they saw us?"
Enough nuclear firepower on board to blow another huge chunk off the earth and send it spinning into orbit.
That means we'll have two fucking moons and double the number of lunatics,
thought Bishman.

"I doubt they saw us. I shouldn't think they'd give a shit for us anyway. Why, who gives
a fuck?"
I do,
thought Bishman, but then he changed his mind.
I don't give two fucks.

"We'll soon be hitting the shore," said one of the drunks; "I hope we come in just about right. Where did you say you parked your car? That's where the booze is, right? See, I haven't forgotten, hic."

Bishman could vaguely see land. He knew that was enough. The drunks hadn't noticed him pick up an oar lying
in the bottom of the craft. H
e deftly hit the first drunk across the head so hard the oar broke in half, knocking the drunk clean out of his seat into the sea, unconscious.

The second drunk got the broken end of the oar in his veined face and the next vicious blow across the back of his fat neck. Bishman nearly overturned the fragile little craft in the process. Bishman hauled him overboard. The drunk was already dead, they never stood a chance. Bishman rubbed his shoulder, which was still sore from firing the Mag-10 Roadblocker. Using the oar as a club had aggravated it.
Gee, that smarts
!

Bishman took hold
of the rudder and eased
down the revs. He slipped off the black tracksuit, both the top and bottom, and dropped them overboard. He felt the freezing
air,
his prick was so cold it tried to crawl up his ass to keep warm. He threw five gold coins and his personal back-up gun in the water. He collected them on the way. It hurt to part with the coins and the fully-working .44 Bulldog revolver that was neatly tucked into his belt at the rear. Bishman was full of self-protective habits
, especially as the last gun he
stuffed there had failed and y
ou don't survive long in
the field without them. Slowly and quietly he drifted to shore.

He swiftly kicked a board in the bottom of the craft until the water began to seep through and turned the boat around, set it on half-throttle and jumped ashore. It would probably get out about a mile before it sank, but it would soon be stolen away by the fog.
Wild Turkey, my ass.
Two Turkeys, more like it. Boogaloo,
thought Bishman as he started to hum the old
negro
spiritual,
Michael Row the Boat Ashore
.
Alleluia.

Harvey switched off the tape recorder, Bishman immediately snapped out of his trance and Harvey quickly rammed the cold steel of his .38 revolver deep into his pocket. They went for a pizza and a de-briefing session. Harvey gave valuable feedback and was looking forward to seeing where and how it was all going to
end
.

After a four-hour drive into the countryside, Bishman started his narration within minutes of the induction, and Harvey was anxious to get into Bishman's mind for further discoveries. He hoped he'd continue his story and not spin off at a tangent, like he did so often, because time was running out for Bishman. Harvey planned to exterminate this
despicable vermin
. Harvey
owed
it to the State:

Bish
man had a penchant for creating extreme havoc and violence and walking away scot free. What's more, he'd just done it again. He made a
mental note to buy a sweatshirt next time he visited Manhattan that had the slogan, PEACE THROUGH SUPERIOR FIREPOWER! He smiled at the thought.

Up on the freeway, Bishman walked about two miles to a tr
uck stop. He looked around. He
saw what he was
looking for: Dunkin' Donuts. H
e was cold and hungry, but he knew what would hit the spot: "Large coffee, extra sugars and four jelly donuts, no - make that five, yeah, to go."

There were lots of trucks around; the oily fumes of diesel fuel permeated the invigorating morning air. Bishman sat, ate and drank. He enjoyed the taste. The coffee was the best and it was hot. He rubbed his arms and wished he'd kept the tracksuit top. He went and bought a pack of cigarettes. He used the bathroom and treated himself to a disposable toothbrush that already had paste on it, to
freshen
his stale, boozy breath. Bishman strolled over to a truck that had a Pittsburgh address on it, as he finished his last donut.

"Hey buddy, you heading back to Pittsburgh," said Bishman, licking the sugar from the donut off his hand.

"I sure
am,
buckerroo."

"Want some company?"

"It's against company policy, but who gives a fuck, and in this fog maybe an extra pair of eyes is not a bad idea. Jump in."

The big diesel was already running; they pulled out slowly then gradually built up speed. As they moved further inland, the fog slowly began to lift. The sun was trying hard to get the better of it.
7:30, Sunday morning, 20th of October.
It was good to be alive.

"What's your name, fella?" asked the truckie, who had a full beard and a ruddy complexion. He looked like a man peering through a hedge.

"Bishman, Bob Bishman, pleased to meet you." Bishman offered his hand and smiled.

"I'm Larry King, bu
t my handle's '
Groper' - you know, for the CB. When I get those young chicks up in my bunk, they know all about it. I slip 'em twelve inches and make 'em bleed.
Well, not quite, but I give 'em six inches twice and punch 'em
on the nose." They both laughed. Larry gripped Bishman's hand in a powerful vicelike grip. Bishman got the smokes out, and they puffed away. They made small talk and cracked a lot of filthy jokes. It helped pass the time on a long trip.

"I've been trucking for fifteen years. What about you - on the road?"

"Sure am, about seven years now and thinking of doing something different."

The big diesel pulled its load effortlessly, the miles slowly but surely getting gobbled up, the weather improving with each mile.

Larry looked at Bishman's muscular body wedged into the black sweatshirt and smiled at the slogan and outline of the murder victim. He got out some white pills and bounced three of
them, one at a time, off the windshield, and caught them deftly in his mouth. He handed three to Bishman.

"Bennies, uppers!"

"Thanks." Bishman bounced one of the pills off the windshield and failed to catch it in his mouth. He picked it up and swallowed it with the other two.

"Right," said Larry, "I'll crack you up. Let's have all the names you can think of for prick." He lit a joint.

"Dick, peepee, meat, monster, choking the chicken," shouted Bishman.

"How about pork sword, mutton dagger, pussy meat, willie, winkie, pounding the Pope
?
" screamed Larry.

Bishman cut him off: "Weapon, plonker, one-eyed-trouser-snake, winkle, cock
..."

"Dork, peeper, willie, guided love muscle
..." said Larry excitedly.

"Dong, Peter, old man, pork pioneer, pecker, tube steak!" Bishman was getting into his stride."

"Meat Puppet, tool, dongler, John Thomas, dong, corie," called Larry.

"PENIS!" shouted Bishman, and the two of them roared so hard it ended the game. Tears were rolling down their cheeks. Bishman took a toke and handed the joint back. The distinctive smell of marijuana filled the cab.

Larry swerved hard to miss a Mercury Cougar with four yahoos in it, who pulled out just as he was about to overtake. He dropped a gear, wrestled with the big rig and got it under control.

He put his hand down toward his trouser fly and simulated that he was jerking off,
then
he spat a huge juicy groobly at the top of the windscreen, where it slowly dribbled down: it looked just like cum. They both laughed hysterically.

"Fucking jerk-off!" shouted Larry, but the drongo was halfway to Kansas.

Larry put on his sunglasses and said, "You look fuckin' tuckered out buckerroo, why don't you grab a few zzz's up in the bunk. I'll give you a shout when we pull into Pittsburgh, in time for dinner."

"You got that
right,
I think I'll take you up on the offer." Bishman slipped off his sneakers and climbed into the bunk. Before long he was running a film in his brain of air machines, young nubiles, gun collections and snuff movies, not necessarily in that order. Despite the Benzedrine, his consciousness soon clouded with sleep.

The trip to Pittsburgh was uneventful. Larry spent time on the CB catching up on a few tales and Bishman was in the land of sleeping serial killers.

"Hey buddy, you all right up there?
You been
snoring like a fuckin' cow for nearly six hours."